Title:		Redemption
Author:		Keith Drummond
Author’s email:	bardmage070245@yahoo.com
Pairing(s):		Frodo/Sam
Referred of:  	Aragorn/Boromir;
			Legolas/Aragorn;
			Merry/Pippin;
			Eomer/Aragorn;
			Frodo/Aragorn; Frodo/Celeborn
Rating:		R
Acknowledgement
and disclaimer:	These characters are, of course, the 
property of the Tolkien Family Trust and New Line Cinema–
May the Valar bless them forever; the Tolkien Family would 
probably have a serious fantod at what we set these fellows 
to doing (no doubt why we never got a good snog in the 
films!; but one suspects that the good professor, long 
since passed into the uttermost West, wouldnow, at long 
last, understand.

Summary:  Sixty-one years after his Frodo sailed away into 
Westernesse, Sam, as the last of the ringbearers, is 
commanded to sail from the Gray Havens to rejoin him. . . .


REDEMPTION

      He rode slowly, going easily so that even such a 
gentle mount as Bill would not jostle his aging bones and 
thinning flesh.  Bill the . . . yes, well, what was it now? 
Bill the twentieth? Like his flesh, his memory was fading. 
With great love, he clearly remembered the original Bill, 
rescued from the vile traitor in Bree. He could even recall 
with quickening breath and a grin the satisfaction of 
dotting Ferny’s face with that half-eaten apple. . . .
      What he couldn’t remember was which Bill this one 
was.
      He was old. And the old life was all behind him now
And a part of him was quietly terrified.
      How long would all this go on?
      Even as he asked the question, he understood 
perfectly:  Only _he_ knew the answer to that.
      When he thought of it – so often since he’d awakened 
that morning four months passed but to find that, in the 
warm summer night, his Rosie had left him forever – he 
still it monstrous unfair he couldn’t just follow after her 
into the white and shining lands. And all because, for two 
days, he’d borne the unbearable.
      One and sixty years had passed now since that grief-
stricken day at the Grey Havens when he had gone. To be 
sure there’d been compensations.  Of course there’d been. 
Children.  Grandchildren.  Great grandchildren.  All loved.  
All thrilling to his tales of the great adventure. Seven 
times mayor of Michel Delving.  Moments of tribute.  
Moments of sorrow.  The soft lingering of Merry’s and 
Pippin’s lips on his.  And Rosie’s.  All those moments of 
touching and loving and holding.  So much.
      And yet, somehow, never quite enough.
      And now his Elanor, his first born, an old lady 
herself with grandchildren of her own, had the Red Book, 
and his sword, and the slowly perishing boiled-leather 
armour emblazoned with the White Tree of Echthelian that 
had been a gift of a King.  But he would never see his 
little girl again. . . . .
      Because the message, when it came, had been clear.
      _On the twenty-second of September, Frodo and Bilbo’s 
birthday, you must to the Havens, for your time has come_.
      And though his mind was veiled and frequently 
uncertain, nevertheless, he knew this much:  How much 
easier all this would have been if, buried somewhere in the 
imperative, had been the slightest hint that: _You must 
come, because he is waiting for you_. . . .
      *
      Even in heaven time passes.  Pleasantly.  Leisurely.  
Quickly:  You blink, and the leaves are falling, though you 
breathed the fresh water-scented air of spring just that 
morning.  Or a song in the elven halls reaches its heart-
wrenching coda, and the moon shining on the waters of the 
sea is full that, when the song started, was but a 
fingernail of light against the sky.
      So time passed. In joy and beauty and even in love – 
even, on occasion, in burning caresses – for the blazing 
affection of the elves with touches and kisses and the 
surpassing gentleness of their kind, sustained him and held 
him, cherishing him.  Or those quiet kindling moments in 
his own little smial with Gandalf to share memories, or 
with Celeborn to make him laugh and feel loved, or with 
Galadriel, whose depth of affection and joy just went on 
growing deeper every year.
