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 so much acclaim, also it pained him to see how 
little was afforded to Frodo.

It was with a heavy heart that Sam welcomed Merry and Pippin to Bag 
End.  He hoped that their visit would do something to lift his master’s 
spirits, but he knew that there was nothing that they could do.  As Pippin 
rushed inside the smial to see the new baby, Merry paused beside Sam at 
the door.

“How is he?” he asked, and Sam could not lie, but nor could he bring 
himself to say the words that he had been steadfastly denying to himself, 
so he remained silent, though his pained expression told Merry all that he 
needed to know.

That evening, after Rosie had put Elanor down to sleep and gone to bed 
herself, Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin found themselves in the parlour 
with a bottle of Old Winyards.  Merry remembered a very familiar scene 
on Frodo’s birthday over three years previously, and he realised with some 
sadness just what the problem had been between Frodo and Sam back 
then.  Looking over towards them now, Merry saw that they sat side by 
side, each gazing forwards.  Sam’s hand lay over Frodo’s, and Merry was 
grieved to see the pain that was evident on both of their faces.

There was little in the way of conversation; for the most part, the four 
hobbits sat in contemplative silence.  Finally, Frodo lifted himself to his 
feet and declared that he was off to bed.  Sam stood and kissed his master 
softly on the brow as he left, staring at the door for long moments 
afterwards until he felt a hand upon his shoulder.  He turned to see Merry, 
a look of understanding upon his face, and as he began to weep, Merry 
held him close and reassured him until he could regain enough composure 
for his tears to cease. At length, he seated himself back down, now in 
between Merry and Pippin, staring blankly at the empty hearth before him.

Pippin had remained silent throughout.  Although he had known nothing 
of Frodo and Sam’s situation, he was old enough and wise enough now to 
work most of it out for himself.  There was a long pause in which none of 
them said anything, but it was Pippin who finally spoke.

“I saw Frodo crying at your wedding,” he said slowly, “and I wondered 
why, but I thought that we were all quite emotional about it, just because 
we never thought we would come back and things could be so, well, 
normal, after all we’d seen…” he trailed off and took a deep breath.  “I 
had no idea,” he added.

Sam looked across at Pippin and wondered, not for the first time, at how 
much the young Took had grown, and not just in height.  The three hobbits 
sat in silence, each considering the situation but none coming to any 
satisfactory conclusion as to how it may be resolved.  Only Frodo had any 
idea of a possible solution to the problem, and even as Sam and his 
cousins sat in his parlour thinking of him, he was lying awake thinking of 
them, of how he could possibly bring himself to leave them.

***

It was the day before his birthday later that year that Frodo set out from 
Bag End for the last time.  He had managed to persuade Sam to come 
away with him for a few days, but had not the heart to tell him where they 
were going.

They travelled in silence on their ponies, Strider and Bill, keeping a slow 
pace, for Frodo wanted to savour every last moment that he had with Sam, 
to commit every detail of him to memory to last him the many years 
before they would be reunited, if indeed they were ever destined to be.

They camped that night in the Green Hills, and Sam lit a fire and cooked a 
sumptuous feast for them.  As they sat by the fire after their meal, Frodo 
rested his head against Sam’s chest, and Sam placed his arm around his 
master’s shoulder and buried his face in chocolate curls, closing his eyes.

For long moments they sat there, and Sam held Frodo close to him, 
inhaling the scent of rose soap from Frodo’s hair and wood smoke from 
the fire, feeling the warmth of having Frodo close to him, the reassuringly 
steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed.  

Frodo listened carefully for the steady beat of Sam’s heart, wanting to 
memorise its rhythm for comfort during the lonely years that he knew 
would follow.

Presently, he lifted his head to look into Sam’s eyes.  He had such deep, 
beautiful eyes, Frodo thought, and he felt sure that he could drown in 
them.  Keeping his eyes locked on Sam’s, he closed the short distance 
between them for a bittersweet kiss.  He trembled as he felt Sam’s soft lips 
under his, the strong but gentle fingers in his hair, moving tenderly over 
his ears, down his neck and round his collar to pause at the top button of 
his shirt.  Frodo gasped and pulled back to look at Sam, and realised only 
then that Sam was weeping.  Sam leaned back towards Frodo and 
whispered softly in his ear.

“If I understand you rightly,” he whispered through his tears, “I don’t 
think you mean to come back, not for a long while at least.  Please let me 
do this, to remember you by.”

Frodo bit his lip to choke back a sob, and could manage only to nod his 
head.  Sam slowly undid Frodo’s buttons, gasping as the lily white, 
achingly beautiful skin was revealed to him.  He gently slid the shirt over 
Frodo’s shoulders and placed a trail of kisses down his beloved’s neck and 
across his collarbone.  Then he slid his hands down to Frodo’s waistband, 
and felt his lover tremble at the touch as he slowly undid the laces.  
Pushing the breeches away, he paused to look upon the sight he had 
denied himself for so long.  He was sure, beyond any doubt, that Frodo’s 
body was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, more so than any 
hobbit lass or Elf maiden.  He felt a strong stream of tears course down his 
face, and as his eyes lifted to meet Frodo’s, he saw more tears on his 
master’s face, and he bent down to kiss away each one of them.

Frodo tried to reach for Sam’s buttons, but his hands were trembling too 
violently to work them through their holes, so Sam swiftly removed his 
own shirt and breeches before settling himself down beside his love.

They paused to gaze at each other through their tears, before joining their 
lips in a firm but gentle kiss, whose tear-salted taste would be etched in 
their memories for many long years to come.  Sam gently lifted himself 
onto his master’s shuddering form and they gasped and sobbed together as 
their hardened members met for the first time.

Slowly, they moved together, building up to a steady rhythm.  Frodo was 
entranced by the strange mixture of grief and pleasure that swept over 
him, but gradually the pleasure took over and he felt himself shuddering 
and sobbing and crying out Sam’s name in his release.  Sam climaxed at 
the sound of his name, and sank down onto Frodo, sobbing with him and 
repeatedly whispering his name, and they lay there together holding each 
other close and kissing through their mingled tears until darkness and 
finally exhausted sleep overtook them.

The following morning, Sam awoke first.  He pulled a blanket over them 
both and lay there, watching his master sleep, for what he knew would be 
the last time for many years.  He did not know where they were going, but 
he could read Frodo’s thoughts better than Frodo himself could at times, 
and he knew that if his master ever meant to return to him – or for Sam to 
follow - it would not be for many years.

Frodo awoke in Sam’s arms, and stretched languidly, almost forgetting for 
a moment where they were and why.  As the previous night came flooding 
back to him, a smile played across his lips and he turned to face Sam.

“Sam,” he whispered, “that was lovely, wonderful, I –“ he paused.  “I love 
you Sam.” 

“I know me dear,” said Sam, kissing his master’s brow and blinking back 
his tears.  “I love you too, Frodo, more than you will ever know.”

They lay together for as long as they felt they could, and the Sun was high 
in the sky by the time they finally rose to dress and move on.

Strider and Bill carried them at the same leisurely pace as the previous 
day, and they rode in silence, side by side, occasionally drifting close 
enough to brush their hands together, and each feeling a sharp tingling 
sensation as they did so.

That evening, they met the Elves- Gildor, Elrond and Galadriel and many 
others besides - and Sam finally understood just where they were going, 
and he could hold back his grief no longer, because now it became clear to 
him that his master would never return to him; there was no returning 
from over the Sundering Seas.  Perhaps Sam could follow him one day, as 
he too had been a Ringbearer, but that seemed so far off into the distant 
future that Sam felt it may as well be never.

It was with a desperately heavy heart that he rode alongside his master, but 
he focused all of his will on savouring these last few days rather than 
wasting them in bitterness and grief, and so he spent the long night’s ride 
watching Frodo, marvelling at how utterly beautiful he looked – more so 
even than the Lady Galadriel, he thought.  That inner glow that Sam had 
noticed so many times before was visible even amongst the Fair Folk, so 
that the Elves seemed to pale in comparison.

At length they reached the Grey Havens, and Sam felt such a strong wave 
of heartache build up inside of him that he knew he would be unable to 
hold it back.  Just then, he heard a sound behind him and turned to see 
Merry and Pippin riding toward them at great speed, and Sam was glad, 
for he knew that he could not bear the long ride home alone with his 
despair.

Before Frodo climbed onto the ship, he kissed each of his cousins in turn 
before turning at last to Sam, and he stood for long moments before him 
and they gazed into each other’s eyes.  Sam saw through his own tears that 
Frodo too was weeping, and he saw the grief in Frodo’s eyes, but also he 
saw there love, and he smiled and leant slowly towards his master, and 
they rested their brows together, closing their eyes and allowing the tears 
to fall between them.  Gandalf’s voice echoed through each of their minds: 
*I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.*  And weep they 
did; for how long, neither could say.  Finally, Frodo looked up, and he 
brought his lips to Sam’s ear and whispered softly: “I love you, 
Samwise.”  And Sam placed his hands on Frodo’s shoulders and looked 
deep into his beloved’s fiery blue eyes, now dulled but still gleaming with 
the light that Sam so adored.

“I love you, Frodo,” he sobbed, caring not who heard him, and then he 
drew Frodo towards him and they shared one last, long, lingering kiss.  
Sam could still taste Frodo’s tears on his lips as he watched the ship 
depart, and he stayed there at the Haven until the ship was completely out 
of sight, and then, at last, Merry and Pippin, standing each on one side of 
him, placed a hand on each of his shoulders before turning away.

Sam lingered one moment longer, listening to the sound of the sea and 
wondering how long it would be before he heard it again.  Then he turned 
to join Merry and Pippin, and the three hobbits rode home in mournful 
silence.

***

Sam had been home for a week, and had passed each day in a grief-
stricken daze.  He had no memory of arriving home, or indeed of anything 
since saying goodbye to Frodo.  Now, he found himself in Frodo’s study, 
and he sat himself in his master’s seat at the desk and shuffled absently 
through a stack of papers, trying to remember every last detail of the 
hobbit he had loved so dearly.

He opened one of the desk drawers and started rummaging through the 
various oddments he found there.  There were several sheets of elvish 
verse, and Sam pulled them all out, reading them aloud and trying to hear 
his master’s voice as he did so.  Then, finally, he came to one last loose 
sheet in the back of the drawer, and he pulled it out and choked back a sob 
as he realised what it was; it was the letter that Frodo had written to him 
after that day out under the tree, years ago now, when they had both 
believed their friendship lost.

*Dearest Sam,* it began, *If only you could understand how I feel about 
you.  I truly do love you…*

Sam was barely able to read the rest of the letter through his tears, and he 
clutched it to his breast and sobbed aloud, repeating Frodo’s name over 
and over again.

It was dark when the tears finally ceased, and Sam held the parchment and 
spoke to it, as though, through it, he could reach Frodo.

“Oh, Frodo, me dear,” he cried in utter despair.  “How could you think 
that I could ever be one and whole without you?”

Just then, he heard young Elanor’s cry from the kitchen, and the sound of 
Rosie comforting her, and he looked down at the letter one last time before 
folding it up and placing it safely into his pocket.  Taking a deep breath, 
he resolved to put all of his effort into being the best husband Rosie could 
wish for, and the best father for Elanor and all the others who would 
follow, and he would bide his time until he could at last cross the 
Sundering Seas to be with his one true love.


Title: Obstacles 8: Time 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: PG-13 
Summary: Sam wonders if love can overcome the greatest obstacle of all: 
Time.


Hobbiton, The Shire, September 1482 S.R.

Sam was sat in Frodo’s study – he still considered it Frodo’s – staring 
blankly at the now-tattered parchment he had laid out upon the desk.  He 
had memorised every line and curve of that beautifully flowing script over 
the last 61 years, and every word was etched upon his heart as though it 
were a carving on stone.  He had turned to that letter every time he had 
needed comfort from the tormenting grief of Frodo’s memory.

At first, he had not wanted to live; could not imagine himself living 
without his Frodo, who had been the very reason for his existence.  He had 
made a conscious decision not to allow himself to grieve, to focus all of 
his attention on his wife and family, on loving them as they deserved to be 
loved until he could follow his heart’s desire over the Sea.  And to all 
appearances, he had succeeded.  After that first week, he had refused to 
allow himself to speak of his grief at Frodo’s leaving.  Whenever asked, 
he said that he was happy that his master would be able to find healing, 
wherever and with whomever that might be.  But inside, his heart had 
broken anew every time he heard or spoke Frodo’s name.

In September of the year following Frodo’s departure, Rosie had taken 
Elanor to stay at the Cottons’ farm for two weeks, and Merry and Pippin 
had come to Hobbiton to visit Sam.

Sam had welcomed them into Bag End with every intention of presenting 
a composed exterior, but the effort of hiding his grief from his wife had 
taken its toll, and it had required only Merry’s understanding hand on his 
shoulder, a simple enquiry as to his wellbeing, and the long held-back 
tears had flown forth, as fierce and seemingly ceaseless as the falls of 
Rauros.

Merry and Pippin had dropped their bags by the door and guided him to 
the parlour, and Merry had laid him down upon a soft settle.  Merry had 
not tried to comfort him, to tell him that everything was going to be all 
right, for he knew that such words were empty, and moreover that Sam 
needed his release.  As a year of pent up heartache had gradually ebbed 
from Sam’s heart through his tears, Merry had held his hand, crouching by 
the side of the settle.  Pippin had stood in the doorway of the parlour, his 
anguish at his friend’s suffering and his own inability to ease it written 
across his face.

Sam felt tears prick at his eyes again and clutched the letter carefully as he 
remembered the scene, back when he had seen no end to his pain.  He did 
not know how long he had lain there, repeating Frodo’s name in between 
choked sobs, while his friends looked on, powerless to help.  When the 
tears finally ceased, he had opened his eyes to see Pippin holding out to 
him a steaming cup of tea.  He had accepted the tea with barely an 
acknowledgement of the young Took, and sat up on the settle with Merry 
and Pippin on either side of him, each with a hand on his shoulders.  And 
then he had understood.

There was no use in searching for answers, no use in cursing the Ring for 
coming to Frodo, being angry with Frodo for loving him or with himself 
for loving Frodo in return, for all of these things had happened and there 
was nothing he could do to change any of it.  And nor, he realised, would 
he want to.  Perhaps, without the Quest, he would never have been able to 
put aside his own stupid fears and prejudices to acknowledge his love for 
Frodo, and he knew beyond any doubt that there was nothing for which he 
would trade those few precious nights they had shared.  The one time they 
had made love may have been edged with pain and sorrow, but it was still 
theirs, and it was something wonderful that Sam could hold to himself to 
ease him through the years until there was a chance they could be reunited.  
And Sam could acknowledge that it was only a chance, perhaps even just a 
dream, but it was something to hold on to, and he knew now that he had to 
hold on.

What if he had refused to marry Rosie?  Perhaps Frodo would have stayed, 
and they could have lived together here, and Sam could have spent the rest 
of his days caring for his master.  Would that have made him happy?  
Sam’s heart cried a resounding yes, but his head now knew better.  Of 
course, he would have delighted in caring for Frodo, however wounded he 
may have been in body or mind.  But the time would have come when he 
realised that Frodo would never truly be healed here, and that would have 
broken his heart.  And when their lives finally came to an end, they would 
have left the circles of the world with no-one to carry the memory of their 
heroic triumph over evil.

This way hurt too, of course, but Sam finally had finally understood why 
this had to be.  He would live his life here, bringing up his children to 
carry on his memory, while Frodo took the time he needed over the Sea to 
heal.  And then, when Sam went to him, they could finally be together, 
both whole and with no resentment.  All it would take was time.  And Sam 
knew that time could be the greatest obstacle of all, for there was no 
defeating it but by long, slow, painful waiting.  But it was waiting that 
Sam was prepared to do, for he knew that what awaited him would be 
worth everything.

As Sam’s slow but shrewd mind worked through these realisations, Merry 
and Pippin had waited, patiently by his side, giving him all the time that he 
needed to think.  When at last his thoughts returned to the present, now 
resolute and clear, Merry had smiled at him.

“How are you feeling?” Merry had asked him, a question he had heard so 
many times over the preceding year that he had long lost count.

“I’ll be fine,” Sam answered.  It was the same response he gave every 
time, but now, for the first time, he had believed it to be true.

That was sixty years ago, and now, as Sam sat at Frodo’s desk, he wiped 
away a tear with his sleeve, but there was a smile hidden beneath the tears.  
From that moment, he had begun the slow journey of healing.

It could not be said that the years had been easy, for he would often think 
of Frodo whenever he heard tell of the Elves, or felt a wind in the west, or 
any time he sat here, in his master’s study.  He did not try to deny these 
memories, but welcomed them and their accompanying pain as a part of 
himself.  Gradually, he had come to remember the joy he and Frodo had 
shared, from the simple days before Gandalf’s ominous visit, to their long 
nights of passion, even to the quest itself.  And whenever the pain seemed 
most unbearable, he had only to remember Frodo’s face or the look in his 
eyes as he told Sam that he loved him, and Sam would feel his heart 
warm, and would gaze longingly out to the west, knowing that his time 
would come.

The years had been long, but Sam knew that he had lived a full life.  Even 
with the large portion of his heart that Frodo owned, there had been plenty 
to share amongst his wife and thirteen children, and he had loved each of 
them and watched them grow.  His wife had died earlier that year, 
peaceful as old age finally took her, and with his children grown and 
having children of their own, and the Shire a better place than it had ever 
been, Sam knew that he was no longer needed here.  It was time, finally, 
for him to make his final journey.

Sam left Bag End for the last time on September 22nd 1482, and he went 
first to that tree upon the hill.  The hill faced west, and Sam had often 
come here over the years to send his thoughts and his love to Frodo.  A 
tear crept down his face as he looked out upon the homeland he was now 
to leave forever, but he felt no sadness or regret.  The Sun was high, and 
Sam thought that the scene before him was of utter perfection; the trees 
rustled quietly in the warm breeze, flowers danced their heads joyfully, 
and the Sun cast a serene glow upon everything she touched.  The price 
had been high, of course, counted in many lives, but what they had worked 
for had been worth every sacrifice.

It was almost midday when Sam lifted himself from the grass and said his 
last goodbye to the large tree that had kept him company through some of 
his darkest hours.  He slowly hoisted his large pack onto his shoulders, 
checked that Frodo’s letter was stored safely in his pocket, and turned 
away from Hobbiton for the last time.

Sam managed to pass through Hobbiton rousing little fuss from the 
inhabitants, who were quite used to seeing Mayor Samwise out on one of 
his solitary walks, and he came at last to Westmarch where Elanor awaited 
him at her gate.

Few words passed between father and daughter as Sam handed Elanor the 
Red Book.  She alone knew where he was going, for he had told her long 
ago, and she knew how his heart ached for the one who had sailed so 
many years ago.

Sam sat in Elanor’s parlour before the fire and watched his daughter as she 
thumbed through the Red Book.

“You must know every line of that book by now,” he said with an 
affectionate laugh.

“Aye,” replied Elanor, not lifting her eyes from the page, “but it’s such a 
wonderful story, and everyone should hear it, to know what you and Mr 
Frodo did for us.  I’ll make sure they hear it,” she added earnestly.

“I know, Elanorelle,” Sam said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Do you regret staying, Sam-dad?”  Elanor asked after a long pause.

“No,” replied Sam firmly.  “I did at first, I mean.  I were angry with Mr 
Frodo for leaving for a long time, and angry with myself for not doing all 
as I might to keep him here, but I know he would never have healed here.  
And I couldn’t have gone with him back then – I had far too much to do 
here, what with setting the Shire back to rights and raising my beautiful 
children.”  Elanor looked up at him and smiled as their eyes met.

“You’ll be looking forward to seeing him again though, won’t you?” she 
said.

“Aye,” Sam sighed, “that I will,” and he gazed silently into the fire.  After 
a long pause, Elanor turned again to her father and took a deep breath to 
hold back the tears she could feel threatening.

“I’ll miss you Sam-dad,” she said, “but I know how long you’ve waited 
for this.  Do you think you’ll finally be one and whole now?”  Sam smiled 
as he heard Frodo’s words echoed in his daughter’s, and he sighed.

“I don’t rightly know, Elanorelle,” he said thoughtfully.  “It’s been a long 
time.  He may not know me any more, and like as not I’ll not know him 
neither.  All I’m really counting on is seeing him again.  I can’t see as it’ll 
ever be as it was before, but if I can see him one last time and know that 
he’s been alright all these years, then that’ll be enough I reckon.”

Elanor stood from her seat and crossed the room swiftly, settling herself in 
her father’s lap as though she were just a lass, and she pressed her face to 
his shoulder and let her tears fall.

“You must love him very much,” she whispered against his shoulder, and 
she smiled as she felt him nod, and then lifted her face so that she could 
look into her father’s eyes.  “I think you were meant to be together, Sam-
dad, and you will be one and whole just as he said you would be.”

Father and daughter sat together well into the night, until at last Sam was 
able to lift himself and tread slowly down to the guest room that had been 
made ready for him, and he fell asleep in the Shire for the final time.

Sam departed early the following morning, eager to press on to the Grey 
Havens.  He saw tears in his daughter’s eyes as they said their final 
goodbye at her gate, and he offered his arms to her.  She came to him 
gladly, and they stood there and held each other close for many long 
moments.  When eventually they parted, Elanor lifted her hand to wipe a 
tear from her father’s face and smiled.

“I am happy for you, Sam-dad,” she said, and Sam leant forward to kiss 
her lightly on the brow, and then he tarried no longer and he passed out of 
the westernmost reaches of the Shire towards the Grey Havens.

It was a long journey, and Sam was weary and alone, and burdened by the 
fear that he would find no ship waiting for him when he came at last to the 
Havens.  But he was driven by a force more powerful even than the one 
that he had felt when lunging for Shelob all those years ago – more 
powerful, but of the same root, Sam realised; his love for Frodo.  Time 
had done nothing to diminish his overwhelming devotion to his master; if 
anything, his passion had only grown stronger with each passing day, and 
Sam knew that if he only had one more chance to see his beloved’s face, 
he could die warm, contented and fulfilled.

At length, Sam reached the Grey Havens, having had little rest but feeling 
no weariness, so eager was he to see his love again.  Cirdan was there, and 
at the Haven was a large grey ship, waiting to carry him to his final home.

Sam felt no misgivings about stepping onto the ship; he knew that his time 
had finally come, and he was going at last to see his dear master, with no 
regrets.

***

Frodo sat upon the grassy cliff-top outside his home, reading and gazing 
out to sea.  He sat here every evening, watching for ships arriving from 
Middle-earth.  They arrived less frequently now, and sometimes months 
would pass with not a sight of a single ship, but always Frodo watched and 
waited.  He did not know how long he had been here, for the Elves had 
little use for keeping track of time on the Blessed Isle, but to him every 
day had seemed to last an age as he waited for any sign of a ship to arrive.

In fact, he had been in the Undying Lands for some 61 years, and not a 
day had passed in that time that he did not think of Sam.  To begin with, 
the memories had pained him; he had remembered Sam’s rejection of him, 
or the painful sight of his love pledging himself to another.  He had lain 
awake every night, unable to stop the tears, unable to remove the image 
that had burned itself into his mind: Sam, kissing his bride.  Gradually, 
though, as his body had healed in the Undying Lands, so too had his mind, 
and now, when he thought of Sam, it was the lovely, wonderful memories 
that came to him, and they made him feel warm and full of hope.  Of 
course Sam would come, of course he would.

