Series:  Remembrance  1 / ?
Title:  Frodo Remembers
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairings:  Frodo/Sam
Characters:  Frodo, Sam, Gandalf, Aragorn
Rating:  NC-17
Date Completed:  19 June 2002
Warning:  rape, torture, H/NC
Summary:  the Field of Cormallen cannot erase the Tower of Cirith 
Ungol
Disclaimer:  characters and premise not mine; writing mine
Feedback:  please, please, please.  This series may go on for 
awhile.  
Archiving:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  Frodo is helping me so much.  In telling his story I 
can speak the truth.


. . .their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed,
and their joy was like swords,
and they passed in thought out to regions
where pain and delight flow together
and tears are the very wine of blessedness.
*The Return of the King* p 232


April 8, 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)
the Field of Cormallen


Sam entered the bedchamber after Frodo and closed the door.  Leaning 
against it, he sighed.  "Whew!  What a day!  I'm blessed if I don't 
think it's as wearying to celebrate as it was to do the job."

"I don't know if I'd go that far, but I couldn't have stood much more 
celebration myself", said Frodo, but his face was relaxed, even 
happy.  

Sam pulled him close.  "I still have a hard time believing it's over, 
and you're safe," he murmured.  "Seems like I was ready to die, and I 
thought I had, and then suddenly there's Gandalf, all in white!  And 
then the celebration, and seeing all the others, and . . . well, I 
can't seem to take it all in somehow."  

Frodo curved his arms around Sam's back, feeling the unnatural knobs 
of spine and ridges of rib, but glorying in him nevertheless.  He had 
certainly never expected to survive his Quest, and today's 
celebration had been unreal and dreamlike.  But now Sam was in his 
arms, and he felt a measure of peace entering his heart as he drew a 
deep breath of the fragrant Ithilien air.  He nuzzled Sam's neck, 
huffed warm breath in his ear, and trailed tiny kisses across his 
face to the corner of his mouth.  

"Ain't you tired?"  whispered Sam.

"Not *that* tired," said Frodo, pulling him toward the bed and 
sliding the braces from his shoulders.  "Not so tired that I can't 
enjoy *you*."  But his next kiss was split by a yawn, and Sam 
chuckled.

"I think we'd best get to bed and to *sleep*, begging your pardon, 
sir," he said, amused.  He led the stumbling Frodo to the huge bed, 
gently removed his clothes, and laid himself and Frodo down in the 
sheets smelling of sunlight.

"Mmph," sighed Frodo, snuggling into Sam's shoulder -- thin, too 
thin, but still sturdy.  Sam looked down and saw a silver circlet 
still nestled amongst the tangle of dark curls.  Gently he removed it 
then, remembering, took the matching circlet from his own sandy 
hair.  The circlets rang with a chiming tone as he laid them gently 
on the table next to the bed.


****

The piercing shriek ripped Sam from slumber, and he lunged from the 
bed.  Frodo was pressed against the wall, wild with terror.  With 
another keening wail, he skittered across the room, frantic gaze 
darting everywhere.  His pale flesh gleamed in the moonlight through 
the window, and his eyes glittered dangerously.  

Sam was rooted to the spot in horror.  He barely registered the door 
being flung open and Aragorn hurtling through it, Anduril flaming in 
his hand.  Just behind him was Gandalf.  Taking in the situation at a 
glance, the wizard closed the door and advanced slowly into the 
room.  All three stood frozen, staring aghast at the wraith-like 
figure of Frodo, whose lips were drawn back in a rictus of terror and 
fury.  

"Sam," said the wizard.  "Move toward him, very slowly."

Sam took a step forward, then another.  Frodo's eyes darted about the 
room in panic, but when they rested on Sam, recognition flared.  Just 
behind it, however, was rage.

"Get back!  Get back!"  Frodo hissed, his voice low and savage.  "You 
left me to them!  You took It and left me to the Orcs, and now you 
can just stay away from me!"  

Sam stopped short.  His heart shattered, and he could neither speak 
nor move.  Frodo's eyes blazed as they moved to Aragorn.  With a 
feral snarl he leapt at the armed Man.  Anduril rang on the stone 
floor as Aragorn caught the Ringbearer up in his arms, cradling him 
to his breast.  Frodo fought and kicked, shrieking.  With a berserk 
wrench he broke Aragorn's grasp and tumbled to the floor.  

His eyes changed again, and he looked up at the tall Man 
pitiably.  "If I do it, will you stop?"  he whimpered, and he drew 
apart Aragorn's dressing gown to run his lips up the Ranger's thigh.  
Aragorn gave a mighty shudder, but his hands were very gentle on the 
Ringbearer's shoulders.  "Tolo dan na ngalad!" he commanded in a 
clear ringing voice.  "Come back, Frodo Baggins.  Return to the 
Light!"

Frodo froze, and slowly drew his head back to look up into the face 
of the King.  Sanity returned to his eyes, then revulsion as he took 
in his posture.  With a sob he tore himself from under Aragorn's 
hands and stumbled into the corner, retching and weeping.  There he 
curled himself into a ball and trembled.

"Sam," said Gandalf, his voice tight with pain, "can you. . .?"

But Sam was already moving.  He skidded to a stop beside Frodo, 
gathering him in his arms, pressing his warm brown skin to Frodo's 
pale cold flesh.  His lips were in Frodo's hair, murmuring 
endearments as his tears flowed.  Frodo's sobs wracked his frail 
body.  "Forgive me, Sam!  Oh, forgive me!  How could I, oh Sam, what 
have I said?  What have I done?"

Sam stopped the keening with his own mouth, and gradually, slowly, 
Frodo's lips stilled, warmed, softened against his.  At length the 
tense body collapsed into Sam's lap.

Sam looked up, seeing Aragorn and Gandalf through the crystal wall of 
his tears.  Aragorn strode forward and covered them with a woolen 
coverlet.  Wrapping it warmly around both exhausted hobbits, he 
picked them up together in his strong arms and laid them gently on 
the bed.  Gandalf pulled a chair alongside the bed and took out his 
pipe.  "Go to sleep,"  he murmured, smiling faintly at Sam.  "I will 
keep the watch for you."

Frodo's swollen lids fluttered closed, and his breath gradually 
slowed into the steady rhythm of sleep.  Sam's eyes looked 
imploringly up into Gandalf's.  "I shall stay here," soothed the 
wizard.  "Sleep, Samwise.  You have done all you can for him 
today."   

When both hobbits were breathing evenly, Aragorn turned to go.  His 
eye caught a gleam.  Lying on the floor were two delicate circlets of 
silver.  

****

The next morning Aragorn summoned the hobbits and, with Gandalf, led 
them into the woods of Ithilien.  They walked up the stream until 
they could see the falls that concealed Henneth Annun.  Frodo 
shuddered, thinking he saw the spot where Gollum had fished.  He 
sighed deeply and tried to shake off his misery.

Gandalf spread a velvet cloak on the ground and they all sat under 
the trees.  After a long silence Frodo spoke abruptly, his voice 
ragged with strain.

"I suppose you want to know what they did to me?"

"I think we already know what they did to you, Frodo," said Gandalf 
very gently.  "What I want you to do is talk to us about it.  Mayhaps 
if you can bring the story out in words it will cease haunting your 
dreams."
 
Frodo looked long at the wizard: his father, his guide.  At length he 
gave an infinitesimal nod and fixed his eyes on a tiny flower at his 
feet.  

Taking a deep breath, he began to speak, haltingly at first, then 
tumbling out in frantic words.  He told of waking in the tower room 
atop Cirith Ungol, naked, surrounded by Orcs.  He spoke of their 
looting him, and searching his body roughly with horrid crawling 
fingers.  He told of their reeking breath and the hideous sound of 
the Black Speech in their foul mouths.  He repeated the threats they 
had made, the taunting descriptions of the tortures Sauron was 
planning for him.  And he told of being ravaged by them, his flesh 
tearing, his mind rent asunder.  Words of horror and loathing were 
torn from his lips as he spoke of the procession of Orcs invading 
him, plundering his very soul until, mercifully, he lost 
consciousness.