      For all that, he was profoundly, unshakably grateful.
      Nevertheless, time passed.
      Unlike for the immortals who surrounded him, it 
passed. Though the priests, and the shamans, and the 
wizards counseled him and tried to train him and bespeak 
the inner heart of him:  Stay in the moment!   Do not dwell 
upon the past!  Or, worse, ponder the future. We are here. 
We are immortal.  Till the sun goes out and the universe 
goes black to be reborn in light and love, we _are_....
      Yet still he felt the years trickling by.
      Because he knew.
      Because he waited.	
      Because he worried.
Because he was afraid.
      Because love is the true immortality.  That he did 
know.  Because the care and hurt and hope learned far away 
across a sea no mortal ship can pass, had never once left 
him, though it had not, could not yet blossom into the 
fullness he knew (in his good moments) would, one day, be 
his. . . .
*
      Merry and Pippin were there.  As, of course, they 
would be.  Surrounded, naturally, by a loud and pushing 
gabble of children and nieces and nephews and grandchildren 
and grandnephews and grandnieces all fussing (with the best 
of intentions, of course) their distinguished ancestors.
      Until the Took and the Master of Brandybuck Hall 
finally just barked, sending the crowd back (and when was 
the last time they’d done that?) and hobbled forward alone 
together to greet their dear Sam for the last time.
      Pippin leaned on his stick and, a gleam in his wise 
old eyes, observed slyly, "You know, Sam, you still look 
like you’d be a great fuck!"
      Merry scowled and elbowed Pippin in the ribs.
      “Ow!  What did you do that for?”
      “Don’t you ever stop going on about sex?”	
      "Why should I?  Just because we’ve got too old for it 
to . . ."
      Merry took pity on poor Sam and struggled up close to 
him and took his old friend and sometime lover’s face in 
his hand and, leaning down, kissed his cheek – and caught 
the taste of tears.
      "What’s this?  Now you stop that!  You’re going to 
see him again, you lucky sod. And you’re going, finally . . 
."
      He stopped.
      The old teasing, flirting and twitting of a lifetime 
suddenly no longer seemed . . . appropriate.
      Sam leaned forward and embraced Merry.  And then, 
more gently, the younger but the seemingly more fragile yet 
Pippin.
      "Why are you crying?" said Pip.
      "I can’t remember him, Pip" said Sam.  "I don’t even 
recall anymore what he looks . . . looked like."
      "You’re going to be seeing _him_ soon enough though," 
said Pip softly, gently – even as Merry had done, with a 
certain degree of envy.
      "I know.  Will he want me, though?  There.  Where I 
won’t even have the luxury of dying if he doesn’t want me."
      The two older hobbits, lovers an unimaginable time, 
seized each others’ hands, dry now, withered, yet still, 
for all that, warm.
      "Sam, I have to ask,” said Merry:  “You two loved 
each other so much.  Everybody knew it.  Everybody.  Even 
Rosie."
      "I know."
      "Then why . . ."
      And to the immense surprise of the other hobbits, Sam 
interrupted by leaning forward and kissing them both on the 
cheek, his eyes shining.
      "You don’t understand.  Not either of you.  It’s only 
really been since he went that I do."
      "Tell us," said Merry.
      "His heart had been torn out of him.  No, lads, don’t 
get me wrong.  He loved me.  I know that.  Now!  And I’d 
loved Rosie . . . since forever.
      "Then, once, years later, lying in the high summer 
grass on the hill above Bag End, we held hands and, 
finally, looked at each other – and . . .  Once, just once 
in all those years. . . ."
      Pippin moved forward and put his hands around the now 
helplessly weeping Sam.
      And, in a whisper, Sam went on, leaning on the 
surprisingly still strong shoulders and stronger arms that 
held him.
      "He said that, if our love was real – and he knew it 
was – it could only be real beyond the ends of Middle 
Earth."
      A sound emerged from Merry.
