Title: Obstacles 1: Propriety 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: PG 
Summary: Some boundaries prove too difficult to cross.


Hobbiton, The Shire, July 1417 S.R.

Frodo sat in his study, staring blankly at a piece of parchment before him.  
He had lost count of the length of time he had been sat here like this, quill 
hovering over the parchment but as yet not having made a single stroke.

*What’s wrong with you?*  he thought to himself, an edge of anger on his 
thoughts.  But he knew exactly what was wrong with him, and no attempts 
to deny the thoughts access to his mind could keep the steadily increasing 
burden of pain from encroaching therein.

When exactly had it started?  Frodo had often enjoyed watching Sam at 
work in the garden; had been touched by the tenderness with which he 
cared for each of the plants in his care; had been amused by the manner in 
which he spoke to them as though they were his children, chiding them 
when they disobeyed him, encouraging them when they grew to his liking.  

But now there was something more.  Frodo found himself noticing his 
gardener’s well-defined muscles, wishing that his skin could feel the soft 
caress of those firm but gentle hands, wondering what it would feel like to 
feel those soft lips on his own, to explore that sturdy, golden brown body 
with his hands, his tongue…

“Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo was awakened violently from his reverie by the sound of Sam’s 
voice behind him.  The quill was now resting upon the parchment, leaving 
a growing blob of ink that was gradually seeping into the sleeve of his 
shirt.  Flustered, he turned to face his gardener.

“Yes, Samwise?” he said in as calm a tone as he could manage.

“I’m done with the weeding, just wondered what you’d be wanting for 
lunch.  There’s some eggs in the pantry as seem alright, and a nice basket 
of mushies.  Perhaps a nice omelette, or…sir?” Sam stopped, noticing that 
Frodo’s gaze was fixed intently upon him.

“Yes, Sam, that sounds lovely,” Frodo said, his voice husky.  Then, 
clearing his throat, he leapt to his feet.  “Actually, Sam, I feel I could use a 
little fresh air.  Why don’t you put some sandwiches in a basket and we 
can go for a picnic?”

“Certainly, Mr Frodo, sir.”  Sam hurried off, a little bemused as to what 
had come over his master, who seemed awfully distant.  Still, the thought 
of a picnic cheered his heart immensely.  Time spent alone with Frodo was 
becoming increasingly rare of late; time was that they used to spend hours 
together, reading or talking about the Elves.  Sam always enjoyed hearing 
his master tell him stories of Bilbo’s adventures with the Elves, no matter 
how many times he’d heard them before.  After the old hobbit’s 
disappearance some sixteen years previously, Frodo had turned to Sam for 
company and the two had grown very close.  But over the last few months, 
Frodo had become increasingly distant.  Sam would catch him watching 
from the window sometimes as he worked, but always the older hobbit 
would turn away, and when they spoke it was mostly formalities or small 
pleasantries.

Sam sighed to himself as he cut some bread.  It was not his place to 
comment, of course, and he assumed that Frodo had merely decided that it 
was not proper to socialise with his gardener.  *Quite right too,* Sam 
scolded himself.  But that didn’t stop the regrets.  He wondered sometimes 
if there was more to it, if something was troubling his master, but had 
never found the appropriate time to say anything.  Perhaps this afternoon 
would provide such an opportunity.

Frodo had gone to his room to change his ink-stained shirt for a clean one.  
Closing the door behind him, he sank to the floor and rested his head in his 
hands, his mind racing.  Why had he suggested a picnic?  He knew he 
couldn’t bear to be near Sam, to be so close and yet so far, not able to 
touch, to feel, to taste…

A solitary tear found its way down his ivory cheek as he thought of his 
Sam, his dear Sam, succumbing to his touch.  *But this can never be,* he 
told himself.  *You can’t tell him what you’re feeling, you can’t.  Can 
you?*  An edge of doubt crept into his mind, and for a moment he began 
to imagine what it might feel like to reveal his feelings to Sam.  Closing 
his eyes, he imagined himself confessing his love under the refreshing 
shade of a tree.  He could see the soft sunlight as it seeped through the 
tree’s branches, coming to rest upon Sam’s brown cheek, creating a 
dappled pattern of light.  Then he saw the deep, hazel eyes lighting up as 
his Sam understood the truth.  Sam would feel the same way – he had to – 
and they would kiss softly, everso lightly at first, but then…

“Mr Frodo?”  Sam was calling to him from outside his bedroom door.  
Frodo sighed, rueing another lost reverie.  But perhaps it didn’t always 
have to be a dream?  Perhaps now was the right time to tell Sam how he 
felt?  Frodo strengthened his resolve, and stood, quickly changed his shirt 
and straightened the creases from his breeches.  Feeling a tangle of 
excitement, hope and fear begin to grow in the pit of his stomach, he 
turned to the door.

“Coming, Sam,” he called, as cheerfully as he felt able, and reached for 
the door.

Sam stood by the door to the smial clutching a large basket laden with 
sandwiches, apples, mushrooms, ale and water.  Frodo selected one of 
Bilbo’s old walking sticks and made his way out of the door, pausing as 
Sam stopped behind him to close it.

“Lovely day today, isn’t it sir?” Sam said as he joined Frodo by the gate, 
holding it open.

“Yes, Sam,” Frodo replied softly.  “Quite lovely.”  A smile crept across 
his lips as he thought of just how lovely this afternoon might turn out to 
be.

The hobbits began to walk down Bagshot Row, from there choosing a path 
which led over some fields.  Frodo knew that beyond these fields was a 
large hill upon which sat a great tree, which would provide shade from the 
glaring Sun.  As they walked, Sam chattered about the comings and goings 
of folk in Hobbiton, his sisters and his Gaffer, but Frodo was only half 
listening.  The knot in his stomach was growing and he felt almost 
nauseous with the mixture of nervousness and excitement.  He allowed his 
thoughts to wonder for a moment, half closing his eyes as he imagined 
Sam’s kisses upon him.  He broke off his thoughts sharply when he 
realised that his excitement was becoming rather too obvious.  Instead, he 
tried to focus his attention on Sam’s chatter, and his heart sank when he 
realised that his gardener was talking about Rosie Cotton.  Slightly 
irritated, Frodo immediately tried to change the subject.

“Do you think you’ll finish getting that hedge planted tomorrow Sam?” he 
asked, lamely choosing something as far removed from Rosie Cotton as he 
could.  Sam looked at him briefly and then turned his gaze to his feet.

“Yes sir, I guess so.  I’m sorry, Mr Frodo, I do talk too much,” Sam 
replied quietly.  Frodo felt an instant pang of regret as he realised that he 
had hurt Sam’s feelings.  But fortunately just then he looked up and saw 
the tree upon the hill before him.

“Here Sam, let’s stop here and have our lunch,” he said cheerfully, and 
began to run towards the tree.  Sam followed, albeit somewhat more 
slowly under the weight of the basket.

Frodo sat on the ground leaning against the tree, watching as Sam 
unloaded the basket before him.  He gasped despite himself as the young 
gardener sat down beside him; it was late in the afternoon now and the 
Sun was shining through the trees creating that pattern on Sam’s dark 
cheek just as Frodo had imagined.  The light in his honey-toned curls 
made them glow, and the fine sheen of sweat upon his brow shone and 
glistened in the half-light.  *You’re perfect,* Frodo thought to himself, 
and his last few nerves subsided as he fixed his thoughts to what he was 
about to do.

They ate in silence, looking out over the valley before them.  The grass 
swayed in the slight warm breeze, and the birds overhead sang and called 
to each other.  Frodo could not help but think how perfect this time and 
place were.  Placing down his ale, he turned his face towards Sam, who 
had finished eating and was sat hunched over, his arms wrapped around 
his legs, his brow furrowed in that look of intense concentration that Frodo 
so adored.

“Sam?” said Frodo cautiously.  Sam looked up slowly.  “There’s 
something I would like to talk to you about,” the older hobbit continued, 
and he knelt directly in front of his young gardener.  Sam did not respond, 
but fixed his gaze upon his master and listened expectantly.  He had been 
trying all afternoon to think of a way to ask Frodo what had been 
bothering him, and now it seemed that Frodo was ready to tell him without 
any encouragement.  Pleased and relieved, he smiled at his master as he 
waited for him to gather his thoughts into coherent sentences.

“Sam, I need to tell you something,” Frodo began hesitantly.  “It’s 
something that’s been bothering me for a long time.  You see, I – “ he 
stopped and turned his gaze to the floor, unable to meet Sam’s eye as he 
said the words, “I love you, Samwise.”  *There,* Frodo thought, *I’ve 
said it.*  He looked up, expecting to see Sam’s eyes filled with desire as 
he had always dreamed, but instead he was smiling.

“I know, Mr Frodo.  I love you too,” he replied with a grin.  Frodo sighed.

“No Sam, I don’t mean that.  I mean –“ he paused.  What did he mean?  “I 
mean that I love you-“ he once again lowered his gaze to the floor “- I love 
you as if, as if you were a lass and I were a gentlehobbit wanting, well, 
wanting to court you.”  Frodo lifted his eyes to meet Sam’s.  Sam’s brow 
was now furrowed, and his eyes confused.

“But, Mr Frodo, sir, begging your pardon, but I ain’t a lass.”

Frodo could not help but laugh.

“No, Sam,” he sighed resignedly.  “You’re not a lass, but I still love you 
that – that way.”

“I see,” said Sam, who did not really see at all.  “Well, then, you’d be 
wanting me to kiss you then?” he enquired carefully.

Frodo’s heart lifted.  “Yes Sam,” he replied.  “Yes, I would, that is – that 
is, if you would like to.”

Sam did not respond, but leaned over and carefully brushed his lips across 
his master’s.  Frodo shuddered at the touch, and moaned softly in protest 
as Sam pulled a few inches away.  Sam sighed softly, licked his lips and 
then planted a firmer kiss upon Frodo’s.  Frodo reached his hands around 
his gardener’s head and, holding it firmly in place, he slowly parted his 
lips and ran his tongue over Sam’s lower lip.  Slowly he edged his tongue 
between the younger hobbit’s lips, and they parted for him.  Frodo felt a 
surge of pleasure and passion as he explored his gardener’s mouth with his 
tongue, running it over his teeth, meeting his tongue and stroking it softly.  
The knot in Frodo’s stomach had exploded into a heated surge of joy as 
his dreams finally became a reality.  But suddenly, the realisation came to 
him that this was not like his fantasies at all.  Something was wrong.  He 
pulled away from Sam and sat back on his haunches, eyeing the younger 
hobbit quizzically.

*What’s wrong?*  Sam thought to himself, as his eyes met Frodo’s and he 
saw the look there.  *Was I doing something wrong?*

*What’s wrong?*  thought Frodo.  *Something’s not right here, but what 
is it?*  Suddenly it dawned on him.  Sam had been very accommodating to 
Frodo, but all the time had not responded himself.  He had knelt there, 
arms by his sides, allowing Frodo to explore his body with his hands, and 
his mouth with his tongue, but he had not responded.  Frodo sighed and sat 
back against the tree.  Not daring to meet Sam’s eyes, he fixed his gaze 
upon a particular blade of grass and sighed again.

“Sam, why did you do that” he asked at last.

“Do what, sir?  Kiss you?  Well, you asked me to, sir, begging your 
pardon.”

“Is that it?  I asked you to do something so you did it?  You didn’t, well, 
you didn’t want to?”

“I wasn’t minding, Mr Frodo, sir.  I mean, I hear it’s common practice 
down at Brandy Hall, so to speak.  I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

This last sentence stabbed Frodo like a blade.  He hung his head in his 
hands, shaking it slowly.  Wiping a tear from his face, he lifted his head 
and looked towards Sam, whose brow was now furrowed with concern.

“Maybe, sir, if you want to try again, if you could, well, if you could tell 
me what it is you want?  Maybe I’ll be able to do it better.  I’m just not 
used to kissing lads is all.”

“No, Sam,” Frodo replied, more firmly than he had intended, for Sam 
looked hurt and sat back against the tree, turning to face away from his 
master and trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” said Frodo softly, placing a hand upon Sam’s arm.  “I 
should never have said anything.  I guess I was hoping – foolishly – that 
you could love an old hobbit like me and that you would want to be with 
me.  I don’t want you to feel as though you’re doing your duty.  I don’t see 
you as a servant, Sam.  I haven’t done so for a long time.  But I’m sorry, I 
shouldn’t have said anything.  Can you forget that I told you, Sam?  
Please?”

Sam couldn’t refuse that tone.  He smiled and turned to face his master.  
“Of course I can forget, Mr Frodo,” he lied.  “I do love you, sir, I do – and 
I still do – just, just not-“

“Not that way, I know, Sam.” Frodo’s smile belied the turmoil that was 
rushing through his mind.  “Shall we head home?”  Sam nodded in 
agreement and began to gather together the remnants of their picnic.  Not, 
of course, that there was much in the way of leftover food.

Frodo and Sam headed back towards Bag End in silence, each occupied by 
his own thoughts.  Sam couldn’t decide what he felt.  Should be ashamed 
that he had disappointed his master?  And what of Frodo’s feelings 
towards him?  Should they disgust him?  Sam thought that they should, 
and yet he did not feel disgusted.  He had not heard of hobbit lads feeling 
that way about each other.  There were stories of servants at Brandy Hall 
being required to service their masters in such a way, but Sam had never 
really believed them to be true.  He had certainly never heard of two 
hobbit lads in love.  Did that mean that it didn’t happen?  Sam was 
confused.  Every instinct told him that such practices should be frowned 
upon, that they were wrong, and yet he could not believe any ill of his 
master, whom he believed to be the wisest hobbit in all the Shire since Mr 
Bilbo had left.  And there was a very small part of him that felt almost 
pleased that his master could feel that way about him, even if he couldn’t 
return that love.

If Sam’s mind was in turmoil, then Frodo’s was even more so.  This turn 
of events had not occurred to him.  In all his fantasies, Sam had returned 
his feelings and they had embraced passionately, cursing the lost time in 
which they had both been afraid to profess their love.  But Sam did not 
return his love.  *He must be disgusted by me,* thought Frodo, closing his 
eyes in despair.  *And rightly so.  You had no right to abuse your position 
like that.*  Why hadn’t he known that Sam would feel obliged to kiss 
him?  How awful must it have been for the younger hobbit to have to kiss 
his middle-aged employer?  The thought made him shudder.

As the hobbits reached Bag End, Sam opened the gate for his master, bade 
him goodnight without catching his eye and turned for home.  Frodo 
looked back towards him, considered calling to him to come in for a cup 
of tea, but then thought better of it and entered the smial alone.

How had this day, which should have been the best of his life, turned out 
so awfully?  Frodo made his way to his bedroom and threw himself onto 
the bed, sobs wracking his slight frame.  Why had he had to open his 
mouth?  It may have hurt before, but at least there was always the hope 
that something could happen.  Now he had nothing.  No dreams or hope.  
All was dark and empty.