This was a day like any other, and yet Frodo had awoken with a strange 
knot in the pit of his stomach.  He could not describe what it was that told 
him so, but somehow he felt that today would be the day.  He had risen 
early, before the Sun, and taken a book to his customary spot on the cliff-
top.  He remained there the entire day, and yet not a page of his book was 
turned.  Instead, he scoured the horizon for any sign, any at all, that his 
love had finally come to him.

It seemed an age before the Sun finally set, and yet there was still no sign 
of any ship.  As darkness enveloped the Isle, Frodo began to despair, and 
yet he could not leave.  The feeling was just too strong.  Sam had to be on 
his way, he had to be.

All night, he waited on that cliff.  At some point, an Elf had seen him 
shivering in the dark upon the cliff-top and had brought him a blanket, 
unquestioning, for all knew for whom Frodo was waiting.  Frodo had not 
seen who it was, and had acknowledged neither Elf nor blanket, though he 
huddled now in its warmth as he waited, gazing out to sea although he 
knew he could see nothing.

Gradually, the Sun began to rise, and Frodo felt himself go entirely numb.  
For there, set against the rising Sun, was the dark shadow of a large ship 
sailing from the East.  Frodo suddenly felt himself go cold, but the blanket 
could provide no protection against this cold, for it started within him and 
slowly seeped through every limb, until he could feel nothing but the rapid 
pounding of his heart.

The ship was still barely more than a silhouette, but Frodo’s keen eyes 
immediately found what they sought; it was a ship of Cirdan, the 
shipwright of the Grey Havens of Middle-earth.

Frodo felt as though his heart had stopped.  His will was screaming at him 
to run down to the docks, but his body was frozen still, unable to obey.

Frodo did not know how he found himself down at the seafront, though 
the Elves would tell him later that he had been found in a swoon by 
Haldir, who had carried him down to greet the ship.  All of the inhabitants 
of Tol Eressëa knew how long Frodo had waited for this moment.  They 
had laughed at him, in their way, amused by the mortal constrained by 
time.  But most of all they had pitied him; they knew that he would never 
truly heal until his Sam came to him.

The ship barely looked any closer, but Frodo knew that distances across 
this sea were deceptive; when ships took the Straight Road, they could be 
seen from many miles away, unhidden by the horizon, and Frodo knew 
that it may be many hours before it finally arrived, but also he knew that 
he would not be moved from this very spot, however long it took.

***

Sam did not know how long he had been aboard the ship, whether it was 
days, weeks or even months, but he had spent the entire time on the bow, 
gazing out to the West, aching for any sight of the most blessed land in all 
of Arda; that inhabited by his Frodo.

As he approached the Undying Lands, Sam felt a jolt in his heart and he 
beheld a vision just as Frodo had so many years before him, of white 
shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.

And there, on the white shore, he saw a group of Elves, but for once it was 
not the Elves that captivated his heart; for there amongst them he could 
see a shining light that he would recognise anywhere.  It was the light of a 
morning Sun reflected on the perfect, marble-white skin of his beloved 
Frodo.  Sam felt a surge of impatience tear through his mind and he 
contemplated leaping from the bow of the ship and scrambling through the 
water to shore.  It seemed an age had passed before the ship docked, and 
Sam felt that the journey over the Sundering Seas had lasted longer than 
the agonising years of waiting that he had endured before.  But now, he 
was finally here.  

Sam had imagined this moment many times over, and in all of his 
fantasies he had run from the ship and lifted Frodo in his arms, but now, 
faced with the reality of it, he found himself unable to move.

A gentle push on his shoulder guided him to shore, but Sam’s mind was 
now empty, unable to focus on the steps before him, unable to see the 
land, the sea, or the numerous Elves who had gathered to greet him.  He 
was aware only of a point of light before him, to which he gravitated 
without thought, but slowly, as though he were afraid that the vision 
would disappear before him.

It couldn’t possibly be his Frodo, couldn’t be, and yet of course it was.  He 
paused a few paces away and felt himself freeze.  All time around him was 
standing still, and he could feel nothing but the steadily increasing thud of 
his heartbeat.  His vision was blurred, but there was one figure that stood 
out more clearly to him than anything he had ever seen.  Shining, he 
thought, brighter even than the light of Eärendil in the Phial of Galadriel 
from all those years ago.

A small thread of consciousness eased its way into Sam’s mind as he 
became aware that he was now stood before that blinding light, and slowly 
he raised a shaking hand to reach out before him.  He gasped and choked 
back a sob as his fingers lightly grazed warm flesh at the side of Frodo’s 
face, and then there was Frodo’s hand reaching up to close around his, and 
then Sam pulled Frodo towards him gently, and Frodo fell willingly into 
his arms, and then the world around him vanished into bright, white light 
and there was nothing but him and his Frodo.  

Sam clung tightly to Frodo, not wanting to let him go, afraid that it might 
all turn out to be a vision, and he might look up to find his arms empty.  
But eventually, and with much reluctance, he pulled away so that he might 
look at last upon that face.  The Sun had set by the time he pulled himself 
away, and the others had departed, leaving the two hobbits alone.  Frodo’s 
face was lit by the cool moonlight, and Sam was sure that he had never 
seen anything so beautiful.  The pale, perfect skin was framed by dark 
curls, which were longer now, and they fell lightly over his eyes.  Sam 
reached out to brush the curls away so that he might look upon those eyes, 
and they were breathtaking; the same fiery pools of blue that Sam 
remembered, but now without any of the pain and sorrow that had haunted 
them before.  And then, Sam followed the delicate curve of Frodo’s nose 
down to rose petal lips, parted slightly in silent invitation.

It occurred to Sam then that neither of them had spoken in the hours that 
they had stood here together, but he could think of no words to express the 
overwhelming feeling of falling in love with his Frodo all over again.  
There was only one way to communicate those feelings, and so he dipped 
his head everso slowly, and lightly brushed his lips against his master’s in 
one soft caress that held within it a lifetime of devotion.

Sam felt the blinding white light burn through his mind as their lips 
touched lightly, and he pulled away quickly, gasping for breath.  His mind 
was soaring, unable to absorb or process this sensation, and he barely felt 
Frodo reach for his hand and guide him up a stony path to the cliff-top 
where Frodo lived.

Sam’s mind was shocked back to reality as he stood before Frodo’s home, 
and in his disbelief he uttered his first words since setting foot upon the 
Blessed Isle.

“Why, it’s Bag End!” he cried, his voice shaking almost as much as his 
body.  “Or as near as makes no difference.”

Frodo smiled to hear Sam’s voice at last, and the long suppressed tears 
finally fell. He stepped over to Sam’s side and rested his head against his 
love’s shoulder.  Sam felt the tears seep into his grey elven cloak, and he 
wrapped his arms tightly around his master and buried his face in his hair, 
allowing his own tears to seep into the soft dark curls.

“Oh Frodo, me dear,” he whispered at last, “I never thought I’d hold you 
again.”  A single sob wracked Frodo’s slight frame, but when he lifted his 
head, Sam saw that he was smiling, and his eyes shone with joy.

“It’s not a real smial,” he said.  “It’s a house really, but I wanted it built 
here, by the sea, so that I could watch for you.  They helped me thatch it 
with grass so that it looks more like home.  And they helped me try to 
copy the garden at Bag End, but I could never make things grow the way 
you could…” Frodo trailed off as his eyes filled with tears, and Sam took 
his hand and kissed it gently.

“My dear,” he said, looking straight into Frodo’s eyes, “your hands are too 
fair to be working the earth, but if you let me I’ll grow you everything you 
could ever wish for.”

“Oh Sam,” gasped Frodo, and he caught Sam’s lips in a kiss as passionate 
as the last had been tender.  Sam pulled Frodo towards him, marvelling at 
how their bodies fit together so perfectly, and he knew then beyond any 
doubt that they had always been meant for each other.  Then he felt 
Frodo’s tongue sweep tentatively across his lower lip, and rational thought 
deserted him as the kiss deepened, and he felt his entire world shrink until 
it contained just the two of them, their kiss, their embrace and their love.

It was deep into the night when Frodo pulled away and ran his hand 
through Sam’s golden curls, lit up in the moonlight.  Time had been kind 
to Sam, Frodo thought.  There were faint lines upon his face and on his 
hands, but his eyes still shone as they had always done, and his golden 
copper hair had only a faint scattering of grey.  

“Frodo,” Sam whispered after a long pause, “did you really wait for me?”

“Every day,” Frodo said, gazing deep into Sam’s eyes.

“And do you think - that is, are you disappointed?” Sam asked cautiously.

“No, Sam,” Frodo sighed, reaching up to brush his lips softly against 
Sam’s ear, eliciting a small shudder.  “You are the same Samwise I have 
always loved, and time can never change that.  I love you, Sam.”

“I love you too, Frodo,” Sam whispered, and they kissed gently, and then 
Frodo placed his hand upon Sam’s arm and guided him slowly towards the 
door.

Sam walked in a daze towards Frodo’s home, but as the door clicked shut 
behind him and Frodo came to his side and rested his head against Sam’s 
shoulder, his senses returned and Sam knew that now, after all these years, 
he was at last truly one and whole.


Title: Obstacles 9: Acceptance 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: NC-17 
Summary: Frodo and Sam learn to adjust to their new life over the Sea.

A/N: A brief note regarding Sam’s names, which you may skip if you 
have read HoME IX, Sauron Defeated.  Perhael is the literal Elvish 
translation of Samwise, meaning half-wise.  This name appears in LotR in 
the song on the Field of Cormallen, in the form ‘Berhael.’  In Sauron 
Defeated, Aragorn notes in a letter that as a result of Sam’s 
accomplishments he should really be known as Panthael, or ‘full-wise.’  
Although Frodo did not see this letter, he does speak Elvish and so it is 
reasonable to suppose that he would make the same correction.  The name 
‘Harthad Uluithiad’ also appears in Sauron Defeated, in an earlier version 
of the ‘Many Partings’ chapter in which Gandalf names Frodo ‘Bronwe 
athan Harthad’ and Sam ‘Harthad Uluithiad’, meaning ‘Endurance 
Beyond Hope’ and ‘Hope Unquenchable’ respectively.  Although 
abandoned for the final draft of the text, I have treated this as though it 
still happened and was merely omitted from the Red Book.  The reason for 
this is nothing more sinister than that I forgot that it was not in LotR, and 
only realised when I went to check the spelling that it was in fact from 
HoME.  It’s not terribly important anyway.


Tol Eressea, 1482 S.R.

The Sun was just beginning to creep her way through the small gap in the 
curtains when Sam awoke.  As he drifted for a few moments on the edge 
of wakefulness, he wearily tried to open his eyes.  They were sore, and he 
knew that he must have been crying the night before.  As consciousness 
slowly seeped into his mind, he became suddenly aware of an unfamiliar 
weight resting upon his chest, and he forcefully blinked his eyes open.

There, upon his chest, he could see a mass of dark curls rising and falling 
in time with his breathing.  Gently, he lifted his hand to brush aside the 
curls and stifled a gasp as Frodo’s creamy white skin was revealed to him.  
The previous day’s events came rushing back to him, and he felt tears well 
up beneath his eyes.  He stifled a sob at the memory of his first sight of 
Frodo from the ship, and at the sharp movement, he saw Frodo’s eyes 
flutter open.

Nothing could prepare Sam for the sight of those eyes, not if he had 
woken up to them every day of his life.  In Sam’s memory, they had 
become the shade of the wildflowers that grew against the wall at the front 
of Bag End, but the reality was so much more intense.  Sam tried 
desperately to think of something that resembled those eyes: they 
reminded him a little of the sea in the midday sun, if only the sea could 
burn through him the way those eyes did.  Still, Sam’s memory of the sea 
was so intertwined with that of Frodo that it would have to do for now.  
*After all,* he thought, *I’ll have a lifetime now to put a likeness to those 
eyes.*  Sam struggled to blink back some more tears, and bent down to 
kiss Frodo lightly upon the forehead.

“Ah, you’re a fine thing to wake up to me dear,” he whispered against 
Frodo’s soft curls.  *Have they always been that soft?* he thought.

Frodo closed his eyes and smiled contentedly.  “As are you, my dear 
Samwise,” he sighed.

They lay together for a while, listening to the sound of each other’s 
breathing and feeling the warmth of holding each other again at last.  Sam 
looked down at Frodo’s pale face and thought that he’d never seen 
anything so fair.  Sam remembered holding Frodo in their room in Minas 
Tirith when he had first confessed his love, and how beautiful Frodo had 
looked then.  Back then, he hadn’t thought it possible that anything could 
be more lovely than the slender hobbit he had held in his arms, but he 
could see now that he had been wrong.  Frodo had barely aged since then: 
in fact, he looked younger, for there was no burden in his eyes, and his 
brow was not furrowed with the concerns that he had had back then.  It 
occurred to Sam that he had never known his master entirely unburdened, 
whether by his parents’ death, Bilbo’s leaving or the Ring.  *Or me,* Sam 
thought sadly.  But now, he looked as though he was truly at peace.  There 
was a serene air about him that he had always exhibited, but that Sam had 
always known to be only a façade; now, for the first time, Sam sensed that 
it was real, and he felt his heart fill with joy at the thought.

Sam was content to hold Frodo close to him for some time, but questions 
began to nag insistently at his mind, and at length he found himself 
reluctantly breaking the comfortable silence.

“How did I get here?” he asked the simplest question first.  Frodo looked 
up at him and an amused smile played across his lips.

“To the Blessed Isle, or to my bed?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.  
Sam blushed.

“Well, I was thinking the first, but you’d best answer me the other one as 
well,” he said.

“A boat, I believe,” Frodo laughed, “and I brought you up here.  I had a 
bottle of the finest Elvish wine I’d been saving for when you arrived, but 
by the time I’d opened it you were already asleep.  I managed to wake you 
long enough to guide you in here, and then you collapsed in a heap on the 
bed.”

“I’m sorry Frodo,” Sam sighed.  “I’m guessing that weren’t the romantic 
reunion you’d been plannin’ for.”  Frodo raised himself up upon one 
elbow so that he could look down at Sam, and he twisted a finger absently 
round a golden curl as he looked into Sam’s deep hazel eyes.

“No,” he whispered, “it was better than I had ever imagined.” And he bent 
slowly to kiss Sam softly, and Sam responded by wrapping his arms 
around Frodo’s waist and pulling his love down towards him as their lips 
continued their gentle caresses.

It was Sam who broke off the kiss, pushing Frodo gently onto his back and 
propping himself up on his side beside him.  He ran his hand through 
Frodo’s dark curls and down to the collar of his nightshirt, which he 
tugged lightly down over the shoulder to reveal the white scar of the 
Morgul blade.  He ran one finger over the white line and brought his eyes 
to meet Frodo’s.

“Does that hurt you still me dear?” he asked hesitantly, desperately afraid 
of what the answer might be.

“No,” Frodo smiled.  “Nor the others.  I’ll always have the scars I guess,” 
he said sadly, “but I no longer feel any pain.”  Sam felt himself swept with 
overwhelming elation at that, and he bent to kiss Frodo’s lips fiercely.  

“I am glad you left,” he said at last.  “It broke my heart to see you suffer 
the way you was and knowing I couldn’t do naught about it.  I can’t say it 
weren’t hard waitin’ to come to you, but it were worth it, I reckon.”  Sam 
brushed Frodo’s lips softly with the tips of his fingers, and then ran his 
hand tenderly through his hair before adding, “You know, me dear, all 
I’ve dreamed of all these years is that we might be able to one day be 
together forever.  I can’t quite take in that it’s all come true.  I feel like it’s 
all a dream, like when we were rescued from off the mountain and 
everything sad came untrue.”  He stopped, suddenly aware of having 
brought back the memory of the Quest, and he looked down at Frodo in 
concern, but he was smiling.

“Sam,” Frodo said quietly, “do you mean that, about our being together 
forever?”

“Of course I do,” Sam assured him.

“You don’t regret what happened between us?”

“Nay,” replied Sam with a smile, “I couldn’t never regret anything.  
Maybe I regret waiting so long, and sometimes I wish you’d knocked 
some sense into me sooner, like.”

“But you don’t regret what we – what we did?” The tips of Frodo’s ears 
turned bright pink, and Sam grinned before bending to kiss them lightly.

“Nay,” he whispered against Frodo’s ear, sending a shiver down the older 
hobbit’s spine.  “That one time that we –“ now Sam blushed furiously, 
“that we were together – I’ve run that through my mind so many times I 
couldn’t count.”  He trailed a line of kisses down Frodo’s jaw and up 
towards those silken lips, soft and pliant and red with kisses.  Sam placed 
a very light kiss against Frodo’s lips, but as he pulled away, Frodo brought 
his hands up to Sam’s neck and pulled him back down into a passionate 
kiss, opening his mouth and slipping his tongue past Sam’s lips.

Sam moaned into the kiss, and brought his hand to the top button of 
Frodo’s nightshirt.  He pulled away just long enough to look up to Frodo’s 
eyes and see the permission granted by the wild desire in his eyes, and 
then he kissed him again, this time slowly and tenderly, while his fingers 
deftly worked through the buttons.  Frodo was wearing a full button-down 
nightshirt of a silky soft fabric – Elvish, Sam supposed – but it was far 
surpassed by the silky soft feel of the skin beneath.  As his fingers worked 
down through the buttons, his knuckles grazed the soft skin, and he 
shuddered at the touch.

As Sam reached the buttons at Frodo’s waist, he broke off their kiss and 
shifted himself further down so that he could draw a line of soft kisses 
across Frodo’s throat and down his chest.  He paused hesitantly over 
Frodo’s left nipple, before giving it a fleeting experimental flick with his 
tongue.  This produced a loud gasp, and so, encouraged, Sam continued to 
lick it until it hardened beneath him, and then paid the same attention to 
the other.  By this time, Frodo’s entire body was shaking in anticipation, 
and his breathing was ragged.  A brief glance downwards revealed that he 
was fully aroused, and so Sam quickly dealt with the remaining buttons, 
running the back of his hand slowly and deliberately across Frodo’s 
hardened member as he did so, earning himself a long, low moan.

With the buttons undone, Sam slowly brushed aside the nightshirt, to 
reveal the lithe, exquisite form of his dearest Frodo.  He choked back a sob 
as he ran his fingers over the smooth white skin, starting at his shoulder 
and running down his waist and across his stomach, and then to his hip 
and gently down the outside of his thigh, and then very slowly across to 
the inside.  Sam felt Frodo tremble beneath him, and he crouched beside 
his lover and tentatively reached for his straining length.  Frodo bucked 
his hips at the contact and cried out Sam’s name, and Sam bent down to 
give a gentle sweep with his tongue.  Frodo moaned loudly and thrust 
upwards, causing Sam to place a firm steadying hand on his hip before 
bending down and taking him in his mouth.

Frodo bit his lip as the warm wetness enveloped him, and he felt a surge of 
heat engulf him as he climaxed into Sam’s waiting mouth.  Sam 
swallowed eagerly, and then licked gently around the head to remove 
every last drop.  He could feel Frodo shuddering, and he lifted himself up 
to the head of the bed and gathered his lover in his arms, pressing a firm 
kiss to his temple.

They lay together for a few moments, until Frodo’s breathing returned to 
normal, and then Sam leant down to gently brush his lips against Frodo’s 
ear.

“I’ve missed you me dear,” he whispered.  Frodo shuddered slightly and 
then turned onto his side to face Sam.

“I’ve missed you too,” he said earnestly, and leant forward to kiss Sam, 
running his tongue gently across the younger hobbit’s lips and tasting 
himself there.  Frodo reached a hand to Sam’s waist and pulled him 
towards himself, and then broke the kiss off with a start.  “You’re still 
dressed,” he said incredulously.

“Aye,” Sam laughed.  “I reckon you may have been a mite too distracted 
to take care of this,” he said, indicating his nightshirt.

“I’m sorry Sam,” Frodo said, reaching for the top button.  But Sam stayed 
Frodo’s hand with his own and brought it to his lips.  He kissed it gently, 
keeping his eyes fixed on Frodo’s.

“Sorry, love?” he said quietly.  “You shouldn’t never be sorry for 
anything.  And I don’t ever want you to think you owe me anything in 
return for aught I might do for you, do you promise me that?”

“I promise, Sam,” Frodo whispered, and Sam released his hand.  Frodo 
quickly unbuttoned the nightshirt, and Sam tore it off over his head, before 
turning back to Frodo, wrapping his arms around the slender shoulders and 
kissing him fervently.

Frodo tried to tear himself away so that he could look upon the deep, 
golden skin that had been revealed to him, but he could not extricate 
himself from Sam’s firm hold, and at any rate had no desire to end their 
kiss.  So instead he allowed himself to drown within the warmth of Sam’s 
arms and the depth and passion of his kiss.  As his mind closed itself to 
conscious thought, he felt only the sensations of warmth and pleasure that 
coursed through him, and he had no idea how he came to be lying on his 
back, with Sam on top of him, rocking gently against him.

By now Frodo was hard again, and he thrust upwards to meet Sam as 
Sam’s hips drove down upon him, and both hobbits gasped as their 
members touched.  Steadily, they built up a rhythm together, increasing in 
pace until they found their hips crashing violently together.  Sam’s face 
was buried in Frodo’s curls, and he was whispering nonsensical 
endearments into his ear, punctuated with soft moans of Frodo’s name.

Frodo was moaning loudly, and repeating Sam’s name over and over, with 
increasing volume as he approached his second orgasm.  As his body 
reached a shuddering climax, Sam followed suit, and fell exhausted onto 
Frodo’s slight frame.  Sam waited a few moments until his heart rate 
slowed, and then looked up at Frodo’s face, noticing only then that it was 
streaked with tears.  He rolled to one side and pulled Frodo towards him, 
laying the older hobbit’s head upon his chest.  He ran a soothing hand 
through Frodo’s hair and leant down kiss his brow, allowing his own tears 
to fall into Frodo’s dark curls.  Then, suddenly, he laughed, and Frodo 
looked up at him, raising one eyebrow quizzically.

“Ah, me dear, do you think we’ll cry every time we do this?” Sam 
explained.  Frodo laughed, and pulled himself up until he drew level with 
Sam, and he kissed him once more.

“That depends on how often it happens. If you intend to keep me waiting 
another few decades then probably, yes,” Frodo smiled.

Sam grinned. “You’re going to have quite a job keeping my hands off you 
for a moment from now on.”

“Is that a promise?” Frodo laughed, and then his smile faded and he 
looked into Sam’s eyes solemnly.  “Does that mean you’ll live here with 
me?” he asked.

“Wild Oliphaunts couldn’t stop me,” Sam replied, pulling Frodo towards 
him to kiss him deeply and eagerly.

The Sun was high in the sky by the time hunger finally forced them apart.  
Frodo tried to lift himself from the bed to fetch some lunch, but Sam 
tugged firmly on his arm to bring him back down to him.

“I’ll fetch that,” he whispered, “you just tell me where.”

“It’ll be quicker if I go,” insisted Frodo, “and anyway, I don’t want you 
acting like my servant here.  This is your home too now.”

“All right Sir,” said Sam mischievously, earning himself a frown that 
rapidly faded into a smile.

“Come on,” said Frodo, pulling himself up to his knees and tugging Sam 
up after him, “we’ll go together.”

The hobbits pulled on their nightshirts, and then Frodo led Sam by the 
hand out of the bedroom into a narrow hall.  There was a row of round 
doors on either side, very similar to Bag End, Sam thought.