      The other two looked at him.
      "I’m sorry. It sounds a bit of a crock to me."
      "Merry!" said Pip.
      "Pip," said Merry, "I’ve loved you my whole life."
      "As I’ve loved you," said Pippin simply, 
forthrightly.
      "And yet we married, loved our children, our wives."
      "And so did I," said Sam. "But you’re forgetting 
something."
      "What?" said the other two hobbits together.
      "The Ring."
      A silence broken only by the crying of gulls and the 
wash of the sea against the pier and the waiting ship 
ensued.
      "Oh!" said Merry.
      "Yes. Oh!" said Sam. "I only carried it for two days. 
And my heart, my soul still has a vast and empty space in 
it – has ever since.  I cannot imagine, even now, what it 
must have been like for him."
      The two older hobbits looked at each other, 
understanding dawning upon them.
      As Sam went on gazing past them at the white ship 
bobbing gently on the turning tide.
      "I’m taking one of the last ships that will ever 
leave Middle Earth to go . . . wherever. Where I shall see 
him again.  Whose face I can’t even recall, but whom I love 
as desperately as if I were a tweenie still, and I’m so 
afraid that all he and I shall have in our elvish 
immortality is to share forever nothing but the ashes of 
memories, and emptiness. . . .
*
      Even in heaven night falls, and stars shine, and a 
moon moves across the face of the sky. And time.  And gulls 
call and the sea laps against the shore.
      A voice, gentle, kindly, wise, bespoke him out of the 
shining darkness.
      "You must stop thinking this way, Frodo."
      The comfortable smell of leaf came from the bowl of 
the white wizard’s pipe.  He folded himself together and 
settled next to the hobbit on the still sun-warmed shingle.
      Without saying a word, the hobbit filled his own pipe 
and accepted fire from the finger tip of the wizard.  
Silent, because he knew of what the strange old creature 
was speaking.
      Galdalf sighed.
      "Of all the creatures of the blessed Valar, men – and 
hobbits – are without a doubt the most . . . difficult.  
You do know that, I hope."
      "Gandalf . . ."
      "No!  You must hear me out.
      "I knew you and Sam loved each other passionately.  
Before either of you knew it, I knew that you were destined 
to be . . . more than just friends.  I knew that Merry and 
Pippin had become lovers long before anyone else knew or 
even suspected.  I also knew that Boromir and Aragorn – 
despite circling round each other like two dogs round a 
bitch on heat – were, rather desperately, in love with each 
other."
      "What!"
      Gandalf held up a hand.
      "The mind of the mortal male amazes me even now.  
Allow me to tell you a little story to illustrate what I 
mean:
      “You did know that Aragorn’s mother sent him to be 
trained in weaponry and war skills among the Elves of the 
Woodland Realm, didn’t you?"
      "I . . . I think I heard something of it.  Yes."
      "Aragorn was seventeen at the time.  And the Lord of 
the Forest Elves gave him into the keeping of a singularly 
lovely elf.  Who promptly fell hopelessly in love with the 
seventeen year old boy.   An elf by the name of Legolas."
      "_Legolas_!"
      "Indeed."
      "What . . . happened?"
      “The boy fell in love, too.  As boys sometimes will 
with their mentors.  And for twenty years, they were 
inseparable.  And then Aragorn met Arwen Evenstar in 
Rivendell."
      "What did Legolas do?"
      “Do?”  Gandalf chuckled richly.  “To the elves, my 
dear boy, love is the capstone of their existence, it very 
meaning, if you will.  They take it and give it when they 
can, where they can, and encourage all others, mortals and 
immortals alike, to do the same, and rejoice greatly when 
it occurs.
      “But they are immortal.  And living in Middle Earth.  
Which presents them with a grave yet strangely beautiful 
conundrum.  Legolas loved a man of Westernesse, of the 
blood of Numenor, to be sure.  But even the vastly 
lengthened years of such is still as a blink of an eye to 
those who dwell in the Forest, or Rivendell, or Lothlorien.