As Sam arrived home, his mind was whirling.  His Gaffer was in the 
kitchen, and looked up as his son entered, seemingly exhausted from his 
day’s work up at Bag End, as far as he could tell.

“Best you be off to bed, son,” he called out.  This suited Sam just fine, and 
so with little more than a grunt he headed off to his room and perched on 
the edge of his bed to sort his thoughts in order.  But his mind was now 
blank, and he found himself unable to piece together the afternoon’s 
events.  For hours he sat there, unable to think, before finally relenting and 
climbing into the bed.

But still sleep eluded him.  Slowly he began to trace back to late that 
afternoon, when he and Mr Frodo had arrived at that tree on the hill.  He 
remembered unpacking their lunch, which by that time had been more like 
dinner.  He remembered sitting down and eating in silence, pondering how 
best to ask his master what had been bothering him these past few months.  
Then Frodo had turned to him and told him that he loved him.  Sam had 
smiled at that; that part had been just fine with him.  By his reckoning, 
Frodo had just been trying to say that he thought of Sam as a friend rather 
than just a servant.  Sam had been happy about that; he had known it really 
for some time, although they had never spoken of it as such.  If the 
propriety of socialising with his gardener was all that Frodo had been 
worrying about then Sam could easily have dealt with that: having 
suspected it to be the issue for some time, he had prepared any number of 
responses.

But that wasn’t it at all.  Frodo had told him that he loved him as though 
he were a lass that Frodo wished to court.  Sam still couldn’t make any 
sense of that, nor could he fathom what he himself thought of it.  He was 
not as dim-witted as many believed him to be, and certainly knew what 
was what.  He knew a fair bit about the lasses, had even stolen a kiss or 
two with Rosie Cotton, and he knew where bairns came from.  Was that 
what Frodo wanted with him?  But it couldn’t be; Sam couldn’t even 
begin to imagine how that would work between two lads.  But what was 
the alternative?  Sam had simply assumed that Frodo, as a bachelor who 
had never really shown any particular interest in any lass that he knew of, 
merely required a little assistance from his servant.  Sam had been a little 
uncomfortable at that thought, but knowing that it was common practice at 
Brandy Hall, where Frodo had grown up, had obliged.  And he really had 
wanted to help his master.  He would have done anything that he was 
asked to do.  And Frodo didn’t seem to understand that.  Or, rather, he 
understood it but for some reason had been upset by it.  Sam was 
thoroughly confused.  The only conclusion he could reach was that Frodo 
really *did* love him and wanted him that way.  Even alone in his bed, 
Sam blushed at that thought.

And what of the kiss itself?  Sam couldn’t figure out what he had made of 
that either.  It hadn’t been as bad as he had thought.  Frodo was a fair bit 
older than him but still looked as youthful as the day he had come of age, 
some sixteen years previously.  He was quite attractive really, Sam 
admitted to himself.  And the kiss hadn’t been as horrifying as he had 
expected.  Just like kissing Rosie really, except that Frodo had been a lot 
more forward than Rosie.  Rosie never used her tongue for one thing.  Sam 
blushed again and sighed.  It just wasn’t right, wasn’t, well, *proper*.  
Befriending his master he could handle; reading with him and occasionally 
eating with him was all fine, although his Gaffer may have thought 
otherwise.  But there were boundaries that Sam wouldn’t cross even for 
his dear Frodo.  This was one of them.

***

Frodo awoke with a start as his bedroom curtains were flung open and the 
Sun forced herself into his eyes.

“Morning, Mr Frodo, sir.  I’ve heated some bath water for you and 
breakfast is nearly ready.” Sam said as cheerfully as he could.

“Thank- er, thank you, Sam,” Frodo replied, rubbing his eyes.  What time 
is it?  he thought to himself.  Pulling himself up slowly, he made his way 
to the bathroom where he found the bath filled and hot.  He gingerly 
dipped one toe into the water and then stopped dead as he remembered the 
events of the previous day.  Frodo grimaced as he remembered the silent 
walk back to Bag End, and Sam unable even to look at him as he bade him 
goodnight.

Sam was in the kitchen trying to cook some omelettes for Mr Frodo’s 
breakfast, but his culinary skills were for once failing him as he broke 
eggshells into the frying pan and burnt his first two attempts.  For all his 
nonchalance, he was in quite a state himself.  For one thing, he had had no 
sleep, having been awake all night first thinking about the previous day 
and then dreading this one.  He had concluded that the best course of 
action would be to pretend that nothing had happened, so as not to 
embarrass Mr Frodo.  But this was proving harder than he had imagined, 
and he had paused for what seemed like hours outside Frodo’s door before 
daring to enter.  He had half expected Frodo to ask him to leave, to fire 
him.  *Just try not to think about it, he counselled himself.  Just get these 
omelettes onto the table and you can go out and finish that hedge and 
won’t have to see him again for the rest of the day.*  But he was already 
too late; his dilly-dallying with the omelettes had taken longer than he 
thought, and Frodo was now there, leaning against the frame of the kitchen 
door.  Sam could feel his presence there without needing to turn around, 
but turn around he eventually had to, and so, adding two spoons of honey 
to a cup of tea, he turned to hand it to his master.

“Thank you, Sam,” said Frodo, staring at the tea, unable to meet Sam’s 
gaze.

“Here’s your breakfast, sir,” said Sam, pouring a couple of very runny and 
not quite cooked omelettes onto a plate and shoving it onto the table.  He 
hastily removed his apron, and turned hesitantly to his master.  “I’ll be out 
at the hedge, sir,” he said quietly and turned to the door.

“Sam-“ Frodo called, but stopped, for Sam had already left.  He ate his 
breakfast in miserable silence, not even noticing that his omelettes were 
somewhat lacking in consistency.  As he finished, he picked up his tea and 
headed to the door.  He needed to speak to Sam, he had to clear the air.  
But as he reached the back door he looked out and saw Sam, already hard 
at work.  He looked as lovely as ever, muscles flexing through his thin 
shirt, golden curls bouncing as he dug into the ground.  Frodo began to 
feel the familiar tears well in his eyes, and he turned swiftly back indoors 
to his study.

Sam caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and looked up just in 
time to see Frodo walk away.  He sighed and leant on his spade.  He 
couldn’t bear this any more than Frodo could, but what else could be do?  
There was only one way, it seemed, to make Frodo happy, and that was 
the one thing that Sam couldn’t do for him.

Frodo spent the entire day in his study, not leaving even to eat.  He was 
mildly disappointed when Sam did not appear at his usually regular 
intervals to offer him food or a refill of his tea, but as these did not 
officially form part of Sam’s duties, there was little that Frodo could say.  
Staring at the blank sheet of parchment in front of him, he paused, 
realising that he had been sat thus for the entire day, before a blank sheet 
of parchment, not even pretending to himself that he was doing anything.  
He did have a couple of interesting-looking elvish texts that he would like 
to have a go at translating, but right now there was only one thing that he 
could think about.  If only he could make Sam understand how he felt 
about him, maybe the younger hobbit would realise that there was nothing 
wrong or sordid about it.  Words were usually Frodo’s strength, but 
yesterday, it seemed, they had failed him.  Picking up a quill at last, he 
pressed it to the parchment and began to write.

*My dearest Sam, he wrote.  If only you could understand how I feel 
about you.  I truly do love you.  I love your smile and your eyes, the way 
you take pleasure in the simple act of being you every day.  I love 
watching you as you work, caring for my garden as though it were your 
child.  In this way I can almost feel that you are looking after me, as 
indeed you do, every day, without even a thought.  I love the care and 
attention you give to me, the way you put me first, thinking never of 
yourself.  Oh, how I wish you would allow me to care for you the way you 
do for me.  I love your undying cheerfulness, your love of life, the way 
your eyes light up when I speak to you of the Elves.  I love your eyes, at 
times deeper than any river, at others shining right on the surface like a 
rushing stream.  I love your honey-golden curls, the way they bounce 
around your eyes, just as you yourself bounce cheerfully through every 
day.  Until yesterday, that is.  How foolish I was to want more from you, 
Sam, when you have already given me more than I should ever wish for.  
How wrong it was for me to abuse my position of authority over you, to 
make you feel as though you were obliged to do something which to you 
felt so wrong, so unnatural.  I am so sorry Sam.  I ruined everything.  I 
wanted too much and now I have lost all that I had.  I am truly sorry.  I see 
now that we can never go back.  You will never be the innocent, carefree 
hobbit you were before, and that is all my fault.  I am so sorry.*

Frodo felt the long held-back tears begin to spill over and splash onto the 
parchment before him, and he stopped.  This was a futile exercise; far 
from helping him to organise his thoughts, it was only serving to drive him 
further into his pit of despair.  He set his quill down, slid the parchment 
into the back of a drawer and laid his head in his hands, sobbing quietly to 
himself.

When Frodo looked up, the study was dark and cold.  Sam had gone 
home, and had lit neither the fire nor the candles.  Rising with a sigh, 
Frodo made his way out to the kitchen, where he stopped with a start.  The 
table was set, with candles in the centre.  At his seat at the head of the 
table was a sizeable meal and a glass of Old Winyards.  The fire was 
roaring and a pot of water had been set upon it.  Frodo felt a lump rise in 
his throat.  So Sam did still want to take care of him; the young gardener 
just didn’t feel able to face or speak to his master yet.  Frodo sat down and 
took a long sip of the wine laid out for him.  *Poor Sam must feel terribly 
ashamed that he disappointed me, and here I am wallowing in my own 
selfish self-pity,* he thought to himself.

As he cleaned up after his meal and took the now boiling pot of water to 
the bath, he resolved to make things right with Sam.  It would take time, 
but somehow he would get things back to the way they had been before.  
Frodo would just have to live with his feelings; as much as it hurt to have 
Sam as just a friend, it was better than his being just a servant, after all.

***

Many weeks passed in the same fashion.  Sam would come in every 
morning, wake Frodo and make his breakfast with barely a word spoken 
between them.  Then Sam would retire to the garden and Frodo to his 
study.  After Sam had left each day, Frodo would find his dinner made and 
fires lit in all rooms but the study.  Every morning Frodo told himself that 
this would be the day that he would speak to Sam, but the opportunity 
never arose.  He could never find the words.  A number of times he had 
gone into the garden with the intention of speaking to Sam, but had always 
made a lame comment about the planting that Sam had done (often with 
respect to plants that had been there some years, though Sam never said a 
word) and return indoors, cursing his cowardice.

The Summer rolled past and began to fade to Autumn, and Frodo began to 
make preparations for his and Bilbo’s birthday celebration.  He had never 
thrown a party such as that at which Bilbo had disappeared, but always 
insisted on celebrating the older hobbit’s birthday with his own.  Other 
hobbits thought this odd, but by this time were quite used to it.  This year, 
Frodo had planned just to invite his cousins Merry and Pippin for dinner 
and his customary toast to Bilbo.

As September 22nd dawned, Frodo had still not found the opportunity to 
speak to Sam, and was beginning to become increasingly depressed by the 
steadfast routine in which they had found themselves.  Frodo awoke to the 
smell of baking and wandered out to the kitchen, where he found Sam 
holding a freshly-baked seed cake.

“That smells lovely, Sam.  Is that breakfast?”  Frodo said as cheerfully as 
he could.  Sam looked up with a start, not having heard more than the 
occasional pleasantry from Frodo for some weeks.

“No, sir, it’s for your party later tonight.  I wasn’t expecting you up just 
yet, to tell you the truth.  Give me just a minute and I’ll sort something out 
for you.”

“No need, Sam, I’ll take care of it,” said Frodo, but he sat down at the 
table and made no move to make anything.  Sam hesitated for a moment, 
but deciding not to contradict his master’s wishes, returned to his cooking.  
There was a long silence, during which Frodo watched Sam intently, 
studying his hands with particular interest, though he was not imagining 
them cooking.  Sam tried to ignore Frodo’s staring but eventually stopped 
and looked up at his master.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but why are you staring at me?” he said.

“I’m just wondering what you’re cooking, Sam,” Frodo lied.

“It’s a fruit cake, sir,” explained Sam, who actually thought this was rather 
obvious given the mixture of flour, butter, eggs, honey and fruit in his 
bowl.

“I see,” said Frodo, but he still did not turn his gaze away from his 
gardener’s hands.  Then he looked up to meet Sam’s eyes and took a deep 
breath.  “I’ve missed you, Sam,” he said at last.

“I ain’t been nowhere,” Sam said, but he knew what Frodo had meant.

“Would you join Merry, Pippin and myself for dinner tonight?” Frodo 
asked hopefully.

“I don’t know, Mr Frodo, see Daisy’s making a pot roast tonight as I can’t 
really miss.”

“I understand.”  Frodo sighed, and got up to retire to the study.

Sam felt a pang of regret as Frodo left the kitchen.  They had been so close 
to making progress, but Sam was frightened by the thought of dinner with 
Frodo in the presence of Merry and Pippin and so had made up a lie to 
excuse himself.  He wondered if Frodo had told Merry and Pippin 
anything of what had happened between them, and couldn’t bear the 
thought of trying to make polite conversation with them if they knew.  
And as much as he wanted things to be back to normal with Frodo, he 
would rather try to work things out alone with him than in the company of 
his cousins.

Sam spent most of the day cooking so as to be ready to leave as Merry and 
Pippin arrived at Bag End, which they did later that afternoon.  Sam heard 
Frodo go to the door and call out to them, and then he heard an 
exclamation followed by some raised voices.  Sam strained to hear what 
was being said, but eventually his curiosity got the better of him and he 
walked towards the door to see what the commotion was about.

Merry and Pippin had travelled to Hobbiton in a cart, which Sam noted 
was looking a little the worse for wear, with a crack down one side.  Then 
he saw the cause of the disturbance: Pippin had a nasty cut down one side 
of his face, which was smeared with mud and dried blood.  He turned to 
Merry, who was standing by the pony.

“What happened, Mr Merry?” he asked, forgetting his place for a moment 
in his concern for young Master Pippin.

“Why hullo Sam,” said Merry cheerfully.  “Nothing’s the matter really, 
cart took a bit of a topple on a stone in the road some way back.  Pippin’s 
got no more than a scratch really.  Though he seems to be enjoying the 
attention,” he added mischievously.

Sam looked over at Pippin, who did seem to be grinning awfully widely 
for one so badly injured, as Frodo examined his cut.  Sam took the bags 
from the cart, noting with dismay that they seemed large enough for at 
least a week’s stay, and carried them inside to the guest rooms.  As much 
as he enjoyed the cheerful banter of Merry and Pippin, he had really hoped 
for some time alone with Frodo.  It seemed now that any progress made 
that morning would go to waste.

Sam returned to the kitchen to heat some water with which bathe Pippin’s 
cut and busied himself clearing up after his cooking so that he would be 
ready to leave as soon as he had seen to the younger hobbit.