“Is it laid out just like Bag End?” he asked.  Frodo stopped and stood still, 
looking back towards Sam with a warm smile and grasping his hand 
tightly.

“Almost,” he said, “except that I moved the study here,” he indicated one 
of the doors and led Sam towards it.  As they entered the study, Sam was 
struck by how much it looked like the one back in the Shire, only far more 
cluttered as it hadn’t yet had Sam’s influence.  There was a dark green, 
velvet settle to the right of them against the back wall, but other than that 
the walls were lined with bookshelves, containing large numbers of 
leather-bound volumes.  And against the far wall was a desk, upon which 
lay an open book, and before that was a large window, which looked out 
over the small front garden to the grassy cliff top and the sea beyond.

Sam turned to face Frodo, and saw that he was gazing out of the window 
with tears welling up in his eyes.  Sam stepped up behind Frodo and 
wrapped his arms around the older hobbit’s waist.  He kissed the side of 
Frodo’s neck, and was relieved to see him smile in response.

“I had the study put here,” he explained, “so that I could watch for you.  I 
watched every day.”  Sam tightened his hold on Frodo’s waist and trailed 
kisses up the side if his neck to his jaw and then to his ear.

“And I thought of following you every day,” he murmured against Frodo’s 
ear.  “I used to hear the sea as I fell asleep each night and wonder what 
you were up to, and-“ he stopped as he caught sight of a tear rolling slowly 
down Frodo’s cheek.  He turned Frodo round to face him and gently 
brushed the tear aside with his thumb.  “Don’t cry love,” he whispered, 
“I’m here now and I ain’t never leavin.’”  

Frodo turned a teary smile up towards Sam.  He tried to find suitable 
words to respond, but for once words failed him.  He felt as though he had 
been stumbling in a dense fog all his life, and had suddenly found it lifted 
to reveal warm, green lands where before had been cold emptiness.  “I’m 
sorry Sam,” he sighed at last, “I just can’t take it all in.”

Sam smiled at that and pulled Frodo close to him, kissing the top of his 
head firmly in an effort to keep back his own tears.  They stood together 
for a while, holding each other tightly, each unable or unwilling to believe 
that their dreams of so many years were finally a reality.

Frodo’s head was resting on Sam’s shoulder, and he smiled as he heard the 
sound of the heartbeat that he had memorised on the way to the Havens all 
those years ago.  He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drown in the 
warmth of Sam’s embrace, the steady rhythm of his heart, and the 
fluttering feel of his breath in Frodo’s curls.  It was with great effort that 
he finally pulled himself away and looked up towards Sam.  Sam’s eyes 
were the deep colour of warm earth, with bright flecks of sunshine that 
glinted when he smiled.  He was smiling now; his lips turned up only 
slightly but Frodo could see his own unsurpassable joy reflected in those 
deep hazel eyes.

Frodo had so much to say to Sam, but found himself unwilling to break 
the magical moment.  Instead, he brought his hand up to Sam’s face and 
twirled a strand of copper-golden hair around his finger while keeping his 
eyes fixed on Sam’s.  Neither hobbit could say how long they stood there, 
each immersed in the other.  But at last and with great reluctance, Frodo 
took Sam’s hand and guided him towards the door.

“Come, Sam,” he said, “let’s take a walk.”  Sam followed Frodo out of the 
mock-smial and stood for a moment by the door with his arm around 
Frodo’s shoulders.  He was immediately struck by the power of the 
sunlight, so much brighter than back in the Shire, causing all of the 
colours to appear far more intense.  An expanse of grass stretched out 
before him, a bright, lustrous green the like of which he could not 
remember ever having seen.  The grass ended abruptly at the peak of a 
cliff, and beyond that, Sam could see the sea, unrolling to far beyond his 
line of sight.  The sea in the sunlight of the Blessed Isle was a gleaming, 
shimmering blue of such intensity that it seemed it could burn.  He turned 
to face Frodo, and gasped as he saw that exact shade of dazzling blue in 
Frodo’s eyes.  Frodo raised a questioning eyebrow, and Sam brought both 
of his hands to frame Frodo’s face, brushing away some stray curls so that 
he could look into the pools of searing blue.

“Your eyes,” he whispered a little self-consciously, “they’re the exact 
colour of the sea.”  Frodo laughed softly and reached up to kiss him, 
wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist as Sam’s hands ran through his 
hair, and their lips caressed each other slowly and tenderly.

Finally, Frodo pulled away and smiled wryly at Sam.  “We’re not going to 
get anywhere if we carry on like this,” he said.

Sam reached across to tuck a dark curl behind Frodo’s ear.  “Are we in 
any hurry?” he murmured, placing upon Frodo’s brow a kiss that he could 
feel weaken his knees.

“No,” he conceded, “but I do have a lot to show you.”  Sam tipped Frodo’s 
face up towards his with the tip of a finger and gently brushed their lips 
together before relenting and allowing himself to be led away from the 
front door.

They walked hand in hand along a long path, which wound along the top 
of the cliff of the easternmost shore of Undying Lands.  The path seemed 
well worn, but the grass on either side of it gradually became longer until 
it reached almost waist-high on the hobbits.  They did not speak, but 
walked slowly in comfortable silence, feeling the tranquillity of their 
surroundings and the unique sort of peace that came only with being 
together.

After a couple of miles, the path branched into two, and Frodo guided Sam 
to the right, down a steep slope to the white shore below.  Sam went 
before Frodo, holding out his hand behind him to help Frodo over the 
rocks and small drops in the path, until they came to a warm, wide 
expanse of rock.  They sat on the side and gently lowered themselves 
down onto the sand, and Sam marvelled at the warm, soft grains that 
seeped between his toes.

Together, the hobbits strolled down to the sea, which lapped upon the 
shore lazily and curled around their feet.  Sam held out his arm, and Frodo 
came to him gladly, and Sam drew him in for a kiss.  The Sun shone upon 
them, a warm breeze ruffled through their curls, tousling them together, 
and the temperate sea played over their feet, but the warmth they felt came 
not from their surroundings but from a deep, inner heat built of many 
years of yearning.

The afternoon Sun was beginning to wane behind the high cliff when they 
finally tore themselves apart breathlessly.  Sam wordlessly led Frodo to 
the top of the beach and sat back against a large rock, pulling Frodo down 
with him to rest between his legs, his head lying back against Sam’s chest.  
Sam wrapped his arms around Frodo’s waist, and Frodo laid his hands 
over Sam’s.  Frodo sighed contentedly as he sank back into Sam’s 
comforting embrace, and Sam kissed the top of his head lightly.

“Sam?” Frodo said at last.

“Mmmm,” was Sam’s reply, muffled in Frodo’s windswept curls.

“Tell me about the Shire.”

“What do you want to know?” Sam murmured.

“What have you been doing all these years?”

“Raising bairns mostly,” Sam laughed.  “Thirteen of them altogether.”

“Thirteen?” Frodo turned and looked at Sam incredulously, and then 
smiled wistfully.  “Tell me about them,” he said, and Sam talked for long 
hours about his children, his grandchildren, Merry and Pippin, and as 
many of the doings of the Shire over the past sixty years as he could think 
of. 

“Bag End must have been full,” said Frodo when Sam had at last 
exhausted his source of stories.  “I always thought it should be filled with 
a large family, instead of us old Baggins bachelors.”

Sam made a sharp noise of protest at that, and tilted Frodo’s head up to 
face him.  “It weren’t the same without you, me dear,” he said.  “You left 
a gap there that all the bairns in the world couldn’t fill.”  Frodo smiled 
weakly, and Sam slowly bent down over him to kiss him softly, and Frodo 
responded eagerly, sweeping his tongue across Sam’s lips and eliciting a 
long, low moan.  Sam hoisted Frodo up to his knees, and Frodo turned to 
face him, and moved until he was straddling Sam and pressing him up 
against the sheer rock face.

Sam gave himself over to Frodo, allowing his mind to be cleared of any 
conscious thought and filled only with the warmth of Frodo pressed 
against him, his mouth hungry and searching, his hands roaming up his 
sides, across his chest and up through his hair, his hips rocking everso 
slightly against his own, only very gently but enough to build up a 
cascading wave of heat within them both.

Sam was not aware of removing Frodo’s clothes, or of having his own 
removed, but he soon found himself pressing bare tanned skin to bare 
marble-white, and was aware of every nerve in his body standing on edge 
as Frodo’s skin brushed against his own.  Wave upon wave of pleasure 
coursed through him as the kiss deepened, and the pace and force of 
Frodo’s thrusts increased, until their hips were moving together in a rapid 
rhythm that caused Sam’s limbs to weaken, and he fell back against the 
rock face, engulfed in heat and sensation.  It took only a few more thrusts 
before they collapsed, shuddering, together upon the sand, murmuring soft 
endearments into each other’s ears.

Sam pulled Frodo close to him as their breathing slowed, before hoisting 
himself back up against the cliff face and pulling Frodo onto his lap.  
Frodo rested his head against Sam’s shoulder and sighed deeply, and Sam 
ran his fingers through Frodo’s now-sandy curls and kissed the top of his 
head.  The Sun was now set, and the hobbits were bathed in cool 
moonlight, but they felt no cold, warm in each other’s arms.

Frodo’s skin glowed ethereally in the moonlight, casting a light about 
himself that Sam found truly breathtaking.  He tentatively stroked the side 
of Frodo’s face and marvelled at his perfect white complexion, contrasting 
with his fiery sea-blue eyes and framed by dark ringlets.  Sam was sure 
there had never been such a vision of loveliness as the one he held in his 
arms, and how it had come to be his he would never rightly know.  He 
would have been content to stay there with Frodo forever, just feeling the 
cool, smooth skin against his own and marvelling at its moonlit glow.  He 
leant down and brushed his lips softly against Frodo’s brow, in a 
tantalising dance of feather-light kisses that elicited a slight shudder from 
his lover.  Frodo murmured something incoherent, but Sam understood 
and brought his mouth to Frodo’s for a slow and tender kiss, accented by 
gentle sweeps of tongue against lips, gasps of pleasure and murmured 
endearments.

It was some time later that Sam realised that Frodo was no longer 
shivering with pleasure but with cold.  With great reluctance, he pulled his 
lips away from Frodo’s mouth and to his ear.

“We’d best be heading back,” he whispered, adding a kiss his beloved’s 
earlobe, causing Frodo to chuckle softly.  Carefully, he rose to his feet, 
lifting Frodo up with him, and glanced around to locate their clothes, 
blushing fiercely when he saw how far aside they had been cast.

Once dressed, the hobbits walked slowly back home, Sam’s arm around 
Frodo’s shoulders, holding him close, and Frodo’s arm around Sam’s 
waist, his head leaning gently upon Sam’s shoulder.  They paused 
intermittently to kiss beneath the glittering stars, neither wanting this 
enchanted day to end, and the Isle was fully swathed in the depth of night 
by the time they arrived home.

As they reached the front door, Sam stepped aside to allow Frodo to enter 
before him, and Frodo turned to him with an amused smile.

“Come, Sam,” he said, reaching out his hand, “this is your home too now.”  
Sam took Frodo’s hand and kissed it before following him inside, closing 
the door behind them and then pulling Frodo towards him in a tight 
embrace.  Then he stepped back and examined Frodo with a grin.

“I reckon we’ve got sand in all sorts of places,” he laughed.  “Do you have 
a bath here?”  Frodo nodded with a laugh, and guided Sam towards the 
bathing room.  Sam heated the water and filled the bath, while Frodo 
fetched some rose-scented soap.

“In you get me dear,” said Sam when the large tub was filled, “and I’ll 
wash your hair.”  Frodo was aware of Sam’s eyes on him as he undressed, 
and fumbled with his buttons, as nervous as a lovesick tween.  He stepped 
towards the bathtub to climb in, but then turned round to Sam with a 
smile.

“You know,” he said, “it’s an Elvish tub, easily big enough for two 
hobbits.”  Sam blushed, and looked down at his feet, wringing his hands 
shyly in a towel.  When he looked up, he saw Frodo looking at him with 
an expression that could have melted him, and his nervousness subsided.  
He rapidly threw off his clothes and stepped into the tub, lying back and 
gesturing for Frodo to join him.  Frodo climbed in and sat between Sam’s 
legs, lying back against his chest and closing his eyes to enjoy the 
indescribable warmth of the water around him, Sam behind him and the 
soothing inner warmth of knowing himself to be truly loved.

Sam lathered some soap between his hands and rubbed Frodo’s chest and 
arms in gentle but firm circular strokes, and Frodo stretched back 
languidly against him, murmuring softly.  As he worked down Frodo’s 
slender body, Sam allowed his fingers to trace every line and curve, 
committing them all to memory.

When Sam had finished ministering to Frodo and had cleansed himself, he 
drew Frodo back against him, wrapped his arms tightly around his lover 
and rested his chin lightly upon Frodo’s shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, sending a wave of warmth straight to 
Frodo’s heart.  Frodo reached for his hand and threaded their fingers 
together thoughtfully.  He had no idea what Sam saw when he looked at 
him; something other than the sallow, unnaturally thin and frail old hobbit 
that Frodo saw in himself, he supposed.  The knowledge that Sam could 
think him beautiful chased away his insecurities, leaving him feeling as 
though he were floating in a sea of pure contentment.

Frodo was torn from his blissful reverie by a gentle nip at his ear, followed 
by a soothing kiss.  “What are you thinking me dear?” Sam whispered.

“About you of course,” Frodo smiled.  “It still hardly seems real.”

“Aye,” sighed Sam, “’tis like the very dream I’ve had every night since 
you left.”

“How long did you say it’s been?” Frodo asked, tilting his head up.

“More’n sixty years,” Sam sighed, and was surprised when Frodo laughed.

“To think I spent sixty years watching out of my window for you,” he said 
by way of explanation.

“What else did you do Frodo?” Sam asked after a long pause.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’ve heard all about me and the children and grandchildren, you 
and Mr Bilbo must have got up to a great deal as well.”

“Bilbo’s not here Sam,” said Frodo, his voice barely more than a whisper.  
Sam sat up sharply at that, and muttered an apology to the displaced Frodo 
before lying back down.

“What do you mean he’s not here?” he asked at last, though he sensed the 
answer.

“He was already very old when he arrived.  He stayed for perhaps a year, 
I’m not sure of time here, until he was completely healed, and then he 
chose to…to leave,” Frodo explained.

“Oh,” Sam’s brow furrowed and his hold on Frodo tightened.  

Frodo tilted his head back with a reassuring smile.  “It’s alright, Sam,” he 
said, “he chose to go – it was his time.”

“It’s not that, me dear,” said Sam, his brow furrowing further.  “It’s that I 
was so caught up in seeing you again that I didn’t even notice he weren’t 
there.  So you’ve been alone all this time?”

“No, Sam, not alone.  Gandalf is here, and Haldir – you remember 
Haldir?” Sam, nodded, a slight smile tugging at his lips at the memory of 
the Elf who had thought his breathing so loud all those years ago.  “The 
Elves have been wonderful, Sam,” Frodo continued. “They’ve not let me 
be lonely at all.  And now you’ll be able to see as many as you wish,” he 
smiled.

Sam laughed gently at that and placed a clumsy kiss on the side of Frodo’s 
cheek.  “Me dear,” he said, “I’d never wish to see another Elf again if I 
could just be allowed to look on you.”  Frodo sat up and turned to face 
Sam, and then leant forward and kissed him ardently.  Sam allowed 
himself to be pushed back until their bodies were pressed firmly together, 
and he drank in the warmth of Frodo’s kisses and the feel of his wet, 
slippery body against his own.  He ran his hands up and down Frodo’s 
back and pulled him closer as their kiss intensified, and then he closed his 
eyes and allowed himself just to feel.  He felt the slippery, writhing hobbit 
above him, the soft and yet forceful lips upon his, the warm, velvety 
tongue sweeping across his lips, delving into his mouth and then meeting 
his own, which responded with gentle caresses, and the cool water 
sloshing around them.  Sam’s train of thought stopped abruptly then and 
he opened his eyes and sat up with a start, pushing a slightly dazed Frodo 
with him.

“Frodo, love, the water’s freezing,” he said, pulling them both to their feet 
and stepping quickly out of the tub.  He held a hand out to Frodo who 
climbed out after him, and then rummaged around for a towel.  The towels 
were all far too large for hobbits, Sam thought.  He picked one up and 
draped it around Frodo’s shoulders, noting with amusement how it 
dragged on the floor, and then selected another to rub down Frodo’s hair, 
before tending to himself.  When he turned back to Frodo, he saw that the 
older hobbit was smiling broadly, and his eyes were glinting in the 
candlelight as he clutched the too-large towel around himself.  Sam felt his 
breath hitch at the sight and found himself rooted to the spot.  Frodo 
stepped quickly over to him and wrapped the towel around them both, 
resting his head against Sam’s broad chest.  Sam held Frodo tightly to him 
and kissed the top of his head.

“Ah, me dear,” he whispered, “I reckon I’m in a right fix if you’re to take 
my breath away like that each time I see you.”

Frodo tipped his head upwards, and Sam reached down slightly to bring 
his lips to Frodo’s, hovering very slightly apart for a moment to enjoy the 
warmth of Frodo’s breath mingling with his own, and the tantalising 
anticipation that sent shivers along his spine.  Slowly, they pressed their 
lips together in the most gentle, tentative touch, before pulling away very 
slightly from one another.  Sam ran his fingers along Frodo’s jaw, up 
around the tip of his ear and into his thick, damp curls to reach behind his 
head and pull him in for a burning kiss.  The towel was soon discarded as 
their kiss deepened and their hands resumed their roaming, and they 
stumbled together in the vague direction of the bedroom, pausing 
periodically to hold each other tightly and kiss passionately.

When at last they arrived in the master bedroom, they collapsed together 
on the wide feather bed, and Sam gathered Frodo in his arms so that they 
faced each other.  Their kisses slowed to an unhurried, lazy pace as sleep 
gradually overtook them.

Sam was hovering on the edge of slumber as he suddenly awoke with a 
start.  Frodo felt the sharp movement of Sam’s body and languidly 
uncurled himself from his lover’s side.

“What is it, Sam?” Frodo murmured sleepily.

“Oh me dear, your Sam’s naught but a ninnyhammer.  He’s let you go all 
day without eating a thing,” Sam said, running an anxious hand through 
Frodo’s curls.

“It’s fine, Sam, I’m not hungry,” Frodo mumbled, but Sam climbed off the 
bed and tugged a reluctant Frodo after him.

“Now, Mr Frodo,” he said sternly, “you’re to be eating proper now that 
your Sam’s here to look after you.”

“Oh, Sam,” Frodo protested, but he knew that there was no refusing that 
tone, and so he followed, yawning, towards the kitchen and sat down at 
the large wooden table.  “I thought you’d dropped the ‘Mr,’ Sam?” he said 
as he watched Sam examine the pantry.

“Not when you need some sense talking into that flighty head of yours, 
begging your pardon,” Sam replied with a smile as he gathered some eggs 
and butter and mushrooms in his arms.  “Now you’ve not got much here,” 
he said, “but I reckon I can manage some mushroom omelettes.  Are they 
still your favourites?”

“Of course, Sam,” Frodo grinned, and watched with a mixture of 
admiration and desire as Sam prepared their late dinner.

Sam set Frodo’s plate in front of him before seating himself across the 
table.  He watched as Frodo took a tentative bite and then murmured his 
appreciation before hurriedly devouring the rest.  They ate quickly – Frodo 
had to admit that he was in fact rather hungry – and in silence, and Frodo 
let out a sated sigh as he finished.

“That was wonderful Sam,” he said.  “I’ve never managed to make them 
quite like you do.”

“And you oughtn’t to be trying no more,” said Sam firmly, “I’ll be 
keeping you fed from now on.”

“Sam,” said Frodo indignantly, “you’re not doing for me here.”

Sam did not reply immediately, but rose to clear the table before sitting 
himself beside Frodo and taking his lover’s hands in his.  “No,” he 
whispered softly, “but I never did do for you because it were my job.  I 
love to take care of you Frodo.”  He leant forward to kiss the tip of 
Frodo’s nose, and then looked straight into his searing blue eyes.  “I love 
you Frodo,” he said, before kissing him fully on the lips.  As they parted, 
he saw that Frodo was smiling, and he knew that his heart was as full as 
ever it could be.  “Will you allow me to look after you Frodo?” he 
breathed.

“We’ll see,” Frodo murmured, and they kissed once more before returning 
to bed.

Once abed, Sam held Frodo tightly to him and breathed in the rose-soapy 
scent of his hair as he fell asleep, reflecting contentedly on the most 
wonderful day he had ever known, and praying silently that nothing would 
disturb the perfect life he had now found.

***

The days passed in idyllic harmony as Frodo and Sam gradually learned 
each other on a deeper level than they had ever previously been able.  Sam 
was pleased to find that the Elves had not left Frodo entirely to his own 
devices with regards to the garden; there was ample food there to last them 
some time, although Sam had to confess to not being entirely familiar with 
some of the fruits that grew on the trees towards the back of the garden, 
and his hobbit sense told him it would be best to avoid them.

Sam had been on Tol Eressëa for a week when he looked up from his 
gardening to see Frodo standing in the doorway of their home, leaning 
against the frame and staring intently at him.  Sam dug his spade into the 
ground and walked towards the doorway, where he lifted Frodo and spun 
him around.  Frodo laughed: a light, carefree laugh that drove straight to 
Sam’s heart, filling it to the brim.

Sam set Frodo down and kissed him repeatedly, and Frodo laughed in pure 
joy in between kisses, sending thrills coursing through Sam’s body, 
weakening him at the knees.

“And what would you be interrupting me for?” Sam murmured as Frodo 
trailed soft kisses across his throat.  Frodo did not respond for a moment, 
too engrossed in the salty flavour of Sam’s skin, but at last he lifted his 
face to Sam’s and placed his arms around his lover’s neck.

“I was thinking,” he said, calling on all his strength in order to form 
coherent sentences whilst gazing into those absorbing eyes, “how terribly 
selfish I’ve been keeping you here all to myself ever since you arrived, 
and I think it’s about time I took you out to show you off.”  He tugged 
playfully at Sam’s lower lip with his teeth.  “There’s a great feast being 
held this afternoon, and I’m sure everyone would like to see you.”

Sam smiled and leant forward to kiss Frodo’s brow.  “I’d love to, me dear.  
Just let me clean up.”  And he left Frodo with a gentle kiss to change out 
of his mud-spattered clothes.

They walked slowly, hand in hand, as Frodo led Sam inland across wide 
green fields.  The strong sunlight of the undying lands accentuated every 
shade, and Sam found himself gazing in wonderment at multitude of 
shades of green, bright and dark, translucent and opaque, all shimmering 
in the midday sun.

Throughout their walk, Frodo watched Sam silently, enraptured by his 
ceaseless enthusiasm.  If it were possible to fall in love with him all over 
again, Frodo felt sure that he was doing just that now.  Gradually, the path 
led down a gentle slope towards the valley that was home to most of the 
Elves.  As they reached a turn, Frodo tugged lightly on Sam’s hand to 
draw him close.  He lifted his head up to Sam’s ear and tugged on it 
delicately with his teeth, causing Sam to giggle quietly against his 
shoulder.

“Close your eyes,” Frodo whispered.  Sam pulled back slightly to look 
curiously at Frodo.  Frodo smiled and placed a hand on each of Sam’s 
shoulders to lift himself up and gently kiss Sam’s eyes closed.  “Trust 
me,” he whispered, and just then Sam would have obliged had Frodo 
directed him over the edge of a cliff.