      “Arwen would have shared Aragorn’s love with Legolas, 
just as Galadriel shared Celeborn with you.  For the elves 
seem instinctively to know that love shared unselfishly is 
to double and redouble it again.  Did you think that Arwen, 
Galadriel’s granddaughter would have behaved any less . . 
.lovingly than Galadriel herself?  But there is something 
in men and hobbits that seems to think, foolishly in my 
opinion, that all things loving must be drawn in tones of 
deep black and purest white, instead of in the full 
spectrum of glorious colour the Valar intended.”
      “And?”
      “Simple, really.  And . . . sad, too:  Legolas held 
Aragorn in his arms, kissed him for the last time as his 
lover, and gave him his genuine and deepest blessing.  
Although,” the wizard added dryly, “it took Lord Elrond 
rather longer.
      "Why do you think Legolas was so understanding, even 
amused, all those years later, during our . . . adventure, 
when people – including yourself, I should point out – kept 
falling in love with Aragorn:  Boromir, Faramir, Eomer, 
Eowyn, even, in time, the kings of Umbar and Haradwaith.  
The list does tend to be rather endless," the wizard 
concluded even more dryly still.
      "Gandalf?"
      "Yes?"
      "I’m not, I never have been ashamed of loving Sam.  
Despite what you seem to think.”
      “Then what possessed you not to love him when you had 
the chance?”
      “Because he had to make a life for himself.  A life 
the Shire would understand.  If I’d kept him from that – 
and I suppose I could have done – it would have meant 
neither of us could have stayed there.  And as grand and 
wonderful as Minas Tirith or Rivendell might have been, it 
would also have been exile from the Shire.  And there are 
few things more terrible to the heart of a hobbit.  I know.  
Besides” – he smiled into the dark – “he really did love 
Rosie, you know."
      Gandalf just looked at him, the coal of burning leaf 
glowing in the dark as he pulled on his pipe.
      "I’m not ashamed," Frodo asserted again, perhaps a 
trifle too defensively. And then he sighed.  "It was just . 
. ."
      "Complicated?  Frustrated?  Guilt ridden?"
      "Empty."
      This time there was no immediate answer.
      "Oh.  Yes.  I’d forgotten that.  Reprehensibly, I 
might add."
      "That’s why I’m frightened.  And I _am_ frightened."
      "Yes.  So I gathered."
The ancient wizard sighed.
      "Frodo, there are few things in this world more 
difficult to do than to learn to live with love.  Real 
love.  And to make it work requires sacrifice, and 
understanding, and endless giving.  Oh, yes.  And being 
endlessly receptive, too.  None of which are easy things 
for men or hobbits to handle."
      "You do know, then, that Celeborn and I . . ."
      "Of course."
      "Galadriel and I had to reach an understanding.  He 
is her husband, after all.  And I am – was his lover.  In a 
better ordered universe, I would have come to share her bed 
as well as his.   But, despite all the wisdom of the Valar, 
this is not a perfect universe:  I do not, cannot love her; 
not that way; I am not, I never was made that way; instead 
we share together the love of a particularly splendid, wise 
and beautiful male.  And we are all three of us happy and 
content."
      "Content?  And you sit here in quivering terror 
because the one true, enduring love of your entire mortal 
life is soon to arrive?"
      Birds began questioning the day.
      "Dawn is coming," said the wizard, getting up.  "And 
the ship will be here on the morning tide.  The past for 
you and Sam exists now only in the fact that, in it, you 
two came finally to love each other more than life itself.  
You know it.  He knows it.  And now he’s coming, Frodo.  
Finally.
      "All these years, the elves and I have tried to teach 
you the path into forever.  We’ve even, in a very real 
sense, delayed our own final departure thither till you 
and, yes, Sam, could also be made whole, and cross the 
rainbow bridge with us.  It frightens me to contemplate 
what you two could do to one another if you don’t finally 
allow yourselves to cross this chasm of your own devising 
and transform yourselves into the single being you were 
meant to be years and years ago, even – as if you didn’t 
know – before Bilbo’s departure for Rivendell."