Pippin was the first to enter still grinning broadly, having very much 
enjoyed all the attention that he’d received.

“Here, Master Pippin,” said Sam.  “Let me bathe that cut for you.”  Pippin 
sat down at the kitchen table, and his grin broadened as Sam began to dab 
carefully at his face with a soft cloth.  Merry and Frodo entered shortly 
afterwards and sat down opposite Pippin, who began to tell the story of his 
dramatic fall from the cart, punctuated with a few ‘ows’ and ‘ouches’ in 
Sam’s direction.  Sam had to wonder if these were merely for effect, as he 
was being very gentle and they often came when he wasn’t even touching 
the young Took, but he said nothing.

“So, Sam,” said Merry as Pippin finished his story, “I hear you’re not 
staying for dinner tonight.”  It was a statement rather than a question, but 
Sam felt obliged to offer his rather lame excuse.  He mumbled something 
about May’s pot roast and then turned back to Pippin, whose cut was by 
now perfectly clean, though he wasn’t complaining about the additional 
attention.

“I thought it was Daisy’s pot roast,” Frodo said quietly, staring intently at 
Sam.  Sam felt his cheeks heat as he tried to think of something quickly, 
but he realised that Frodo knew he had lied and there was no point trying 
to explain himself.  His face reddened further as Pippin turned his eyes up 
to meet Sam’s, and Sam wondered again whether Frodo had told his 
cousins anything of what had happened between them.

“What’s up, Sam?” enquired Pippin.  “Why don’t you want to have dinner 
with us?”

The question sounded genuine, and Sam thought that perhaps Frodo had 
not told them anything.

“I don’t want to intrude, is all,” he said.

“Whatever do you mean?” exclaimed Merry.  “You’re always at Frodo 
and Bilbo’s birthday dinner.”

Frodo saw Sam’s face redden even further as he stumbled for a valid 
excuse, and thought that he should step in.  “It’s alright Sam,” he said 
softly.  “You can go home if you like.  I think you’re finished with 
Pippin.”  Pippin protested at this, but Sam looked up to offer a grateful 
glance towards Frodo.  However, when his eyes met his master’s, he saw 
there such anguish that he hadn’t seen since that day under the tree.  
Sighing, he placed down the cloth, emptied the water and then returned to 
the table and sat down.

“I’ll stay if that’s what you want,” he said, looking directly at Frodo, but 
Pippin replied.

“Hooray!  Excellent, well, what’s for dinner then?”  Sam smiled ruefully 
towards Frodo and got up to see to the dinner.

Sam didn’t join in the conversation during dinner, as Frodo and Merry 
discussed the doings of Brandy Hall, and Pippin chipped in with tales of 
his various exploits, which were only half-true.  All through dinner, Sam 
stared fixedly down at his plate, and Frodo’s gaze rested upon his 
gardener.

Once dinner was finished, Sam got up to clear the table and Frodo, Merry 
and Pippin took the remainder of the bottle of wine to the study, where a 
fire was blazing.  Seating themselves in front of the fire, Merry looked 
around to make sure that Sam was out of earshot and then turned to Frodo.

“What’s going on here then, cousin?” he asked.

“What’s going on where?” asked Frodo innocently.

“You and Sam.  Have you been arguing?”

“No.  Well, not exactly.  I’d rather not talk about it,” said Frodo a little 
coldly as he poured himself another glass of wine only to find the bottle 
empty.  “I’ll be right back,” he said, and headed towards the cellar.

Opening the door to the cellar, he was greeted by the sight of Sam curled 
up in the corner, sobbing.  Placing the empty wine bottle to one side, 
Frodo crossed the cellar, knelt down beside Sam and took his in his arms, 
resting his chin in the golden curls.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I’m so sorry,” he kept repeating as he slowly rocked his 
gardener.  Eventually the sobs subsided and Sam pulled away so that he 
could look up at his master.

Frodo looked straight into Sam’s reddened eyes and placed one hand on 
his shoulder.

“I really am sorry, Sam,” he said.  “I already take far too much from you.  
It was wrong to ask you for any more and to put you in that – in that 
position.”

“It’s not that as upsets me, Mr Frodo,” said Sam in between choked sobs.  
“It’s that we ain’t never going to be friends like we were before.  I’d 
gladly do anything you liked if only we could talk again.”

“No need, Sam,” said Frodo softly.  “No need.  We shall be fine.”  Pulling 
Sam towards him, he embraced him again and, placing a kiss upon his 
gardener’s brow, he stood and, pulling Sam up after him, returned to the 
study.  He had forgotten the wine, but did not care, for he had found 
something so much more important to him: he had his Sam back.  With 
resignation, he admitted to himself that Sam’s concern for propriety was 
one of the many things that Frodo considered so adorable about him.  
While he rued the irony that that very concern prevented them from 
becoming any more than friends, he could now accept that they would 
never be lovers; their friendship was far too important to him and he could 
now value it for what it was worth in its own right, without requiring 
anything more.  But that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t continue to wish for 
it.


Title: Obstacles 2: Too Much to Lose 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: PG 
Summary: Some obstacles are overcome, and others are presented.


Hobbiton, The Shire, September 1417 S.R.

Frodo groaned loudly as he heard Sam enter his room the following 
morning and rolled over, tucking his head beneath a pillow.

“It’s too early, Sam,” he murmured.

“Now, Mr Frodo, ‘tis not early at all; you’ve gone and slept well past 
elevenses.  I’m thinking you’ve had a mite more of that wine than was 
good for you,” Sam laughed.

Frodo lifted his head to look at his gardener, and was instantly struck by 
the sight of a smile he had not seen in weeks.

“All right then,” he sighed.  Frodo began to lift himself to a seated 
position, but stopped as soon as he saw what Sam had in his hands.

“You brought me breakfast in bed?” he asked incredulously.

“Got to be one way of getting you up, I reckon,” replied Sam, blushing as 
he set the tray in Frodo’s lap.  Frodo grinned mischievously.

“Why, Sam, you do spoil me.  I wonder if Merry and Pippin received this 
service?” he laughed, but instantly regretted it as Sam’s blush deepened 
and he hung his head.

“Just looking after you, sir, no more’n what I’m s’posed to.”

“Of course, Sam,” Frodo said hoarsely, fixing his gaze downwards upon 
his breakfast.

“I’ll be out in the kitchen, Mr Frodo,” said Sam awkwardly and turned 
quickly for the door.  Frodo grimaced as he heard the door close.  *It’s too 
soon to be making jokes about him taking more care over me than he 
should,* Frodo reprimanded himself.

Sam, too, grimaced as he closed the door behind him.  His attempt to show 
his remorse had clearly been too thinly veiled.

Sam was in the kitchen, busily chopping onions for that night’s dinner, 
when Merry and Pippin entered in search of breakfast.

“Hullo Sam,” said Merry with a yawn.  “You have anything for a couple 
of hungry hobbits?”

“Aye,” replied Sam, and turned to gather some sausages and bacon for the 
guests.  As he turned back round, he stopped suddenly in his tracks as he 
saw Frodo standing in the doorway.  He paused for a moment before 
realising that the bacon had slipped from his hands.  Blushing, he 
mumbled an apology and dropped quickly to his knees to clear up the 
bacon from the floor.

Merry looked quizzically at Frodo.  Seeing that his cousin’s eyes were 
fixed on Sam, he turned to look at Sam, and noticed that the gardener was 
crouched on the floor looking squarely up at Frodo.  Merry opened his 
mouth to speak but was interrupted by Pippin.

“So, Frodo, you decided to join us for breakfast?” asked Pippin jovially, 
utterly oblivious to the tension in the room.

“No Pippin,” replied Frodo quietly without lifting his gaze from Sam.  
“Sam brought me breakfast in bed.” Sam blushed at this and, gathering up 
the last of the bacon, turned quickly to finish preparing the breakfast.

“Oh did he!” cried Pippin indignantly.  “Does he do that all the time?”

“No,” said Frodo, seating himself beside Merry at the table, still staring at 
Sam’s turned back.  Sam was making some tea, and stirring with 
increasing rapidity, as though he could feel the weight of Frodo’s gaze.

Sam turned to take the tea to the table, and blushed deeply as his eyes 
caught Frodo’s.  Merry watched them intently, his brow creasing with 
concentration as he scrutinised them.

“Well, Frodo, Sam certainly does look after you, doesn’t he?  Is there 
anything he wouldn’t do for you I wonder?” laughed Pippin, still 
oblivious.  Sam’s hand jerked, sloshing tea onto the table.  Blushing 
further, he set the cups down and reached for a cloth.

“Of course not, Master Pippin,” Sam said hoarsely as he wiped the table.  
Suddenly, he felt Frodo’s hand on his and looked up to see his master 
smiling.

“I know,” said Frodo.  Sam found himself struggling to tear his gaze away 
from his master’s, but after a long pause, he smiled and turned to finish 
preparing the breakfast.

When Sam had left to work in the garden, Merry finally turned to Frodo.

“So, cousin, you avoided my question last night,” he said, “but something 
is clearly going on here.  What’s wrong?”

“Something’s wrong?” enquired Pippin between mouthfuls of bacon.  
Frodo smiled as he gazed out of the window.  Although he could not see 
Sam, he could hear him singing in time with the sound of his shovel.  It 
occurred to Frodo that he had not heard Sam sing for some weeks.

“No,” he sighed.  “Nothing’s wrong.”

***

The following morning, Frodo awoke to the familiar sound of Sam 
opening the door to his room.  Wearily pulling himself up, he looked 
around expectantly and was disappointed to see that Sam was empty-
handed.

“No breakfast today, Sam?” he asked.  “I hope you weren’t too put off by 
Pippin’s teasing.”

“Not at all, sir, just give me a moment and I’ll be right back.”  Sam made a 
movement back towards the door before Frodo stopped him.

“I was only joking, Sam,” he said.  “Actually, I think I’ll get up and eat in 
the kitchen with my guests.  They’ve decided to leave this afternoon.”

“They’re leaving, sir?” Sam tried to ignore the feeling of elation.  “But 
they’ve only just arrived.”

“Yes,” Frodo sighed, “but I don’t suppose I’m much company at the 
moment.”  *I’d rather be here alone with you,* he added silently.

Sam nodded and made his way out to the kitchen to prepare the breakfast.  
He wondered at the reason for Merry and Pippin’s sudden departure, and 
try though he might to ignore the thoughts, he couldn’t help but feel that 
he was in some way responsible.  As he stirred the tea idly, he thought 
back to the previous morning, to Frodo’s eyes on his.  Almost pleading, 
they’d been, as though Frodo had been silently begging him for 
something.  *Forgiveness?*  Sam thought.  *But whatever for?*  A small 
voice edged its way into his mind: *He just wants you to know how much 
you’re appreciated,* it said, but Sam dismissed it instantly.  *Don’t be 
such a ninnyhammer, Samwise,* he scolded himself.

“Sam?”  Merry’s voice broke his concentration.  “I don’t think that tea’s 
getting any more stirred.”  Sam turned and gave the tea to Merry, blushing 
a deep shade of red.

“Sorry, Mr Merry,” he mumbled.  Merry looked at him intently.

“Pippin and I are off today, Sam.  I think you need some time with Frodo 
to sort things out,” he said.  The colour drained from Sam’s face as he 
looked up at Merry.

“He told you then?” he asked, his voice no more than a whisper.

“No,” sighed Merry, “he’s very close.  But I can see that there’s something 
going on and I’m sure it will be more easily resolved with me and Pip out 
of the way.”

“But Mer – Mr Merry,” Sam protested, “you oughtn’t to go leaving on my 
account, I- “  He stopped as he heard footsteps and Pippin entered the 
kitchen.  “Morning, Master Pippin,” he sighed.  As he turned, he caught 
Merry’s eye, and Merry gave him a knowing smile.

***

That afternoon, Frodo was helping Merry and Pippin to load their cart as 
Sam appeared with a large basket laden with apples, mushrooms and cider 
for their journey.  Pippin accepted it gleefully and leapt into the cart.  Sam 
eyed the crack down the side with concern.

“Will that be safe for you gettin’ home?” he asked.

“’Course it will,” said Merry, “it was only a little tip.”  Pippin looked up 
indignantly with his mouth full of mushrooms, but said nothing.

“Goodbye Frodo, ‘bye Sam!” called Merry as the cart pulled away.  Pippin 
turned his attention briefly from the basket to wave his goodbye.

Frodo and Sam stood by the gate for some time, waving them off, until the 
cart was completely out of sight.  Eventually, Frodo turned to Sam and 
took a deep breath.

“He knew,” he said simply.

“Aye,” whispered Sam.  Frodo reached out and gently touched his 
gardener’s arm, until Sam turned to look at him with a smile.  “Cup of tea, 
Mr Frodo?” Sam asked.

“That would be lovely, Sam,” said Frodo, and they walked, arm in arm, 
back into Bag End.

As Sam made the tea, Frodo studied him intently.  He could not help but 
watch those strong yet gentle hands or the way his curls danced around his 
head with his every movement.  Frodo sighed as his mind began to drift, 
but he was brought sharply back to his senses as Sam placed a cup onto 
the table in front of him.  He smiled as he caught his gardener’s eye.

“Thank you Sam,” he said.

“You’re welcome, Mr Frodo,” said Sam as he departed for the garden. 

***

Frodo was sat in his study, writing furiously when the gentle patter of rain 
against his windowpane broke his concentration.  He set down his quill 
and gazed into the garden, where he saw Sam still hard at work.  As the 
rain fell harder and harder, Frodo sighed with exasperation and made his 
way over to the door.

“Sam!” he called.  “Get back in here; you’ll be soaked to the bone.”

“’Tis only a shower, sir, and I’d best get this planting finished by 
nightfall,” Sam called back.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Samwise, get back in here.  That’s an order,” Frodo 
said firmly.  Sam reluctantly lifted himself to his feet and walked back 
inside.  Frodo fetched a change of clothes and handed them so him before 
making his way back to the study.

Having changed into some dry clothes, Sam found Frodo in the study 
lighting a fire.

“Now, sir, I’ll take care of that,” he said, rushing over to help.

“Nonsense, Sam.  Just you sit there,” Frodo said, indicating some cushions 
that he’d placed in front of the fire, “and get warm.”

Sam sat down obediently, while Frodo got the fire going and collected a 
stack of papers from his desk before joining him on the cushions.

“Would you like to hear the story I’ve been translating?” asked Frodo.  
“It’s about Elves.”

“Why, I’d love to, Mr Frodo,” replied Sam eagerly.  It had been some time 
since he’d heard Frodo tell a story about the Elves.