Satisfied that Sam’s eyes were closed, Frodo took his hand and led him 
carefully around a corner.  Sam felt a brief chill as they passed under the 
shade of the narrow band of trees that lined the top of the valley, and then 
a wall of warmth as they emerged into the sunlight.  Frodo stopped and 
moved to Sam’s side, placing an arm around his waist, and Sam lifted his 
arm around Frodo’s shoulders.

“You can look now,” Frodo whispered, and Sam gasped in astonishment 
as his eyes opened.  The valley stretched out below them, the grass the 
same intense, glistening shade of green as the rest of the Isle.  At the foot 
of the valley was a narrow river, which shone and glinted in the Sun as it 
made its leisurely way down to the sea.  And on the opposite bank of the 
river was a white city that gleamed proudly, reflecting light around the 
valley and serving to intensify every colour.  Sam stood, transfixed by the 
vision before him, and held Frodo as tightly as he could.

Frodo eventually managed to extricate himself from Sam’s embrace, and 
led him carefully towards the white bridge that crossed the river in front of 
the entrance to the city.  As they reached the gate, Sam suddenly dropped 
Frodo’s hand, and Frodo turned back to glance at him questioningly, but 
Sam’s gaze was lifted upwards to the white towers above him, and Frodo 
supposed that he was simply overwhelmed by the sight of the city, and so 
led him carefully with a hand upon his shoulder.

They followed the street past some tell, elegant buildings, and Frodo 
pointed out the homes of some of the Elves that Sam would know, as well 
as the great hall where they would gather to exchange songs and tales, and 
the vast library, though he could not be sure if Sam heard a word.  

At length, their path led them into a wide courtyard, paved in gleaming 
white, and there was a large gathering of Elves seated around a long stone 
table.  They all looked up as the hobbits arrived, and Sam’s wonder 
abruptly faded to leave a deep gnawing in the pit of his stomach.  
Suddenly he saw this wondrous city, filled with fair folk, and his Frodo 
who was the fairest of them all, and he felt as out of place as a thorn bush 
in a bed of delicate lilies.  Every sense screamed at him to turn and run 
before he could see the derision on the Elves’ faces, but he found himself 
being guided to the table by Frodo, and he sat there awkwardly, staring 
downwards in the vain hope that perhaps if he did not see them then they 
would not see him.

Sam’s doubt intensified into outright misery as he heard Frodo speak with 
a couple of the Elves in their own tongue.  Sam had picked up the odd 
word of Elvish, enough to make him something of an oddity in Hobbiton 
at any rate, but he could not follow a word of what was being said.  The 
urge to leave was just about to utterly overwhelm him when he heard his 
name.  He looked up sharply, to see that on his left sat Haldir, the Elf of 
Lothlorien, and one of the few able to speak the Common Speech.  Haldir 
smiled when he saw the bewilderment on Sam’s face, and the smile was 
not patronising but compassionate, and Sam felt the edge of his fear ebb 
slightly.

“You have had a long journey, Master Perian,” said Haldir when he saw 
that Sam’s face had cleared sufficiently for his words to be understood.

“Aye, it’s all been a mite overwhelming,” Sam sighed, inwardly cursing 
his unrefined speech.  He felt Frodo’s hand on his, and he turned to his 
right to see Frodo smiling at him encouragingly, and he could have lost 
himself in his lover’s eyes, but for the numerous Elves he now felt staring 
intently and curiously at him.  Sam nervously brushed Frodo’s hand off 
his, and saw the momentary flash of hurt that crossed Frodo’s face.  He 
opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came to him, and 
fortunately at that moment Haldir spoke to him again.

“You will be living out by the sea with your master, will you Master 
Samwise?” Haldir enquired.

“Aye,” said Sam, “it’s a-“ but he was suddenly interrupted by Frodo.

“He’s not my servant, Haldir,” said Frodo coolly, and Haldir nodded 
apologetically towards Sam.

“Frodo insisted that the guest rooms all be made as comfortable as the 
master bedroom,” Haldir continued.  “I trust yours is to your liking?”

“He doesn’t-“ began Frodo, but was cut off by Sam.

“Yes, thank you, my room is perfectly comfortable,” said Sam hurriedly, 
and he felt his heart tear in two at the pain that became evident upon 
Frodo’s face.

Sam did not say another word during the meal, and Frodo spoke only in 
Sindarin to the Elf on his right.  The others left Sam alone, sensing that he 
was perhaps too overwhelmed by the occasion, and Sam ate in miserable 
silence, wishing that he were back in the garden with Frodo in his arms.

As the Sun began to set, Haldir excused himself to join a group of Elves 
who were singing in a far corner of the courtyard, their melodious voices 
drifting across the sultry air.  But Sam did not hear their song, nor did he 
feel the warm evening breeze that drifted down the valley, nor see the 
sunset reflected upon the great white towers that surrounded him.  The 
courtyard was lit now by a ring of candles that stood in bright silver stands 
around the perimeter, swathing the surroundings in a warm and 
comforting light.  Sam looked up towards Frodo, who was engaged in 
conversation with a tall Elf dressed in white.  Sam could hear that they 
were speaking in the Common Speech, though he listened not to the 
words, and he wondered briefly who this Elf was.  But his attention was 
drawn away from the Elf to Frodo’s face, which was lit up by the warm 
candlelight.  Sam was reminded of Frodo as he had seen him one day 
asleep in Ithilien, when he had looked upon his master and known that he 
would never see another sight so fair, and of Frodo as he had seen him 
when Sam had arrived here only a week previously, when he had fancied 
that Frodo glowed as a beacon to guide him home.  As Sam looked 
towards Frodo now, he felt that his heart might overflow with the love that 
he felt for him, and he longed above all else to wrap himself around that 
elegant form and smother it in kisses.  He briefly considered reaching for 
Frodo’s hand, but blushed furiously at the thought of being seen and 
having the nature of their relationship guessed by these fair and gracious 
Elves and quickly drew his hands into his lap.

Sam suddenly became aware of the white-clad Elf staring intently at him, 
and of Frodo turning round to follow his gaze.  Frodo smiled at Sam, but 
Sam could see that the smile was shallow and did not reach his eyes, and 
that cut straight to Sam’s heart.  Frodo pulled his chair out slightly and 
gestured for Sam to sit beside him, facing the Elf.  As Sam pulled himself 
up alongside Frodo and took a closer look, he suddenly realised that this 
was no Elf at all.  He was tall and fair, with long, almost white hair, but he 
did not have the same air as an Elf: Elves made Sam think of songs and 
epic tales of great heroes, but this being put him more in mind of rushing 
rivers and trees dancing in a light breeze, or flowers lifting themselves to 
greet the morning Sun.

“Sam,” Frodo said, “this is Gandalf.”  Sam sat motionless for what seemed 
to him an age but may well have been mere moments.

“Gandalf?” he said to the white-robed being.

“Yes,” said Gandalf slowly.  “I am known as Olorin here, but you may 
call me Gandalf.”  Sam tried to speak, but found himself unable to do so, 
and he turned to Frodo in confusion.

“Gandalf is a Maia,” Frodo explained carefully, though never quite 
meeting Sam’s eyes.  “Like Melian, the wife of Thingol.”  Sam nodded in 
understanding.  “He was sent to Middle-earth in the form of an old man to 
assist in the struggle against Sauron, but now that he’s here he may take 
any form that he chooses.”  Sam gasped in astonishment, not quite able to 
comprehend that the old kindly wizard who had invited a hoard of 
dwarves unexpectedly to Mr Bilbo’s door could turn out to be such a 
divine being.

Gandalf turned to Frodo, keeping his eyes on Sam.  “I think it would be 
best that you take young Samwise home,” he said quietly.  “It seemed he’s 
had a lot to take in this week.”  Frodo nodded, and turned to take Sam’s 
hand, flinching when it was refused, and mumbling a goodnight to 
Gandalf as he turned to leave.

Sam, too, mumbled a vague goodnight to Gandalf, before following Frodo 
back down the long street out of the city.  He walked a pace behind Frodo 
until they reached the gate, and Frodo did not once turn back to look at 
him.  When they were outside the city, Sam walked up to Frodo’s side and 
clasped his hand.  Frodo looked up then, and Sam could see that there 
were tears welling in his eyes, glistening in the pale moonlight.  
Wordlessly, he pulled Frodo towards him and kissed each tear away as it 
fell.

“I love you me dear,” he whispered in reassurance, but Frodo pulled away 
to look at him.

“Why did you lie to them about us Sam?” Frodo said hoarsely.

“I’m sorry, love,” said Sam, gathering Frodo back into his arms.  “I just 
don’t see as it’s anyone’s business but ours.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Are you ashamed of our – of what we are to each other?” asked Frodo.

“No, me dear,” Sam sighed, burying his face in Frodo’s curls.  “It’s only 
that I don’t see as they would understand.”

Frodo pulled away and took Sam’s hand.  “Come on,” he said, “we should 
head home.”

They walked back in silence.  The night was warm, but a refreshingly cool 
breeze blew in from the sea, increasing in strength as they drew nearer to 
the coast.  On any other night, Sam would have considered this utter 
perfection, walking with his beloved across moonlit fields.  But tonight, he 
could feel that a storm was brewing and wished with every ounce of 
strength in his heart that it would somehow pass them by.

As they arrived home, Sam made his way silently to the kitchen, and 
Frodo followed, seating himself at the table.  Frodo watched as Sam 
busied himself making a pot of tea, and as he watched Sam carefully 
spoon in the exact amount of honey into Frodo’s cup, he ached to be able 
to hold Sam close and tell him that everything was alright, but he knew 
that he could not ignore the pain and uneasiness that he felt.  Frodo had 
learned during the long healing process when he had first arrived here that 
to ignore pain and heartache only caused it to grow.  It would be best to 
settle this now, he knew that, and yet he dearly wished that it were not so.

Sam’s hands were shaking slightly as he placed Frodo’s tea in front of him 
before seating himself opposite.  He took a deep breath and reached for 
Frodo’s hand across the table, clasping it in his and stroking it gently with 
his thumb.

“I’m sorry, Frodo, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said, his voice raspy.  “I 
just…” he trailed off, not sure what, if anything, he could say.  Frodo’s 
eyes were glazed over, and he was staring at an indistinct point 
somewhere over Sam’s shoulder.  Sam squeezed Frodo’s hand, trying to 
coax a response, feeling completely helpless.  At length, Frodo finally 
spoke.

“Why are you ashamed of us Sam?” he asked, an edge of coldness on his 
voice. 

“I told you Frodo, I’m not.  I just – I don’t know what it is, I just couldn’t 
bear the thought of everyone judging us.”

“Do their opinions matter more to you then?”

“Nothing matters more to me than you Frodo,” Sam mumbled miserably, 
staring down at his tea.  Frodo pulled his hand away from Sam’s, and Sam 
felt a cold blade strike his heart.

“We spent all that time hiding,” Frodo said, feeling tears building up 
behind his eyes, “and it hurt me Sam, and I thought that if I left you and 
came here, that we could be together properly, as we always should have 
been, and there would be no more hiding.”

“If you loved me you wouldn’t care about whether we had to hide it or 
no,” said Sam crisply, and instantly regretted it.  It was the worst thing he 
could have said, he knew that, and as far from what he really thought as 
could be, but his mind was so full of confused despair that he was unable 
to think coherently.

*If you loved me.*  The words pierced Frodo, and while everything he 
knew screamed at him that Sam did not really think that, that he was just 
upset, his mind would not listen and instead he lashed out.

“You never wanted this, did you?” he said accusingly.  “You thought you 
were doing me a favour by pretending you felt the same way I did.”  Frodo 
heard the words and could not believe they came from him.  He knew that 
wasn’t true, and he longed to unsay the words, to take Sam in his arms and 
tell him the truth, that he would gladly hide away and never see or speak 
to anyone else if only he could be held by Sam.  He truly didn’t care 
whether they hid their love or not, but as hard as he tried to explain that, 
he could not form any words, and so found himself staring blankly across 
the table.  Sam’s face was wrought with pain, but he said nothing, and 
stood to clear the table.

Frodo watched for a moment, before rising and making his way to bed.  
He undressed quickly and climbed into bed, clutching the blankets to 
himself as the restrained sobs began to wrack his body.  He wiped his tears 
on the blanket, and tried desperately to sort his thoughts into order.  Did he 
really care whether they had to lie to everyone?  Not at all.  He had been 
surprised to hear Sam lie, and hurt to feel his hand brushed away, it was 
true, but he knew that Sam loved him.  How could he ever question that?  
Frodo took a deep breath to calm himself.  When Sam came to bed, Frodo 
would hold him, and explain to him that it had all been a silly impulsive 
reaction, and that he would do whatever it took to ensure that Sam was 
happy.

The moments that passed seemed to Frodo to last forever, but at last he 
heard footsteps pacing down the hall, and looked expectantly towards the 
door.  But the footsteps passed by, and Frodo heard another door open and 
close, and his heart sank.  Sam had gone to one of the guest rooms.

Sam climbed into the cold, unfamiliar bed with tears still burning his eyes.  
Frodo really believed that he didn’t love him?  Sam thought back over the 
long years of yearning, and shut his eyes in despair.  He had overcome his 
sense of propriety many years back, but to accept their situation and be 
comfortable with others knowing of it required another great leap that he 
was not yet ready to take.  But he despised himself for causing Frodo pain, 
and even more so for somehow managing to ruin the greatest happiness he 
had ever known.

Cold, alone and both utterly wretched, sleep came to neither hobbit that 
night.

***

Part Two


Sam was lying on his side, silent tears seeping into the pillow.  He kept 
casting his mind back over the years that he had spent longing to follow 
Frodo over the sea: the intense longing he had felt every time he tended 
the flowers under what had been Frodo’s window, and the way he had 
listened closely every time the wind blew in the west, almost as though he 
were hoping to hear news of his beloved from over the Sundering Sea.  
Somehow, his greatest dream had come true, and he had gained everything 
he had ever wanted, and yet somehow he had lost it all.

Sam turned onto his back and stared upwards.  *Just go to sleep,* he 
thought, *and it will all seem alright in the morning.* But the words were 
empty, and he lay awake feeling only the steady surge of despair.  He 
turned over with a sigh and buried his face in a pillow.  It was going to be 
a long night.

Frodo stared blankly up at his bedroom ceiling.  It was dark, but a faint 
stream of moonlight seeped into the room, causing shadows to move over 
the walls.  For so many years, Frodo had lain here alone, watching those 
shadows and wishing with every fibre of his being that he had Sam there 
with him, to hold him and protect him, and most of all to make him feel 
loved, so that those shadows couldn’t reach him.

When Sam hadn’t been there, the shadows had reached him.  They had 
filtered into his mind, rousing memories of wraiths and dark tunnels and 
towers that had stirred his nightmares.  So many nights, he had lain awake, 
afraid of falling asleep for the horrors that would confront him there, or 
had awoken, breathless and shaking, to find himself alone.  But with Sam 
here, he had felt safe for the first time; the shadows could never reach him 
when he was in Sam’s arms.

Frodo ran the evening’s events slowly through his mind, desperately 
trying to piece together just where it had gone wrong.  He had been so 
excited about introducing Sam to everyone; he felt that if they could reveal 
their relationship that it would finally seem real.  And most of all he 
longed to tell everyone he saw how much he adored Sam, for no other 
reason than he loved to say it.

It had not occurred to him that Sam would not feel the same way, although 
he now realised that he should have known that Sam had come to 
recognise his feelings for him *despite* his sense of propriety: he had not 
overcome the instinct itself.

Frodo had been bitterly disappointed by Sam’s denial of their relationship, 
and deeply hurt, but that did not excuse what he had said.  He knew that: 
had known it, in fact, even while he was saying it.  *Surely he knows I 
didn’t mean it?* he thought desperately.  But then he realised that Sam 
had no reason to believe otherwise, and then it hit him that throughout all 
the time they had known one another, Sam had always been the one 
following Frodo, whether as his servant at Bag End, or to Mordor, or now 
here, over the sea.

The cool light of dawn was beginning to take the edge off the darkness, 
and Frodo felt that he had been tossing and turning in his too-large, empty 
bed for an age.  He swung his legs purposefully over the side of the bed 
and dropped to the floor.  It was time for things to change now: this time, 
Frodo would be the one to follow.  He strode resolutely out of the room 
and down to the door of Sam’s room, and laid a hand on the doorknob, 
noticing only then that for all his determination he was shaking.  
Hesitantly, he pushed the door open and stepped into the room.  This room 
was smaller than the master bedroom, so the Elf-sized bed seemed even 
larger.  And in the centre of the large bed was a small Hobbit, lying 
perfectly still, but his breathing was shallow and a little ragged, so Frodo 
knew that he was awake.

Slowly, Frodo crept towards the bed, desperately trying to think of 
something to say, before deciding that it would be best to say nothing at 
all.  He stood by the side of the bed for a moment looking at Sam, who 
was staring straight upwards.  Even in the faint pre-dawn light, he could 
see that the younger hobbit’s face was streaked with tears, and that sight 
chased away his nerves, and he climbed carefully into the bed.  Sam still 
did not move or look at him, but Frodo was not discouraged.  He moved 
closer to Sam and took him in his arms, kissing his temple.  At that, Sam 
choked back a sob and buried his face in the crook of Frodo’s neck, and 
Frodo held him silently until the sunrise began to seep into the room 
beneath the curtains, and then Sam finally lifted his face to look at Frodo.

“You came to me,” Sam whispered hoarsely.  Frodo lifted himself up on 
one elbow and looked down at Sam, stroking the tears away from his face 
before leaning over to kiss his brow gently, and Frodo felt his own tears 
fall onto Sam’s face.

“I love you Samwise,” he said shakily.  “And I am so, so sorry.”  Sam 
reached one hand behind Frodo’s neck and pulled him back down as he 
started to move away, and answered him with a firm kiss upon the lips.  
Frodo allowed himself to be drawn down into the kiss, and had to stifle a 
sob as their lips moved gently together.

“I’m sorry too, Frodo-love,” Sam whispered between kisses.  Frodo 
shifted down to lie with his head on Sam’s chest, and Sam held him tightly 
until their tears slowly ceased.

When the Sun was fully risen, Frodo lifted himself back up to kiss Sam 
languidly, closing his eyes to experience the taste and feel of the kiss that 
he had feared lost.  Then he drew a line of light kisses across Sam’s face, 
causing Sam to giggle slightly, and nuzzled Sam’s ear. 

“Will you come back to our bed?” Frodo whispered against Sam’s ear, and 
the younger hobbit nodded with a shiver.

They climbed off the guest bed and walked down the hall with their arms 
tightly wound around each other, each afraid of letting the other go for 
even a moment.

Back in the master bedroom, Sam sat up against the headboard with 
Frodo’s head in his lap, carefully stroking the dishevelled curls.  Frodo 
caught Sam’s hand in his own, and looked up at his lover sadly.  Sam’s 
normally golden-brown face was sallow from lack of sleep, and his eyes 
were red.

“I’ll lie to anyone for you Sam,” he said after a long pause.  He saw a faint 
smile cross Sam’s lips, and then Sam lifted Frodo from his lap and lay 
down beside him, holding him tightly.

“Not now love,” he whispered.  “Get some sleep and we can talk later.”  
Sam kissed Frodo’s shoulder gently, and within moments both hobbits had 
drifted into exhausted sleep.

It was nearly noon when Sam awoke to find himself entwined with Frodo.  
They were lying on their sides, face to face, and Frodo’s head was tucked 
beneath Sam’s chin.  Their bodies were pressed closely together, and their 
legs were tangled.  Sam had one arm around Frodo’s waist, and the other 
around his shoulder.  He ran his fingers through tangled curls and kissed 
the top of Frodo’s head, and Frodo’s eyes fluttered open as he turned to 
look up at Sam.

“Oh, Sam,” he murmured.  “You’re really here.”

“Of course I am Frodo-love,” Sam whispered against his curls.

“I was so afraid I’d pushed you away,” said Frodo, his voice catching 
slightly.

“Hush me dear,” said Sam softly.  “There’s no use in dwelling on it.  I 
reckon we were both a bit tightly strung.”  Frodo’s lips curved into a 
smile.

“It’s been quite an intense week, hasn’t it?” he said.

“Aye, it has at that,” whispered Sam, and he tightened his hold on Frodo, 
pressing them so tightly together that he could almost feel that they were 
one.

*

Late that afternoon, Sam hummed to himself as he plucked weeds from 
the flowerbed at the end of the garden.  The Sun was shining brightly, 
warm but not uncomfortably so, and Frodo was sitting in the shade of the 
apple tree in the centre of the garden, reading a large book bound in green 
leather.  Sam paused for a moment to watch him, noting in awe how his 
white skin glinted in the sunlight that sifted through the leaves above him.  
His face was fixed in firm concentration, and his lips moved slightly as he 
read from his book.  Sam let out a long, low sigh as he allowed his eyes to 
roam over the slender form of the older hobbit, and he noticed a smile 
beginning to twitch at the corners of Frodo’s mouth.

 “Do you think I can’t feel you watching me?” said Frodo with a smile, not 
lifting his eyes from the page.

“Well,” said Sam thoughtfully, “if you don’t want me watching you, then 
you’ve no right looking so lovely.”  Frodo laughed and set down his book. 

“What are those, then?” he asked, gesturing towards the unfamiliar fruit 
trees that grew at the back of the garden.  “I’ve never seen you tend to 
them.”

“Nay,” said Sam thoughtfully.  “I’m not rightly sure what they are, so I 
leave them be.  No need to be bothering with fancy Elvish fruit when 
we’ve got nice simple fare right here.”

“Sam,” said Frodo pointedly, “not everything unfamiliar is bad or wrong.”  
And to make his point, he wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist and placed 
a kiss upon his neck.

Sam turned towards Frodo to hold him tightly.  “I know me dear,” he 
sighed, and he guided Frodo back towards the apple tree, mindful of the 
effect of the midday Sun on his fair skin, and Frodo lay down so that his 
head was in Sam’s lap.  

Neither hobbit could say how long they remained like that, their eyes 
locked together in wordless conversation as Sam’s earth-stained hands ran 
gently through Frodo’s curls, but the spell was eventually broken by the 
sound of hooves upon the path that ran alongside their garden, and at the 
sound Sam stood quickly, displacing Frodo onto the ground.  Frodo shot 
Sam a reproachful look from the ground, and Sam held out a hand to pull 
him up before brushing him down with a firm hand.

“I’m sorry Frodo-love,” he said apologetically, “I just didn’t want anyone 
to see.”  Frodo nodded with a sigh, and turned his attention to the path just 
as Gandalf appeared into view upon Shadowfax.  

Sam was not at all used to thinking of this tall, fair being as Gandalf, and 
so made his way inside hurriedly to make a pot of tea while Frodo greeted 
him.  After a few minutes, he took the tea out to the parlour where Frodo 
and Gandalf were already seated.

“Thank you, Harthad Uluithiad,” said Gandalf as he took his tea, and Sam 
was startled to hear again the name that he had been given all those years 
ago.  ‘Hope Unquenchable,’ they had called him then.  Sam reflected 
ruefully on all the years he had spent waiting in impossible hope even 
after the Ring was destroyed, and thought that perhaps the name was more 
apt than ever he had thought.

Sam took a seat beside Frodo, though a proper distance apart, and Frodo 
turned towards him.

“Gandalf is passing through to take a boat up to the north of the Isle in the 
morning,” Frodo explained.  “He wishes to stay the night.”  Sam nodded 
in agreement, and rose to his feet.