"The next thing I remember is hearing a song," he said faintly.  "I 
thought I was dying, and hearing the voices from the Blessed Realm.  
I tried to answer them, but an Orc appeared and lashed me with his 
whip.  Then, suddenly, the Orc turned into Sam!"  

Frodo raised his eyes for the first time, looking at Sam through the 
tears coursing down his cheeks.  "Can you ever forgive me, Sam?  I 
don't know how I could have accused you so.  I didn't mean it, I 
didn't!"

"Well, sir, I'm not so sure about that," replied Sam slowly.  "I 
reckon you're not far wrong in what you said.  It don't matter that I 
was mortal certain you were dead, and that I took the Ring that the 
Quest not fail, and made a vow to return and die beside you.  The 
fact of the matter is, I took It, and I left you to the Orcs."  Sam's 
lips trembled, but his voice was steady. "Can you forgive *me*, Mr. 
Frodo?"

"Oh, Sam!" wailed Frodo, and he launched himself at his beloved 
companion.  They went down together in a flurry of Elven-cloaks, and 
no coherent words emerged from the sobs for some moments.  

Gandalf's eyes filled, watching them.  He had made no mistake in 
choosing the Ringbearer's companion.  Sam's sturdy hobbit-sense, his 
unflinching honesty, and his unquenchable love were the balm Frodo 
needed.

But Frodo was not yet finished with his searing confession.  He 
extricated himself from Sam's arms, and stood to face them all.

"I am ashamed," he whispered.  Sam made to protest, but Gandalf 
stilled him with a hand on his arm.  "I am befouled, filthy, 
unspeakably vile.  The Orc-flesh has become my flesh, and I can never 
be clean.

"And you do not yet know the worst.  When you came for me, Sam, and 
rescued me, do you know what gave me the most comfort?"  Frodo's eyes 
were dry now, stark and grim.  None of the others spoke.  "The Ring," 
said Frodo, and he laughed, a harsh bitter bark.  "When I saw that 
you had saved the Ring, I could have pushed you into the Crack of 
Doom to get it back."  His voice sank to a whisper.  "And now It is 
in the Crack of Doom, and all inside me is dark and empty.  All that 
yet lives within me is the shame."

Gandalf did not speak for some time.  When he finally broke the 
silence, his voice was low and steady.  "There can be healing with 
this, Frodo.  But these wounds are deeper than those your flesh has 
endured, and," the wizard's eyes were very sad, "these wounds will 
never fully heal.  You will carry some of the darkness within you 
forever."

Frodo's lips trembled.  "As I lay on the floor of the tower room, 
with the Orcs grunting and squealing over me, I prayed for Elbereth 
to let me die.  How I wanted to die!  But it is my doom to live," he 
said, with a queer little laugh.  "It seems that ever the harder task 
is my lot."


the end



*A cold wind blows right through me and I'm made a hollow shell
There's nothing left, just ash remains
enrich the soil . . . no soul  . . . no soul
Close call, there in the shadows*

Sarah McLachlan	Out of the Shadows




Series:  Remembrance  2 / ?
Title:  First Interlude
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam; Merry/Pippin implied
Characters:  Frodo, Sam, Gandalf, Merry Pippin
Rating:  NC-17
Date completed:  21 June 2002
Warning:  graphic sex
Summary:  The relief of unburdening himself puts Frodo in a playful 
mood
Disclaimer:  No, no, they belong to JRRT & PJ.  I just write about 
them.  Actually, this one I'm not sure I even *wrote*  -- I just 
showed up at the keyboard and they taught me how it's done.
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archiving:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  I intended to write a soft little hobbit-cuddle, but 
Frodo & Sam had other ideas!

Remembrance 2/?

First Interlude 

'The hands of the King are the hands of healing. . . but you went to 
the 
very brink of death ere he recalled you. . . and though you have 
indeed 
slept long and blessedly, still it is now time to sleep again.'
*The Return of the King*  p 234

April 16, 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)
Ithilien

Gandalf's pipe crackled cozily, and the smoke rings he blew reminded 
Frodo dreamily of happy days in the Shire.  His mind took that thread 
and began to travel down the familiar path of memory to the 
inevitable darkness.  The Ring, the Council, the Fellowship.  Parth 
Galen.  The Dead Marshes.  The Black Gate.  Cirith Ungol. . .  His 
mind began to blacken, and he felt himself falling into the 
bottomless pit of despair. . . .

Sam recalled him,  hands cupping his face tenderly, his voice calling 
in a brave attempt at the old cheery greeting:  "Wake up, Mr. 
Frodo!"  

Frodo's eyes refocused, and there was Sam, and Gandalf, and Merry and 
Pippin lying together looking at the stars over Ithilien.  Sam's eyes 
were watchful but not anxious.  Sam was only too accustomed to 
recalling Frodo from his inner darkness.  

Frodo smiled up at him, letting his own eyes smoulder in a way he 
knew would make Sam squirm.  He was not disappointed.  The brown 
eyes 
shining down at him went smokey, and Sam's lap, where Frodo's head 
was resting, changed shape.   

Frodo laughed softly, but took pity on Sam.  He too was still 
somewhat shy in front of others.  To cool the moment he turned to 
Gandalf, and found the wizard looking at him with amusement and 
love.  "Feeling better, Frodo?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," replied Frodo, and to his surprise he realized that 
it was true.  Impulsively he scrambled from Sam's lap to where the 
wizard sat and threw his arms around him.  "Much better, thanks to 
you.  I wouldn't have believed that just talking could help so much."

"Talking about what, cousin?" called Merry.  

Frodo tensed, but replied steadily, "Talking about things that 
happened to me.  Gandalf prodded me into it" -- he smiled into the 
wizard's face -- "and he was right.  Somehow putting things into 
words helps them lose some of their power over me."

Gandalf looked keenly at him.  Frodo was far from completely healed; 
perhaps would never be completely healed.  Still, he rejoiced that 
Frodo was experiencing some respite, and could be merry and relaxed 
for the moment.

Frodo rolled back over to Sam's lap.  He snuggled his head into the 
lap, and darted a mischievous glance when Sam groaned very softly.  
Sam pulled a dark curl gently.  "Behave, you!" he whispered mock-
sternly.

Frodo's laughter welled up.  He couldn't help it.  The relief of 
spilling the poison that had been roiling in him so long was 
overwhelming.  He lunged his body up to peck a quick kiss on Sam's 
lips, then lay back in the familiar arms to watch the wind in the 
trees.

Merry was quiet, gently stroking Pippin's head as it rested on his 
shoulder.  It was a great relief to know that his cousin had accepted 
some of the healing Gandalf and Aragorn could offer him.  Frodo's 
darkness frightened Merry.  The haunted look in his eyes, the lines 
of pain on his face, the tensing of his entire body as if to ward off 
a blow.  Merry's eyes filled.  He had seen these things on Frodo's 
face, and knew them from within as well.

But now was not the time to speak of the darkness.  Catching Frodo's 
playful mood, he tickled Pippin's ear.  Pippin never needed much 
prompting for play, and in moments he was straddled atop Merry, 
tickling his ribs.  

Gandalf's joy rang out in laughter like silver trumpets.  "To think I 
have come through fire and water, through all the toils of the last 
battles of the Third Age, to watch hobbits playing children's games 
in the grass!"  But there was only love in his voice, and his gaze 
was very gentle, especially when he looked on Frodo and Sam.

Frodo's hand had come up to trace Sam's cheek, and Sam's eyes were 
glowing like stars as he looked down into the thin face in his lap.  
All his love, all his longing, were open on his honest face.  

Gandalf took pity on them.  "And now, young Shirelings-in-exile, I 
think it is time for bed.  Each of you is but newly recovered from 
grievous hurt."  All four pairs of eyes lit up at his suggestion, and 
Gandalf laughed softly.  "Sweet dreams," he called as they walked 
away, Merry's arm around Pippin's waist; Frodo and Sam hand in hand.

****

Frodo felt a swell of gratitude at Gandalf's understanding.  In the 
Houses of Healing he and Sam had been placed in beds next to each 
other, but when the herb-master discharged them Gandalf had seen that 
they were assigned a single bedchamber, with a single very large 
bed.  