They settled down and Frodo began to read.  As he listened to his master’s 
melodic voice, Sam’s thoughts drifted over the events of the last few 
weeks.  He had been tortured by the idea that he could cause Frodo any 
pain, but could see now that their friendship was far too valuable to risk 
for anything.  He watched Frodo, who was studying the text intently as he 
read, causing his brow to furrow very slightly.  The firelight was flickering 
over his face, making it glow ethereally.  *My, but don’t he look lovely,* 
thought Sam, before quickly catching himself and forcing his attention 
back to the story.  *What a stupid thought,* he chided himself.  *It’s just 
the story, Samwise, just the story.*  Though why he could not stop 
thinking about that one kiss he and Frodo had shared all those weeks ago, 
he could not quite fathom.

Frodo could not help but sneak a couple of glances at Sam as he read.  The 
younger hobbit’s dark golden skin was glowing in the warm light of the 
fire, making him irresistible to Frodo’s eyes.  *How can I force myself to 
resist you when you look like that?* he thought ruefully, but quickly put a 
stop to that train of thought before it could progress any further.  If he had 
learnt one thing over the last few months, it was that nothing was worth 
jeopardising his friendship with Sam.

As Frodo finished his story, Sam leaned over to him and embraced him 
tightly.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, “that was lovely.”  Frodo relaxed into Sam’s 
arms and sighed contentedly, all awkwardness finally forgotten.


Title: Obstacles 3: Distraction 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: PG-13 
Summary: Frodo ponders Sam’s companionship.

A/N: * = Italics


Hobbiton, The Shire, April 1418 S.R.

“Sam fell on his knees, trembling.  'Get up, Sam!' said Gandalf. I have 
thought of something better than that.  Something to shut your mouth, and 
punish you properly for listening.  You shall go away with Mr. Frodo!' 
'Me, sir!' cried Sam, springing up like a dog invited for a walk.  'Me go 
and see Elves and all! Hooray!' he shouted, and then burst into tears.” 
(The Shadow of the Past, Fellowship of the Ring) 

Sam was still in tears when Gandalf retired to bed.  He had been that upset 
at the thought of Mr Frodo leaving that he was able to set aside his own 
fears, but the shock had still overcome him.

As his sobs subsided, Sam looked up to see Frodo holding out a cup of tea 
towards him.  Sam accepted it gratefully and wiped his eyes on his shirt 
sleeve.

“You don’t have to come with me, Samwise,” said Frodo gently.

“I know, Mr Frodo, but I mean to,” replied Sam firmly.

“Very well,” said Frodo, smiling.  It would be good to have some 
company, after all, and he could think of no-one he would rather have with 
him than his Sam.

Nearly a year had passed since Frodo had confessed his love for Sam, and 
been rejected.  After several weeks of anguish, their friendship had 
returned to normal and, although they had never really spoken aloud about 
their feelings, they were now as close as they had ever been.  Frodo had 
tried to reason that, while he did not consider himself a ‘normal’ hobbit, 
Sam most definitely was.  So while the propriety of a gentlehobbit’s 
sharing his bed with his servant caused no problems for Frodo, he 
understood that this was not the case for Sam.  It probably never could be, 
and while this pained Frodo, he so valued Sam’s friendship that he had 
learned to live with it.  Or at least, he had tried to force himself to live 
with it, but at times this proved exceedingly difficult.

Every now and again Sam would catch Frodo watching him and wonder 
whether his master still thought of him that way.  He longed to talk about 
it, but could not bear the thought of returning to the awkwardness they had 
endured previously.  Sam’s feelings had not changed, yet he found himself 
wondering sometimes if Frodo’s had.  Although he insisted to himself that 
he hoped they had, a small part of the back of his mind hoped that they 
hadn’t.  As much as he did not wish for any kind of romantic involvement 
with Frodo, the thought that he occupied such a special place in his 
master’s heart made him swell with pride.

Frodo longed to discuss this with Sam, and he thought that this evening 
might provide the perfect opportunity.  After all, if they were to be 
heading into unspeakable danger together, surely it would be better if they 
were completely honest with one another?

“Sam,” Frodo began, but stopped as soon as Sam looked up.  The look on 
his face was a mixture of fear and devotion, and Frodo suddenly found 
himself unable to continue.  

“What is it Mr Frodo?” Sam asked cautiously after a long pause.

“Nothing,” Frodo sighed.  “It’s not important.”  *How can I tell you how I 
feel when you look at me that way?* he thought,  *I do not deserve your 
trust.  I do not deserve your undying loyalty, your companionship.  You 
give so freely to me; if only you knew what twisted thoughts occupy my 
mind you would surely show me the contempt I deserve.*

Sam saw a shadow cross his master’s face and knew that he was troubled, 
but he could find no words of comfort.

“Will you tell me more about the Elves, sir?” he asked, in an attempt to 
lighten the mood.

“Why Sam,” laughed Frodo, “I believe I have told you every story I know 
many times over.”

“I ain’t never tired of hearing them,” replied Sam eagerly.

“Very well,” said Frodo with a smile.  Taking Sam’s empty teacup and 
resting it on a side table, he sat himself beside his gardener and spoke 
gently of the fair valley of Rivendell, which Bilbo had visited so many 
years previously.  He felt his heart skip as Sam’s eyes lit up.  *Nothing 
ever curbs your enthusiasm, does it Sam,* he thought ruefully.  *If only 
you knew that all your master can think about is your hand resting against 
his leg, so gently, so casually, so innocently…*  Frodo stopped abruptly.  
Sam looked over in concern and as their eyes met, Frodo suddenly felt a 
rush of guilt and leapt up.

“I think we should both get some sleep,” he said hoarsely and quickly 
retired to his room.  He was not quite sure what had come over him; for 
months now he had successfully – *relatively successfully*, he admitted 
to himself – kept all inappropriate thoughts towards his gardener at bay.  
But now, the thought of leaving the Shire and being alone with Sam had 
begun to fill his mind with ideas that he knew to be entirely unsuitable for 
the situation. 

As Sam wandered back towards his home at Number Three, his mind was 
not on the dangerous quest he had found himself about to embark upon, 
but on his master.  Frodo’s sudden change of mood had surprised him.  He 
could only conclude that Frodo was afraid of what lay before them, and he 
resolved to himself to never allow any harm to come to his master.  
Wherever their journey might lead them, into whatever danger, Sam 
would follow Frodo to the ends of Middle-earth.

***

On September 23rd, Frodo, Sam and Pippin left Bag End.  Frodo had 
informed everyone that he intended to move to Crickhollow, and that Sam 
was to continue to work for him there.  Frodo believed that all bar Sam 
held this to be the truth, although, if he had known it, Pippin was aware 
that his cousin’s journey would not end at Crickhollow.

As they set a steady pace across the country, Frodo began to feel twinges 
of pain and rued his out-of-shape frame.  Watching Sam, he envied his 
gardener’s strong physique and the physical fitness with which years of 
hard work had endowed him.  Realising that his thoughts were heading in 
entirely the wrong direction, he turned to Pippin.

“Can you sing us a song, Pip?” he asked.

“Hmmm,” Pippin replied.  “I’m not sure that I know any more walking 
songs.”

“You’ve run out already?” chuckled Sam.  “This is going to be a long 
journey then.”

“You sing one then, Sam,” said Frodo.  “One of the ones you sing in the 
garden.”

“Oh, but they’re all nonsense, sir,” said Sam, blushing as he realised that 
Frodo must be able to hear his voice from the study.

“I know,” said Frodo, “I like them.”  

Sam grinned and furrowed his brow with thought as he selected a song he 
had made up whilst weeding a flowerbed.  It was about a weed who liked 
to grow near to the flowers, and was so stubborn that it would keep 
returning.  As the weed offered its explanation that it just wanted to be 
near to the pretty flowers, Sam adopted a high-pitched voice to represent 
the weed, and Frodo and Pippin creased with laughter.  Sam stopped 
singing and stared at them with a mock hurt expression on his face.

“I told you they were nonsense,” he said.

“And I told you I like them,” said Frodo, wiping a tear of laughter from 
his eye.

The day’s walk passed quickly to the accompaniment of Sam’s nonsense 
songs, until the hobbits finally settled down in front of a fire.  Frodo 
noticed that Sam gravitated to his side protectively, and he leaned his head 
against his gardener’s shoulder.

“I’m exhausted, Sam,” he admitted.  Sam smiled down at him.

“Let’s get some sleep then,” he said, looking around for a suitably 
sheltered spot.  “Here we go,” he said finally, lifting himself and his 
master to their feet, “a nice little tree.  We can curl up in the roots here, 
see, and we’ll be right out of the way of the wind.”  Sam guided Frodo to 
the most sheltered spot and laid him down, tucking his blanket around him 
and kissing him softly on the brow as he drifted off to sleep.

Sam turned back to gather their packs together and put out the fire.  When 
he turned back to the tree, he saw that Pippin was already fast asleep on 
Frodo’s left, so he laid himself down to the right of his master and cast 
himself into a weary sleep.

Frodo stirred from a light and troubled sleep and looked at Sam beside 
him.  Sam was on Frodo’s right, facing towards him, fast asleep and curled 
up in a blanket.  His face shone golden in the faint light of the moon, and 
his lips were curved in a slight smile.  Frodo could not lift his eyes from 
the vision before him.  You are so, so beautiful, he thought, blinking back 
the tears that threatened to fall.

Sam shifted in his sleep, wincing at the uncomfortable roots, and opened 
one eye cautiously.  He instantly saw Frodo awake beside him and sat up 
with a start, rubbing his eyes.

“Is something the matter, sir?” he whispered, mindful of Pippin who was 
asleep beside them.

“I’m sorry, Sam, I was – I was watching you sleep,” Frodo confessed, 
looking down at his hands.  “You looked so peaceful”

“Mr Frodo?” Sam said cautiously, “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”  
Frodo felt a solitary tear fall down his check, and he clenched his fists, 
digging his fingernails into his palm.  Sam saw the tear reflected in the 
moonlight.  *He’s sad about leaving the Shire, and frightened of where we 
might be headed,* he concluded.

“It’s alright, sir,” he said softly, and moved himself closer to Frodo.  “You 
need to get some sleep,” he whispered, and lay down, taking Frodo in his 
arms, his master’s head resting against his broad chest.  Then he placed a 
kiss on Frodo’s temple and pulled both of their blankets over them.

Frodo again tried desperately to blink back his tears.  *He tries so hard,* 
he thought.  *If he only knew the effect these simple, innocent gestures 
had on me, he’d be horrified.*  Still, Sam’s steady breathing and regular 
heartbeat did soothe him, and he gradually slipped into a deep, if troubled, 
sleep.

***

It was five months later, though to Frodo it seemed like years, that he 
found himself travelling down the Anduin in a boat with Sam.  They had 
been travelling for a day, and Frodo was beginning to resent the quiet 
solitude of the river, which allowed him far too much time to think.

Every night since that first back in the Shire had been torture.  Each night 
he settled down close to Sam, and every time felt a shot of pain at his 
gardener’s touch.  Sam would usually place one arm over him 
protectively, and would kiss his brow lightly before they fell asleep.  
Frodo would lie awake, sometimes just for a few minutes but often for 
hours, feeling the tingling of his skin where Sam had kissed him, or the 
reassuring weight of the arm resting upon him.  Some time ago, this would 
have driven him wild with desire, as his imagination conjured up endless 
scenarios in which he might like to find himself.  But now, his thoughts 
lay solely on himself, on the unbearable shame of the inappropriate and 
unnatural feelings he harboured for young Samwise.  Some nights he 
would cry himself to sleep, and Sam would always wake and hold him 
tight until he fell asleep again, always assuming that the Ring was the 
cause of his master’s distress.

Frodo had spent his time in Lothlorien almost exclusively with Sam, 
trying to force his feelings away, but he found that he fell more in love 
with the younger hobbit with every hour he spent with him.  And as his 
feelings grew, so too did his anxiety.

Frodo knew now what he needed to do.  He could not bear to be so close 
to Sam and yet so far, and was finding himself increasingly unable to think 
of anything else.  He was deeply afraid of the effect that this distraction 
might have on the quest.  There was only one way to solve the problem; he 
had to leave, to continue alone.  But that thought filled him with dread.

***

Frodo guided the boat to the southern slopes of Amon Lhaw and 
clambered awkwardly out before turning to offer his hand to Sam.  Sam 
slipped slightly as he stepped from the boat, and stumbled forwards.  
Frodo caught him, and held him tight until he had steadied himself.  Even 
now, having just fled from the Fellowship, and with the prospect of the 
journey to Mordor looming menacingly in his mind, Frodo could not help 
but hold on to Sam for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

Standing back for a moment, Frodo regarding the wet and bedraggled Sam 
with a wry smile.  His intention had been to go alone, and Boromir’s 
sudden attack had provided him with the ideal opportunity to leave.  *But 
Sam wouldn’t let me go alone.  And I couldn’t continue without him,* 
Frodo thought.

“Come on, Sam, we shall have to find somewhere sheltered where we can 
light a fire,” Frodo said after a long pause.

“A fire, sir?  But we’ll surely be seen.”

“It’s a risk we’ll have to take,” sighed Frodo.  “You’ll catch a chill if you 
don’t dry out, and you wouldn’t be much use to me then.”

The hobbits climbed upwards for some way, and then found that the 
ground dropped to a steep tree-covered slope, beyond which lay the Emyn 
Muil, grey and desolate stretching far into the distance.

Frodo and Sam wandered down the slope some way, until they came to a 
small clearing on slightly more level ground.

“This is as good a place as any,” said Frodo, heaving his pack from his 
shoulders and seating himself against a fallen tree that lay on the ground.  
Sam busied himself starting a fire, and Frodo watched him intently as his 
thoughts drifted back over that day’s events.

Sam had been truly distressed at the thought of Frodo leaving.  Frodo felt 
his stomach muscles clench in anxiety as he remembered the sight of his 
dear, beloved Sam following him into the river, almost drowning in his 
effort to follow his master.  *Why does he follow me?*  thought Frodo 
sadly.  *Does he not know that there is no hope?  How can I allow him to 
follow me to his death?*  A wave of dread overcame him as he thought of 
any harm coming to Sam, whom he loved so very dearly.

“I wouldn’t have come after you if I didn’t want to, Mr Frodo,” said Sam, 
not looking up from the fire, his voice barely more than a whisper.  Frodo 
gasped, wondering if Sam could read his thoughts, before realising that of 
course Sam knew what he was thinking: he always did.

“I know, Sam,” he replied quietly.

Sam stood up as the fire roared into life, and moved to join Frodo resting 
against the fallen tree.

“So will you stop brooding and think no more of it, sir?” he asked, 
cocking his head slightly and eyeing Frodo with a look that Frodo was 
sure would make him melt.

“Of – of course, Sam,” he said croakily, unable to concentrate on anything 
but those soft, hazel eyes that bored so deeply into him.

Sam offered his arm to Frodo, and Frodo leaned in towards him to lay his 
head upon his gardener’s shoulder, wondering how, in all the evil that 
surrounded them, he was so fortunate as to be able to feel such peace and 
contentment in Sam’s company.  Suddenly, he was brought back to reality 
with a start.