“I’ll just see to Shadowfax then Mr Gandalf,” he mumbled a little 
awkwardly.  It did feel odd to be addressing this fair Maia thus.

When Sam had left the room, Gandalf turned to Frodo.  “Perhaps you 
ought to tell me what that business last night was about,” he said, eyeing 
the hobbit keenly over his mug of tea.

“What business?” Frodo enquired innocently, but he knew that the Maia 
would not be fooled, and so he searched his mind frantically for an 
explanation.

“I do not ask for the particulars, if it is not your wish to disclose them,” 
said Gandalf.  “I wish only to know if I can help.” 

“No,” sighed Frodo.  “We’ve sorted everything out, I think.”

“Are you quite sure?” asked Gandalf with a raised eyebrow.  Frodo 
nodded, but Gandalf continued.  “Remember,” he said, “that a conflict 
may be easy to resolve, especially with the bond that you two have, but the 
problem that underlies that conflict may yet endure.”

Frodo was about to respond, but at that moment Sam reappeared, entering 
the room a little hesitantly.

“I’d best be seeing about some dinner,” Sam said awkwardly.

“No, Sam,” said Frodo.  “I’ll help,” and he followed Sam into the kitchen, 
where Gandalf joined them.

Sam made his way over to the pantry to gather some meat and vegetables 
for a stew, and took a step backwards into the kitchen only to bump into 
Frodo, spilling onions over the floor.  Both hobbits immediately scrambled 
on the floor to gather them up, and Sam laid a hand over Frodo’s as he 
picked up an onion.

“Begging your pardon,” Sam said, “but I’ll get this done an awful lot 
faster alone.”

“I know,” said Frodo with a smile, “but I mean to help anyway.”  Sam 
sighed in fond exasperation, before gathering the onions together and 
depositing them on the side.

“Very well,” he said, “you can chop these onions.  Not too much harm to 
be done there, by my way of thinking.”  Sam turned sharply when he 
heard a laugh behind him, and was surprised to see that it came from 
Gandalf.  Somehow he had not expected the solemn and wise wizard to be 
capable of such a light, carefree sound, much less so in his current form.  
Gandalf caught the look of surprise on the hobbit’s face, and grinned 
broadly, and a bemused Sam turned back to his cooking.

Sam cooked the meat and the rest of the vegetables, and then peered over 
Frodo’s shoulder at the onions he was still chopping.  “They could stand to 
be a mite finer,” he said cautiously, and Frodo shot him a pained look.  “I 
mean they look lovely,” he corrected himself, forcing back a smile.  
Frodo’s face softened into a smile, and he leant over towards Sam, before 
remembering Gandalf’s eyes on them and turning quickly away.  Sam 
looked at him sadly for a moment, and then took the onions and added 
them to the bubbling stew.

Conversation flowed easily during dinner, and to Sam’s surprise they 
discussed nothing more important than the Elvish feasts that were held at 
various locations around the Isle.  This Gandalf, Sam reflected, certainly 
was different to the one he had known before; this one seemed as light-
hearted and relaxed as a hobbit.

At length, Gandalf rose from the table with a yawn, declaring himself in 
need of a good night’s sleep in order to face his early start the following 
morning, and Frodo showed him to one of the guest rooms, deliberately 
selecting the one furthest from the master bedroom.  He returned to the 
kitchen to find Sam washing the dishes, and he crept silently up behind 
him, wrapping his arms around Sam’s waist and leaning upwards to nip 
teasingly at an earlobe.

“Come to bed Sam,” he whispered.  “The dishes can wait until morning.”  
Sam playfully flicked some soapy water at him, and Frodo responded by 
grasping Sam’s wrists and dragging him away from the sink, pushing him 
forcefully towards the table and then pressing firmly against him as he 
claimed a deep, hungry kiss.

For a moment, Sam allowed himself to be lost in the kiss, but then he 
broke it off and gently pushed Frodo away.  “Not here Frodo-love,” he 
whispered hoarsely as Frodo turned his attention to Sam’s neck.

“Does that mean you’ll come to bed?” Frodo murmured against his skin, 
and Sam could only manage a vague nod of agreement before they 
stumbled together in the direction of the bedroom.

Frodo pushed the door closed firmly as they staggered inside, and Sam 
pressed him back up against it as they worked quickly through each 
other’s clothes, unleashing the frustration that an evening of restraint had 
built up inside them.

Once undressed, Frodo pushed Sam towards the bed and they fell upon the 
feather mattress in a heap of tangled limbs, both giggling furiously in 
between frantic kisses.  Then Frodo worked his way on top of Sam and sat 
straddling him, pinning his wrists up upon the pillow by his head.  In truth, 
Sam was much stronger than Frodo, but he allowed himself to be held still 
while he forced back a smile.  Frodo leaned over him and brought his lips 
to Sam’s ear, causing him to squirm as the movement of soft lips tickled 
against his earlobe.

“This,” whispered Frodo, “is for mocking my cooking.”  And then he 
began to trail soft kisses down Sam’s neck, across his chest and stomach, 
and over his hip, running his tongue gently up the inside of Sam’s thigh, 
but steadfastly ignoring the hardening flesh that begged for his attention.

Sam was soon quivering with desire.  He tried to beg Frodo to stop teasing 
him, but could only manage an unintelligible moan, which caused Frodo 
to chuckle against the soft roundness of his belly.  This sent shudders 
through Sam’s body and sent him over the edge, and he carefully flipped 
them over, leaning over Frodo with his hands on either side of his head to 
support his weight.

“You,” he whispered firmly against Frodo’s ear, “shall pay for that,” and 
he added a gentle nip to the earlobe for emphasis, causing Frodo to yelp.

Sam worked quickly down Frodo’s body, until his lover’s hard arousal 
was at eye level.  He ran a finger slowly up the ridge along the underside, 
sending a violent shudder through Frodo’s body, and then decided that he 
was too aroused to tease and leant over to take Frodo deep into his throat.  
Frodo threw his head back in abandon as he bucked his hips into Sam’s 
mouth, and cried out his name.

Sam leaped to the head of the bed and placed a firm hand over Frodo’s 
mouth, but it was too late and they could already hear the sound of a door 
opening and hurried footsteps coming down the hall.  Sam leant over the 
side of the bed and quickly grasped their nightshirts, and they had just 
about pulled them on when there was a quick rap on the door and Gandalf 
entered, his brow furrowed in concern.

“It’s alright Gandalf,” Frodo said swiftly, “I guess it was just a nightmare, 
but Sam got here quickly and woke me up.”  Sam shot a grateful glance 
towards Frodo, but the concern did not leave Gandalf’s face.

“I was not aware you still suffered from nightmares,” said Gandalf slowly, 
watching as Sam made a show of tucking Frodo back into bed.  He was 
waiting for Gandalf to leave, but saw that he was waiting by the door, and 
realised with some resignation that he must be waiting to speak to him.  So 
he gently leaned over Frodo, brushed aside the curls from his face and 
kissed his brow lightly.

“I’ll be right back if I hear that you’re troubled again,” he said, and 
struggled to tear himself away.  Frodo’s eyes were filled with sadness and 
regret for having lied to Gandalf, for causing him to worry, and not least 
because Sam was leaving him.

As Sam moved towards the door, Gandalf stepped outside and waited in 
the hall while Sam closed the door.  Then he guided Sam towards the 
parlour and sat him down.  They sat in silence for a moment before 
Gandalf spoke.

“Has he been suffering this way since you arrived?” he asked.

“No, Mr Gandalf,” said Sam quickly.  “That is, he has a few times, but it’s 
not anything to worry about.  He seems to settle back down if I go to him.”  
Gandalf smiled at that, and Sam blushed.

“Yes, Samwise,” said Gandalf thoughtfully, “I am sure that you are the 
best person to be with him.”  Sam’s blush deepened.  “But you will tell me 
if the problem does not improve?”

“Of course, Mr Gandalf,” said Sam earnestly.  Gandalf nodded with a 
grim smile, and rose to return to bed.  Sam tried to linger so that the Maia 
would not notice his returning to Frodo’s room, but Gandalf’s eyes did not 
leave him.

“Come, Sam,” said Gandalf in a hushed voice, “let him sleep.”  Sam 
regretfully made his way into the guest room next to the master bedroom, 
and flopped resignedly onto the bed.  He meant to lie still only for a while, 
until he could be sure that Gandalf was asleep, and then return to Frodo, 
but tiredness soon overcame him, and he fell asleep upon the guest bed.

*

As Frodo began to drift awake, he turned to his side to reach for Sam, but 
found that the bed was empty.  He awoke with a start and sat up to look 
around.  Sam was not in their room.  Frodo hurriedly pulled a robe around 
himself and padded down the hall.  There were sounds coming from the 
kitchen, and sure enough there was Sam, cooking bacon and eggs for 
breakfast.  Frodo stepped up behind him and wrapped his arms around 
Sam’s waist, tucking his chin over his shoulder.

“Did you ever come back to bed?” he asked a little sadly.

“No,” Sam sighed.  “I’m sorry Frodo-love, Mr Gandalf was watching me, 
so I had to go to the guest room, and then I fell asleep.  But he left early 
this morning while you’ve been laying in, so I was just about to bring you 
breakfast in bed to make up for it.”  Frodo smiled at that and kissed the 
back of Sam’s neck.

“You didn’t tell him then?” Frodo asked hopefully.

“No,” said Sam, and then turned around to face Frodo, placing his hands 
on the sides of his pale, creamy face.  “I’m sorry, Frodo-love,” he said 
sadly, tucking a curl behind Frodo’s ear.  “I hate lying to him just as much 
as you do, but I couldn’t.  Not yet.”  Sam turned back to his cooking, and 
Frodo took a few paces away and hoisted himself up onto the kitchen table 
to watch.

“I couldn’t stand for everyone to be worrying about me Sam,” he said 
hesitantly, trying to ignore the voice in his head that screamed at him to let 
things be.

“I guess we’ll just have to be more careful,” Sam sighed.  “There’ll be no 
more sneaking into your room when we have guests.”

“But Sam,” Frodo protested.  “You know I can’t sleep when you’re not 
there.”

“No more guests then,” said Sam firmly, turning to face Frodo.  They 
remained motionless for a moment, staring at each other intently, both 
knowing that this needed to be discussed and yet both preferring to sweep 
the subject away, each of them terrified at the thought of losing the other.  
For long moments they teetered on the edge, neither wanting to speak the 
next words which might send them hurtling down the wrong path.  

It was Frodo who at last gathered every ounce of his courage to him, and 
held out his arms, motioning for Sam to come to him and breathing a sigh 
of relief when he did.  Frodo wrapped his legs around Sam’s waist to hold 
him in place as his hands ran lightly up to clasp his lover’s face, drawing it 
in for a lingering kiss.

“I love you Sam,” he said earnestly, “and I promise you that, whatever 
happens, I will always love you.  Now please talk to me.”  His fears 
allayed, Sam ran his fingers through Frodo’s hair and took a deep breath.

“I think,” said Sam slowly and thoughtfully, “that in all the time I’ve 
waited for us to be together, I’ve only ever thought of seeing you again, of 
that first sight of you from the ship, and being able to hold you and kiss 
you.”  He leaned up to kiss Frodo’s brow as if to demonstrate.  “I didn’t 
never think of all that would come after that, of us, well, being together 
like we are now, living together and such.  I think I just can’t be havin’ 
everyone else getting’ used to that until I am meself, if you understand 
me.”

“Yes,” sighed Frodo, “I think I do.”  He pulled Sam closer with the legs 
that were wrapped around the younger hobbit’s waist and kissed him 
tenderly.  “I was afraid,” he began again, but trailed off, unsure of how to 
continue.

“You thought it meant I didn’t love you,” said Sam flatly, stroking the side 
of Frodo’s face with his thumb.

“No,” said Frodo firmly.  “I didn’t mean that Sam, I was just upset.”  He 
looked searchingly into Sam’s eyes, and Sam smiled warmly and kissed 
him again.

“I know me dear,” he whispered into the kiss.  The kiss deepened as they 
lost themselves within each other, and Frodo was beginning to finger at 
Sam’s shirt button when an urgent knock at the front door tore them apart.

“I’ll go,” murmured Frodo, and he ran quickly to the door, trying 
desperately to arrange his clothing in order to disguise the effect that Sam 
had been having on him.

Sam waited in the kitchen for a few minutes, listening to the muffled 
sound of voices from the door, but eventually curiosity got the better of 
him and he made his way down the hall.  As he approached the door, he 
heard that the second voice belonged to Haldir, and his heart fell as he 
heard that the conversation was centred around Frodo’s supposed 
nightmares.

“I was so sure that you were healed long ago,” Haldir was saying sadly.

“It doesn’t happen often,” Frodo insisted.  “I guess that Sam’s arriving has 
perhaps brought back some memories, but it shan’t last long.”

Haldir nodded towards Sam when he noticed the younger hobbit approach 
them, and then spoke to him directly.

“I cannot stop,” he explained, “but I came as soon as Gandalf told me.  
You see, there was a massage oil we used on Frodo when he first arrived 
here that seemed to calm his nightmares,” and he drew a vial from around 
his neck, where it hung upon a chain.  “I brought some to you,” he said, 
handing the vial to Sam, and Sam could not help blushing with 
embarrassment at the worry that they had caused him.

“Thank you,” Sam mumbled, and tried to form a grateful smile.  Haldir 
smiled in response, and nodded to both hobbits as he turned to leave.  As 
he left, Sam turned to Frodo with his face full of regret.

“I’m sorry Frodo,” he said quietly, “I don’t like this any more than you 
do.”  Frodo took a step towards Sam and allowed himself to be drawn into 
his arms.

“I know Sam,” Frodo whispered against Sam’s chest.

“You know,” said Sam after a long pause, “since we have this massage oil, 
it really would be a shame not to use it.”  He picked up the vial and 
motioned for Frodo to follow him down the hall to their room.  Sam 
quickly undressed Frodo and gestured for him to lie down on the bed, and 
Frodo happily obliged, settling himself onto his stomach, with his arms 
folded under his chin.

Sam poured some of the oil into his hands and climbed carefully onto the 
bed so that he was straddling Frodo.  He rubbed his hands together to 
warm them, and then began to softly rub at the slight shoulders, gently 
easing out the knots in the muscles beneath.

Sam could feel Frodo relax beneath his fingers as he worked slowly down 
his back, his strong yet gentle hands caressing every inch of skin.  Moving 
back up to the shoulders, Sam began to rub in firm circular motions, 
working gradually lower, and delighting in the murmurs of appreciation 
that produced.  As he reached the base of Frodo’s spine, he leant down and 
pressed his lips to the oil-softened skin.  The murmurs grew louder, and so 
Sam worked lower, adding gentle scrapes or nips with his teeth, which he 
eased with tender kisses or caressing fingertips, and the murmurs turned 
progressively to moans.  Sam sat up for a moment to rub a little more oil 
into his hands, and gently ran one finger from in between Frodo’s 
shoulders, all the way down to the cleft beyond the base of his spine.   
Encouraged by the whimper that produced, he ran his finger back up and 
gently pressed against the small opening.  With just a couple of careful 
presses, he eased inside, and Frodo let out a sound that was somewhere 
between a scream and a moan before flipping quickly onto his back and 
staring up at Sam with widened eyes.

“What was that?” he asked breathlessly.

“Did it hurt?” Sam asked.

“No.  Do it again.”  And Frodo pulled Sam down on top of him to kiss him 
firmly, spreading his legs wide so that Sam could reach down and ease his 
finger back inside.  Frodo broke off the kiss to gasp, his head falling back 
against the pillow.  Sam began to kiss from his throat, up his neck to his 
ear, which he nipped at gently.

“Are you alright?” he whispered.

“Mmm. More,” Frodo gasped, and Sam very gently added another finger, 
and then a third, slowly easing them in and out until Frodo was shuddering 
and gasping and moaning incoherently.  Then Sam knelt up, tore off his 
clothes hurriedly, and reached for the vial with his spare hand to coat his 
throbbing erection in oil.  Frodo let out a small yelp as Sam withdrew his 
fingers, and then Sam positioned himself over him, and there was Sam’s 
hot hardness pressing against him.

“Frodo-love,” Sam whispered against Frodo’s ear.  “Please promise you 
won’t let me hurt you.”  Frodo nodded frantically, and then moaned loudly 
as Sam began to push gently into him.  Sam moaned as the hot, slippery 
tightness closed in around him, so intense that he felt he was being 
engulfed in heat and pleasure.

“Oh Sam,” Frodo panted.  “More, please Sam.”  Sam buried his face in the 
pillow over Frodo’s shoulder, using all of his restraint not to slam his hips 
into Frodo’s and thrust violently.  He paused for a moment, and then lifted 
his face so that his lips met Frodo’s, and they kissed fervently.  As Sam 
felt the shudders coursing through Frodo’s body subside, he carefully 
pressed in once more, and with one oil-slick slide found himself entirely 
sheathed within Frodo’s body.

Sam paused there for a moment, enjoying for the first time the intense 
feeling of being inside Frodo, being an inseparable part of him.  Then he 
began slowly to rock his hips, and this was unlike anything he had felt 
before.  He crashed through wall after wall of hot pleasure as he found a 
steady rhythm to his thrusts, and found himself biting his lip to keep from 
screaming Frodo’s name.   

Frodo was shuddering, the unfamiliar feeling of being filled sending 
undulations of warmth and desire through him, edged with the slight, 
sweet tang of pain.  His mind was empty to all but the movement inside 
him, and Sam’s hot mouth against his neck, murmuring nonsensical 
endearments against his skin.

“Harder Sam,” he gasped, and Sam responded by thrusting harder and 
with increasing pace, and that was more that Frodo could stand.  He 
screamed Sam’s name at the top of his lungs, and fluid warmth spilled 
between their bodies as he climaxed hard, in violent shudders.  As muscles 
clenched around him, Sam was sent hurtling over the edge and was soon 
spilling himself inside Frodo and then collapsing on top of him 
breathlessly.

For long moments they lay together, their breathing uneven and hearts 
racing as the pleasure burned away to warm contentment and they drifted 
on the edge of sated sleep.

Frodo stirred when he felt Sam carefully wiping him down with a soft 
cloth, and rolled lazily onto his back.

“Sorry me dear,” whispered Sam, lying back down and pulling Frodo 
towards him.  “Didn’t mean to be waking you.”

“That’s alright Sam, I’m not sleepy really,” Frodo murmured, slurring his 
words slightly.  

Sam chuckled softly and kissed the top of Frodo’s head.  “I’m thinking 
that probably weren’t what Mr Haldir meant for us to be doing with his 
oil.”

“I would think not,” Frodo laughed.  “It was good though,” he added with 
a sigh.  “Really good.”  He propped himself up on one elbow and ran his 
fingers through Sam’s golden curls, and his brow furrowed in thought.

“What is it Frodo-love?” asked Sam, stroking Frodo’s side with one hand.

“I was just thinking,” said Frodo hesitantly, “that is I’ve been wondering, 
was it like this with Rosie?” He laughed as Sam’s eyebrows shot up.  “Not 
that,” he said in the sternest tone he could manage, “I mean this,” and he 
bent to kiss Sam tenderly, dipping his tongue teasingly between parted 
lips.

“You’ve nothing to be jealous of me dear,” sighed Sam as Frodo pulled 
away.

“I’m not jealous Sam,” Frodo protested.  “Alright, perhaps a little,” he 
conceded at Sam’s sceptical glance.  “It was hard to see you marry her,” 
he sighed, and Sam pulled him back down to lie with his head upon his 
chest, stroking his hair soothingly.

“I know,” he said, his voice a barely audible whisper.

“Did you love her?” asked Frodo, not really sure why as he knew that 
neither answer would please him.

“Of course I did,” said Sam, “but not in the same way I love you.”  He 
took a deep breath before continuing.  “Do you remember I told you that 
how I loved you weren’t like what I would feel for a lass?”  He felt Frodo 
nod slowly against his chest.  “Well, I were right I reckon, though I didn’t 
see then just what it was as I felt for you, if you take my meaning.”

“I’m not sure I do,” Frodo murmured. 

“Well,” Sam said thoughtfully.  “Rosie was home and everything that we 
had set out to save, and I needed to be able to go back to that to feel that 
what we did was worthwhile.  But she weren’t fire and starlight and 
everything else that you are.”  Frodo looked confused, so Sam tried again.  
“It’s like in the garden, you have the taters and the carrots and the apple 
trees, and all that’s useful and necessary.  And then you have the lilies and 
the wildflowers, and they don’t do no good but to make the heart glad, but 
sometimes that’s the best sort of use of all.  You couldn’t live without the 
taters, of course, but it’s the lilies as makes the living worth doing at all.”

“I see,” said Frodo with a smile that was half amused and half deeply 
contented.

“I’m not good with the words like you are,” said Sam with a sigh as he 
twisted his fingers in Frodo’s curls, “but I do know as I’m the luckiest 
hobbit who ever lived to have had both the taters and the lilies.”  

Frodo laughed aloud at that, and lifted his head to Sam’s ear.  “Not quite 
the luckiest,” he whispered, and Sam would have protested but for the 
deep and tantalisingly slow kiss that followed.

*

Frodo and Sam passed the days in blissful harmony, and neither hobbit 
noticed the passage of time as days turned quickly into weeks, and weeks 
into months.  Their continued exploration of each other’s hearts, minds 
and bodies drew them ever closer, until they felt that they were one unit, 
neither half complete without the other.

The hobbits spent every possible moment together, whether walking along 
the coast, or visiting their Elven friends or Gandalf, and the other residents 
of the Isle soon became used to never seeing one without the other.  Yet 
still Sam would not touch Frodo in public, and whenever they encountered 
someone on one of their walks he would drop Frodo’s hand, and he would 
always sleep in the guest room when they had visitors.  And for all that 
Frodo knew himself to be fortunate beyond any of his wildest imaginings, 
still he could not ignore the tearing in his heart when Sam refused his 
touch or seated himself a proper distance away from him.  And still he lay 
awake in sleepless yearning whenever Sam took to the spare room.

Sam had been living across the sea for a year when Gandalf arrived 
unannounced once again.  He and the hobbits spent the evening in the 
parlour, exchanging tales and songs, and Sam could not help but marvel 
again at this fair being, who had all of Gandalf’s personality and 
mannerisms and yet looked so different, and had seemingly no cares in his 
mind.

The night had fully closed in when Gandalf made his way down the hall to 
his usual room at the far end of their home, and Frodo to the master 
bedroom.  Sam cleared the parlour of discarded cups and plates and 
washed them all thoroughly before making his own way to bed, to the 
guest room beside the master bedroom.  Although he did this through his 
own choosing, it did pain him to walk past Frodo’s door, and he paused 
briefly, fighting against the urge to sneak in, just to tuck Frodo in and kiss 
him goodnight.  Temptation won, and quietly Sam slipped inside and knelt 
by the bed.

“Sam?” said Frodo, still wide awake.

“I’ve just come to bid you goodnight me dear,” said Sam, though he knew 
now that this was a mistake, as he would never be able to tear himself 
away.  Sure enough, Frodo was soon hauling him onto the bed and kissing 
him furiously.

“Please stay, Sam,” Frodo whispered urgently in between kisses.

“I can’t Frodo, I’m sure he already suspects something,” said Sam sadly.  
Frodo pulled away slightly and turned his face downwards, looking up 
through fluttering eyelashes at Sam, and Sam groaned inwardly.  He had 
never been able to refuse that look.  He leant forwards and brushed his lips 
softly against Frodo’s.