Frodo knew he would not have survived his Journey but for Sam's arms 
to rest in.  And for many many weeks, even those sheltering arms had 
afforded Frodo no pleasure and little comfort.  The Spell of the 
Ring; the foul vapors of Mordor; the ordeal in Cirith Ungol. . . .  
Frodo felt himself slipping into the dark again, and shook himself.  
He looked up and saw Sam's eyes on him, alert, ready to rescue him 
from the dreamland of horror.

"How do you know when I need you Sam?"  he asked.  "I don't know 
myself what will trigger it, what will snag my soul and make me just -
- go away."

"I can't rightly say,"  mused Sam.  "Except that. . . well, I can 
only say that you're a part of me, Frodo, and when you begin to go 
away like that, as you call it, it's as if a part of me is leaving.  
I feel empty somehow, and I know I need to reach out and bring you 
back."

"You know I'm not leaving *you*, don't you Sam?" murmured Frodo.  "It 
doesn't mean that I love you any less.  It's just -- well, when I'm 
in that state, I can't be good for anyone else."

"Nor for yourself, begging your pardon," said Sam firmly.  "And I 
mean to be right here to call you back whenever you go away."

Frodo walked over to stand in front of Sam, putting his hands on the 
sturdy shoulders and looking straight into his eyes.  "And what if I 
were to leave and -- didn't come back?"

"I'd follow," said Sam simply.  

Frodo's eyes began to fill, but he could feel Sam's love and strength 
pouring into him and he shook off the melancholy.  "I've waited a 
long time to be able to love you properly, and I don't mean to darken 
it with worries," he said.  He began to unbutton Sam's shirt, but his 
fingers -- those that remained -- fumbled.  Quickly Sam took over, 
pulling up the shirttail and sliding his braces off his shoulders.  
Deftly he slipped the shirt off and stepped out of his breeches, then 
began to undress Frodo.

Frodo's eyes closed as Sam's fingers and lips played down his chest, 
stroking and nibbling as each button came undone.  By the time Sam 
reached the bottom buttons he was kneeling before Frodo, his face 
nuzzling his belly.  His tongue darted into Frodo's navel, and Frodo 
giggled.  "Stop that!"

"Stop?"  Sam looked up into his face, brows quizzical, eyes dark and 
smokey.  "Now you wouldn't really be meaning that, would you sir?"

Frodo yanked a sandy curl.  "You're teasing me!"

"Indeed I am," murmured Sam, "and I don't mean to stop anytime 
soon."  He undid the laces on Frodo's breeches, slid them down his 
legs and helped Frodo step out of them.  His arms went around Frodo's 
hips, and for a moment he just rested his head against the other's 
body, feeling the hardness begin to jump and quiver, breathing in the 
familiar musky fragrance in contentment.  Then he turned and softly 
took Frodo into his mouth.

Frodo's knees buckled, but Sam's arms were there, and he knit his 
fingers in Sam's sunlit curls, let his head fall back, and moaned 
deep in his throat.  The sensation was so much more than pleasure.  
It was rain after drought, feast after famine, life after death.  He 
felt the quivers begin deep in his belly, and with an effort he 
pulled himself away from the warm loving sheath of Sam's lips.  "Not 
so soon," he whispered raggedly.  

Sam grinned.  "Right you are, then,"  he said obligingly, and with a 
bound he sprang up, caught Frodo in his arms, and tossed him onto the 
huge bed.  Frodo squealed, scrambling onto his hands and knees to 
meet Sam as he leapt into the bed, making the eiderdown billow up 
around them.  Frodo pounced and began tickling Sam in all the places 
he remembered:  that spot under his ribs, and the spot over his 
collarbone, and that *special* spot right where his leg joined his 
hip -- Sam was laughing helplessly, but gasping as well.  Frodo 
pinned his shoulders to the soft mattress and straddled him, cupping 
Sam's face in his hands, his thumbs caressing the line on Sam's jaw 
that stood out when he was being stubborn.  His fingers slipped down 
into Sam's hair, holding the head fast, and he bent to kiss those 
lips, not square in the center, but teasingly, tantalizingly on the 
very corner.  Sam's head turned to meet the kiss but Frodo playfully 
pulled away and flicked his tongue across an eyebrow.  Sam groaned, 
still laughing, and tried to capture Frodo in his arms, but Frodo 
wriggled away, lithe as an eel.  "Oh no you don't, Samwise Gamgee.  
I'm not about to let you do all those things to me tonight!"

Sam looked up, startled.  "You're not?"  he said, and the surprise 
and trepidation in his voice renewed Frodo's giggles.

"No indeed, my lad," said Frodo.  He leaned forward to lick the tip 
of Sam's nose.  "Tonight, *I'm* going to do all those things to 
*you*."

"All of them?" said Sam faintly, which set them both to laughing 
again.

"All of them," replied Frodo firmly.  "So you may as well just 
surrender now.  I *will* have my way with you, Sam."

"Yes you will," agreed Sam, relaxing back on the bed.  His hands slid 
up Frodo's flanks, rough thumbs rubbing circles across soft nipples.  
Frodo shuddered, and fluttered his tongue across Sam's chest, laving 
the skin.  Frodo licked his fingers to tease the nipples into taut 
peaks as his lips moved up to the lovely swell of collarbone, along 
its exquisitely sensitive curve to the strong column of throat, 
humming now with Sam's breath.  He couldn't wait any longer, and his 
mouth took Sam's, tongue slipping between lips to plunder within.  He 
ran his tongue in the sensitive space between teeth and lips, and Sam 
moaned into his mouth.  When Frodo's mouth left his he whimpered, but 
Frodo knew just what he wanted to do.  Slowly he began a trail of 
kisses down Sam's body, revisiting the nipples that now stood proud, 
wetting the line of curly hair that led down to Sam's navel, and 
below.  Scooting down on the bed so that he was kneeling between 
Sam's thighs, he took the warm shaft in his mouth and cupped the twin 
globes in his hands.  

Sam's cry filled Frodo with exaltation.  The growling moans excited 
him unbearably, and he ground his own erection into Sam's thickly-
muscled thigh.  His fingers and tongue played music of love and 
comfort to the Sam who had brought so much love and comfort to him, 
and when Sam's seed spurt he took it in as an offering.

It was several moments before Sam could speak.  He reached down and 
tugged at a lock of Frodo's hair, telling him to come back up into 
his arms.  Frodo went gladly, sliding up along Sam's body, meeting 
chest to chest in a symphony of warm flesh.  "Frodo, ah, Elbereth, 
how I love you," breathed Sam, clasping the slight form to his 
breast.  He felt Frodo's erection quiver against his belly, and he 
smiled languidly.  "Not quite done yet, are we?"

Sam reached down between their bodies to clasp Frodo, but, feeling 
that he was almost there, he let go.  Frodo groaned, but Sam had his 
own plan.  He reached beside the bed for the tiny bottle of scented 
oil he had placed there earlier.

When Frodo saw the oil his eyes widened, and he jerked up.  "Sam!  I 
don't think I can. . ."  his eyes started to defocus again, and Sam 
caught his shoulders, calling him back.

"Please," Sam whispered.  "I need you in me.  Please."

Frodo looked down into the eyes of the person he loved most in the 
world and saw there only tenderness and longing.  His body was 
shaking at the thought of performing the act that had been done to 
him so brutally, but the memory of the brutality was washing away in 
the sweetness flowing from Sam's eyes.  Sam poured a puddle of oil 
onto his palm and annointed Frodo with it liberally.  Frodo almost 
went over the edge at the feel of Sam's oil-wet palm, but then Sam 
was shifting under him, wedging a bolster to support his hips, 
bringing his legs up to bare himself for Frodo's love.