      And Frodo, half prepared to weep at the import of 
Gandalf’s words, could only remember the way the two of 
them – Sam and he – had only finally completely understood 
the nature and intensity of their mutual love when it was 
too late, when they’d both been but burnt out shells, 
hollow and echoing.
      "We were both so terribly, terribly empty.  And 
afraid."
      But the wizard was gone, and light was stealing in 
from the east, casting golden spangles glinting upon the 
still night-blackened sea. . . .
*
      In a curious way, the greeting at the pierside proved 
unexpectedly easy. Pleasant. Unaffected.  Conventional 
even.
      A casual embrace, a feather-light kiss on the cheek.
      "Sam."
      "Mr. Frodo."
      A light laugh.
      "For the last time of all, Samwise Gamgee, you will 
never call me ‘Mr.’ Frodo again."
      A laugh from Galadriel, Celeborn, Bilbo and Gandalf, 
followed by a somewhat rougher hug, this one almost if just 
not quite getting to Frodo, who wondered if the same were 
true of Sam. It must have done. A lingering kiss from Sam 
accompanied the hug.  On Frodo’s left temple.  Along with a 
whispered, "Yes.  Never again."
      A thrill shivered through Frodo that traveled all the 
way down from that soft touch of Sam’s lips upon his temple 
to his woolly toes.
      As around them, the gathered elves erupted into song, 
finally welcoming the last of the Ringbearers, while Bilbo 
beamed upon the re-united pair. . . .
      And when they’d gone, still singing, leaving the two 
hobbits on the threshold of Frodo’s smial and he and Sam 
were finally alone, Frodo could see Sam frowning.
      "Sam?"
      "I’m sorry, Mr. . . . I’m sorry, Frodo. It’s just, 
well, that I can see you."
      Frodo’s sapphire blue eyes were smiling – and all the 
long years of lost love shining brilliantly within them.
      "Sam.  My Sam.  My very own dearest Sam."
      "I meant" – Sam’s hands came up and caught Frodo’s 
face – "I can see you. I can see your face.  I can see . . 
. you."
      And still smiling, his heart thudding in this chest, 
Frodo said not a word, but took Sam’s hand and pulled him 
toward the front window of the smial, into which the by now 
late afternoon sunlight was shining, turning it into a 
dozen dim but effective mirrors, each diamond pane, between 
the leads, reflecting a whole and perfect Sam.
      Sam just looked, blinked, frowned and turned to 
Frodo.
      "A final gift of the Valar," said Frodo.  "We are 
both now the exact same age we were when the Ring finally 
went into the fire."
      A look half of suspicion, half of disbelief and yet 
of a strange dawning joy lit Sam’s face as he turned to 
look once again into Frodo’s face, as transfixed as ever 
he’d been by the almost elfin beauty of this his long lost 
love.
      And so, finally, the moment came.
      Two hobbits, a vastitude of time and history and loss 
behind them, stood in silence and beauty and the slow 
beginning of everlasting joy, and looked at each other, 
content for the moment to remain poised upon the edge of 
that shimmering moment.
      "Sam?"
      "Yes?"
      "Here we – you and I – will learn, must learn to live 
in Forever.  All the others here dwell in an eternal now.  
Only . . ."
      "Yes?"
      "I couldn’t do it.  Not before.  Not in all these 
years.  Not till now."
      "Why’s that?"
      "Because I was waiting.   For you.  Because I wanted 
you so.  I wanted you so much.  To be here.  With me"
      Sam drew breath and even opened his mouth to speak.  
And then thought better of it.  Instead, he reached out and 
took Frodo’s hand and brought it to his lips.  His other 
hand went up and, oh so gently, began to caress the back of 
Frodo’s neck, his eyes never once breaking their link with 
Frodo’s.