“You don’t look good when you pout,” he lied.

“Will you stay?” Frodo murmured, and Sam could do nothing but nod, 
because Frodo’s hands were tugging at his shirt and caressing the skin 
within in tantalising movements that caused Sam’s knees to weaken and 
his mind to spin.  He undressed hurriedly and fell back onto the bed, 
pulling Frodo down on top of him, and they kissed and made love deep 
into the night.

*

The Sun was already risen when Sam awoke, cursing himself for sleeping 
in so long.  He hurriedly rolled Frodo off his chest and tugged his 
nightshirt over his head to run for the door and down the hall to the room 
to where he was supposed to be sleeping, but Gandalf was already 
standing there in the hall.  Sam blushed and tried frantically to think of 
something to say, but Gandalf got there first.

“There you are Samwise,” said the Maia.  And was that a smirk?  Sam felt 
his heart sink.

“Would you like breakfast Mr Gandalf?” Sam managed to mutter, 
blushing furiously, and Gandalf nodded thoughtfully.

Sam cooked breakfast in silence, inwardly berating his weakness in 
agreeing to stay with Frodo the previous night, his blush seeming to 
deepen by the minute.

“You have settled in well?” said the calm, steady voice from the kitchen 
table.

“Aye,” was all that Sam could manage.  There was a long silence.

“There is no need for you to hide what you are to each other,” said 
Gandalf at last.

“But – but –“ Sam stammered, but could think of no response.  “How did 
you know?” he said resignedly.

“Samwise Gamgee,” said Gandalf with a smile.  “If you wished to keep 
that a secret, it was not where you slept that you needed to hide.  No, we 
would not have thought anything of that at all.  But you have made no 
attempt to hide the way your eyes light up when he enters the room, or the 
way you follow his every movement or gravitate to his side.  Your eyes 
are filled with love every time you look at him.”

Sam sat down hesitantly, trying to register the words.  Eventually, he 
looked up towards Gandalf, and for the first time it struck him that his 
eyes were exactly the same as the ones he had known from the Wizard all 
those years ago, and that reassured him enough to be able to speak.

“How long have you known?” he said.

“I was there when your boat arrived,” Gandalf said slowly, “though you 
did not see me and would not have known me if you had, even were I in 
the same form that you knew.  You had eyes for only one person on that 
shore, and the joy on your face when you saw him was far more than that 
of a reunion between friends.”  He saw the look of shock on Sam’s face 
and laughed.  “No, my dear hobbit, I have not known since then, though I 
now see it for what it was, and see that everything you have done or said 
since then has confirmed it.” 

“Are you not horrified?” said Sam in a hushed voice that was barely more 
than a whisper.

“Samwise,” Gandalf said solemnly, “love is a precious thing that comes 
only to a lucky few.  Do not be ashamed of it.  Love between two people – 
between *any* two people – is something to be celebrated.”

Sam nodded in understanding, but could not think of any reply, and so he 
turned back to his cooking in silent, deep contemplation.

Sam said nothing to Frodo of his conversation with Gandalf, and the Maia 
did not speak of the subject again, so as to allow Sam the time he needed 
to think.  And Sam did think, but while he could see the sense in Gandalf’s 
words, still he could not bring himself to publicly acknowledge the nature 
of his relationship with Frodo.  Not that he was ashamed of it, though the 
thought did still trouble him that there would be some who would not 
understand.  But more than that, he felt somehow possessive of it; almost 
as though he would feel that bringing their relationship into the open 
would in some way rob him of the one part of Frodo that was his and his 
alone.  And furthermore, he had no desire to disrupt the near-perfect life 
he and Frodo now shared.

It was with these thoughts in mind that Sam made the journey with Frodo 
to the great city in the valley for another Elvish feast.  The day was as fine 
as most days on the Isle seemed to be, and Sam was again struck by the 
awe-inspiring beauty of the city as it came into view, for all that he had 
seen it any number of times over the past year.

Frodo tried not to flinch as Sam dropped his hand when they entered the 
city and made their way down the familiar street to the courtyard at the 
centre.  But when they were halfway along the street, Frodo suddenly 
stopped Sam with a brief touch on his arm.

“Let me show you the library,” he said enthusiastically, and turned up 
some steep white stone steps to a large wooden door.  Sam followed 
eagerly, his appetite for Elvish texts almost as strong as Frodo’s.  Frodo 
pushed the door open carefully and pulled Sam inside before shutting it 
firmly, and Sam looked around in awe.  The room was cool and silent, and 
was lined with shelves that reached to the ceiling, all covered in books of 
every size, shape and colour.

“I’m surprised you didn’t decide to live right here,” he said to Frodo with 
a laugh.

“I couldn’t see the sea from here,” said Frodo wistfully, and slipped an 
arm around Sam’s waist.  Sam wrapped his arms around Frodo’s shoulders 
and buried his face in thick, soft curls to cover Frodo’s head in kisses.  
Then Frodo looked up, and his eyes were a blazing blue that Sam knew to 
mean only one thing.  They kissed hungrily, and Frodo slowly backed Sam 
up against the wall.  Sam considered pushing him gently away, very aware 
of where they were and of the Elves that were expecting them back for 
dinner, but his resolve melted away under the touch of Frodo’s tongue 
against his, and Frodo’s hands, which were tugging his shirt out of his 
breeches and slipping inside to caress his skin.

As Frodo began to work through buttons and laces, Sam kissed and sucked 
at his neck, which was salty with the fine sheen of sweat from their walk.  
He was not conscious of his own hands working on freeing Frodo of his 
clothing, and had no idea how his own clothes came to be draped 
haphazardly over a stack of books, but soon he felt himself being pressed 
against the wall by naked skin upon naked skin, and only then did he 
realise with a laugh that Frodo wore Haldir’s vial upon a chain around his 
neck.

Frodo followed Sam’s gaze and laughed.  “It’s only bath oil,” he said 
breathlessly against the soft skin of Sam’s neck.

“Is that what you want?” Sam murmured into Frodo’s curls, and he felt a 
sharp nod.  “Won’t we be found?” Sam asked, though at that moment he 
didn’t really care.

“No-one will come up here,” said Frodo, though he did not really know 
that for sure.  Sam’s mind wavered for just a brief moment, but then felt 
Frodo’s oil-slick hand around his firming flesh, and was overcome by an 
instant surge of passion.  He prepared Frodo with a shaking hand, and then 
lifted the slender hobbit so that his legs were wrapped around his waist, 
and turned them around so that Frodo was pressed up against the wall.

Frodo wrapped his legs tightly around Sam’s waist and pushed himself 
back against the wall so that Sam could free his hands to guide himself 
into his lover.  Frodo threw his head back against the wall and arched his 
back as he felt the delightful invasion of hard, slick flesh.  It took only one 
firm push for Sam to bury himself entirely in Frodo’s body, and Frodo 
threw his head forward to bite on Sam’s shoulder as the rush of sensation 
surged through him.

As Sam began to thrust firmly and with increasing pace, it occurred to the 
small part of the back of his mind that still registered conscious thought 
that there were two Frodos.  One was the calm, demure Frodo that 
everyone else saw; the one who spoke politely and lost himself in books of 
Elvish heroes, and then there was this Frodo, the wild, passionate Frodo 
that only Sam could see.  The Frodo that tore off his clothes, flinging them 
carelessly to the side, and was now pressed against the wall, his legs 
wound around Sam’s waist, head flung back, whimpering and gasping and 
moaning in pleasure.

This second Frodo was now digging his nails into Sam’s back, crying out 
his name in between gasps of ‘harder’ and ‘faster’, and Sam found himself 
responding, slamming his hips home, delighting in the stifled cries he 
drew from Frodo, but always listening lest there be any hint of pain in his 
voice.  Oh, this Frodo was amazing, Sam thought; he seemed to be made 
of heat and fire and stars and all that was wondrous in the world, and the 
best thing of all, to Sam’s mind, was that this Frodo belonged only to him.  
No-one else had ever seen or would ever see this Frodo.  And at that 
thought he felt the familiar wall of heat crash into him, and he was spilling 
himself inside Frodo, and then there was the answering warmth flooding 
against his belly, and the two hobbits sank to the floor in exhaustion.

There was a third Frodo, as well: the one who curled up into Sam’s lap as 
shudders coursed through him, murmuring into Sam’s ear; sometimes 
repeating his name, sometimes strings of Elvish verse, and sometimes 
sounds that could hardly be made into words at all, and those were the 
ones that Sam liked best of all.

The slightly sleepy, contented Frodo who murmured nonsense and 
caressed Sam’s arm gently as heart rate and breathing gradually slowed to 
normal was the Frodo who curled up against him at night, with whom Sam 
would desperately try to avoid falling asleep so that he could gaze at the 
sated, blissful smile far into the night.  Like the wild Frodo, this one was 
also Sam’s alone, another side to his beloved that no-one else would ever 
see.

So perfect was the cocoon of love that the hobbits had made for 
themselves on the library floor that Sam was reluctant to leave, but at 
length he shook Frodo awake and carefully cleaned them both with a 
handkerchief.

“Come on, me dear, we’ll be missed at dinner,” Sam whispered against 
salty skin as he eased Frodo back into his shirt.  Frodo murmured an 
incoherent sound that was somewhere between protest and reluctant 
agreement, and stood up to pull on his breeches and do up the last of his 
shirt buttons.  Then he reached for the vial of oil that had rolled to one 
side, and grinned mischievously as he placed the chain around his neck.  
Sam shook his head with a gentle laugh and pulled Frodo towards him to 
place a firm kiss on his brow.

“I love you Frodo,” he said with a sigh, and Frodo tilted his head upwards 
so that his lips barely touched Sam’s.

“I love you too Sam,” he whispered against Sam’s lips, eliciting a slight 
shudder before Sam pressed his lips firmly to Frodo’s, and slowly 
explored the velvety warmth of his mouth with his tongue.

They made their way back down the street hand in hand in a dreamlike 
daze, both awash in contentment, and yet Frodo could not prevent the 
pang of regret he felt when they reached the courtyard and Sam dropped 
his hand.  *Be grateful for what you have,* he told himself firmly.  *You 
have no right to ask for more.*  His head heard the words, but not his 
heart, and there was a tinge of sadness to the edge of the joy in his eyes 
that Sam could not help but notice as they sat down to dinner.

Throughout dinner, Sam could not tear his eyes from Frodo.  He watched 
every graceful movement of his hands, and every elegant toss of his head 
as he threw the curls from his eyes, and listened to the gentle lilt of 
Frodo’s voice.  This was the first Frodo, the one that everyone else saw, 
and Sam loved this Frodo every bit as much as the other two, and perhaps 
more so, because this was the Frodo that he had known back in their old 
life over the sea: this was the Frodo he had fallen in love with.

Sam did not know that it had been a year and a month since his arrival on 
the Blessed Isle, for it felt to him as though he had been there no time at 
all, and yet at the same time as though he had lived there all his life.  He 
did know that he fell more in love with Frodo with each passing day, and 
he wondered that such a thing were possible.

Sam was awoken suddenly fro his reverie by the sound of a voice 
somewhere to his left calling his Elvish name.

“Perhael!” said the voice.

“Panthael,” corrected Frodo with a smile, and everyone laughed, causing 
Sam to blush and look around in bemusement.

“It is your turn to make a toast,” explained Haldir with a smile from across 
the table, and Sam looked down at his feet nervously.  Everyone was 
holding their wine glasses and staring intently at him.

For a brief moment that seemed to Sam to last forever, he could think of 
nothing to say.  He clutched at his wine glass nervously, desperately 
looking around for something to inspire him with profound words suitable 
for these fair folk, and his eyes caught Frodo’s.  Frodo’s eyes were 
sparkling in the same intense blue that Sam had seen every day over the 
past year and yet never grown used to, and his skin was glowing in the 
candlelight.  And then Sam knew that while he may not have the words to 
fit, there was only one toast he could make.  Nervously, he raised his 
glass.

“To Frodo,” he said hesitantly, and could almost have left it at that but for 
the smile that instantly lit up Frodo’s face, spurring him on.  “To Frodo,” 
he repeated, “who has taught me than I ever thought it possible to know.”  
Sam took a deep breath and turned to Frodo, trying to pretend that they 
were alone.  “You had to wait a long time for me to come to my senses, 
and here you’ve waited almost as long for me to accept what we are, but I 
do now, and I don’t care who knows it.”

Sam held his breath, inwardly berating himself for being unable to think of 
appropriate words and waiting for the shocked gasps and murmurs of 
disapproval or even disgust that would surely follow, but instead he heard 
the clinking of glasses and cheers of ‘To Frodo!’  And when he looked up, 
all eyes were still on him, and Sam could think of only one more thing to 
say.  He turned to face Frodo and took his hand and kissed it, keeping his 
eyes fixed on Frodo’s, and then he clasped the hand between his own and 
said clearly, so that everyone could hear, “I love you Frodo.”

“I love you too Sam,” Frodo said, and at the sound of those words, Sam’s 
mind cleared of everyone around them, and he saw only Frodo in front of 
him, and he leant forward slowly, brushing their lips together in a gentle 
sweep that sent shivers through each of them, and then he pressed his lips 
firmly to Frodo’s.  When he pulled away, he saw that there were tears in 
Frodo’s eyes, and he blinked back tears of his own.  Suddenly, he became 
aware of the Elves surrounding them and blushed furiously as he tore his 
eyes from Frodo’s to look around, but they were all smiling.

Frodo remained quiet for the rest of the evening, clasping Sam’s hand but 
not looking at him; he was staring at an indistinct point somewhere in 
front of him, seemingly lost in thought.  At intervals, various Elves came 
to speak to them, to offer their congratulations, and Frodo would smile 
politely while Sam thanked them, and then he would return to his 
thoughts.  When the moon was fully risen, Sam leaned over towards him 
and whispered softly against his ear. “Home, love?”  Frodo just nodded 
and stood, still clutching Sam’s hand, and they bade the Elves goodnight 
and made their way out of the city.

When they were outside the gate, Frodo paused and tugged lightly on 
Sam’s hand, pulling him towards him, and Sam saw that there were tears 
in his eyes.  They stood facing each other for a moment, and then Frodo 
lifted his free hand to brush the side of Sam’s face, and lifted himself 
slightly for a lingering kiss.

They strolled home slowly, their arms around each other and Frodo’s head 
resting on Sam’s shoulder, and the moon was beginning to wane by the 
time they reached their garden gate.  Sam noticed that Frodo was almost 
asleep on his feet, and so he lifted him effortlessly into his arms and 
carried him inside.  Frodo murmured sleepily as he was lowered onto the 
bed, and shifted obligingly so that Sam could undress him.  Sam stood for 
a moment to look at the beautiful, naked hobbit on the bed before 
undressing himself and climbing in.  He wrapped his arms firmly around 
Frodo’s frame, pressing their bare skin together, and kissed him firmly 
before allowing himself to be claimed by peaceful sleep.  He was already 
asleep when Frodo tilted his head up so that his lips brushed against Sam’s 
ear, and he whispered softly, “You were worth the wait.”

*

Sam was immediately aware of the empty bed when he awoke, and he 
looked around frantically.  Just then, the bedroom door swung open, and 
Frodo stood there carrying a tray of pancakes and blueberry preserve.  He 
smiled shyly as he crossed the room to place the tray upon the nightstand, 
and then pulled his nightshirt over his head before climbing into bed 
beside Sam and pulling the tray onto their laps.

“It won’t be as good as yours,” Frodo said, “but I wanted to try.”

“They look perfect,” Sam lied.  In fact half of them looked runnier than 
was normal, and the other half were burnt.  Frodo raised an eyebrow 
sceptically, but Sam bravely ate his way through the stack, and Frodo 
hesitantly followed.  When the plate had been cleared, Frodo placed the 
tray back on the nightstand and turned expectantly back to Sam.

“Well?” he said.

“They were lovely,” said Sam, and he was not lying this time because 
somehow everything tasted better if it had been touched by Frodo.  Frodo 
sat silently for a moment, picking absently at a loose thread in the blanket, 
and then turned to Sam.

“What made you change your mind?” he asked quietly.  Sam smiled and 
lifted his hand to brush away the curls from Frodo’s face.

“I think I was afraid,” Sam began slowly, “that if everyone knew, that I 
would lose the part of you that was only mine, if you take my meaning.  
But then I realised that there are lots of parts of you that are only mine, 
and will always be mine, and I wasn’t losing none of them by tellin’.”  
With that, Sam pushed Frodo down onto his back and leant over him, 
running his lips across Frodo’s collarbone in soft kisses.  “And also that I 
can’t stand not to be touching you,” he added in a whisper.

Frodo brought his hand to Sam’s chin and lifted it so that he was looking 
into Sam’s warm hazel eyes.  “So you’re not ashamed any more?” he said 
softly.

“Nay,” replied Sam with a smile, “I was never ashamed me dear.  How 
could anyone be ashamed of loving aught so fair?”  And then he heaved 
himself fully atop Frodo, and they kissed tenderly as their bodies began to 
move together in a familiar, steady rhythm.

*

It was a few weeks later that Haldir was due to arrive for a visit, and Sam 
made his way out to the garden to ensure that the pantry was sufficiently 
stocked.  He picked a good supply of apples, twisting them lightly at the 
stem to ensure that he selected only those that were ready for eating, and 
then left them in a basket to the side as he began to select some potatoes.  
Then the trees at the back of the garden caught his eye, and he strode 
cautiously towards them.  The fruits that grew upon them were large – the 
smaller ones were the size of large apples – and orangey-red in colour.  
Hesitantly, he reached up and picked one.  It came off in his hand easily, 
and was firm to touch, so Sam supposed that it was probably ripe.  He 
selected some more and tossed them into his basket with the apples and 
potatoes and headed towards the kitchen.

When Sam made his way into the kitchen, he found Frodo and Haldir 
sitting at the kitchen table.  Frodo stood as he entered the room, and Sam 
drew him in for a kiss, still slightly shy of displaying affection in front of 
the Elf, but no longer allowing that to stop him.

“What did you bring us for dinner?” enquired Frodo.

“I’ve got some taters to go with that meat as has been sitting in the pantry 
all week, if that’s alright,” said Sam, glancing towards Haldir, who nodded 
his approval.

“And what are these?” Frodo asked, pulling one of the orangey-red fruits 
from Sam’s basket.

“I don’t rightly know,” replied Sam, “but I figure they’re worth trying.  
Not everything unfamiliar is bad, if you take my meaning.”  Frodo placed 
the fruit back in the basket with a smile.  Sam could not resist tracing that 
smile with the tip of his finger, and in Frodo clasped his hand and kissed it 
firmly.  Sam gazed lovingly at Frodo for long moments before 
remembering their guest, and he looked up apologetically at Haldir, but he 
was smiling warmly at them.  

Haldir took a sip of wine before speaking.  “Is it not time you two plight 
your troth?” he asked with a smile.

Sam was about to laugh, but saw that Frodo was looking up at him 
sincerely.  “I – I don’t know,” he said nervously.  “I mean I didn’t know 
that we could.”

“Well,” said Haldir slowly, “I am not aware that it has happened before, 
but I can see no reason that anyone here would not want to celebrate your 
love with you.”

Then Sam smiled, and bent down to kiss the top of Frodo’s head, closing 
his eyes briefly to breathe in the rosy scent of his dark curls.  “Well, 
Frodo-love,” he said, “what do you say?”  But when Frodo tilted his head 
up towards Sam, he did not need to say anything at all, because his eyes 
and his smile told Sam everything he needed to know.

Within a week, Sam found himself looking nervously out of the window 
of the study at a large gathering of Elves upon the cliff top outside.  Frodo 
had chosen the location; the very spot from which he had watched and 
waited for Sam for agonising years.

Somehow, the day seemed finer than any Sam had ever known, even here 
in the undying lands.  The Sun shone brightly, and yet was not 
uncomfortably hot, and the sea gleamed in its vivid blue, set off by the 
deep, light blue of the cloudless sky.

Sam looked down at himself warily.  The Elves had woven him a suit of 
fine, shimmering yellow that complemented his deeply tanned skin and 
bright copper-gold hair.  Sam thought he looked a fool, but the colour had 
been Frodo’s choice for him, so he could not refuse.  Hesitantly, he 
stepped towards the front door and his heart almost quailed when he saw 
just how many had turned out for the occasion.  Many he knew; Gandalf 
was there, and Elrond with his sons, and Galdor and Cirdan of the Havens, 
and Galadriel and Celeborn with Haldir and some other Elves that Sam 
vaguely recognised from Lorien.  Somehow, though, Sam was not struck 
by Galadriel’s beauty the way he usually was, and then he realised why: 
beside her stood the fairest vision of all.  Frodo was dressed in the same 
Elvish fabric as Sam, but his was a deep blue of Sam’s choosing.  

Sam felt every hint of nerves subside as he strode purposefully over to his 
beloved and stood before him, taking both of Frodo’s hands in his.  The 
hum of conversation dropped to silence as the crowd stood by expectantly, 
but Frodo and Sam paid them no mind, aware only of each other, each lost 
in the other’s eyes.  

Sam was awestruck by the sight before him.  That this vision of loveliness 
could want to share his life with him tore at his heart and made him want 
to fall to his knees and weep for the intensity of the joy that swept through 
his heart.

Frodo spoke first, taking a deep breath first and focusing on Sam’s eyes.  
He had chosen not to prepare his vows, but to speak his heart in the 
moment, and when he spoke he found that he did not need to search very 
deep for the words. 

“My dear Sam,” he began, with tears beginning to well in his eyes, “I have 
loved you for so long that my heart barely remembers a time that you did 
not fill it.  From the shy and eager gardener’s lad you grew into the love of 
my life.  You followed me into darkness and despair, through weariness 
and suffering beyond any imagining, and you carried me through to the 
other side that we might be together.  And from this day forth, I promise 
that I shall spend every waking moment trying to make you feel as loved 
and cherished as you have made me feel every moment that I have known 
you.”

Then Frodo squeezed Sam’s hands, keeping their eyes locked together and 
said simply, “I love you Sam.”

Sam was trembling, and looked down briefly to blink away his tears, 
before looking back up into deep, clear blue eyes.

“Now, I ain’t no poet Frodo love,” he said shyly, “but I just tried to write 
what I think.”  Then, clearing his throat, he grasped Frodo’s hands tightly 
and spoke.

“Over all the leagues we travelled,
And through the countless years,
As our story has unravelled,
We’ve both shed many tears.

From our carefree days unending
Into the bleakest land
There’s nothing I would be wanting
When you are near at hand.

Past rivers deep and mountains high
I followed you each way,
And even when the darkest night
Turned into dawnless day.

For through the dark I saw a light
Shine through your weary face
I’d not have left your side nor sight:
In you, I’d found my place.

Against the odds we fled dark fate
And then revealed our hearts
But there were hurdles in our way
Seeking that we be part.

At home we found a devil’s lair;
We fought to set it free.
But shadows plagued you even there:
You sailed across the Sea.

But at no time did my hope sway
I would see you once more.
I’d follow you ‘til my last day;
We’d be apart no more.

After the longest wait of time
Did dreams come true for me.
I heard your heart that called to mine:
Again I followed thee.

O’er the Sundering Seas I bound,
To seek my love, my own.
And in your arms I know I’ve found
More joy than e’er I’ve known.

And now at last the day is here,
That I can say to you:
Never will you have cause to fear;
To you I shall stay true.