Trembling, Frodo took his erection in his hand and guided it into 
Sam.  The oil slid deliciously as Frodo pressed slowly into Sam's 
warm velvet opening.  Sam's eyes went black with pleasure, then 
closed as he rode the sensation.  Propping himself on both arms, 
Frodo savored the clenching embrace and the complete surrender on 
Sam's face.  Slowly he pulled out, almost all the way, then very 
slowly pressed back in, all the way in, and again, and again, very 
slowly.  But now he was losing control and his hips took over their 
own rhythm.  Sam's arms were around him in a bruising grip, and his 
legs were locked high around Frodo's waist, and the only thing in the 
world was Sam, his tight heat, his enveloping limbs, his willing 
mouth.  Frodo screamed into Sam's mouth as he came.

Sam's head was cradled in the crook of Frodo's arm, one arm and leg 
thrown across Frodo.  "I love you," said Frodo very softly, but Sam 
was asleep.  Frodo held him, reveling in his weight, his warmth; 
glorying that he, Frodo, could accept this much love.

But still his eyes filled.  "I hope I never have to go where you 
can't follow," he whispered.

the end

*and it's 'coz you've thrilled me
silenced me, stilled me
proved things I never believed
Oh!  the face on you
the smell of you
will always be with me*

Sinead O'Connor	Three Babies



Series:  Remembrance  3 / ?
Title:  The Uruk-Hai
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairings:  Frodo/Sam, Merry/Pippin
Characters:  Frodo, Sam, Merry
Rating:  NC-17
Date completed:  23 June 2002
Warning:  rape, torture
Summary:  Protecting the one you love can be terrible
Disclaimer:  characters and premise not mine; writing mine
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archive:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  This one is for every survivor with smaller siblings.  "They 
took the little ones!"

Remembrance 3 / ?

Merry Remembers


Minas Tirith
April 27, 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)

" 'But these evils can be amended, so strong and gay a spirit is in 
him. His grief he will not forget; but it will not darken his heart, 
it will teach him wisdom.' "
The Return of the King, p 145


"Frodo, can I talk to you?"  

Frodo turned with a smile, but Merry's pleasant face wore a look of 
unaccustomed gravity.  Frodo pulled him to the stone seat on the 
tower and put an arm about him, though Merry was now significantly 
taller than he.  But the young Brandybuck was clearly in need of some 
comfort.  "You know I'm always ready for a talk, Merry.  There really 
are nothing like hobbits for a good talk."

But Merry's pleasant face was drawn with anxiety.  He sat heavily on 
the parapet, looking down at a space between his toes. Frodo felt a 
thrill of alarm.  "What is it, Merry?  Is something wrong with 
Pippin?"

At last the old smile returned, and Merry's eyes cleared.  "Nay, 
cousin, the young Took is carefree as ever.  No, it's me."

Frodo didn't speak.  He settled himself on the stone bench.  

Sam, never far away, approached them, then stopped as he saw their 
faces.  "Begging your pardons, I'll be leaving you. . ."

"No, Sam, it's all right,"  said Merry.  "I need to talk to Frodo, 
and I want you to hear it as well.  Won't you stay?  or. . . could we 
go inside?"  he added, looking a bit uneasily at the open courtyard 
nearby.

"Certainly.  Come on to our rooms, cousin Brandybuck.  They don't 
serve tea in Minas Tirith, but Sam and I have a private hoard, and 
we'll put the kettle on," said Frodo soothingly.

Sam bustled about the sumptuous suite of rooms, putting out seedcake 
and apples, and settling the kettle on a hook he had contrived in the 
massive fireplace.  Merry took one of the apples; last years' it was, 
a bit wrinkled, but still sound and sweet.  As he bit it and the good 
juice filled his mouth, answering tears filled his eyes.

Frodo and Sam looked at him with concern, but without alarm.  Tears 
were only too common in these early days after the Great War.  Joy 
was occasion for tears, and the tears of joy flowed easily; but for 
those doomed to have an integral part to play in the War of the Ring, 
tears still flowed for the grief and horror.  Both Ringbearers sensed 
that Merry's tears were not happy ones.  Frodo made himself as 
comfortable as possible in a carven chair far too large for a 
hobbit.  Sam glanced at a matching chair nearby, rejected it as too 
big and too far away from Frodo, and settled himself on the floor at 
Frodo's feet.  From this vantage he could scramble unobtrusively to 
the fireplace when the kettle came to its boil.

Merry sat in a chair opposite, and Frodo was amazed again at how tall 
his kinsman had become.  The chair was almost of a size for Merry; 
his legs dangled a mere inch off the floor.  

With a deep breath, Merry began.  "The other night, Frodo, in 
Ithilien, you were saying how Gandalf had got you to talking about 
things that happened to you."  Merry's eyes were on the fire so he 
didn't see Frodo stiffen.  Sam laid a warm comforting hand on his 
master's knee, and Frodo relaxed fractionally as he smiled down on 
his Sam.  Both were beginning to guess what might be coming.

"Well, I talked with Gandalf last night, and he helped me some, but 
he said I should talk with you about this,"  said Merry, and he 
hazarded a glance at Frodo.

Meriadoc was still not inured to the sight of his cousin.  Frodo had 
never been as stout as was usual for a hobbit, but now he was frankly 
thin.  His high cheekbones were too prominent, his luminous blue eyes 
sunk too deep under the ridges of his thick brows.  Merry's eyes 
fell, taking in the looseness of clothing over the narrow frame, and 
fell upon the right hand resting on Sam's head.  Usually Frodo 
contrived to hide his maimed hand in some manner, but now it was 
exposed, lying on his companion's sandy curls.  Merry's breath caught 
in a sob. "Oh, Frodo, I don't want to add to your trouble!  You've 
been through too much,"  he wailed.  "But Gandalf told me it would 
help you to hear my story, so. . ."

Frodo's brow creased.  "Help me?"  he said.  "Help me what?"  Sam 
glanced up at him, but Frodo seemed genuinely puzzled.  

"Help you come to terms with the things that happened to you,"  said 
Merry.  Frodo went rigid, but Merry didn't notice.  "Gandalf told me 
about. . . well, he didn't tell me any details, but he told me the 
Orcs . . .  tortured you, when they had you up there in that tower."

"Cirith Ungol,"  murmured Frodo, his voice hollow.  Sam darted a 
glance of concern, but Frodo's eyes were still his own.  Often 
lately, a chance word or snag of memory would capture Frodo and 
compel him back into the Shadow that had held sway over his soul for 
so long.  But Frodo did not need rescue, not yet.  The blue eyes came 
up, and there was a spark of anger in them.  "What did Gandalf tell 
you, and by what right did he betray my confidence?"  he asked 
sharply.

Merry looked up in surprise.  Frodo's years as *the* Mr. Baggins of 
Bag End had given him presence, but since his Quest he seemed to have 
adopted an authority that could, at times, be peremptory.  Now, 
seeing the austere lines of the once-familiar face, Merry was 
reminded that the Frodo who grew up in Brandy Hall was no more.  This 
hobbit was the Ringbearer, and his mien had, at times, an air of 
regal aloofness that he was sure Frodo was totally unaware of.  His 
greatness was unconscious, and the greater for it.   

"Why, nothing specific, Frodo,"  he said, determined not to be 
intimidated by this remarkable being who was still his cousin.  "He 
just told me that . . ." Merry's voice dropped, and he focused on the 
hands twisting in his lap, "that you had been. . . tortured. . . 
too."  

The last word was so low that Frodo would not have caught it had he 
not been expecting it.  His eyes were immediately alert, his voice 
gentle.  "Yes, Merry," he replied steadily.  "When I was captured in 
Cirith Ungol"  -- Sam stirred, and Frodo stroked his cheek -- "the 
Orcs tortured me.  They weren't trying to learn anything.  The task 
of extracting information would have taken place in Barad-Dur."  
Frodo's voice was still steady.  "But it is the manner of the Orc to 
love suffering, and they tormented me purely for their own 
amusement."  The last word caught in his throat, and Merry looked up.

"Amusement," he breathed.  "So you *do* know."  Frodo looked at him, 
startled.  "Orcs are cruel by nature," said Merry slowly, "but some 
tortures are more horrible than others."

Merry leapt to his feet and began to pace the room, his uniform cloak 
billowing.  Both Frodo and Sam realized that he did not want to look 
at them during his confession, but they kept watchful eyes on the 
tense figure.