      "Sam," said Frodo, shakily.
      "Yes, love?" said Sam, exulting in the suddenly 
realized – and real – glory of being able, finally, to say 
it out loud!
      "The emptiness is gone!"
      He spoke in tones of wonder, as if he were making the 
most awesome discovery of this or any other age.
      Sam, too, looked briefly aside, gazing inward, and 
frowned.
      A moment later, he nodded.
      "You’re right.  Frodo; it is."
      And a second or two later, his attention once more 
fixed on his love, Sam said, “Frodo?”
      "Sam?"
      “I remember how reluctant . . .  No!  That’s not 
right.  Inexperienced, maybe.  Shy of . . .”
      “Sam.”
      “I just want you to know that I will never distress 
you.  Never hurt you.  I do know something about love, you 
know."
      "I do know.   And I never did.  As you know.  Not 
then."
      "But you do now?"
      For a brief moment, then, Frodo wondered what, if 
anything, he should say.  Then he said simply, for the time 
of secrets was over forever, “For a time, here, Celeborn 
and I were . . . lovers.”
      Sam smiled, determined in no way to show the shock 
and something very like distress he was suddenly feeling.  
Frodo and Celeborn?  Where would that leave him?
      “You do go to the top, don’t you, Frodo?” he said, 
attempting, and rather failing to be light about it.  
“First a king in exile, and now the sovereign lord of 
Elvendom.”
      “There’s no rank here, Sam.  All that’s past us.”
      And hesitating, frightened, for the moment unable to 
meet Frodo’s eye, Sam asked as diffidently as he could 
manage, “Are you . . . do you . . . is he still . . . “
      “No.  Not now.  Not now.  He always understood that I 
was waiting for you.  He was loving and kind and gentle and 
taught me much, but” – he smiled again into those dark blue 
and, oh, so gentle eyes of his Sam – “I’m still waiting for 
the only person I’ve ever really loved to show me . . . 
everything.  The way I think, and, I believe, you think it 
should be."
      "I do love you, Frodo.  I have . . . always."
      "I know.  Who else but you with your love would have 
followed me into Mordor into the very Cracks of Mount Doom?  
Of course I’ve always known that you loved me.”
      “Always.”
      “Sam?”
      “Yes?”
      “You’ve known forever how much in love with you I am.  
And now I know for certain it’s the same with you.”
      “It is.”
      “Sam?”
      “What, love?”
       “If you don’t kiss me, I think I just might knee you 
in the bollocks."
      And so, laughing, the mouths of the two hobbits 
finally met and melded together, softly, tenderly, gently 
at first, and then more firmly as each hobbit’s arms 
reached round the other.  A sweet kiss, like tweenies 
walking out together on a summer’s eve, still tentatively 
exploring each other.  With the promise, nevertheless, 
hovering not all that far out of sight and perception of 
the stronger, more powerful embraces of two passionate 
males that would soon, very soon, demand expression. . . .
      *
      And having waited so long, the very stars of heaven 
wept for joy:  A sudden squall blew in over the endless 
sea, and rain began to fall.
      Despite the downpour, the two, breaking apart, stood 
facing each other, almost, it seemed, afraid to let go.
      But then lightning cracked across the sky, followed 
by a blast of thunder.  Both hobbits flinched and, his 
voice barely heard above the din, Frodo suggested they go 
in.
      In the entry hall of Frodo’s smial, smaller than Bag 
End, but just as tidy, just as austere, Frodo stopped and 
skimmed out of his clothes, leaving them in a sodden heap 
and was off down the corridor, returning scant moments 
later with a pair of towels.
      “Sam!  Get out of those wet clothes.  They’ll have 
brought your traps up from the ship; there’s dry things for 
you to get into.”
      But Sam still didn’t move, just standing there 
staring at the unabashed nudity of the animated elfin 
figure of the other hobbit who, for him had ever been the 
very definition of that kind of desire that so easily  can 
drive hobbits – and men – half mad.