With ev’ry breath that I shall take,
I’ll rid your mind of woe.
With ev’ry beat my heart will make,
I’ll see joy’s all you know.

You are my light everlasting,
Brighter than any star.
About your soul ever casting,
A light to guide me far.

You are my love, my soul, my all,
My life, my breath, my heart.
And always shall I heed your call.
Never shall we be part.

My heart I pledge to you, my love,
And now I promise thee:
By witness of the stars above,
Shall I be bound to thee.”

And with the last line, they exchanged rings of mithril, embedded with 
stones that glistened in the Sun, and linked their left hands together.  
Frodo looked down at their entwined hands for a few moments, and then 
he lifted his eyes to meet Sam’s, and they gazed into each other’s souls for 
what may have been a brief moments or long years, and then Sam lifted 
his hand to lightly graze Frodo’s cheek, and Frodo closed his eyes and 
tilted his head to kiss Sam’s palm.  Sam felt Frodo’s tears fall onto his 
hand, and he brushed them away gently with his thumb, and then tilted 
Frodo’s head up towards his and leaned forwards to brush their lips 
together with a touch so light that it might never have been, except for the 
spark that shot through each of them, setting every nerve on edge.  Then 
they closed their eyes and their lips met again in gentle but deep caresses, 
and their minds closed to all around them, so that each of their worlds 
shrank to contain just the two of them, together, in this moment, their 
souls finally joined into one.


Title: Obstacles 10: Eternity 
Author: Elanor Isolda 
Author's Email: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com 
Pairings: Frodo/Sam 
Rating: R 
Summary: Frodo and Sam face their final obstacle.


The sky was perfectly clear, a shimmering tapestry of stars above the 
surface of Tol Eressëa.  The moon cast an ethereal glow over the fairest 
folk in all of Arda who were gathered upon a cliff-top on the easternmost 
shore.  But the two hobbits whom all were gathered to see were aware of 
none of the beauty of the setting; their eyes were fixed only on each other.

It had been a simple and beautiful ceremony, and it was now a calm and 
perfect evening.  The air was warm with the height of summer, but 
tempered by a cool night breeze that carried the Elvish melody to which 
Frodo and Sam were dancing.

The day seemed to Sam to have passed in a blur, in which the vague 
images of smiling Elves were overridden by searing blue eyes.  He held 
Frodo close to him as they danced slowly, to their own rhythm for they 
were oblivious to any music.  Night had long since closed in around them, 
and the music ceased as the Elves departed, and soon Frodo and Sam were 
alone upon the grassy cliff-top, contained in their own world.

At length, Sam opened his eyes and looked around slowly, and a faint 
smile flickered across his lips as he realised that the hobbits were alone.

“Frodo-love?” he murmured into Frodo’s ear.  Frodo looked up with a 
smile and met Sam’s eyes for a few moments, before looking around with 
a start as he realised that they were alone.  Sam chuckled to himself and 
drew Frodo in to his chest.  “Would you like to take a walk?” he 
whispered.  He felt Frodo nod against his shoulder, and placed a gentle 
kiss into his hair before taking Frodo’s fair, elegant hand in his own 
strong, tanned one, and leading his newly betrothed down towards the sea.

They walked hand in hand down the stony path to the shore, and enjoyed 
the wordless ease of each other’s company as the sea lapped over their 
weary feet.  Sam gazed out over the sea, almost fancying that he could see 
the silhouette of the tower of Westmarch, though he knew this was not 
possible.  He wondered briefly how many grandchildren and great-
grandchildren he might have now, and felt a brief stab of longing at the 
thought that he could not have had them there with him on the most joyous 
day of his life.  

“What are you thinking, Sam?” asked Frodo.

“I were thinking that there ain’t a star in that sky as shines so bright as 
your eyes,” lied Sam wistfully, pulling Frodo towards him and wrapping 
his arms firmly around the smaller hobbit’s shoulders.

Frodo sighed and rested his head on Sam’s shoulder.  “Do you miss 
them?” he asked gently, and Sam smiled, knowing that he could never 
keep his true thoughts from Frodo.

“I don’t miss them as such,” he replied thoughtfully.  “Sometimes I wish 
they could come here and share all of this.  Especially Elanor, since I 
reckon she knew how it were with us.  But I ain’t sad about leaving ‘em, 
leastways not so sad as I were about you leaving…”  he trailed off and 
brought his eyes back down to meet Frodo’s, which glinted like the sea in 
the moonlight.  Sam ran a finger lightly along the side of Frodo’s face, 
caressing the ethereal glow with a reverent touch.  As Frodo’s eyes closed 
and his lips parted on a contented sigh, Sam kissed his brow and then 
rested his chin in dark, windswept curls.  “I reckon I’m the luckiest hobbit 
who ever lived,” he murmured.  “I had a whole life as was better than any 
hobbit could wish for, and now I have a whole other life with you that’s – 
well, it’s like an Elvish tale.  Not meant for the likes of me, and I’ve no 
idea how it’s come to be mine, but it makes me so happy I could laugh and 
cry all at once, if you take my meaning.”

Frodo smiled and tilted his head up to brush his lips across Sam’s jaw.  
“That’s exactly what I hoped you would feel.  I never dared hope that it 
would come to this, of course, but I thought that if there was even a 
chance of it, that it would be worth it.  Worth giving up everything that 
meant anything to me, for the chance of one thing that meant everything.”

Sam replied by grazing his lips softly across Frodo’s in a tantalisingly 
faint kiss.  Sam opened his eyes to meet Frodo’s, and saw in them a brief 
flash before he was thrown to the ground, a giggling Frodo diving on top 
of him and devouring him in prolonged passionate kisses.  Buttons were 
undone with practiced ease until they were skin-to-skin and finding a 
familiar rhythm together, the heat between them soothed by the cool wash 
of the sea sweeping in around them.

***

In the years that followed, Sam felt that he lived in a permanent state of 
blissful contentment.  The garden of their mock-smial flourished under his 
hands, and the hobbits began to venture across the Isle in search of new 
and exciting fruits, vegetables and flowers.  Frodo spent most of his 
evenings writing in a large red book.  Sam often wondered what he was 
writing about, but as Frodo did not volunteer the information, he did not 
ask.

It seemed to Frodo that Sam grew younger with each passing year.  This 
was not the case, of course, but the easing of the burdens that Sam’s mind 
had carried for many decades was revealed in the gradual softening of the 
lines upon his face, giving him an appearance of youth. 

Sam noted that Frodo seemed more carefree than ever he had known him.  
He would occasionally be taken by sudden anxiety, but would calm 
immediately at Sam’s touch.  He never spoke of the cause of his distress, 
and Sam sensed that he did not wish or need to discuss it, but he could not 
help but notice that Frodo would always read from a small green book 
afterwards.  He would be quiet and contemplative after that, but eventually 
the turn would pass.  Sam wondered about the cause of Frodo’s concern, 
and about the green book, but decided that, like the red book, Frodo would 
tell him when he was ready.  In the meantime, he ensured that he was 
always there to comfort Frodo when required.

The Elves had no need to keep track of time on the Blessed Isle, and Frodo 
and Sam did not count the years, but enough time passed that they felt 
they had spent their entire lives together in the peaceful splendour of Tol 
Eressëa, with their long separation a vague and distant memory.

On one afternoon, and Frodo and Sam found themselves underneath the 
apple tree in their garden, enjoying the fading warmth of Summer as it 
drifted into Autumn.  Sam was leaning back against the tree, looking 
critically around the garden, and Frodo was lying upon the ground 
reading, his head in Sam’s lap, with Sam’s hand twirling lazily in his hair.

“Frodo-love?” Sam murmured, reluctant to break the comfortable silence.  
Frodo lifted his eyes from the book and looked up enquiringly at Sam.  
“Do you remember,” Sam continued, “those bright purple irises as grew 
under your window at Bag End?”

“Not really,” Frodo confessed, and Sam smiled fondly at him.

“Reckon we could find any here?” asked Sam.

“I don’t know,” Frodo laughed, “where would they grow?”

“The one I have in mind would like well-drained soil and partial shade.  A 
beautiful deep purple; I were thinking that they could go among the 
clematis, so we get one during the summer and the other in the winter.  
What do you think?”

“That sounds lovely,” said Frodo, pretending he understood.  “I’m sure I 
remember seeing something purple over towards the south of the Isle,” he 
added thoughtfully.  “Would you like to go and have a look?”  

Sam smiled and lifted Frodo to his feet.  “I’ll pack our bags,” he said with 
an excited grin, and with a swift kiss to Frodo’s brow, he scampered 
inside.  Frodo smiled to himself as he plucked the grass from his breeches; 
in some ways, Sam was still the excitable Gaffer’s son.

In fact, Sam packed only one bag, which he insisted upon carrying 
himself.  Frodo thought briefly of protesting, but relented, seeing that 
Sam’s jaw was set firm; a sure sign that he would allow no arguments.  
And so the hobbits set off together in a south-westerly direction, cutting 
inland to shorten the journey.

While the days were still pleasantly warm, there was a chill in the breeze, 
so Frodo and Sam walked quickly with their travelling cloaks wrapped 
tightly around them.  They walked mostly in silence, relaxed in each 
other’s company without the need for words in order to communicate.  

Their path led them across wide green fields, through sparse woodland and 
then gradually into a deep forest, where the air was warm and humid.  
Dusk began to fall, and the sunset filtered through the trees scattering 
bright patches of orange light upon the forest floor.  As the light began to 
fade, Frodo and Sam reached a wide river, and they stopped upon its 
banks to drink and wash their faces.

“Where now then, Sam?” asked Frodo, resting back on his haunches.  Sam 
looked up and down the river thoughtfully.

“Well, I reckon this river runs south,” he said, “so we’ll be wanting to 
follow it down some way until we’re out of this forest.”

“But that’s at least two days’ walk!” exclaimed Frodo.  The hobbits were 
silent for a moment.  “Well Sam,” Frodo sighed after a long pause, “I 
guess we should put some distance behind us before nightfall.”

Sam furrowed his brow and looked around thoughtfully, and then 
unshouldered his pack resignedly.  “Nay,” he sighed, “we’ll not be able to 
follow the stream in this light.  I reckon we’d best rest here for the night.”  

Leaving the pack set against a large tree, he proceeded to collect some dry 
wood for a fire.  Frodo remained by the bank of the river, focussing upon a 
rock in the centre about which the water churned and parted, a small sign 
of chaos amidst the perfect calm of the still water.  As he watched, he felt 
a sense of calm sweep over him, and his mind became almost entirely 
blank save for the rippling sound of water breaking against the large rock 
protruding from the river’s glassy surface.  So absorbed was he that he did 
not hear Sam start the fire, nor approach him, and the feel of warm hands 
wrapping around his waist from behind startled him so that he jumped, 
lost his footing and slid down the bank into the cold water below.

“Frodo!” Sam called urgently, and ran heedlessly into the water.

“It’s all right, Sam,” Frodo called, laughing as he surfaced in the 
surprisingly deep water.  But Sam had flung himself into the river far past 
his depth, and was thrashing frantically.  Suddenly panic-stricken, Frodo 
launched himself towards Sam and dragged him towards the rock in the 
middle of the river.  Hoisting himself up, he pulled Sam after him and laid 
him out on the flat surface.  Sam took a few deep breaths and then opened 
his eyes and grinned at Frodo.

“That felt familiar,” he chuckled.  Strangely warmed by the memory, 
Frodo lay down beside him and placed a watery kiss on the side of Sam’s 
neck.  Sam turned to his side, facing Frodo, and wrapped his arms around 
him, drawing him closer and meeting his mouth with his own for long, 
languorous kisses.  They lay together, kissing and murmuring soft 
endearments to one another until dusk began to settle upon them, and as 
the chill of the autumn night settled upon them, Sam suddenly leaped to 
his feet.

“Well, that was mighty foolish of us,” he frowned.  “We’ve gone and 
dried ourselves off and now we have to find our way back.”

Frodo rose slowly to his feet and stood beside Sam with his arm around 
the younger hobbit’s waist.  “Ah,” he said, “my dear practical Samwise.  
Can you think of no way to keep our clothes dry?”

Sam flashed Frodo what he hoped was a disapproving look.  “If you’re 
suggesting that we take them off and throw them across,” he chided softly, 
“then you’ve a longer reach than most.”

Frodo tore his gaze away from Sam to gauge the distance to the shore.  
“All right,” he conceded, “but wouldn’t you like to try that anyway?”  He 
turned a wicked grin in Sam’s direction, and was met by a reproving 
frown.

“Why, Mr Baggins!”  Sam exclaimed in mock horror, and Frodo could not 
help but giggle.  Hurriedly, they tore off their clothes and threw them in 
the direction of the bank.  They fell far short of their target, scattering in 
the breeze and falling into the water to be washed up at intervals along the 
shore, but Frodo and Sam paid them no heed, having turned their 
attentions to each other.

Frodo stepped up to Sam, pressing warm, moist skin to warm, moist skin, 
and ran his hands lightly up and down the younger hobbit’s sides, eliciting 
a small shiver of pleasure.  Sam dipped his head slightly to meet Frodo for 
a kiss, slow and tender but with an edge of passionate hunger.  Sam 
murmured contentedly as he felt a familiar hardness press against his 
thigh, and he scooped his former master into his arms and laid him 
carefully upon the flat surface of the rock, kneeling by his side.  It was 
fully dark now, and the moonlight drifting through the trees made the 
water shimmer, and lit up Frodo’s alabaster skin with the cool glow that 
was at the same time comfortably familiar and wondrously new.  Set 
against the pale radiance of Frodo’s skin, dark, kiss-reddened lips were 
parted on slow, deep breaths, and his eyes were closed; long, dark lashes 
brushing against flushed cheeks.  Sam leant over him and ran his lips 
along the line of Frodo’s jaw, watching as his lover’s lips twitched into a 
smile, and then he trailed light kisses down his neck, across his collarbone 
and steadily lower, pausing at intervals to kiss and lick and murmur softly 
against heated skin.

When he reached the hard length stretched out against Frodo’s stomach, 
he paused and hovered with his lips barely touching the skin, breathing 
gently against it.  After a brief pause, he swept his tongue along the length 
of the underside and then slowly kissed his way back down to the base.  
Frodo murmured at the tantalisingly drawn-out swell of pleasure that 
flowed through him, and arched his back as Sam ran his fingers slowly up 
to the head and brought it up to his lips.  He kissed the tip gently before 
taking it into his mouth, and Frodo let out a gasp as he was drawn inch by 
inch into the warm, silky wetness of Sam’s mouth.

Sam held still for a moment with Frodo held deep inside his mouth, and 
then gradually eased his head up, running his tongue firmly along the 
underside.  The deliciously slow torment continued for what seemed to 
Frodo to be forever; a never-ending haze of warm breath contrasting with 
the cool breeze, hot, wet mouth and firm, sweeping tongue, and when he 
climaxed it was not a ragged peak, but a steady surge building up inside 
him, followed by the repeated crash of waves against sheer walls of 
pleasure.  And on the other side of it, there was Sam lying by his side, 
arms wrapped firmly around him.

After all the years that they had lived together on the Isle, the hobbits’ 
lovemaking had changed; demanding urgency burning away to gentle 
tenderness but losing none of its passion.  Sam loved the comfortable 
familiarity they now shared, and not once did he regret the loss of frantic 
trysts against library walls, fond though such memories were.  He loved 
the fact that he could give Frodo such pleasure, and yet know that he 
would feel no obligation to reciprocate, and he could lie here, holding his 
love through the warm, hazy afterglow, listening to his breathing gradually 
slow, and the pleased murmurs that drifted from perfect red lips.

Sam felt himself begin to drift off to sleep, but was awoken sharply as he 
felt Frodo shiver in his arms, and he realised with a start that they were 
lying cold, damp and naked in the dark on a small rock face in the middle 
of a river.  He leaped to his feet, and pulled Frodo up with him, looking 
frantically around for a way back to the shore.

Frodo grumbled slightly at being woken so suddenly, and laughed as he 
realised where they were.  But his grin faded instantly when he saw the 
fear etched upon Sam’s features.  “It’s all right, Sam,” he whispered 
reassuringly into Sam’s ear.  “I’ll help you.”  He gently guided Sam down 
the rock, so that they were standing waist-deep in water.  On either side of 
them, where the rock dropped away, the water was perhaps six feet deep.  
Taking Sam’s hands in his, Frodo could feel them tremble, only partially 
from the cold.  He carefully pulled Sam towards him, both hobbits 
shivering in the chilled water, and placed a firm kiss upon his lips.

“F-Frodo,” Sam stuttered, “you know I c-can’t-“ he broke off and looked 
around desperately.

“It’s all right, Sam,” Frodo whispered, “I’ve got you.  Now just lie back.”  
He gently pushed against Sam’s chest, and Sam nervously lay back into 
the water, keeping his feet firmly rooted on the rock below.  Frodo 
grasped him around the waist and leant over so that his lips were at Sam’s 
ear.  “Now bring your feet up,” he whispered softly, and he held on tightly 
as Sam lifted one foot, and then the other, and he was floating, gripping 
Frodo’s arms firmly, his eyes pressed closed and teeth digging into his 
lower lip.  Frodo held on, gradually releasing his grip until Sam was 
floating upon the surface of the calm water.  He gently leaned over and 
kissed Sam’s brow, and then let go of his waist.  Sam reached out and 
grasped his hand anxiously.

“Don’t let go,” he said through clenched teeth.  Frodo squeezed his hand 
tightly.

“It’s all right,” he reassured Sam softly, “I won’t let go.”  He wrapped one 
arm firmly across Sam’s chest, and then carefully stepped off the rock and 
began to swim slowly to shore, pulling Sam along beside him.  Sam lay 
back, both hands gripping the arm across his chest tightly.  Their progress 
was slow, but Frodo held on patiently, swimming with his one free arm, 
and at length they reached the shallow water by the shore.

Frodo let his feet to the sandy bottom of the river, and then leaned over 
Sam’s floating body and kissed each of his closed eyes softly.

“We’re here,” he whispered.  “You can stand up now.”  Sam opened his 
eyes, smiled up at Frodo and cautiously allowed his feet to seek out the 
bottom of the river, steadying himself against Frodo.

They hurriedly gathered their soaking wet clothes and made their way up 
to the fire, which had long since burned away to smouldering embers.  
Frodo spread their wet clothes across the branches of a small tree nearby 
while Sam covered the remnants of the unused fire, and they lay down 
upon the bedroll.  Sam wrapped a single blanket around them, and they 
pressed their naked bodies together for warmth.  As they drifted on the 
edge of sleep, Sam buried a kiss in Frodo’s chocolate curls and sighed 
deeply.  “Goodnight, Frodo-love,” he whispered.

“Goodnight, Sam,” came the murmured response, and the hobbits fell into 
contented and peaceful sleep. 

*

Sam awoke before dawn with aches that had spread through every muscle 
in his body.  He sat up slowly and winced as he felt a twinge in his back.  
“Reckon I’m a mite old to be sleeping on the ground,” he muttered to the 
still-sleeping Frodo.  

By the time Frodo awoke, Sam had bathed at the edge of the river, dressed 
and packed up their unused cooking equipment ready for the day’s 
journey.

“Sam,” Frodo murmured as he drifted reluctantly awake, “come back to 
bed.”

“Now me dear,” Sam chided gently, “you know that would normally be 
tempting, but that bed’s given me a nasty backache…”

“But you don’t need to lie on the ground,” Frodo protested.  “You have 
me.”  Sam laughed and threw Frodo’s clothes at him.  Frodo gave him an 
imploring look, and Sam knelt down beside him, handing him some bread.	 

“Eat this, Frodo-love, we didn’t eat at all last night,” Sam said soothingly, 
as though to a child, and Frodo relented, taking the bread and grudgingly 
dressing.

They made their way upstream at a leisurely pace, hand in hand and in 
comfortable silence.  The river gradually widened, and the trees grew 
close to the banks so that it was difficult for the hobbits to follow its path.  
After several hours’ walk, they came to a halt by a fork in the river.

“This is harder walking than I’d bargained for, Frodo-love,” said Sam.  
“It’s going to take us three days to reach the edge of the forest at this rate, 
and that won’t leave us food enough for the journey home.  Perhaps we 
should head on back.”

“No, Sam, wait,” said Frodo, clasping Sam’s hand.  “Over there, do you 
see that?”

Sam followed Frodo’s gaze and saw a small jetty protruding from the 
riverbank, with a wooden boat tethered to a post at the end.

“We’ll travel much faster on the water,” said Frodo, and pulled Sam by 
the hand in the direction of the boat.

“Now, Frodo, we can’t just be taking someone’s boat,” said Sam.  

“We’re only borrowing it,” Frodo insisted.  “We’ll bring it right back.  
And I imagine we’ll manage the trip in a day by boat.”

Sam remained silent as they walked towards the boat, but Frodo saw the 
fear etched upon his face.  They clambered down the bank and onto the 
jetty, and Sam examined the craft uneasily.  "I don't know Frodo," he said 
cautiously.

"It's all right, Sam," said Frodo, grasping his hand in reassurance, "it's only 
a short way across.”

Sam still looked doubtful, but one look into Frodo's eyes swayed him, and 
he stepped with some trepidation onto the boat.  Frodo held onto his hand 
as Sam gradually transferred his weight onto the boat, before handing over 
the pack and then climbing in himself.  The boat swayed slightly as Frodo 
sat down, and Sam shot him a quick, panicked look, which Frodo quelled 
with a reassuring smile.  Sam sighed and tried to give the appearance of 
calm, but his jaw was set firm and Frodo could see his anxiety.

There was a faint chill in the air, which did nothing to aid Sam’s aches or 
his nerves, so Frodo tried to lighten the mood with one of Bilbo’s old 
songs, and Sam laughed at the memory of Bilbo’s chanting in Rivendell.

“Eärendil was a mariner 
that tarried in Arvernien; 
he built a boat of timber felled 
in Nimbrethil to journey in; 
her sails he wove of silver fair, 
of silver were her lanterns made, 
her prow was fashioned like a swan, 
and light upon her banners laid. 
In panoply of ancient kings, 
in chainéd rings he armoured-“


“Can you hear that, Frodo-love?” Sam cut in, trying unsuccessfully to 
keep the edge from his voice.

“Hear what?” Frodo said with a smile that rapidly faded as he realised 
what Sam was talking about; there was a steady roar of rapid water 
coming from ahead.  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said weakly, his smile 
uneasy.

There was a sharp bend in the river just ahead, and the roar was becoming 
louder as the boat made its way forwards with increasing speed.  Frodo 
shifted closer to Sam and held his hand, trying to maintain an appearance 
of calm as Sam began to tremble nervously.

“Frodo,” Sam said hoarsely, “do you think we might have come too far?”  
Frodo’s heart suddenly sank, and the hobbits were jolted violently as the 
river narrowed around the sharp bend, causing the speed of the current to 
increase dramatically, and then their eyes widened in horror as they saw 
the scene before them.  The banks of the river were sheer rock here, and 
the river’s path was littered with large boulders around which the water 
flowed rapidly and noisily.

Frodo seized the oars and began battling futilely against the current, and 
then threw them down in despair as the boat was drawn ever faster 
towards the treacherous rocks.  Briefly, he considered jumping, but saw 
with a cringe how the water was pummelling the rock faces.  Looking 
towards Sam, he saw that the younger hobbit was frozen, staring fixedly 
ahead.  Frodo stumbled over to him and sat down beside him, holding on 
tightly and desperately wracking his brain for a solution.