"They took us from Amon Hen," began Merry -- Frodo stirred, and Sam 
pressed a kiss on  his knee -- "and I suppose I was knocked on the 
head, for the next thing I remember was waking to a nightmare.  My 
hands were tied, and strung through my arms was an Orc's head.  He 
was hideous, and his claws dug into my arms, and my jaw was rubbed 
raw against his hairy jowl, and my legs ached from dangling as he ran 
with me.  We ran and we ran.  Forever, it seems, though it couldn't 
have been more than a day or so.  Even Orcs must stop sometime for 
their foul food; and for. . . amusement.

"I couldn't see Pippin!" Merry cried in anguish.  I didn't know where 
he was!  I kept craning my neck, looking for him, but all I saw was 
Orcs.  Orcs all around me.

"We finally made a camp of sorts, and Ugluk -- he was the leader of 
the Orthanc band of Orcs -- smeared something on my head."  Merry's 
hand unconsciously traced the scar on his forehead.  "It burned 
horribly, but I suppose it didn't do me any lasting harm.  They 
didn't want me dead, they wanted me alive and in good condition for 
interrogation.

"They had orders not to kill hobbits, I suppose.  By that time 
Saruman, not to mention Sauron, would have known that a hobbit had 
the Ring, and I suppose that Ugluk and Grisnakh -- he was the leader 
of the Orc band from Mordor -- thought they had captured a rare 
prize.  Or Grishnakh thought so anyway.  I don't think Ugluk ever 
really knew what his master was after, but Grishnakh knew.  He knew."

Merry's voice trailed off.  He was standing in front of the fire, 
staring unseeingly into the flames.  His body was tense as a bow, and 
his voice was ragged with strain.

"At the second camp I finally saw Pippin.  Yes, that's when 
Ugluk 'tended' my wound -- I get confused about the days," he said 
plaintively, and Frodo hummed encouragement.  "But it was then, the 
second stop, on the cliff near the waterfall, that I saw Pippin.  My 
heart almost burst from my chest in relief, for he was alright -- 
battered and bruised, but alright.  Ugluk wouldn't let us talk, of 
course, but seeing him alive was all I needed."  

Tears had begun to stream down Merry's face, but his voice remained 
steady.  "After that, when Pippin and I were conscious again, they 
made us run.  They wouldn't let Pippin and I run together, but if I 
glanced in just the right direction at just the right angle I could 
see him.  It kept me alive and on my feet.

"I almost died of fright when Pippin made his break.  One moment he 
was there, running with the Orcs, and the next he was away, running 
across the ground."  Merry whirled and faced them, his eyes 
desolate.  "I know now that he was only trying to leave some prints 
for Strider to follow, and drop his brooch as a token, but for a 
moment I thought. . ."  his voice trailed off, and when it resumed it 
was hollow, "I thought he was escaping.  Leaving.  Leaving me alone 
with the Orcs."

Sam's breath caught raggedly in his throat, and Merry glanced at 
him.  With a visible effort, Sam spoke.  "I did that, Master Merry.  
I left Mr. Frodo.  I left him alone with the Orcs."  His voice was 
tight but clear.  "It don't matter that it was the right thing to do, 
looking back now in hindsight.  It don't matter that I did it because 
I was mortal certain that he was dead."  Even now Sam's voice did not 
falter.  "What matters is I did it.  I left him to the Orcs."  
Frodo's fingers -- only four -- played soothingly in Sam's sunlit 
curls, but he didn't interrupt.  He was learning about the lancing of 
wounds, and this was Sam's demon to exorcise.  

Merry stared.  He knew Frodo had terrible memories, but it had not 
occurred to him that Sam had nightmares to cope with as well.  The 
shame and self-reproach on Sam's honest face was consoling somehow, 
and with a deep breath, Merry continued.

"Pippin didn't get away, of course.  They caught him right smartly, 
and Ugluk--" Merry's voice choked -- "Ugluk whipped him.  But I . . . 
I was relieved.  Relieved!  I was *glad* they caught him, because it 
meant I wouldn't be alone with the Orcs!"

Merry's voice was a low wail of shame, and he dropped his face in his 
hands.  Frodo's eyes were soft with compassion. It was some moments 
before Merry was able to continue his story.

"We ran on.  When Pippin or I would stumble or collapse, we'd be 
picked up and carried like a bag.  I have no idea how far we ran.  It 
was all an evil dream.  It wasn't until morning that we stopped 
again.  The Orcs were quarrelling among themselves.  The Isengarders 
were the ones who had captured us, and their orders were to take us 
to Orthanc, but Grishnakh and his gang wanted to take us south, to 
Lugburz."  Merry shuddered.  "I'm not clear on what all happened, but 
Ugluk and his Isengard Orcs won the argument, and that put Grishnakh 
into a truly evil mood."

Here Merry's voice faltered, and he returned to his chair, settling 
himself into it carefully, as if he was unsure of how his limbs would 
work.  His eyes were dark now, and distant.  

Frodo shivered.  Was this how *he* looked when he made his visits 
back to the Land of Shadow within his heart?  It was terrifying.  The 
very air seemed darker, and Frodo could hear the snarl of Orc voices, 
mouthing their foul speech.  He could see the bent, bow-legged shapes 
of Orc bodies.  His vision began to recede and he recognized with 
despair that he was returning to his waking nightmare.  But Sam, ever 
alert to his master's mood, grasped his hand -- the left one -- and 
kissed it.  Abruptly Frodo returned to the castle room, and smiled 
faintly down at Sam, who relaxed but kept Frodo's hand in his, 
stroking it.  Frodo was grateful for the anchoring contact.

Merry resumed painfully.  "We stopped there for only a few moments I 
suppose.  Even now I'm not sure how it happened, but I found myself 
down on the banks of the river, alone with Grisnakh.  He was. . ." 
Merry swallowed. ". . . he wanted me alone.  He wanted. . ."

Merry bit his lip, took a deep breath, and said steadily, "Grisnakh 
opened his breeches, grabbed me by the hair, and shoved my face 
against his groin.  He wasn't hard; it was soft and horrible, but he 
forced me to suck on him."  Merry looked squarely at his friends for 
the first time.  "Do you know *how* he forced me?"  Frodo and Sam did 
not stir.  "He told me that if I did it, if I sucked him well, then 
he would. . ." Merry's voice trailed to a whisper, "he would leave 
Pippin alone."

Tears returned to the burning eyes, and Merry finished the ugly story 
in a rush.  "It went on forever,  forever.  He kept cuffing me and 
telling me to go faster, that Ugluk would catch us.  Finally, 
finally, he came. . . and smeared it all over my face.  'There's a 
reminder for you, maggot,' he sneered.  'Just remember -- if you put 
one foot wrong your little friend will have a taste of me too!'  His 
laugh was horrible.

"We went back to running -- or *they* did.  They carried Pippin and I 
slung on their backs.  I suppose they felt the need for haste and 
were willing even to forgo the pleasure of seeing us stagger in 
exhaustion.  

"It was nearing evening when I saw the Riders.  They herded our band 
of Orcs like sheep, but didn't bring them to battle.  At last we were 
surrounded, on the very eaves of Fangorn Forest.  Ugluk ordered our 
legs to be bound -- and very tightly it was done, too -- but for the 
first time Pippin and I were close together.  We were kicked when we 
tried to talk, but it was enough to be next to him.  I wouldn't have 
wanted to talk just then anyway," Merry finished in a whisper.

"No," murmured Frodo.  "Just having him near. . ." Sam laid his head 
on Frodo's knee, and Frodo stroked the brown cheek very softly. When 
Frodo spoke it was to Sam, not Merry.

"I didn't expect you to rescue me," and at Sam's indignant glare, 
Frodo smiled.  "It never occurred to me that you were alive.  I was 
unable to believe that *anyone* was left alive in the world except 
for me, and the Orcs.  And for hours and hours and hours, we *were* 
the only ones alive. . ."  Frodo's voice started to fade, but he 
caught himself back.  "Then there was the song, Sam, and then 
Snaga's  whip. . .and then *you*.  You, Sam, holding me in your 
arms.  I would have thought it was a dream, but by then I knew that 
all dreams were horrible."