      He just went on staring, catching and holding the 
towel Frodo tossed to him but making no other move, his 
entire being drinking in the sight of his so long lost 
love; lithe, trimly muscled, and beautiful to Sam beyond 
all description from the soft brown curls on his feet to 
the firm muscles of his calves and thighs, the patch of 
hair that did nothing whatever to hide the already slightly 
engorged center of his body, the well-defined and smooth 
chest and then his head, that adorable dimple in his chin, 
those incredibly blue eyes, that mouth the Valar themselves 
made to be kissed, that straight, well-shaped nose with 
slightly flaring nostrils, his perfect brow, and, above 
all, those gorgeous blue-black curls, all anyhow, tousled 
with moisture and the rough toweling he had given them.
      And seeing his beloved Sam half paralysed, Frodo knew 
– knew – what he had to do:
      His face sobered, became serious, the naked adoration 
on Sam’s face doing nothing for Frodo’s equanimity – or 
self-possession.  And he could see, outlined in the soft 
wet doeskin breeches that Sam was wearing, plastered now 
against him, that he was not alone in mounting desire.
      He went up to Sam, gently took the still unused towel 
from his hands, set it on one of the chairs there in the 
entryway, and returned, still naked as the day he was born, 
and stood in front of Sam, whose eyes were flicking here, 
there, everywhere, but never leaving, not for a fraction of 
a second, the sight of Frodo filling his field of vision, 
the smell of him filling his nostrils like sweet new-mown 
hay and honey, or the sound of his voice speaking so low, 
soft, tender.
       Outdoors, the rain still beat, now louder, now more 
softly, against the windows and door of the smial.
      Frodo leaned into Sam, meaning to begin for him the 
task of undressing him and getting him out of his wet 
things.
      Only, with a strange grunt and more than a hint of 
shine in his eyes, with a half-smothered cry, he grabbed 
Frodo about the waist with his left hand and arm, as his 
right went up to cup the back of Frodo’s head, his fingers 
slid under those tight shining curls, and pulled Frodo to 
him, bodily, his mouth descending upon Frodo’s, devouring, 
passionate, not to be denied.
      And though Frodo never dreamed he would one day wind 
up on his own entry hall rug, stark naked and being mauled 
– and very pleasantly so – by a fully clothed and sopping 
wet Sam Gamgee, he was not in the least interested in 
protesting, much less resisting, or fighting it.
      He opened his mouth and their tongues and teeth came 
into play, lips moving from lips to necks to eyelids to 
nibbling on earlobes.
      And Frodo listened to Sam’s breath growing more and 
more ragged, rasping in his throat, as their bodies – 
Frodo’s naked and exposed, and Sam’s still hidden by sodden 
doeskin – joined in the dance as enthusiastically as their 
mouths, their minds, their breath and their hands, the 
pounding of their hearts beating together in identical 
rhythm.
      Sam’s hands roamed all over Frodo’s nakedness, 
everywhere, as if finally claiming it as his own – which he 
had every right to do, because it was.
      Frodo, on the other hand, was ready to burst, not 
with curiosity – they’d seen each other naked far too many 
times for such a simple straightforward reaction; he 
remembered clearly the stocky muscularity of his . . . 
lover.  (And he started trembling all over again at the 
realization that, now, finally, the Valar had given them 
this near incredible magic:  Sam really was his lover, 
here, now, at the end of everything.)
      But to Frodo it just wasn’t fair:  He was naked, 
aroused and longing for Sam to be free of his clothes, so 
that he could explore Sam’s body as Sam was exploring his – 
and driving him more than a little crazy in the process.
      He stopped back and, raising a hand, placed it 
against Sam’s mouth.
      Not a  word was spoken, for none was needed.