“Why Sam, you’re soaking wet!” he cried.  “You must change into some 
dry clothes at once.”

“Right,” murmured Sam, but he was only half listening.  Something was 
unsettling his thoughts, though he could not rightly tell just what it was.  
He had felt an overwhelming sense of warmth at the anticipation of 
holding Frodo close in his arms, only to be replaced by a feeling of loss as 
the older hobbit had pulled away.  Slowly, he lifted himself up to retrieve 
some spare clothes from his pack, but as he looked up, he saw Frodo 
standing before him, holding out the garments for him.

Frodo sat back down and gazed intently into the fire so as not to make 
Sam uncomfortable as he changed.  However, he could not help but steal a 
few small glances in the direction of the younger hobbit, and felt a lump 
rise in his throat as he saw just how thin and gaunt his once-sturdy 
companion had become.

Sam laid his wet clothes over a branch close to the fire to dry and sat down 
beside Frodo, instinctively placing his arm protectively around his 
master’s shoulders.  Frodo leaned into Sam, resting his head against Sam’s 
shoulder and letting out a deep sigh.  He closed his eyes and tried to relax 
in the warmth of the fire and reassuring regularity of Sam’s breathing, but 
his mind was in turmoil.

How could he hope to continue this quest, when all he longed for was 
right here before him?  Here, in Sam’s arms, Frodo could forget about the 
Ring.  There was no evil that could touch him here.  Frodo realised with a 
growing sense of apprehension that he would gladly cast the Ring into the 
Anduin if he could claim Sam for his own.  He could not carry on with the 
distraction of having all that he wanted by his side and yet out of reach.  
Yet he knew also that he could not carry on without Sam.  There seemed 
to be no hope.  *Of all those to whom the Ring could have come,* thought 
Frodo ruefully as he drifted off to sleep, *it chose one who would throw 
aside the entire quest because of his improper and unnatural feelings for 
his gardener.*

Sam ran his fingers absent-mindedly through Frodo’s hair and tried to 
focus on remaining alert, on watch so that his master could sleep.  But his 
mind was racing.  *How could he try to leave without me?* he thought, 
tears beginning to prick at his eyes.  *Does he not know that I would die 
rather than leave his side?*  Sam sighed and held Frodo tightly to him.  
Sam may not have been a warrior or a wizard, but while there was breath 
left in him he would do anything to help his master.  He would not allow 
himself to let Frodo down.  Not again.  Sam flinched as he remembered 
the last time he had let Frodo down, and something suddenly stirred within 
him, and he found himself wondering what it might be like to dip his head 
everso slightly and kiss Frodo.  Would that take away his master’s pain?  
He gently ran his hand down to Frodo’s jaw and lifted his face slightly.  
Frodo was asleep, and murmured slightly as he sensed the movement.  
Lowering his own head, Sam hovered there, his lips tantalising close to his 
master’s, and closed his eyes.  Frodo began to stir as he felt Sam’s warm 
breath on his face, and they lingered there for long moments, before Sam 
finally moved away and placed a gentle kiss on Frodo’s brow.  *No,* he 
thought, *it still ain’t right.  I’m here to look after Mr Frodo, and look 
after him I shall.*

Frodo’s eyes fluttered open as Sam sank back against the tree, still holding 
him tightly.  Had he imagined that Sam had almost kissed him?  But no, 
he could still feel the warm breath on his face, the anticipating tingling in 
his lips.  Frodo felt a tear slide down his face as he lay back against Sam.  
He felt the younger hobbit shiver beside him, and realised that the fire had 
long gone out.  Pulling his Lorien cloak over them both, Frodo settled 
down for another troubled sleep.

Frodo awoke as the Sun began to rise, and immediately felt that something 
was missing.  Waking himself with a start, he realised that his head was 
resting against the tree, and Sam was nowhere to be seen.  In a sudden 
panic, Frodo leapt to his feet and began to look around frantically, before 
he saw Sam walking back up the slope towards him.

“Just been to fill the water bottles, sir,” said Sam, seeing the look of 
anxiety on his master’s face.  “Here,” he added, offering one to Frodo, 
“you have some of this while I fetch you some of that elvish bread for 
your breakfast.”

“Thank you Sam,” said Frodo, sitting back down.  Sam joined him shortly 
afterwards and handed him a piece of lembas.  They ate in silence, and 
then Sam lifted himself to his feet, pulling Frodo up after him.

The hobbits made their way together towards the Emyn Muil, Sam a few 
steps in front of Frodo to test the way.  As they walked, Frodo watched 
Sam and felt an intense feeling of warmth despite their bleak 
surroundings.  Sam’s companionship, he concluded, was all he had left to 
rely on.  He may have little hope with Sam, but without him he had none 
at all.  *I will just have to live with the distraction,* Frodo thought, *for I 
certainly cannot live without him.*


Title: Obstacles 4: Burden 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: PG 
Summary: Frodo discloses to Sam.

A/N: * means Italics.

Emyn Muil, February 1419 S.R.

It had been a long day’s walk when Frodo and Sam finally settled down to 
rest.  Frodo slumped wordlessly down under the shelter of a large rock, 
and Sam carefully wrapped a blanket over him before settling down 
himself.

Lying awake to keep watch while his master slept, Sam gazed upwards at 
the sky and wondered if his family back home were looking upon the 
same stars.  Walking through the harsh grey landscape of the Emyn Muil 
made him fiercely determined to protect the lush greenness of his 
homeland, and at any time that he felt he could not carry on, that his legs 
could not take a single more step, the thought of home enabled him to 
continue.

And then there was Frodo.  Sam had only to look at Frodo, and he knew 
that he would be nowhere else.  Were they in Mordor itself, in the dark 
ash-covered ground and heavy, dank air, Sam would not leave Frodo’s 
side for all the gardens in the Shire.

As Frodo awakened to take his watch, Sam fell quickly into a dream-filled 
sleep.  Frodo did not sit up, reluctant to move from the warmth of Sam’s 
side, but lay awake, staring upwards at the same stars upon which Sam 
had gazed, though they were not able to offer him the same comfort.

With each passing hour, he had further convinced himself that he had 
imagined their almost-kiss the previous night, but the thought continued to 
torment him.  What if Sam *had* meant to kiss him, but was too 
frightened?  Frodo tried to shake off this thought, remembering the 
disastrous consequences the last time that he had assumed that Sam would 
return his feelings, but the nagging thought kept tugging at his mind.

Sam awoke with a start as he felt a movement.  Frodo was shifting 
slightly, uncomfortable on the hard ground.  Sam was lying on his side, 
with his arm over Frodo, who was lying on his back.

“How long have you been awake, sir?” Sam asked with a yawn.

“A few hours I think,” replied Frodo.

“It’s my turn to watch then,” said Sam, lifting himself up to a seated 
position.  “You get some sleep Mr Frodo.”  Frodo rested his head against 
the side of Sam’s leg and sighed.

“I don’t think I can, Sam,” he said.  “There are just too many thoughts in 
my head.”

“Would it help you to share them, then?”

“Yes, Sam, I think it would, but – but I don’t think I can.”

“Whyever not, sir?” Sam’s voice was edged with concern.  “I could help 
you so much better if I knew what it was that was troubling you.”

Frodo pulled himself up to sit beside Sam and gazed into the distance.  He 
knew that he would have no rest until this was resolved one way or the 
other, but how to express his thoughts?

“I don’t think you could help me any more than you have already,” he said 
at last.  “But you do deserve to know this.” Frodo took a deep breath.  “Do 
you remember that day, Sam?  That day under the tree?”

“Aye,” said Sam, shifting uncomfortably and turning his gaze from Frodo.

“We’ve never spoken of it, have we?” said Frodo carefully.

“No,” whispered Sam.

“Do you know that I still feel the same?  I’ve tried to forget, but I can’t.  
It’s consuming me, Sam.  I can’t bear the thought that you’ve followed me 
here not knowing the evil thoughts that occupy my mind.”  Tears were 
streaming down Frodo’s face as he said this, and Sam found that he too 
was weeping.  The idea that he could cause his master any pain was 
unbearable.

“Mr Frodo, I don’t understand.  You told me then that you didn’t want me 
to kiss you.” Sam blushed through his tears and looked steadfastly 
downwards, not wanting to meet Frodo’s eyes.

“No, Sam, I meant that I didn’t want you feeling that you were doing your 
duty by kissing me.  I wanted you to want to.”

“But I do want to,” insisted Sam.  “I’d do anything to make you happy, not 
because you’re my employer neither.  I like making you happy, sir, it’s the 
most important thing in the world to me.”

“But you don’t feel that – that way about me?”

“Well,” Sam blushed again, “I don’t rightly see how I can.  I don’t really 
understand how I could, if you take my meaning.”

“No, Sam, I don’t,” Frodo sighed, exasperated.  “You don’t feel about me 
the way you would about a lass?” 

“It’s different, sir, begging your pardon.”

“So you don’t feel *that* way about me?”

“No, sir,” said Sam meekly.  “I’m sorry.”

“You must think me disgusting,” said Frodo as fresh tears began to fall.  
Sam looked at him in horror.

“No, of course not,” he said, moving instinctively to gather Frodo in his 
arms and kiss the tears away.  He stopped suddenly and shifted back an 
arm’s length away.  “I could never think any ill of you, sir.  I just don’t 
think you’re yourself, is all.  You’ve been given such a burden to carry, 
that you never should rightly have had to, an’ I’ll do anything I can to help 
you, sir, I will.  An’ you’ll see, when we’ve done the job and we’re back 
home, all this will go away.  It will, you’ll see.  And we’ll be back where 
we were, you with your books and me in the garden, and everything will 
be as it should.”

“Dear Sam,” laughed Frodo, “you never lose hope do you?”  *But this 
won’t go away,* he added silently, before lying back down to sleep.

Sam sat awake for several more hours, pondering his master’s words.  A 
flood of thoughts rushed through his mind, and he found himself unable to 
sort them coherently.  The knowledge that he was the source of any of 
Frodo’s pain tore at his heart, and he realised that he was still weeping 
silently.  He knew Frodo well enough to know that lying, pretending that 
he felt something he did not, would hurt him far more, and could not think 
of any other way he could help.

Sam ran one hand through Frodo’s dark curls and watched his master 
sleep.  He would do anything to ease Frodo’s suffering, anything at all.  
What cruel fate was it that caused Frodo to desire the one thing that Sam 
had no power to offer?


Title: Obstacles 5: Fear 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: PG 
Summary: Fear provides Sam with answers.


Torech Ungol, 13th March 1419 S.R.

"`Frodo, Mr. Frodo! ' he called. 'Don't leave me here alone! It's your Sam 
calling. Don't go where I can't follow! Wake up, Mr. Frodo! O wake up, 
Frodo, me dear, me dear. Wake up!' Then anger surged over him, and he 
ran about his master's body in a rage, stabbing the air, and smiting the 
stones, and shouting challenges. Presently he came back, and bending 
looked at Frodo's face, pale beneath him in the dusk. And suddenly he saw 
that he was in the picture that was revealed to him in the mirror of 
Galadriel in Lorien: Frodo with a pale face lying fast asleep under a great 
dark cliff. Or fast asleep he had thought then. `He's dead! ' he said. 'Not 
asleep, dead! ' And as he said it, as if the words had set the venom to its 
work again. it seemed to him that the hue of the face grew livid green.  
 
And then black despair came down on him, and Sam bowed to the ground, 
and drew his grey hood over his head, and night came into his heart, and 
he knew no more."  
(The Choices of Master Samwise, The Two Towers)


Sam brushed a stray curl from Frodo’s brow and kissed it softly, his tears 
falling onto his master’s lifeless face.  He felt that a great chasm had 
opened beneath him, and he was falling, falling with ever increasing speed 
and with no sight of an end beneath him.

“Oh, Mr Frodo, me dear,” he said aloud, “how shall I ever carry on 
without you?  You mean everything to me, sir, absolutely everything, and 
I shan’t never be whole again without you.”

Clutching the lifeless form to his breast, and with sobs wracking his body, 
Sam buried his face in Frodo’s hair as images flooded his mind.  Frodo, 
arriving at Bag End.  The young Samwise had formed an instant 
attachment to the elvish-looking orphan come to live with Mad Baggins.  
Then, images of Frodo at Bag End, reading in his study or in the garden.  
Frodo out walking around the Shire.  Frodo trying to help in the garden, 
but being more of a hindrance, not that Sam had ever minded.  And 
finally, Frodo under that tree just outside Hobbiton, now nearly two years 
ago.  Frodo, the most beautiful and lovely creature in all the world, 
confessing that he loved Sam, the simple, rustic gardener.

Sam’s tears suddenly ceased and he laid Frodo back down, running one 
hand through his curls.  He had never before stopped to think about that; 
Frodo had been in love with him: Samwise Gamgee, the gardener.  

Strange though the idea was to him, Sam could not stop the intense feeling 
of warmth that engulfed him at the thought.  He remembered that kiss: 
awkward, it had been, but Sam could not rightly say even back then that 
he had disliked it.

Frodo’s touch had always been something special to Sam.  Fresh tears 
began to course down his cheeks as he remembered the evenings that they 
had sat in front of the fire.  Frodo would lie in Sam’s arms as he read to 
him, and Sam had loved to feel him there, had felt so comforted by the 
closeness they had been able to share.

Even here, in this desolate wasteland, Frodo’s touch was able to offer Sam 
comfort from the harshness of their reality.  He had held Frodo in his arms 
every night since they had left Bag End, and it had not always been for 
warmth, at least not physical warmth.  Sam shuddered as he remembered 
their first night away from the Fellowship.  After his devastation at almost 
being left behind, he had drawn comfort from being close to Frodo.  Sam 
had held him tightly all through the night, as though to be sure that he 
would not escape again.

And then there was that feeling; that warm tingling sensation he had felt as 
he had placed his lips so close to Frodo’s.  Trying to comfort him, Sam 
had told himself then, but he knew that it was not so.  Why then did he 
ache so?  Why then did that kiss that never was linger in his mind, 
unfulfilled?

Sam felt himself go cold as the realisation hit him: of course he returned 
Frodo’s love, he always had.

*Why, Samwise, you are a ninnyhammer and no mistake,* he scorned 
himself as tears coursed ever more fiercely down his face.  It had never 
occurred to him that it could be this simple.  He loved Frodo more – far 
more- than he could ever love a lass.  He knew that, had always known 
that, but somehow had never recognised the feelings for what they were.

Having never heard of two lads falling in love before, Sam had not 
stopped to think that his feelings for Frodo were anything out of the 
ordinary.  But now, here, with his master lying dead in his arms, Sam 
knew that he would have followed him to the ends of Middle-earth.  Death 
had held no fear for him while he had Frodo by his side, and now he 
would like nothing more than to lie down and die beside him, to take that 
one last chance to be with him for all eternity.  There was no lass in the 
Shire or anywhere else about whom he could say the same.  That was the 
simple truth of it; it was Frodo he loved, pure and simple: his gender was 
inconsequential.  Sam laid Frodo back down and gently kissed his brow.