Merry was looking at Frodo, and there was a special companionship in 
his gaze.  "You *do* know,"  he whispered.  "You *do* know," and he 
burst into tears.  Frodo and Sam let him weep, and at length he spoke 
again.

"When night fell, the Horsemen were closing in, and the Orcs were 
quarrelling horribly among themselves.  That's when Grishnakh saw his 
chance.  He grabbed up Pippin and me under his arms like faggots of 
wood, and carried us away from the firelight.  I thought. . . I 
thought he was going to . . ." Merry's voice faltered,  "I couldn't 
have borne . . . .  But all he wanted was the Ring."  Merry's laugh 
was sudden, unexpected.  "*All* he wanted . . . but I was so 
relieved.  Because maybe I *could* keep my Pippin safe.  Maybe, just 
maybe, Pippin would not have to do what I had. . ."

Merry swallowed, shook his head a little.  "Well, then.  Pippin 
caught on to Grishnakh's game before I did -- probably because he 
didn't know Grishnakh had other uses for hobbits -- and he was so 
clever!  He taunted Grishnakh, and led him into believing we had the 
Ring, and then, just when I thought he was going to take us off and 
have us all to himself, the arrow came, and then the Rider speared 
Grishnakh."  Merry turned to them fiercely.  "I could have licked his 
blood with relish,"  he said in a low, savage voice.  "But I was too 
filled with joy.  Because now Pippin was safe."

At last Merry broke down utterly.  Frodo rose and, taking Merry's 
hand, he pulled his distraught kinsman to the bed.  Beckoning to Sam, 
he laid Merry down between them, his and Sam's bodies sheltering, 
warming, soothing Merry's stalwart frame, wracked now by sobs.  For a 
long, long time the three hobbits lay in the sumptuous linen sheets, 
surrounded by every luxury in the King's House of Minas Tirith, 
walking their private paths of darkness and horror.  At length 
Merry's sobs faded to gasping hiccups, then his breath slowed and 
evened out as he fell into exhausted sleep.  Frodo and Sam drowsed as 
well.

When Frodo woke he saw Merry's eyes inches from his own, and the eyes 
were clear again, unshadowed by ghosts of memory.  He smiled into the 
well-loved face and hugged his cousin.  He felt Sam's arms from 
Merry's other side, and Merry gasped.  "I'm quite alright now," he 
laughed.  "There's no need to squeeze the breath from me!"

The three hobbits rose, and Sam set about brewing a fresh pot of 
tea.  As they sipped it, Merry smiled at them gratefully.  "It *does* 
help," he said.  "Talking, I mean.  I didn't want to, but Gandalf 
insisted.  And Gandalf kept saying that *you* needed to hear my 
story, Frodo."  Merry's eyes were grave with concern.  "I haven't 
hurt you, have I?  Hearing this hasn't made your own memories 
more. . ."  He stopped, having no words, but Frodo smiled.  

"No, cousin Brandybuck, you haven't hurt me.  I think maybe it helps 
most to talk about these things with people who really understand."  
He laughed queerly.  "It will be hard, you know, going home.  No one 
back in the Shire will ever really understand."

"Nay, and they needn't," said Sam stoutly.  "We've one another, and 
we understand each other just fine.  Now, Mr. Merry," he continued, 
turning to Merry.  Merry glared at him, and Sam grinned.  "Alright, 
*Merry*.  It's going to take a heap of explaining, just that,"  he 
mused.  "Folks back home will think I'm getting above my station.  
But there it is.  Those of us what has been there understand, and 
that's enough."  His voice rang with conviction, but his glance at 
Frodo was troubled, sensing his master's disquietude.

Merry did not perceive it.  His face was clear and youthful 
again.  "Do you know," he said mischievously, "it has been very 
difficult for me to make love with Pippin since that happened.  Was 
it like that for you too?" he inquired, but seeing their faces he 
laughed.  "Seems it was, but you're working it out, eh?  Well," and 
he pushed himself to his feet, "It's long after lights-out in the 
barracks, but I know a certain Knight of the City who may not yet be 
asleep.  Or if he is," Merry continued, brightening more, "I think 
I'll just wake him up!" 

Sam laughed, and Frodo smiled.  "Give him our love," he called after 
Merry's eagerly retreating form.  

Merry grinned over his shoulder.  "I think *my* love will be quite 
enough for tonight, but I'll get to yours," he said, and he was gone.

Frodo sat, eyes veiled, cradling his cooling cup of tea.  The left 
hand, curling about the mug, idly stroked the gap on his right hand 
where the third finger had been.  Sam recognized his mood -- dark, 
but not dangerous -- and puttered softly around the room, tidying the 
remnants of the barely-touched tea.  Then he gently took the cup from 
Frodo and clasped both his hands.  "Time for bed," he said.


the end



Series:  Remembrance  4 / ?
Title:  Second Interlude:  Spreading Darkness
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairings:  Frodo/Sam
Characters:  Frodo, Sam
Rating:  NC-17
Date completed:  25 June 2002
Warning:  H/NC
Summary:  Frodo finds his memories interfere with lovemaking
Disclaimer:  Frodo and Sam do not belong to me.  I belong to them.  
The writing, however, is mine
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archive:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  How does a victim keep from becoming a perpetrator?

Remembrance 4 / ?

Second Interlude


Minas Tirith
April 28, 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)


" 'I doubt very much,' [Glorfindel] said,
'if your friends would be in danger if you were not with them . . . 
It is you, Frodo, and that which you bear that brings us all in 
peril.' "
Fellowship of the Ring, p 223



In the dark hour before morning, Sam woke alone in the big bed.  
After an instant of panic he saw Frodo standing at the window of 
their chamber.  The starlight made of him a statue of alabaster, the 
smooth pallor of his skin accentuated by the mop of inky curls.  But 
there were lines of strain across the shoulders, and Sam's brow 
creased worriedly.  "Is something the matter Frodo dear?"  he called 
softly.  "Wouldn't you like to come back to bed?  You'll catch a 
chill standing there."

Frodo turned.  "Alright, Sam," he said, his voice flat.  He slid 
under the coverlet and took Sam in his arms, but there was no 
tenderness in his embrace.  

Sam stroked his fingers down Frodo's face, cradling the jaw in his 
hands.  "What's worrying you me darlin?" he whispered.  

Frodo's harsh laugh splintered the darkness.  "Nothing, Sam."  He 
reached down to Sam's groin and grasped him, almost roughly.  "Let's 
make love, shall we?"

Troubled, Sam began to stroke Frodo's back, but Frodo's hands were 
peremptory, abrupt.   His left hand stroked Sam's rising erection 
while the right wandered across Sam's chest.  In spite of his 
uneasiness, Sam felt passion rising; he couldn't help it, not with 
Frodo in his arms.   He tried to capture Frodo's mouth for a kiss, 
but Frodo pulled away and sucked almost savagely at Sam's neck.  

Then Frodo's hand -- the right one -- reached for his nipple.  
Seizing the tender nub between his second and fourth fingers, Frodo 
twisted it sharply.  Sam gasped.  "Ouch!" he cried.

Frodo's eyes turned up to him, pupils enormous, only a thin rim of 
the lambent blue visible.  "Will you do that to me, Sam?" he asked 
softly.  " Please?"

Sam began to tremble.  "I don't *want* to hurt you," he whispered.  

Frodo's eyes went blank.  "All right then," he said, and his lips 
began to slide down Sam's chest.  

When he took Sam into his mouth, Sam sighed, his pleasure returning.  
For a few blissful moments he rode on the waves of sensation; but 
there was still something wrong.  Frodo was taking him *too* deeply, 
gagging.  Sam raised his head and saw Frodo's face, intent with dark 
purpose, tears starting from his eyes, choking himself on Sam's body.

As if sensing Sam's protest, Frodo raised himself and slid one leg 
over Sam's loins.  Sam was surprised:  since the terrible events in 
Cirith Ungol Frodo had not taken Sam into himself; Sam had suspected 
he might never be able to perform that act of love again.  He was 
perplexed at Frodo's abrupt manner, and troubled by his mood, but he 
reached to the bedside table for the little vial of scented oil.