      He began to work the bone spindles through the loops 
that held Sam’s somewhat travel-worn linen tunic together, 
resisting the temptation to slip his hands under the flaps 
of his shirt and rub his hands through the thick brown 
curly hair that covered Sam’s chest, so redolent of him, of 
sweat and some lingering underlying floral scent, as if a 
lifetime of raising flowers had somehow entered into his 
very blood – and, above all, that heady musk of a male 
aroused, longing, needing, ready.
      Instead, he slipped Sam’s braces from his shoulders 
to his waist, slid his hands around to the front of Sam’s 
breeches till he found the buttons there and teased them 
open one by one.
      In one quick movement, he thrust them to the floor 
and then quickly shucked the linen shirt and tossed it, 
too, to join the breeches on the rug. . . .
      . . . and was back in Sam’s arms again, their mouths 
once more so firmly together it was as if no earthly or, 
quite possibly heavenly power could part them.
      Hands caressed, tongues licked, fingers probed, 
matching hardnesses pressed urgently together.
      What there was none of were closed eyes or disjunct 
sensations.  Neither would take his eyes off the other for 
a second, even the blink of an eye seeming too long, and to 
both hobbits – so long in love, so long deprived, so long 
separated – it seemed as if the entirety of their bodies, 
every tactile surface, yearned, hastened toward completion.  
If a rational thought had been possible (it wasn’t), they 
both might have spared a moment of pity for those poor 
earthly lovers whose love was merely . . . genital, 
localized. . . .
      When, as in all loving, a plateau of sorts was 
reached, more than a little out of breath, they backed away 
from each other.
      “Sam?”
      “Mmmm?”
      “As much as I’m loving this, I . . .”
      Wisely, he just shut up and, turning, tugged Sam by 
the hand, leading him down the corridor.  They passed the 
dining room where a cold supper lay untouched on the table.  
Which was all right, really.  It would do nicely for 
breakfast, which both hobbits, being hobbits, knew they 
were likely to welcome after this night’s work.  Several 
decanters of rich red wine were on the table.  Stopping 
only to seize one of them along with two glasses, Frodo 
marched Sam, still dazzled, entranced and muzzy between 
love, lust and overarching joy, down the corridor, where he 
shooed Sam into his own bedroom and gently but firmly 
closed the door behind them, a tiny smile lifting the left 
corner of his mouth as, just before he did so, he stared 
into a large, gold-framed looking-glass hanging on the wall 
across the hall. . . .
      *
      “And that,” said Gandalf to the small number of 
distinguished personages crowded about a similar mirror 
some miles away, “is all anyone will be allowed to see.”
      A fair amount of grumbling ensued.  Until, suddenly, 
a soft but powerful voice filled the room, coming from 
nowhere . . . and everywhere at once:
      “No Gods, nor Valar, nor Angels, nor Powers will 
intrude on this perhaps the most important and sacred 
moment in all the history of the lost lands of Westernesse 
since Sauron overthrew Morgoth and forged his loathly Ring.  
Do you not realize this?  Would you, any of you, make a 
mockery of the courtesy of heaven?”
      Chastened, the crowd – such as it was – dispersed.
      Only sometime later – hours and hours later – 
Gandalf, once again seated on the shingle, smoking and 
listening to the soft susurrus of the sea lapping on the 
smoothly rounded stones of the strand there at the end of 
all ways, heard as if from a vast and star-strewn distance 
a great cry of “Sam!” – followed swiftly by an equal and 
equally joyous cry of “Frodo!”
      And round about him, in the aether and in who knew 
how many worlds, song and the powerful beating of a myriad 
wings came to him, while Gandalf’s heart went soaring with 
them.
      Perfection of love was, at long last, achieved in 
heaven.  For in the stars and beyond, Gods, Valar, Powers, 
Principalities and Angels rejoiced.  The millenia long tale 
was finally finished, and they knew with joy unbound that 
now, finally, they could cross into imminence as the two 
lads reached such an end as would, in its fullness, redeem 
all space and time in existing worlds uncountable, and so 
many worlds still to come. . . .

THE END