“I’m so sorry, Mr Frodo, I’m such a fool,” he sobbed.  “I love you sir, I 
have always loved you.”  Fresh tears fell from Sam’s eyes and splashed 
across Frodo’s features, as Sam realised that that one awkward kiss two 
years previously would be the only kiss they would ever share.  “I’m sorry 
Mr Frodo,” he whispered, and placed a firm kiss against his master’s cool 
lips.  Then Sam’s mind emptied of thought, and all was bleak.


Title: Obstacles 6: Interruptions 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: PG-13 
Summary: Frodo and Sam experience difficulties in expressing their love.


Minas Tirith, May 1419

Sam sat on a stool by his master’s bed and watched him sleep.  They had 
been brought to the edge of endurance during their time in Mordor, and 
the past few weeks had seemed something of a blur.  Sam had been unable 
to absorb all of the wonderful news he had heard, and was sure that, at any 
moment, he would awake in Mordor, tired, hungry and dehydrated.

It was only here, alone with his master and watching him in the restful 
peace of sleep, that he could feel that any of this was real.  Looking after 
Frodo was the only thing that was real to him; all the big battles and heroic 
tales were not for his sort.  His job had been simply to carry Frodo to 
Orodruin, and carry him he had – literally – and now, here they were, safe 
and alive and free of that confounded thing forever.

Sam lightly ran a hand along the line of Frodo’s jaw, up to his hair and 
through the soft curls.  Mordor had been no place to confess his realisation 
of his love for his master, of course, nor the dizzying weeks afterwards in 
which there had been so many tales to share, news to gather, celebrations 
to be had, and hurts to heal.  But here, in the sanctuary of the room they 
had been given in Minas Tirith, he was finally free to realise his heart’s 
desire, the desire which had remained hidden from him for so long.

Frodo’s eyes fluttered open as he felt Sam’s fingers in his hair, and he 
smiled contentedly to see the younger hobbit leaning over him.  Sam 
blushed as his eyes caught Frodo’s, and he swiftly removed his hand from 
his master’s hair, but Frodo caught it and held it tight within his own.

“Sam,” he whispered, his eyes fixed on Sam’s “we’re really here, aren’t 
we?”

Sam could not tear his gaze from Frodo’s eyes; the intense blue that he felt 
sure would burn him.  The light that seemed to shine through Frodo was 
stronger than ever, Sam thought.  It always shone through; even in 
Mordor, when he had been exhausted and covered in dirt, that inner glow 
had permeated through, and Sam had still thought him the most beautiful 
creature in all of Middle-earth.  Now, though, he looked so achingly, 
painfully beautiful that Sam almost felt his heart could shatter from just 
the sight of him.  Gently, he brought his master’s hand to his lips and 
kissed it.

“Yes, sir,” he said, a slight break in his voice. “So it would seem.”

Their eyes locked together, and Sam felt his head spin, feeling almost as 
though he was drowning.  After long moments had passed, he realised that 
he could find no words, and bent slowly to kiss his love.  

As his lips hovered mere fractions of an inch above Frodo’s, Sam felt his 
heart pounding and every nerve in his body tingling.  He took a deep 
breath and closed his eyes, preparing to finally meet Frodo’s soft lips with 
his own.

“Hullo Frodo!” cried Merry, bounding through the door, followed by 
Pippin.  Sam quickly broke away and leapt to his feet, blushing furiously.  
He cast a look down towards Frodo, who wore a pained look on his face 
that cut right to Sam’s heart.

“Good to see you Mister Merry, Master Pippin,” Sam lied.  Merry and 
Pippin leapt onto Frodo’s bed, sitting cross-legged at the foot.

“You haven’t changed a bit, have you cousin?” laughed Pippin.  “You 
always were a late sleeper.  Here I am, waiting to show you around the 
most remarkable city on all Middle-earth and you haven’t left your room 
since you arrived!”  Frodo managed a smile and then sighed.

“I’m sorry, Pippin,” he said at last, “I guess all the celebrating has taken a 
lot out of me.  It’s been so good to sleep in a proper bed at last.”

Sam sat back down on the side of Frodo’s bed and grasped his master’s 
hand protectively.

“I really think you should get some rest, sir,” he said, looking pointedly at 
Pippin.  Merry took the hint and stepped down from the bed, pulling 
Pippin after him.

“Well, we’ll see you at dinner then,” said Pippin, and followed his cousin 
to the door, which Sam was holding open for them.  Merry paused by the 
door and turned to Sam.

“Thank you for bringing him back,” he said quietly, placing a hand on 
Sam’s arm.  Sam could think of nothing to say, but smiled and nodded, 
before closing the door and turning back to Frodo.  Frodo was now sat 
upright in his bed, staring intently at Sam.

“Can I get you anything, Mr Frodo?” Sam asked nervously.

“No, Sam,” said Frodo, his voice little more than a whisper.  He suddenly 
felt terrified, still reeling from the shock of waking up to find Sam beside 
him, about to kiss him.  He had been about to kiss him, hadn’t he?  Yes, 
Frodo was certain this time; there had been no mistaking it.  But somehow 
he felt afraid of bringing up the subject, remembering all to well what had 
happened last time he had done so.

Fortunately, he did not need to, for Sam gathered together every shred of 
courage he possessed, crossed the room in three swift steps and sat himself 
on the edge of Frodo’s bed, gathering his master in his arms.  He held him 
there for long moments, revelling in the feeling of finally being able to 
hold Frodo without fear of what was hunting them.  Eventually, though, he 
broke away, and lifted a hand to the side of Frodo’s face.

Sam’s eyes filled with tears as he looked upon his master, remembering 
the agonising torment of believing him dead, followed by the brief elation 
and crushing self-reproach when he had realised that Frodo was alive, but 
that Sam had allowed him to be taken by the Enemy, the surge of passion 
and anger that had pushed him to find a way into Cirith Ungol and the 
incredible sweet relief of finding him alive.  Sam remembered holding 
Frodo then, and wishing that this could have been the end of their quest 
and he could have stayed there forever, even in that foul place, with his 
love in his arms.

*My love.*  Sam felt unshed tears sting at his eyes as he thought the 
words.  It had taken him so long to realise how he felt about Frodo, but 
once his mind had finally cleared, it had seemed so simple that Sam cursed 
his feeble mind for not recognising it sooner.  From that moment on, all 
had been clear.  He had put every ounce of love that he felt for his master 
into caring for him constantly as they crossed Mordor.  He had guided 
him, given him all of the food and most of the water – not that Sam gave 
that part any thought – and held him close at night.

Every night, Sam had waited for Frodo to fall asleep and then cast his gaze 
up to the stars, begging them to allow him one wish: that they could 
complete their quest and return home so that Sam could finally tell Frodo 
that he loved him, so that they could finally be together as they always 
should have been.  Then he would kiss his master’s temple lightly and 
hold him tight in his arms.

After Gollum had fallen into the fire with the Ring, Frodo and Sam had 
found themselves together on a raised piece of rock as the mountain fell 
around them.  In what both believed to be the final moments of their lives, 
they had held each other close, and Sam had known that he would be 
nowhere else but there, dying with his love in his arms.  He could imagine 
no more perfect ending to his life, and had been at complete peace then, as 
he held Frodo and waited for death to claim them both.

But death had not claimed them, and Sam felt barely able to believe that 
his wishes really had come true; he and Frodo had both survived, and 
could now be together, always.

Frodo smiled as he wiped away a tear from Sam’s face.

“What are you thinking, Sam?” he asked softly, hoping against all hope 
that he knew the answer.

Sam did not answer, but leant forward and brushed his lips softly against 
Frodo’s.  Then he pulled away for just a moment and slid his hands around 
Frodo’s slight form; his left was on Frodo’s waist, and his right at the back 
of his head.  He pulled his master close to him and kissed him again, 
firmer this time.  Sam’s tears were flowing freely now, and the shaking of 
Frodo’s body told Sam that he was sobbing too.  But they did not break off 
their kiss, their mouths moulded together, moving in gentle caresses.  
Frodo parted his lips slightly, and Sam took the invitation, and plunged his 
tongue within, searching desperately.

Suddenly, the door began to creak open, and they leapt apart, both 
breathless, both of their faces stained with tears.  Frodo cursed his cousins 
under his breath, but it was not Merry and Pippin who entered their room, 
but Gandalf.

Gandalf saw the tearful and flustered hobbits and sighed inwardly, 
assuming that Frodo had awoken from a nightmare.  Knowing that Sam 
was the best person to be with him, Gandalf hastily excused himself and 
left.

Sam turned back to Frodo and tucked some stray curls behind his ear.

“Mr Frodo, me dear,” he began, but was immediately interrupted by the 
sound of the door opening again.  He turned with an exasperated gasp, to 
see one of the King’s servants standing in the doorway.  The servant 
bowed to the hobbits.

“The King Elessar requests your company for a banquet,” he declared, 
before bowing again and departing.  Sam groaned.

“Another banquet?” he muttered.  “Never thought I’d get bored of 
banquets, but-“

“Sam?” Frodo interrupted him.  Sam turned back to his master, and saw in 
his eyes a searching, questioning look.  Sam had no need to ask what that 
question was, and at any rate no suitable words to answer it.

“Yes,” he said simply, and kissed Frodo softly.  He could feel Frodo 
smiling into the kiss, and broke away reluctantly.  “I guess we should be 
going,” he said at last.

Frodo sighed disappointedly, wishing more than anything that he could 
stay here in the warmth of Sam’s arms.  Sam stepped off the bed and 
pulled Frodo up to join him.  They stood there for a moment, facing each 
other, and then Sam tipped Frodo’s head up to meet his lips with his own.  
They kissed gently, and Sam ran his tongue lightly over Frodo’s lips, 
eliciting a very slight moan, before breaking away and pulling his master 
close into a tight embrace.

“We’ll talk when we get back tonight,” he assured Frodo, placing one last 
kiss on his temple before reaching for some clothes and handing them to 
his master.  Sam looked away as Frodo dressed, knowing that he would be 
unable to leave for dinner if he caught any sight of that beautiful white 
skin.

Once dressed, Frodo stepped up behind Sam and wrapped his arms around 
his gardener’s waist, placing a kiss on the back of his neck.  Sam sighed 
and spun round to face Frodo, holding him close and pressing a kiss to 
those chocolate curls.

“Come on,” he whispered, “we’ll be late.”

“Let’s be late,” whispered Frodo and reached up for a kiss.  But Sam 
stepped away with a smile and pulled Frodo by the hand towards the door.

Dinner passed painfully slowly.  Frodo and Sam were seated opposite each 
other, neither able to remove their eyes from the other, and they remained 
silent throughout the meal, except for single-word answers whenever a 
question was directed towards them.

Frodo’s mind was in a dizzying whirl as he gazed upon his gardener.  Had 
that afternoon been real?  He knew that it had, but was somehow unable to 
piece together just what had happened.

The latter portion of their journey, from Cirith Ungol to Mount Doom, had 
passed in something of a daze for Frodo.  He had given himself 
completely over to Sam’s care, trudging along in constant weariness, 
collapsing into Sam’s arms when he could take no more and being gently 
coaxed to his feet to continue just a little further.  He would drift into 
weary sleep in Sam’s arms, too exhausted to feel their comfort.  But now, 
he could look back, and he knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that he 
could not have made it without Sam.  With the Ring cast into the fire, he 
had found himself with Sam, facing death together as the mountain 
collapsed around them, and he had been relieved.  He had always expected 
that this quest would claim him life, but to have the Ring successfully 
destroyed and then to die in Sam’s arms had been beyond his wildest 
hopes.

Awaking on the Field of Cormallen, it had taken some time for him to 
adjust to the knowledge that he hadn’t died, and the elation he had felt at 
the numerous reunions – not to mention learning that Gandalf was alive – 
had been tinged with a very faint feeling of sadness at the knowledge that, 
instead of dying in Sam’s arms, he was to live out his days knowing that 
he could never have the one thing he desired.

He had tried many times to tell himself how fortunate he was to have such 
a good friend as Sam, and that to ask any more was foolish, but couldn’t 
suppress the pain he felt every time he saw his dear, loyal, devoted 
gardener and friend, so close to him and yet so agonisingly distant.

But then, that afternoon, things had suddenly changed, and Frodo could 
not work out how or why.  Sam had been absolute in his refusal of Frodo’s 
previous advances, so what had happened to change his mind?  Or had his 
mind not been changed at all?  Perhaps he was simply elated by the 
successful completion of the quest, and meant nothing by it at all.  But no, 
he had clearly waited until they were both as rested and healed as they 
were likely to be in the short term; this was no impulsive reaction.  

Frodo’s thoughts continued in circles throughout dinner, and by the end of 
the meal he had no recollection of what he had eaten – if indeed he had at 
all – or who else had been there.  Except for Sam, of course.

Sam’s mind too was racing.  It had been painful for him, keeping his 
feelings quiet throughout their journey across Mordor.  He had wanted so 
much to tell Frodo everything, perhaps to relieve just a fraction of the 
burden that his master carried.  But he knew that it had been neither the 
time nor the place, and besides Frodo would have struggled then to hold 
any real conversation.  Sam had been fit to burst by the time they awoke in 
Ithilien, but had resolved to ensure first that Frodo was healed and rested.  
That afternoon, he had been unable to hold back any longer.  And now, he 
wanted nothing more than to hold Frodo in his arms and cover him in 
kisses, to finally make up for all the time they had lost.  The thought of 
what he might like to do made him blush as he caught Frodo’s eye, and he 
turned down to face his plate, realising only then that he had not touched 
his food.

He had wanted to tell Frodo everything, how much he loved and adored 
him, but somehow words had failed him.  There were no fitting words, he 
decided, to express just how beautiful Frodo was.  Even the most exquisite 
elvish poetry in Middle-earth was too coarse to describe his Frodo.

It seemed many hours later that dinner was finally finished, and Frodo and 
Sam were finally excused to return to their room.  As they tried to exit the 
large dining room, though, they were cornered by Merry and Pippin.

“We’re going to a tavern down the road,” said Merry.  “Will you and Sam 
join us, Frodo?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Merry, but I think Mr Frodo needs some rest,” said Sam, 
placing a protective arm around Frodo and guiding him to the door.

By the time they reached their room, Sam noted with some regret that 
Frodo really did look rather tired.  Sam helped him into a nightshirt and 
lifted him gently onto his bed before turning to change himself.  By the 
time he turned back to Frodo, he noticed that his master was fast asleep.  
With a sigh, he tucked the blankets tightly around him, placed a kiss on his 
brow and climbed into his own bed.  