Frodo struck it from his hand and, holding Sam fast, began to force 
himself down onto him.  A long hiss of pain issued from his lips at 
the abrasive chafing of too-dry tissues, and a repellant exaltation 
shone in his eyes, rendering his face more unlovely than Sam could 
have believed possible.

Suddenly Sam was furious.  He lifted Frodo and laid him roughly on 
the bed.  

"Now this won't continue!" he cried indignantly.  "I say I don't want 
to hurt you, and then you use me to hurt yourself!  I won't have it, 
I tell you."  But at the sight of Frodo's face, pale and vacant, his 
anger fled.  "What's troubling you, my love?" he whispered.  "Can't 
you tell your Sam?  And don't say 'nothing'", he added quickly, 
seeing the automatic denial in Frodo's face, "because there's 
*something* going on here.  You're not yourself, sir."

The flick of formality brought Frodo's head up, eyes clearing of 
their dark mists, and he looked straight at Sam.  Sam's face was 
grave, concerned, intent, but there was no censure there, no 
judgment, no blame.  All the blame was within *him*, Frodo realized, 
and he sighed.  Sometimes he longed for others to revile him.  It 
would be a relief to hear the words of accusation spoken aloud.  
Perhaps then the invective would not be so loud inside his head.

Frodo rolled away, clasping his hands under his head and raising a 
knee as a further barrier.  The posture was deceptively casual.  "Do 
you know *why* Merry was tortured?" he asked mildly.  His tone was 
light, conversational; but some malignant purpose lurked beneath his 
voice.  

Sam felt the hair rise on his nape.  "Because that's what Orcs do," 
he said.  "Please, Frodo, you're not making sense."

Frodo turned his face to Sam, an eerie smile twisting his 
lips.  "That's right, Sam, you weren't there.  I forgot that you 
didn't know.  Would you like to hear *why* Merry was captured by the 
Orcs?"

Sam felt a thrill of dread shimmer up his spine.  Frodo had told him 
only the barest facts about that terrible day on Amon Hen.  Never had 
he spoken of Merry's and Pippin's part on that day.  Sam had not 
supposed Frodo knew what had happened to his kinsmen until they were 
reunited at the Fields of Cormallen.  Now, his heart heavy with 
foreboding, Sam settled himself cross-legged in the centre of the bed 
so he could watch Frodo carefully.  "Tell me then," he said.

"After I escaped from Boromir, I saw a vision," Frodo began.  "I saw 
Barad-Dur, and I saw thousands and thousands of Orcs massing at its 
gates, and I saw the Eye, and It almost saw me."  His voice trailed 
off, and his right hand wandered to his breast, seeking That which 
was gone forever.  Catching himself, he pinned the mutilated hand 
under his head again and resumed.  "I had just wits enough to pull 
the Ring off before the Eye found me, and I fell from the stone, and 
as I lay there gasping, Aragorn found me.

"I ran from him, Sam.  All I could think was that the Ring was 
destroying all the Fellowship.  I knew, I *knew* that Aragorn would 
try to take It from me.  So I . . . I tempted him.  'Would *you* 
destroy It?' I taunted, and I held It out to him."

Here Frodo's face softened a bit.  "Aragorn knelt at my feet, and 
closed my hand round the Ring, and pushed it away.  Then he sent me 
to Mordor alone -- with his blessing."  His eyes glinted at 
Sam.  "Which is more than *you* were able to do."  Sam mustered a 
tiny smile.  They had been over this ground many times.

"Just then," Frodo continued, "Aragorn saw that Sting was glowing.  
He sent me flying down the hill while he held off a whole company of 
Orcs.  

"I ran down the hill, tripping and stumbling, and took cover behind a 
tree as dozens of huge Orcs pounded by.  Then I heard a whisper.  It 
was Merry, and Pippin.  They were hiding in a tiny cave, and they 
called to me to join them, to hide with them, to be safe."

Frodo's face twisted with the pain of the moment, feeling it 
again.  "I couldn't even speak," he said. "I just shook my head.  And 
Merry . . . Merry understood.  He knew I was leaving, and he knew why.

"Pippin leaped up -- just in time to see a company of Orcs bearing 
down on them.  And Merry. . . . he said. . ." Frodo's voice 
quavered.  "He said 'Go, Frodo!', and then he began *shouting*.  He 
shouted and waved until the Orcs saw him, and then he and Pippin ran 
away, drawing the Orcs away from *me*."

Frodo sat up abruptly, grasping his hair in both hands and pulling it 
savagely.  "It's my fault!"  he keened.  "They were captured 
protecting *me*!  It's because of *me* that Merry was tortured!  It's 
all because of *me*!  His ragged nails left red wheals as he clawed 
his skin in a paroxysm of self-loathing.  "I knew, way back in 
Lorien, what I had to do, but I was too afraid to do it.  I knew that 
I had to go on alone.  But I couldn't.  I was too cowardly. And 
because of my cowardice, Boromir was tempted into dishonor and lured 
into death.  Because of my cowardice, Merry and Pippin were captured 
by the Orcs and tortured.  Ai!  My little cousin Merry, used by that 
horrible Orc!  And all because of *me*!"

Sam tried to bite back the automatic protest that rose to his lips.  
He knew that argument at this stage was worse than futile.  In the 
strictest sense, Frodo was right.  All of their travails had come 
about because they were protecting him, the Ringbearer.  But he could 
not remain silent.

"Now I can't let this be staying as you leave it, sir," he began 
earnestly, "when you know good and well that every one of us in the 
Fellowship was with you because we love you.  Don't you remember what 
Merry said at Crickhollow?  He said 'you can't trust us to let you 
face trouble alone'.  And in Rivendell, both Merry and Pippin took on 
terrible when Master Elrond said they wasn't to go.  And even Gandalf 
took their part.  Don't you remember what he said, that you should 
trust to friendship rather than to wisdom?  And it seems to me you're 
not trusting in neither just now, begging your pardon.

"This about blaming yourself for what happened to Merry is just not 
right.  You know Merry doesn't feel that way, he doesn't!  He came 
with the Fellowship because he loves you.  And he did what he did at 
Amon Hen because he loves you.  And he loves you now."

Frodo's frenzy had calmed, and he was staring at Sam.  Sam gulped and 
continued.

"Frodo, I'm hoping you'll excuse me for saying this, but if you're 
thinking you could have managed this Quest without the rest of the 
Fellowship, well, you're just flat wrong.  And none of us -- nay, not 
even Boromir! -- would have wanted not to be a part of what you've 
done."

Frodo swirled from the bed to pace the stone-flagged chamber.  
Moonlight glinted in his hair, and shone on his fine skin, and made 
the small scar on his left shoulder shine with a cold light.  At 
length he halted, staring into the embers of the fire.  Again Sam saw 
the maimed right hand grope unconsciously for the Ring, then fall 
back.

And Sam knew suddenly, with a knowledge that wrung his heart, that 
the Ringbearer would always Bear the Ring; could never rescind his 
claim on It.

Sam slipped from the bed and approached the unyielding form of his 
beloved.  Brushing away an inky curl, he kissed Frodo softly in the 
hollow of his throat, just above the cold scar of the Morgul-blade.  
Slowly, barely touching, Sam trailed tiny kisses up the white column 
of throat.  At last he cradled his master's face in his hands and 
gently pressed his lips to the burning dry eyelids.  Frodo's rigid 
spine slumped, and he allowed himself to sag into Sam's strong 
arms.   Sam lifted him, laid him in the bed, and rocked him very 
tenderly until, finally, Frodo slept.


the end


*Like a baby being born
like a beast with its horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me

But I swear by this song
and by all that I have done wrong
that I will make it all up to thee*

Bird on a Wire


Series:  Remembrance  5 / ?
Title:  Memories of Sam
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairings:  Frodo/Sam
Characters:  Frodo, Sam
Rating:  NC-17
Date completed:  1 July 2002
Summary:  Frodo murmurs over a sleeping Sam
Disclaimer:  Frodo and Sam:  not mine, more's the pity.  This f/s:  
mine
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archive:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  Writing in 1st-person Frodo is *intoxicating*!  And 
hearing Frodo's POV has opened my eyes to Sam.  MMMmmmmmm.