The boat began to sway violently as it picked up speed, and Frodo and 
Sam held on to each other as they awaited the inevitable.  Frodo was just 
trying to think of some fitting final words for his lover when he saw the 
look of blind terror on Sam’s face fade almost instantaneously to one of 
calm.  He met Sam’s eyes and was astounded to see the same serenity 
reflected there.  The boat knocked the side of a large rock, throwing Frodo 
against Sam.  Sam gripped him tightly and kissed his brow lightly.

“I love you, Mr Frodo,” Sam murmured into his ear, his voice barely 
audible above the crashing water.  Frodo pulled away suddenly, the 
resigned acceptance in Sam’s voice igniting a spark of defiance deep 
within him.

Frodo looked around frantically, cursing his blurred vision, as the boat 
continued to hurl them from one side to the other.  At that moment he saw 
a large expanse of low, flat rock jutting out from the bank, and with great 
effort he hardened his will into focus.

“Sam!” he yelled over the deafening roar of the river.  “We have to jump.”  
He indicated the ledge before them.  Sam was slow to respond, but Frodo 
heaved him to his feet.  They stumbled as the boat continued to throw 
them around, and then they were approaching the ledge and Frodo leapt 
from the boat and landed roughly on the edge of the rock.  He turned just 
in time to see Sam follow.

Sam lost his footing on the edge of the boat as he jumped, and he reached 
out blindly before him.  His hands gripped the edge of the rock, and he 
tried to haul himself up, but the current caught him, dragging him 
forcefully away.  Frodo made a desperate lunge to grasp his hand, and 
their fingers brushed lightly as a strong wave tore him away.

Frodo felt his breath wrenched from his lungs as he stared, transfixed, at 
the horrifying scene unfolding before him.  Tears stung at his eyes but 
refused to fall.  He vaguely saw Sam’s limp form thrown towards ragged 
rocks, and then a surge of blackness enveloped his mind.  Frodo felt his 
knees buckle beneath him, and he was cast to the ground and saw no more.   

*

When Frodo awoke, he found himself in a large bed wrapped in white 
sheets.  The only sound was the soft rushing of a waterfall outside the 
window, and for a moment he fancied himself in Rivendell.

Turning his head to the side to take in his surroundings, he saw a large 
figure asleep in a chair to the left of the bed.  He blinked a few times until 
the figure came into focus and then sat up with a start.

“Haldir!” he exclaimed.  Haldir slowly opened his eyes, and smiled 
warmly.  “Where am I?  What – how –“ he fell back on the bed, clutching 
his head as he felt a sudden jolt of pain.

“Be careful, Frodo,” said Haldir, rising from his seat.  “You are weak and 
injured.”

“How did I get here?” said Frodo weakly.

“You were found near to the river by some our southern kin.  They sent 
for me to tend to you.”

“Oh,” said Frodo, rubbing his head.  “So what hap- Sam!” he cried 
suddenly, as the memory flooded back to him.  He sat up sharply again, 
and turned to Haldir.  “Where’s Sam?” he asked, trembling violently.

“Sam is alive,” Haldir reassured him, “but unconscious.  You may see him 
when you are rested.”

Frodo sighed deeply with relief.  “I am rested,” he said.  “Please let me see 
him.”

“Not now, Frodo, I-“

“Please,” Frodo interrupted.  “I must see him.”

“Very well,” Haldir relented with a sigh.  “Come with me.”  He held out 
his hand to help Frodo down from the Elf-sized bed, and led him out of the 
room into a wide hallway, with wide windows on one side that overlooked 
a valley.  At last they came to a large wooden door, and Haldir held it 
open and gestured for Frodo to enter.  Tears began to sting at Frodo’s eyes 
at the sight of his lover lying upon the bed, broken and helpless.  He let 
them fall as he knelt beside the bed and reached out to grasp a cold hand.

“Will he be all right?”  Frodo asked between choked sobs.

Haldir was silent.

“Sam?”  Frodo sobbed.  “Please wake up, Sam.”  Haldir quietly brought a 
chair up beside the bed and lifted Frodo into it.

“I will leave you alone with him,” he said quietly, and turned to leave.

Frodo stayed by Sam’s side for the rest of the day, and when night began 
to close in he climbed onto the bed, curled up alongside his lover and fell 
into fitful sleep.

When he woke, the Sun was already high in the sky.  Frodo blinked his 
eyes open and saw a white figure in the chair beside the bed.

“Gandalf?” he whispered.  “Will he be all right?”

“My dear Hobbit,” said the Maia sadly.  “Surely you knew this day would 
come?”

“What day?” said Frodo.  Gandalf rose and brought another chair to the 
bedside, and Frodo jumped down from the bed to take a seat, turning the 
chair slightly so that it faced Sam.

“The fate of your kind cannot be altered,” said Gandalf slowly, looking 
directly at Frodo.  “Your passage here was but a temporary reward, and 
your time here must end with the Gift of Eru Ilúvatar.”

“Gift?” spluttered Frodo.  “What gift is it that after all we have given we 
must be forced to live here among the immortal, only to have our own 
lives taken?”	

Gandalf regarded Frodo closely for a long moment, and then took a deep 
breath.  “Such is the nature of all beings, that the immortal envy your fate 
as you envy theirs,” he said slowly.  “The immortal must dwell forever in 
a fading land, and in their weariness of unending life they envy the mortal 
that you are not bound to it.  That is your Gift; that you may escape the 
circles of the world while others are forced to remain until the End.”

“It is not a gift but a curse,” said Frodo, his eyes fixed upon Sam.  “We 
were brought here to be taunted by deathlessness, and we are to be parted 
again.”  

“It is not known what awaits you beyond this life, and I would not venture 
to guess.  But you must have faith in the fate that Eru has designed for 
you, and trust that He will not allow you to suffer.”  Gandalf sat still and 
regarded Frodo carefully for a long moment before he spoke.  

“You have both,” he said, “lived far longer than is natural for your kind.  
You were granted passage here as a temporary reward that you might find 
peace and healing; once you are ready, you must accept the Gift freely.”

“I am not ready.” 

“I believe your Samwise is ready.  He has found here all the peace and 
healing he desired, and he is ready to move on.  He waits only for you.”

Frodo choked back a sob and found himself unable to speak.  He tried 
desperately to block Gandalf’s voice, refusing to accept that Sam could be 
so cruelly taken from him.  He cast his eyes frantically over Sam’s 
unconscious form, searching for any sign that might contradict Gandalf’s 
awful words, but he saw upon his lover’s face only peaceful restfulness.  
Suddenly his mind began to spin and he turned for the door, desperate to 
distance himself from the awful reality upon the bed.

Frodo stumbled blankly into the street.  All of his mind was focused upon 
getting as far away as possible, so that he did not allow himself any 
thought of what had just transpired.  And yet he was vaguely aware that 
tears were streaming down his face, blurring his vision, causing him to 
lose his footing.  He reached out a hand before him for balance, and it 
caught a large wooden door, which was standing slightly ajar.  It took all 
of his failing strength to heave it open, and he fell to his knees and crawled 
into the dark solitude within.  

Hauling himself to his feet, Frodo took a deep steadying breath and 
glanced around, and he realised that he was in a library.  He tried to seek 
some sort of comfort where he had found it long ago, between the leather-
bound covers of Elvish books, but now they seemed to him just pages of 
meaningless words.  Looking around desperately, his eye caught sight of 
the wall, and sudden images came unbidden to his mind: Sam, pressing 
him up against a wall in heated passion, hazel eyes smouldering; Sam's 
arms guiding him gently down to the floor, embracing him in tender 
warmth.  Frodo choked on a sob and cast himself upon the floor, grief 
wracking his slight frame in wrenching sobs.  The onset of night gradually 
wrapped its cold fingers around him, encroaching into the void left by 
Sam's arms.

It was dawn when Frodo was woken by a sharp pain in his back, and he 
reached instinctively for Sam.  He blinked his eyes open hurriedly when 
he realised he was alone, and closed them again wearily as he remembered 
where he was.

He remained huddled on the floor until he could ignore the agony in his 
back no longer.  Eventually hauling himself to his feet, he looked around 
the library.  Even in his grief he could not deny his curiosity when 
presented with a brand new, unexplored library, and he began to run one 
finger absently over the spines of the books, searching for solace within 
their pages.  He paused when he reached a small volume bound in black 
leather.  Along the spine in gold lettering was the title ‘Athrabeth Finrod 
ah Andreth,’ The Debate of Finrod and Andreth.  The name sounded 
somehow familiar, and so he pulled it down, settled himself in a large 
armchair, and began to read.

Frodo found that he was unable to concentrate on the words, yet found 
comfort in staring blankly at the pages, turning them at random intervals.  
But a few pages in, a passage caught his eye.  He recognised the words 
immediately, having read them repeatedly over the years:

‘Yet among my people, from Wise unto Wise out of the darkness, comes 
the voice saying that Men are not now as they were, nor as their true 
nature was in their beginning...  They say plainly that Men are not by their 
nature short-lived, but have become so through the malice of the Lord of 
the Darkness whom they do not name.’

Frodo sat in stunned silence for long moments.  Many times had he read 
this passage, for it was quoted in the green book gifted to him by the Elves 
many years ago.  Now he knew its source, and only now was he forced to 
confront the bitter truth of it; that even having sacrificed so much to defeat 
the second Lord of Darkness, the lingering malice of the first would tear 
him from him whom he loved.

Frodo held the book closely to him and slipped out of the library.  Outside, 
he had to squint against the intensity of the light, and he wondered for a 
moment how he was to find his way back, but he felt himself move as 
though drawn towards Sam, down a narrow path between two rows of 
trees.  The numbness of his mind had given way to defiance, and he 
registered now what he had not seen the previous day; that he was still 
within the forest, in an Elvish settlement in a clearing.  The trees seemed 
rather like the Mallorns of Lorien, but they were taller and their trunks 
seemed to glisten silver.  There the resemblance to Lothlorien ended, 
however, for the dwellings here were of stone and built upon the ground.  
Walking slowly, trying to delay facing Sam again, Frodo noted 
distractedly the elegant shape of the carvings above the doors of the 
buildings, and he wished fervently that he were here under any other 
circumstances, that he might explore and enjoy this new place.

But when he reached the dwelling where Sam lay, anger built within him, 
and he tore through the building until he reached Sam’s room.  He flung 
himself into the chair beside Gandalf, who said nothing and did not look 
up.  There was a long silence as Frodo steadied his breathing.

“You are wrong,” he said at last.  When Gandalf showed no sign of 
responding, he continued.  “You say it is our nature to d – to be mortal, yet 
it is not so.  “We were not made for death, nor born over to die.  Death 
was imposed upon us,”” he quoted.

“Ah,” said Gandalf slowly.  “So you are familiar with the words of 
Andreth Saelind.”

“Yes,” said Frodo wearily.  “But I don’t understand.  If Morgoth, the first 
great Lord of Darkness, has been cast into the Void as is told, and Sauron 
vanquished, why do the Valar not reverse this malice?”

“The Valar are the Powers of the World, but they have not the authority to 
confer immortality.  Nor indeed did Melkor, the Morgoth, who was once 
of their kind.  The Wise, Frodo, speak only that which is believed to them, 
and that is not always truth.”

“But this is true, for I have read it before.  Long has this knowledge 
plagued me, though I have never spoken of it.”

“You have read but a fraction of the Athrabeth, is that correct?”

“Yes, just this passage,” said Frodo, indicating the page that he had read 
that morning.

“Then I suggest that you read further; only then can you begin to 
understand what your Samwise seems already to know.”  And with that he 
departed, leaving Frodo alone with the unconscious Sam.  

“Oh, Sam,” sighed Frodo wearily, and he blinked away his tears and 
turned his attention to the library book.  

The debate between the mortal wise woman and the Elf was engaging, and 
Frodo found himself easily absorbed and able to distance himself from the 
reality of the subject.  He re-read the woman Andreth’s words and then for 
the first time read Finrod’s response:

‘Nay, Andreth, the mind darkened and distraught; to bow and yet to 
loathe; to flee and yet not to reject; to love the body and yet to scorn it, the 
carrion-disgust: these things may come from the Morgoth, indeed.  But to 
doom the deathless to death, from father unto son, and yet to leave them 
the memory of an inheritance taken away, and the desire for what is lost: 
could the Morgoth do this?  No, I say.  And for that reason I said that if 
your tale is true, then all in Arda is in vain, from the pinnacle of Oiolossë 
to the uttermost abyss.  For I do not believe your tale.  None could have 
done this save the One.’

Frodo closed his eyes in contemplation.  The words of Finrod seemed to 
make sense, and yet believing them would force him to abandon that 
which he had believed for years to be the truth.  And if this was the truth, 
that Men – and by extension Hobbits – were by nature mortal, then was 
that any easier to bear?  Was it any easier to know that his kind had been 
designed by Eru, the One, the Creator, to perish while others endured?

The remainder of the Athrabeth made little sense to him, so gripped was 
he by the perceived injustice.  Yet he read and re-read the book until 
exhausted sleep finally claimed him, and he slipped into troubled dreams.

For the weeks that followed, Frodo waited by the bedside, sleeping in his 
chair and stirring at the slightest hint of movement.  But gradually he 
began to accept that he was merely awaiting the inevitable.

As the number of days increased, so too did Frodo’s despair.  The events 
surrounding the accident replayed themselves endlessly through his mind, 
and he repeatedly analysed every opportunity that he had had to prevent 
what happened.  With shame, he remembered their last time together upon 
the rock in the river, when he had allowed Sam to pleasure him without 
reciprocating.  He pictured Sam’s face as he stepped onto the boat, fearful 
and yet trusting, and collapsed into grief-stricken sobs.

“Oh, Sam,” he cried, “Sam, I’m so sorry.”

"Frodo-love?" said a small, hoarse voice.  Frodo raised his numb head and 
looked blankly at Sam, whose face was turned towards him, his eyes half 
open.

"Sam?" he whispered.

"Please don't cry, me dear," sighed Sam slowly, and Frodo tried to choke 
back a sob but felt a renewed surge of tears flood forth.  Sam carefully 
lifted one hand and brushed away a tear from Frodo's face.  Frodo grasped 
his hand as he pulled it away and held it to his lips, scarcely daring himself 
to believe the miracle that had opened his love's eyes.

"Please don't hang on to me," Sam whispered.  "It's time.  I need you to let 
me go."  

Frodo dropped his hand in stunned disbelief and let out a silent cry.  
"Don't leave me," he said weakly.  

With great effort, Sam gestured for Frodo to join him.  Frodo clambered 
onto the bed and curled up beside him, burying his face in Sam's shoulder.  
Sam brought up one hand to run through grey-streaked curls and pressed a 
light kiss to Frodo's temple.

“Hush now, Frodo-love,” said Sam, and he held Frodo close to him until 
his sobs subsided.  As he calmed his ragged breathing, Frodo settled on 
the bed beside Sam and Sam clasped his hand in his own.

“Please don’t leave me, Sam,” Frodo repeated.  “Not now, and not this 
way.”

“Oh, Frodo,” Sam sighed.  “We both knew the day would come that we’d 
have to face this.  I’ve had not just one very full life but two, and I’ve had 
all I’ve ever wanted and a good deal as I’d never dared hope I might 
have.”

“But I’m not ready to come with you.  Will you leave me here alone?”

Sam looked into Frodo’s eyes, and it grieved his heart to see the anguish 
and despair that he found there.  Memories long past but many times 
revisited flashed before his eyes, and he saw a younger Frodo stepping 
onto a ship at the Grey Havens.  At once, he knew that he would wait until 
Frodo was ready, and they would make their final journey together.

“Nay,” he sighed.  “You know I’d never leave you.”

So intense was the rush of mixed joy and relief that Frodo felt, he leapt 
upon Sam and kissed him furiously.  Sam winced in pain and gently 
pushed him to one side.  Frodo settled against him, and Sam stroked his 
hair as tears fell onto his shoulder, and they eventually fell asleep, 
entwined in each other’s arms.

Within three days, Sam was declared fit to return home, and Frodo’s heart 
leapt at the thought that they would soon be returning to their normal life.  
A carriage was arranged to take them home, and as they came within sight 
of their mock-smial, Frodo clasped Sam’s hand in excitement.  But when 
he looked over, he saw that Sam’s face was expressionless, his features set 
in only a very slight frown.  Frodo remembered his own melancholy return 
home after having expected and accepted death all those years ago, and he 
gently squeezed Sam’s hand in silent reassurance. 

In the following weeks, Frodo tended Sam with all the care that he had 
himself received on many occasions.  Gradually, Sam’s strength returned, 
and in time he returned to the garden.  He could manage little strenuous 
work, and would spend hours weeding a single flowerbed, often just 
sitting back and looking at the flowers in his care.

Frodo spent many of his days in the study, writing in his large red book, 
and occasionally, when the weather was warm and the breeze slight, he 
would take the book outside and write while he watched Sam.

On one such day, he looked up from his book and stared blankly at Sam 
for a moment.

“It’s so unfair, Sam,” he declared.

“Unfair?” said Sam distractedly.  “What’s that, love?”

“That we should be made to die when they live.  Why would Eru hold us 
in such contempt as to force us to wither while we have sight of 
immortality all around us?”

Sam sighed and came to sit beside Frodo, who settled against him.

“Contempt?” said Sam.  “Surely you can’t be believing such a thing.  I 
may not have read all the books that you have, but if we’re the Children of 
Eru, or Ilúvatar, or whatever you want to call Him, then why would He 
wish us harm?  I know I’d not do a thing as would be bad for any of my 
own, and I reckon it’s the same thing.  Why would the One create death if 
death weren’t good?”

“I think that’s what Finrod’s saying here,” said Frodo thoughtfully.  He 
pulled himself up and reached for the black book, which was tucked inside 
the red book.  “’That is one thing that Men call “hope,”’ said Finrod,” he 
read, “’Andir we call it, “looking up.”  But there is another which is 
founded deeper.  Estel we call it, that is “trust.”  It is not defeated by the 
ways of the world, for it does not come from experience, but from our 
nature and first being.  If we are indeed the Eruhin, the Children of the 
One, then He will not suffer Himself to be deprived of His own, not by 
any Enemy, not even by ourselves.  This is the last foundation of Estel, 
which we keep even when we contemplate the End: of all His designs the 
issue must be for His Children’s joy.’”

“Aye,” said Sam, “that makes sense.  So don’t you trust that when we 
leave this place we’ll go to somewhere even better, where we can be 
together always, without aught of the pain that exists in this world?”

“No,” said Frodo.  “I can’t, because that’s a lie too.  There is nothing after 
this; the Elves believe that we leave Time and never return.  Death is an 
utmost end.”

The Hobbits sat in silence for a few moments, and Sam ran his hand 
through Frodo’s greying curls as he thought this over.

“We can’t be sure of that,” he said at last, “because no one knows the right 
truth of what happens, not even the Elves.  Begging your pardon, but I 
think they’re wrong, or at least that they’ve no more reason to believe 
what they do than we have for thinking otherwise.  But even if it is true, 
then is it so bad?  The way I see it, there are two ways; either we go to 
someplace new together, or we stop existing, like, but both ways, 
whatever happens, we ain’t never to be parted, if you take my meaning.”

Frodo laughed and lifted his head to kiss Sam firmly.

“You always could see the best in anything, couldn’t you, my Samwise?”

“Aye,” said Sam, “I reckon it comes from being the luckiest Hobbit who 
ever lived.”

*

Two more years passed, and the Hobbits settled into a peaceful routine.  
Sam did less and less in the garden, leaving it for the most part to its own 
devices, and he was not displeased with the results.

One day, Frodo came out into the garden and stood beside Sam, who was 
staring at the blank patch he had once wanted to fill with irises.  He held 
his arm out for Frodo, who came towards him and laid his head upon 
Sam’s shoulder.

“I finished the book,” said Frodo quietly.

“Which book is that, me dear?” said Sam.  Frodo did not answer 
immediately, but held the red book out to Sam, and Sam took it, stepping 
slightly away so that he could open it.

“It’s our story,” Frodo explained as Sam began to read.  “There were some 
parts I didn’t include in the first Red Book, parts I didn’t think 
were…appropriate.”  He blushed and Sam raised an eyebrow in 
amusement.  “And then there’s everything that came afterwards,” he 
continued hurriedly.  “I thought our story should be told.”

“And now it’s complete?”

“I think so, yes,” said Frodo quietly.

Sam took a deep breath.  “Then I think we ought to take it to the library,” 
he said, “so that anyone can read it.”

“Yes, Sam, I’d like that,” said Frodo, and he reached up to meet Sam’s 
lips with his own.  Their kiss was slow and gentle, but still with the 
lingering flame of passion.

Sam guided Frodo into the bedroom, and knelt upon the bed with Frodo 
before him.  They remained motionless for several minutes with their lips 
hovering fractions of an inch apart.  His heart racing and electric sparks 
igniting his blood, Frodo reached forward to kiss Sam, and the sparks 
turned to liquid fire.  He deepened the kiss, and they slowly made love 
deep into the night. 

*

The following morning, they rose and prepared to leave without a word.  
They departed when the Sun was high in the sky, and set off hand in hand 
towards the Elvish city.  The day was warm, and only the sound of the 
birds broke the silence.  After an hour of walking, Frodo turned to Sam.

“Will you sing to me, Sam?” he asked.  Sam smiled and furrowed his 
brow in thought for a moment.

“The Road goes ever on and on,” he began.

“Down from the door where it began,” Frodo joined in, and they sang 
together until they reached the edge of the forest and the white city lay 
before them, shining in the sunlight.

“It still looks glorious even after all these years, doesn’t it?” said Sam 
breathlessly.  Frodo turned to look at him, taking in his golden skin and 
the copper streaks in his grey curls that glinted in the sun.

“Yes, Sam,” he said.  “It does.”

They were admitted into the city with an affectionate nod from the guards, 
and made their way straight to the library.  Once there, Sam reached into 
his pack and drew out the book.  Frodo laid one hand upon it, and together 
they lifted it onto the shelf, leaving their story and their memory behind 
forever.

As Sam pulled him into his arms, Frodo felt a warm rush of something he 
could neither name nor describe, and then he knew that there was nothing 
further in Arda that he could want.  Sam’s words flooded back to him; 
*whatever happens, we ain’t never to be parted.*  His tears flooded into 
Sam’s shirt, but Sam perceived that they were not tears of grief, and so he 
held Frodo silently until they ceased.  They took one last look at the book 
upon the shelf, and then Sam guided Frodo towards the door. 

On the journey home, no words were passed between them, but a silent 
understanding led them past their home, down the steep path to the beach.  
They stood upon the easternmost shore of Tol Eressëa, gazing out towards 
Middle-earth where their story began as the Sun set behind them, and then 
Sam led Frodo to the top of the beach.

Frodo lowered himself onto the sand beside Sam, and they lay on their 
sides facing one another, their bodies fitting together with the perfect ease 
they had known for what seemed to be all their lives.  Frodo leaned his 
head back slightly so that his lips could meet Sam's, and they kissed 
slowly and tenderly, unhurried.  Frodo ran his hand up through Sam's 
curls, and felt a slow dawning of perfect peace.  No longer plagued by 
haunting memories or regrets, simply here in this moment with Sam, 
needing nothing to sustain him but the inner warmth of Sam's love.

Sam held Frodo tightly to him, and together they drifted into endless sleep.  
And at last their souls left the circles of the world, whither only Ilúvatar 
himself could say, though to the hobbits it mattered not.  Now, finally, 
they knew that they could never be parted; they would abide together in 
memory for all eternity.