Lying on his side, he watched Frodo sleep.  He had wanted so badly to 
talk, to explain everything that he felt, but it seemed that it would have to 
wait until tomorrow.  He ached to touch that wondrous skin, and it was 
long hours before he was finally able to drift into a troubled sleep.

Sam awoke with a start as he heard a loud scream.  Instantly leaping out of 
his bed, he jumped up onto Frodo’s to wake him from his nightmare.  As 
Frodo awoke, he began to sob, and Sam climbed into the bed, pulling his 
master onto his lap and holding him close, stroking his hair and 
whispering soothing words of comfort into his ear.  Gradually, the sobs 
subsided, and Frodo rested his head against Sam’s shoulder.

“Oh Sam,” he said.  “I was back there, in the Tower, and you were there, 
and they – they were hurting you Sam, and they made me watch.”  Sam 
lifted Frodo’s head and gently kissed away his tears.

“Hush now, Frodo,” Sam whispered.  Frodo started at the informal use of 
his name, wondering at how lovely his name sounded coming from Sam.  
“It was just a nightmare,” Sam continued, “I’m here now.”

“Will you stay here, Sam?” Frodo asked hesitantly, realising how much 
more complicated this simple request was in light of the events of the 
previous day.  But Sam gave it no thought.

“Of course I will, me dear,” he said softly, laying Frodo down, and 
himself by his side.  Then he took Frodo in his arms, resting the older 
hobbit’s head beneath his chin and running his hands through Frodo’s hair.

Frodo immediately relaxed and fell back into a deep sleep, filled only with 
pleasant dreams of him and his Sam, living out their days together.

When Frodo awoke in Sam’s arms, in this large bed, he wondered if 
perhaps he was still within his dream.  He considered waking Sam with a 
kiss, perhaps slipping his hand within that nightshirt and kissing some of 
the skin covered there, but then felt a surge of alarm as he remembered the 
previous day.  He didn’t even know for sure how Sam felt about him.  He 
remembered with a cringe falling asleep the night before.

Sam awoke then, and his first thought was to wonder by what good grace 
he found himself waking beside his love.  But then he remembered the 
previous night, and his brow was furrowed with concern as he turned to 
Frodo.

“Did you sleep all right, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, Sam,” said Frodo.  “I can always sleep if you’re with me.  I think I 
must have got used to it.”  Sam couldn’t help wondering if that was an 
invitation, but was too afraid to ask.  Instead, he smiled and kissed the top 
of Frodo’s head.  Frodo lifted his head slightly to meet him, his eyes 
questioning, and Sam leant down to kiss him fully on the lips.  The kiss 
was slow and gentle, and Frodo felt every nerve in his body come to life, 
every sense heightened.  Sam felt as though he was drifting into a dream, 
filled with Elves – no, something more beautiful than Elves: Frodo.  
Frodo…

“Frodo!” a cry came from outside their door, and Sam leapt out of the bed, 
blushing furiously as Merry and Pippin bundled in and threw themselves 
onto Frodo’s large bed.  Frodo cast a regretful look towards Sam as hew 
drew himself up to sit against the headboard.

“How are you feeling?” asked Merry.

“Wonderful,” murmured Frodo, still in something of a daze, and still 
feeling the tingling sensation of Sam’s lips on his own.

“Well, that is good news,” said Pippin.  “We’ve been quite worried about 
you.  It would do you some good, I think, to get some fresh air; will you 
allow me to show you around the City?  It is not as grand as I suppose it 
once was, but the repairs are well underway and the Tower does look 
grand in the Sun.”

“Spoken like a true Guard of the Citadel,” laughed Merry.  “Come on 
Frodo,” he added, “it really will do you some good.  And Sam will bring 
you straight back if Pip pushes you too hard.”

“That I will,” smiled Sam, “and I reckon Mr Merry and Master Pippin are 
right, sir, begging your pardon.”  Frodo met his gaze and saw there such 
concern and care and devotion that he could not refuse.

“Alright then,” he relented.  “We’ll meet you in an hour.”

Once Merry and Pippin had left, Frodo turned to Sam.

“Sam,” he began hesitantly, “I would really like to talk about-“ he paused.

“I know, sir,” said Sam, sitting on the edge of the bed and placing his arm 
around Frodo’s shoulder.  “We will, tonight, I promise.  I’ll tell them 
Master Pippin’s worn you out too much for you to attend any banquets or 
feasts or celebrations of any other kind.”  Frodo rested his head against 
Sam’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Sam,” he sighed.

In truth, the walk did make Frodo feel much better.  The air cleared his 
mind, and the sight of the City truly was a wonder.  Pippin guided them 
expertly from the lowest level through the many streets, and both Frodo 
and Sam were awestruck by the sheer size of this remarkable stone city.

The walls were of a brilliant white stone, most of which had by now been 
cleaned of much of the dust and grime of war to glisten brightly in the 
Sun.  By the time they stopped for lunch, Frodo’s head was filled with as 
much of the history of Gondor as Pippin had learnt in his time there.

They took lunch in a small tavern on the fourth level of the City, Frodo 
and Sam feeling slightly uncomfortable at the reverence in which the Men 
seemed to hold them.  They felt that all eyes were on them as they ate, and 
conversation was somewhat stilted as a result.  Merry and Pippin, though, 
enjoyed every bit of attention they received.

None of the hobbits spoke of their experiences of the War - although 
Merry and Pippin did answer several of Sam’s questions about the Ents - 
but of simpler things: they reminisced about their childhoods back in the 
Shire, speculated on the doings of their friends and families and, 
inevitably for hobbits, discussed the food available in Minas Tirith. 

It was much later into the afternoon that Pippin finally suggested that they 
continue their tour, and the others reluctantly agreed.  As they walked, 
Merry noticed how Sam gravitated to Frodo’s side, and Frodo would 
visibly relax whenever Sam touched him, sometimes lightly on the arm as 
he pointed out some new wonder of the City, sometimes placing his arm 
protectively around his master’s shoulders as he asked him if he was 
alright to continue.

Merry had a fairly good idea of the details of Frodo and Sam’s journey, 
some that he had been told as they exchanged stories, and more that he 
had guessed at from words unspoken.  He certainly knew that he owed his 
cousin’s survival to Samwise, and he could not help but wonder at the 
extraordinary level of devotion that Sam must feel for his master.  Merry 
found his own words coming back to him: *Sam is an excellent fellow, 
and would jump down a dragon's throat to save you, if he did not trip over 
his own feet.*  ‘Excellent fellow’ seemed something of an understatement 
now.

The Sun was beginning to set as the hobbits reached the Citadel on the 
highest level of the City.  The setting Sun lit up the Tower of Ecthelion 
and cast a warm glow over the city below.

“You are right,” said Frodo to Pippin.  “It really is beautiful, though I 
don’t think it could ever look as beautiful to me as the Shire.”  *Or Sam,* 
he added silently.

The hobbits stood in silent reflection, facing towards the west – Sam was 
sure to see that Frodo did not gaze east – and the Sun setting over the sea, 
which lay many miles distant, over the horizon.

Frodo managed to sneak a look at Sam, and what he saw took his breath 
away.  Sam’s golden brown skin was lit up by the warm, orange light of 
the setting Sun, and he was radiating a soft, comforting glow.  Frodo felt 
an overwhelming urge to envelop himself in the reassuring warmth of 
Sam’s embrace.

Sam caught Frodo staring at him, and recognised immediately the look in 
his eyes.  Clearing his throat, he turned to Merry and Pippin, who were 
still gazing out to the west.

“Mr Merry, Master Pippin,” he said, “I think I ought to be getting Mr 
Frodo back for some rest.  Would you please inform Stri – I mean the 
King Elessar – that we won’t be able to make dinner?  I think Mr Frodo’s 
quite worn out for the day.”

“Of course, Sam,” smiled Merry. 

They said their goodnights, and then Sam placed his arm around Frodo’s 
shoulders and guided him back to their room.

Once inside, Sam laid Frodo down on his bed before sitting beside him.  
Frodo laid his head in Sam’s lap and gazed up at him with a contented 
smile as Sam ran his fingers through his master’s hair.  Frodo closed his 
eyes, and his breathing deepened.

“Now Mr Frodo,” Sam chided gently, “you wouldn’t be falling asleep on 
me again would you?”

“I’m sorry Sam,” Frodo yawned, “but it’s so difficult to stay awake with 
you stroking me like that.”  Sam removed his fingers from Frodo’s curls.

“Best you sit up then,” he said, determined to explain everything fully.  He 
didn’t want Frodo to be at all unsure of how Sam felt about him.

Frodo obediently sat up, kneeling before Sam expectantly.

“Frodo,” Sam began, leaving off the ‘Mr’ deliberately this time, “do you 
still –“ he paused, unsure of how to continue.

“Love you?” Frodo finished the question for him.  “Of course I do.  More 
than ever, if that were possible.”  Sam smiled and reached for Frodo’s 
hand, clasping it within his own.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said, his eyes brimming with tears.  “I thought 
you was dead, and – and, well, I wanted to die too, if you take my 
meaning.  I wanted to be with you so bad that I wished I could lie down 
right by your side and follow you wherever you’d gone.”  The tears were 
coursing freely down his cheeks now, and Sam lowered his voice.  “I think 
– I think that means I love you, sir.”

Frodo felt his own tears begin to fall at the words he had longed for so 
many years to hear.  He leant towards Sam and allowed the younger 
hobbit to take him in his arms.  Sam held Frodo tightly and buried his face 
in his master’s hair.

“I’m so sorry that I didn’t see it sooner, sir, I guess I just didn’t 
understand, if you follow me.  I didn’t think it was possible to fall in love 
with a lad – and my master at that – so the thought never entered my head 
that what I felt for you was anything more than what was proper, like.”

“I understand, Sam,” Frodo whispered, and he lifted himself back to his 
knees and turned to face Sam.  He gently ran a hand across Sam’s face, 
brushing away the tears, and leaned in towards him.  Pausing with his face 
close to Sam’s, he felt his heart pounding so loudly he was sure that all of 
Minas Tirith could hear it.  “You have no idea how many years I have 
longed for this,” he whispered hoarsely, before closing the last, small 
distance between them and claiming his love in a passionate kiss.

Sam choked back a sob as he felt Frodo’s lips on his, moving and then 
parting, and soon his tongue was exploring the velvety warmth offered to 
him.  He felt himself shudder as his tongue met Frodo’s, and they danced 
together, stroking and caressing.  Sam lowered himself down onto the bed, 
and pulled Frodo down with him, and they lay there together, locked in a 
passionate embrace, sharing kisses and tears of joy and relief well into the 
night.

It was many hours later that they disentangled themselves, and gazed into 
one another’s eyes, each unable too see the other in the dark but neither 
caring, the knowledge that the other was there comfort enough for both of 
them.  Eventually, Sam gathered Frodo in his arms to settle down to sleep 
together.

“I love you, Sam,” said Frodo, placing a firm kiss to Sam’s shoulder.

“I love you too, Frodo,” whispered Sam, holding his master tightly, and 
they drifted together into a comforted, untroubled sleep. 


Title: Obstacles 7: Expectation 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: R 
Summary: The weight of expectation causes difficult decisions to be 
made.


Hobbiton, The Shire, April 1420 S.R.

Frodo sighed as he tore up another sheet of parchment and tossed it to the 
growing pile on the floor behind him.  Writing their story was proving 
harder than he had imagined, and besides, he had other things on his mind.

He had made a deliberate effort not to include in his writing any details of 
his relationship with Sam beyond what was necessary, and was finding it 
incredibly difficult to find a suitable point at which to draw the line.  After 
all, how could he describe the sight of Sam running after him into the 
Anduin, or coming to his rescue at Cirith Ungol, or carrying him up the 
slopes of Mount Doom, without making it perfectly obvious how he felt 
about him?  And Frodo was not yet ready for anyone to know the extent of 
their relationship, not least because he was not yet sure of it himself.

He groaned in frustration as he felt his mind cast back, for what seemed to 
be the thousandth time, to those last few weeks in Minas Tirith.

That first night, when they had confessed their love for each other, had 
been wonderful, magical even.  And the night after that had been the same, 
and the one after that, until they had found themselves in a steady routine, 
whereby Sam would join Frodo in his bed every night, and they would 
hold each other and kiss until they collapsed into exhausted sleep.  And 
that had been lovely, of course, but it had not been long before Frodo had 
felt that he wanted things to move a little further.

One night, he had allowed his hand to stray down to the hem of his lover’s 
nightshirt, and slid it gently inside, up the length of Sam’s leg to his thigh.  
But Sam had caught his hand and brought it back up to his waist.

The following night had been very similar.  They had been lying on their 
sides, facing each other as they kissed, their arms wrapped tightly around 
one another.  Frodo had rolled himself over, taking Sam with him so that 
he ended up on top of the younger hobbit.  Sam had not said a word – had 
not even broken off the kiss – but had rolled him right over so that they lay 
on their sides again, but now with Frodo on the other side of the bed.

This had continued for several weeks, until they came to their final night 
in Minas Tirith, and finally Frodo could take no more.

They had been lying in their customary positions in Frodo’s bed, kissing 
passionately.  Frodo had slipped a hand in between them and gasped at 
what he found there.  He had begun softly to rub the long hardness 
through Sam’s nightshirt, and Sam had thrust involuntarily, before firmly 
batting away his master’s hand.

“No, love,” he had whispered into Frodo’s ear, licking gently around the 
tip.  This had driven Frodo over the edge; it was the first time that Sam 
had actually voiced his refusal.  Frodo backed away and sat upright, 
drawing his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around them.

“Why not?” he asked simply, looking away from Sam, towards the 
window.  Sam sat up and brought himself to Frodo’s side, placing an arm 
around his shoulder.

“I’m just not ready, sir,” replied Sam awkwardly.  Frodo arched an 
eyebrow and cast his gaze down towards a part of Sam’s body that was 
definitely indicating otherwise.  Sam blushed and pulled the blanket over 
his lap to hide the hardness that was showing through his nightshirt.

“It’s just, it’s so easy to get carried away, sir, if you understand me, when 
we’re so far away from home and with all we’ve been through,” Sam said 
miserably.  “And once we cross that line, sir, there ain’t no going back, we 
couldn’t undo it and go back to how things were.”

Frodo had sighed, finally understanding.  Throughout their journey, Sam 
had been clinging to the hope that they would return to the Shire and all 
would be as it had always been: Frodo would get Bag End back and Sam 
would continue to work there.

“You know, Sam,” he said quietly, “things are never going to be the same 
anyway, whether we do this or not.”

“I know, sir, but I need to be back home, with things as close to normal as 
they’ll ever be, before I can make a proper decision,” Sam said.  “I just 
don’t want either of us to regret it sir, I don’t think as I could ever live 
with that,” he added firmly.

“I see,” sighed Frodo.  “You mean to wait until we get home then?” The 
Shire had suddenly seemed many millions of miles away.

“Yes, sir,” Sam had confirmed.  “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do this,” 
he had said, moving towards Frodo and brushing his hair away to kiss his 
neck.  And Frodo had lain back down in Sam’s arms, because, as upset as 
he was, he could never resist Sam’s touch.

“Mr Frodo, sir?” Frodo was woken from his reverie by Sam’s voice 
behind him and he turned to face the younger hobbit with a somewhat 
forced smile, which faded seamlessly into one more natural as he saw the 
basket of mushrooms Sam had brought for him.  They had barely seen 
each other since returning to the Shire, at least not nearly so much as 
either would have liked.  They had returned, of course, to find the Shire 
far from as it used to be, and Sam had spent much of the time since the 
Ruffians had been driven out restoring the Shire to its former glory.  Sam 
had stayed for a while with Frodo at the Cottons, but was now back with 
his Gaffer, and Frodo rarely saw him, for all that Sam would check on him 
at every possible opportunity.

Now, though, Bag End was finally due to be ready, and Frodo could 
barely contain his excitement at the thought of moving back in there, with 
his Sam, to finally be together always.

It had not occurred to Frodo that Sam would not want to live with him, so 
the gardener’s awkwardness when Frodo finally asked the question 
surprised him.  The rest of the conversation passed in a dizzying blur, and 
Frodo was left feeling shocked and nauseous as Sam finally left.

Sam was getting married.

The words shot to Frodo’s heart like a spear.  He had been so shocked that 
he had insisted that Sam bring his bride to live with them at Bag End.  
What was he thinking?

Frodo looked down at the basket of mushrooms in his lap and the cup of 
tea he was cradling in his hands, having no idea how either had come to be 
there.  He felt entirely numb.  How had this happened?  Frodo had not 
noticed any change in Sam after they left Minas Tirith.  They had kept 
their feelings for each other secret from the others, of course, but no-one 
had batted an eyelid at their sleeping in each other’s arms, so they had 
stolen many secret kisses under cover of darkness.

In Rivendell, Sam had spent the nights in Frodo’s bed, as they had in 
Minas Tirith.  They had both been so frustrated by the effort of being 
discreet whilst travelling that they had progressed a little further in 
Rivendell; still covered by nightshirts, but Sam had allowed Frodo’s hands 
to roam a little more than usual.

Since returning to the Shire, though, they had managed to sneak in only a 
few secret kisses on the rare occasions that they were alone together.  
Frodo had always supposed that they were waiting only until they could 
finally live together in Bag End.  What could have gone wrong?

It was many hours later that Merry arrived to find Frodo in that same 
position, with the basket in his lap and a stone-cold cup of tea on his knee, 
weeping silently and murmuring Sam’s name.  Without a word, Merry 
took the basket and the cup, placing both onto the floor, and knelt down 
beside his cousin.  He held Frodo tightly, and Frodo sobbed quietly into 
his younger cousin’s shoulder until he was entirely spent.

“What is it, cousin?” Merry whispered softly once the sobs subsided.  
There was a long pause, during which Frodo searched desperately for a 
way of explaining without resorting to the truth, but failed and decided 
that the truth was the only option.

“It’s Sam,” he said at last, fresh tears beginning to fall as he said the name.  
“He’s getting married.”  Merry moved away slightly so that he could look 
at Frodo’s face, and Frodo saw the look of confusion fade into 
understanding.

“You love him,” said Merry, and Frodo nodded weakly.  “Does he know?”  
Frodo nodded again, and Merry furrowed his brow in confusion.

“I told him before we left,” Frodo explained, “but he didn’t – we didn’t, 
well, become lovers until Minas Tirith.”  Merry was startled by that, 
unsure how he had missed that important development in his friends’ 
relationship.  Gently, he placed a hand on Frodo’s knee and looked up at 
him.

“Does he feel the same way?” he asked.

“Yes, well, I thought – he said he did,” answered Frodo, suddenly unable 
to be sure of anything.

“I think anyone who knows Sam knows that he does,” said Merry.  “You 
must go and talk to him, before it’s too late.”  Merry was right, of course, 
Frodo thought, but he could not even begin to imagine how to broach the 
subject yet again.

It was a week later that Frodo finally moved back into Bag End.  Merry 
and Pippin had done a fine job of making it almost exactly as it had 
always been, but to Frodo it could never look the same.  

It was on his second day at Bag End that he worked up the courage to 
approach Sam, who was in the garden, setting one of the last flower beds 
to rights.

Frodo stood for a while in the doorway, looking out at Sam and thinking 
about how many times he had done this very thing before: stood here, 
gazing at his gardener, dreaming about him.  With a deep breath, he made 
to step out into the garden, but lost all courage and went back indoors.

Sam looked up as he heard Frodo close the door behind him, and stared 
after him, utterly miserable.  The marriage had been arranged by his 
Gaffer with the Cottons, of course, and Sam had had no real say in the 
matter.  As soon as he had returned home, it had been expected that he 
would ask for Rosie’s hand in marriage.  As it happened, he hadn’t even 
needed to do that; Rosie, being rather a forward lass, had told Sam straight 
that they had wasted far too much time already.  And so they were to be 
married that spring.

At first, Sam had wanted to refuse, but he had found himself unable to, 
knowing that choosing Frodo instead would let down his Gaffer and the 
Cottons, not to mention Rosie herself.  Sam did want children - he had 
always dreamed of having a large family – but he could not even begin to 
imagine wanting to be with anyone other than Frodo.  And so he had gone 
to Frodo, the wisest hobbit in all the Shire, so he thought, for advice.  And 
Frodo had asked him to live at Bag End with him with his wife.  Sam 
could not imagine how that could ever work.  How could he be the loving 
husband his wife deserved, whilst living under the same roof as his true 
love?

Sam threw his tools to the ground and marched towards the smial, 
determined to speak to Frodo and even matters out.  He found Frodo 
hunched over his desk in the study, sobbing loudly.

Sam crouched down beside the desk and offered his arms to his master.  
Frodo came to him gladly, and Sam held him tightly as his shirt was 
soaked with tears.

“I don’t know what do,” Sam whispered, realising only then that he too 
was weeping.  “I love you, sir, I really do.”  Frodo’s sobs became harder at 
this, and Sam paused to run a soothing hand through his master’s hair 
before continuing.  “It’s just that everyone expects me to marry Rosie, and 
I didn’t know how to explain that I couldn’t.”  Frodo lifted his head to 
look Sam in the eye.

“You want children, don’t you Sam?” he said.

“Yes, sir,” replied Sam, looking down at the floor.  Frodo lifted a hand to 
Sam’s chin and lifted his head so that they were facing one another.

“Then you must marry Rosie,” he said earnestly, surprised by his own 
selflessness.  “You know that I can’t give you that.”

“But sir,” Sam protested, “I could never love her as much as I love you.”

“No, Sam,” agreed Frodo, “but even with only half your heart she will 
have more than any other hobbit in the Shire could give her.”

Frodo crouched down on the floor and they held each other as they wept, 
neither able to comprehend the unexplainable contempt in which fate 
seemed to hold their love.

***

It was with much effort that Frodo dragged himself to Sam’s wedding.  He 
sat towards the back, and Merry sat beside him and held his hand 
throughout.  Frodo wept openly, unable to muster sufficient control to hide 
his grief.

As Sam said his vows, his eyes alternated between Rosie and Frodo, and 
Frodo knew that the words were meant for him too, but this did nothing to 
comfort him.  Every word tore at the very fabric of his being, and he felt 
as though he had been cast into a great void from which he would never 
escape.  The ceremony passed at a torturous pace, and by the end of it, 
Frodo felt that every drop of life had been drained from him.

It was not until he felt Merry’s touch on his arm that he realised that the 
ceremony was over, and the other guests had departed, leaving only Frodo 
and Merry by his side.  Merry was pained by his cousin’s distress, but 
could think of nothing to say to ease Frodo’s anguish.

After a long pause, Frodo reached for the gem that hung around his neck 
that the Lady Arwen had given to him, and he fingered it thoughtfully.  At 
last, he turned to Merry.

“I know now what I must do,” he said, “though I do not know how I can 
do it.”  Merry did not press him for an explanation, but took his hand and 
grasped it within his own, deep in thought.

At first, Frodo tried to keep out of the way of the newlyweds as they 
settled into Bag End.  He and Sam did not speak openly of their situation 
for the first week, though always when Sam touched Frodo, he would 
linger, so that Frodo always knew that Sam was thinking of him.

After a week had passed, Frodo was awoken from a nightmare by Sam, 
who was shaking him vigorously.

“Was I screaming?” Frodo managed to say in between gasps.  Sam nodded 
and, without a word, climbed into the bed beside Frodo and held him close 
until his breathing and his heart rate had slowed to a normal pace.  Then 
Sam relaxed his hold slightly, and dipped his head to brush his lips softly 
against his master’s.

Frodo immediately stiffened, but his resolve gradually melted away as the 
kiss deepened, and he allowed himself to be soothed by Sam’s touch.  It 
was with a great strength of will that he finally wrenched himself away.

“We can’t,” he whispered.  “What about Rosie?”  Sam silenced him with a 
kiss.

“She knows,” he said.  “I told her – I had to – and she understands.”  He 
began to trail feather-light kisses along Frodo’s jaw and Frodo again felt 
his self-control weaken.  He gave himself over completely to Sam’s touch, 
and they lay there, kissing and whispering soft endearments to each other, 
well into the night.  But eventually, Sam had to leave, to return to his own 
bed, to his Rosie, and Frodo felt that his heart was torn to shreds.  Sam 
returned to his bed and, fighting back the tears, willed himself not to think 
of Frodo as he held his wife in his arms.

The following night, Sam waited until Rosie was asleep, and then went to 
Frodo again, and kissed and held him until he drifted to sleep before 
returning to Rosie.  And so a pattern developed, and this continued each 
night, and every night Frodo felt a surge of joy as Sam came to him, felt 
complete and elated and content as they held each other and he fell asleep 
in Sam’s arms, and then felt the same agonising torture as he woke up 
alone.

Frodo knew that he should be happy.  He was better looked after than any 
hobbit in the Shire, and he was alive and living with his true love and best 
friend.  But he could not bring himself to recognise his good fortune, only 
grieving at that which he did not have, and for the pain that the situation 
was causing Sam.

Frodo awoke on his birthday to the familiar feeling of loneliness and 
despair.  Unable to face another day alone with his thoughts in the study, 
he decided to go for a walk and so, without a word to Sam or Rosie, made 
his way out of Bag End, down the Row and across some fields, 
subconsciously taking himself to the very tree to which he had brought 
Sam three years previously.

He sank down against the tree and gazed out over the Shire beneath him.  
The Sun shone brightly, lighting up the landscape numerous shades of 
green.  The scene before him was one of perfect tranquillity, but Frodo did 
not feel at all at peace.  His motive had been to save the Shire, and save it 
he had, but he now knew that he would never be able to enjoy it himself.  
There was no comfort for him to find here.

The Sun was beginning to set as Frodo heard the sound of someone 
coming up the hill towards him.  Frodo knew without looking that it was 
Sam, but looked anyway to greet his love with a smile.  Sam saw the 
sadness behind the smile and in his eyes, and without a word he sat down 
and gathered Frodo in his arms, setting to one side a large basket that he 
carried.

Frodo rested his head against the firm security of Sam’s broad chest and 
let out a deep sigh as he felt a kiss on the top of his head.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Sam said at last.  “Rosie made you a lovely 
birthday feast, but I figured you wouldn’t be coming back for it in good 
time so I’ve brought it to you.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said weakly.

“Brooding don’t do you no good, sir,” Sam whispered into his hair.  
“You’ve only to tell me what I can do for you and you know it’d be done.”

“I know Sam,” sighed Frodo.  “I don’t think there’s anything you can do.  
I can’t bear to see you torn in two like this.  It’s breaking my heart.”

“As it is mine, Mr Frodo,” Sam sighed, and he lifted Frodo’s head gently 
to meet him for a tender kiss.  Frodo could not help but laugh into the kiss, 
causing Sam to pull away and eye him curiously.

“I was just thinking,” Frodo explained, “of the last time we kissed here.”  
Sam didn’t see anything funny about that and was no less confused.  “It 
just seems,” Frodo continued, “that there has always been something in 
the way of our being together, whether it was you, or the Ring and the 
whole quest, or others, your Gaffer or Rosie, or…” Frodo trailed off and 
stared blankly out over the hill.

Sam nodded in understanding, and pulled Frodo back towards him.

“I know,” he said.  “It just seems as though there ain’t no place for us, in 
the Shire or anywhere else.”

“No,” said Frodo thoughtfully, fingering that gem around his neck, “there 
may be a place for us.”  But he did not elaborate, and Sam did not ask.

They ate their meal together in silence, and Frodo’s mind slowly cleared 
to reveal to him exactly what he must do, and he was no longer afraid to 
do it.  It would be hard, of course, to leave Sam, but he knew that he had 
to do it, he had to allow Sam to be one and whole, to enjoy his life and his 
family.  Then maybe, in another time and another place, perhaps they 
could finally be together.

Sam watched Frodo brooding as they ate, and his heart broke to know that 
there was nothing he could do to ease his master’s – his love’s - suffering.  
He wanted more than anything to split himself into two equal halves, so 
that he might give one half to Rosie and to his future family, and the other 
to Frodo.

That night, when Sam came to Frodo’s room, he climbed in to the bed and 
they lay there together, perfectly still, Sam’s arm around Frodo’s shoulder 
and Frodo’s head on Sam’s chest.  They lay awake silently for several 
hours, each feeling the comfort of the other’s presence as though it were 
for the last time, and each understanding without any words being spoken 
that it would be.

Sam did not go to Frodo’s room again, and though Frodo grieved the loss 
of those precious midnight kisses, he knew that it was for the best.  He had 
enjoyed stealing secret kisses with Sam when it had been in expectation of 
something more, back in Minas Tirith, or on their journey home, or even 
when they had first arrived back at the Shire, but since he had known that 
they were all he would ever have, they had brought him nothing but pain.

Frodo lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling.  He knew it was better this way, 
but here, alone in the dark, it was difficult to convince himself.  He clung 
the blankets to himself tightly, trying desperately to remember the gentle 
comfort of Sam’s touch, the thrill of a kiss, but all that was left in his mind 
was despair.

Frodo withdrew into himself completely, spending all of his days in his 
study, writing his story.  He would write this, he told himself, and then he 
would leave, and Sam could be whole at last.  Every word that he wrote 
seemed to cut through him, as he knew that each word written was one 
word closer to the time that he would have to tell Sam that he was leaving.

Young Elanor was just a month old when Merry and Pippin arrived for a 
visit the following spring.  They had taken to travelling in the liveries of 
Rohan and Gondor, and the folk of Hobbiton were captivated to see them 
ride up to Bag End.  Frodo and Sam had long since returned to ordinary 
attire, and as much as it amused Sam to see Merry and Pippin riding 
around the Shire receiving