Remembrance 5/?


Memories of Sam

April 28, 1419 (in the Shire Reckoning)
Minas Tirith

". . . such was the virtue of the land of Rivendell that soon all 
fear and anxiety was lifted from their minds.  The future, good or 
ill, was not forgotten, but ceased to have any power over the 
present."
FotR, p 287





I awake in your arms.

I haven't slept long.  It was near dawn when you cradled me to sleep, 
and the light on your face now is still that of early morning.  Yet I 
have slept well, and feel refreshed.

My face burns.  Touching it, I discover the swollen wheals left by my 
own fingernails, clawing at myself in the frenzy of the Ringspell.

My beloved, do you know, as I do, that I will never be free?  Yes, of 
course you do.  Your wisdom is sure, especially as it regards me.

But I cannot allow the Spell to haunt me constantly.  I cannot ever 
be rid of it, so it is my responsibility to see that its darkness 
does not poison you – poison *us*. 

 I should leave you, of course.  You deserve so much better.  But I 
cannot.  

How often I have tried!  I tried to leave you in Hobbiton, and again 
at Crickhollow.   Gandalf defeated me there, and the loving 
Conspiracy.  I tried to leave you at Rivendell – ah, I should have 
left you then! – but Elrond took your case and sent you with me.  I 
almost did leave you at Parth Galen.  Elbereth guided you there, Sam, 
for if I had succeeded in leaving you then, the Quest would surely 
have failed and we would all be in the Darkness now.  You know that, 
don't you?  *You* are the reason that the Quest succeeded.  You, 
Sam.  *I* could never have done it.

And the last time I tried to leave you was at Sammath Naur.  I 
wanted – oh how I wanted! – to follow my Precious into the Cracks of 
Doom.  But you thwarted me again.  You thwarted me simply by being 
there.  I saw you, silhouetted against the Fire, and I saw *life*.  I 
saw the joy in your face as you fell to your knees before me and I 
saw *life*.   And you would not let me turn away from it, turn away 
from life. 

So, I must accept my fate.  I cannot leave you.  Would that all fates 
to which I am doomed were so joyous!  But, if I cannot leave you, I 
must live.  For you.  I must fight the Ringspell when it threatens to 
overwhelm me and burn a rift between us.  

Last night's Spell was terrible.  *[are they getting worse rather 
than better?  oh no please no!]*   I have been wounded by knife, 
sting, tooth, and . . . memory.  But the sorest wounds are those I 
inflict on myself.  When I think of the suffering Merry went through 
my heart shatters, and I feel the dark well of shame and guilt 
threaten to engulf me utterly.

No.  I won't.  Today, I am *here*, with you.

To break the Spell I indulge in my favorite game:  Memories of Sam.  
This game, where I play your face and your words in my mind, has kept 
me alive so many times.  The only place the Game did not work was in 
Cirith Ungol.  I would not take you there with me, Sam.  Better that 
I be alone than take you *there*.

No.  I will not slip into the darkness this morning.  

Memories of Sam . . .

When we met you were still a baby, only 9 years old to my lofty 21.  
Yet even then you were the stronger.  I was orphaned the same year 
you were born (born for me?!)  and had spent those nine years alone 
and lonely within the bustle of Brandy Hall.  When Bilbo adopted me 
and I moved to Bag End it was like light coming out from behind a 
cloud.  At last I had peace, and solitude, and quiet, thoughtful 
conversation.  

And I had you.

You were there with your Gaffer, that first day.  I remember!  Do 
you?  the first time we met?  I remember!  You were squatting beside 
a primrose bush, gently ministering to it.  Your hands were still 
dimpled with childhood, but already growing strong and brown and 
capable.  How I loved them!  How I love them now.

How I loved you!  I thought I had found a baby brother.  Little did I 
know I had found my self, my salvation.  I spoiled you, indulged you, 
giving you sweets and taking you on walks and sitting long hours with 
you in the orchards, both of us content merely to be together.  I 
think your Gaffer was a bit puzzled, but he indulged you too (how 
could anyone resist spoiling the adorable butterball that was little 
Sam!), and never protested when your hours with me took you from your 
chores  at Bagshot Row.  

I remember -- oh, so vividly -- the first time I realized I *wanted* 
you.  It was at the big Birthday Party, when Bilbo left.  The 
merrymaking was at its height, and I was a little tipsy with ale and 
laughter, and I saw Rosie dancing near you and flirting with you over 
her shoulder.  I caught you up and propelled you into her arms, 
laughing at your shyness.  But, as you danced away with Rosie in your 
arms, a shaft of pain went through me.  At the time I was totally 
perplexed, but now I know.  *I* wanted to be the one in your arms.

Why did it take me so long to act on my feelings, my dearest Sam?  
What a fool I was!  How many years we could have had at Bag End in 
quiet joy, before all this agony came to tear our hearts apart.  

Yet, maybe that was not to be.  Maybe our love required pain and toil 
to forge it strongly.  Still, I wish . . . .

But that is futile.  For seventeen years, Sam, I resisted the pull of 
your arms, your lips.  At times it was agony.  I would watch you in 
the garden, your hair glinting in the sunlight, your arms brown and 
corded with muscle, your skin gleaming with the sweat of honest 
labor – labor for *me* – and I would feel an answering sweat break 
out in the small of my back.  Ai!  how I suffered!  

I was convinced, of course, that my love for you was wrong.  Not 
because love between lads is wrong – I had Bilbo & Gandalf's example 
of the sweetness of such love -- but because I was your Master, and 
you in my service.  I honestly believed that, if I made my feelings 
known, you would reciprocate merely out of *obligation*.  Yes, 
laugh!  I laugh myself, when the pain of regret allows me to.  How 
could I have thought you so foolish and so petty?

But there it is again.  Consistently, all through the years, I have 
undervalued you and your love for me.  Ah, Sam, if only you could 
have someone worthy of you!  But you are doomed to loving me, and I 
must make the best of myself for your sake.

And there I go again on dark trails.  Will they ever lead me from the 
sunlight?

Memories of Sam . . . . 

Ah, I have it.  The first time we made love.  

Perhaps *that* is why we had to wait, so our first loving could take 
place in the perfect place – Rivendell.  Where better for perfect 
love to be perfectly consummated than in the Last Homely House?  

I awoke from the Darkness of the Morgul-wound (and I will not 
remember the Darkness, I *will not*), disoriented and 
confused.  `Where am I?' I asked, `and what is the time?'  And my 
next question – what else? – was `Where's Sam?'

As if I didn't know.  You had been beside me every moment through my 
illness.  Even the Elves of Rivendell could not lure you from my 
side, except when Gandalf or Elrond insisted you must sleep.  How 
cruel that they had sent you away just before I woke!  If only I 
could have woken to see your eyes – but then I would have truly 
thought myself dead, and in the Blessed Realm.  

The Feast celebrating the victory at the Ford of Bruinen was that 
very night.  Elrond would not allow you to attend me, as you were a 
guest of honor.  How proud I was of you, sitting with such fair and 
noble folk!  How your honest face shone among the unearthly beauty of 
Elven faces.  But your face was the most beautiful of all, to me.

Then, the Council.  Never will I forget my terror and loathing, 
seeing the dissension that erupted at the mere sight of the accursed 
Ring.  Never will I understand how I found the courage to speak, to 
say `I will take the Ring to Mordor.'  Ah, Sam, if I had had any 
notion of what my vow meant, my tongue would have frozen in terror.

But I said it, and the Fellowship began to form around me.  And 
then . . . *you*.  You were there, frightened and embarrassed, but 
determined.  Your face was set in the stubborn lines I know and love, 
and your chin jutted defiantly as you said `Mr. Frodo's not going 
anywhere without me!'

My heart almost burst as I heard that.  It was the first time I 
allowed myself to believe that your feelings toward me might be more 
than those of a servant for his Master. But still I waited, afraid.

You saved me from further folly, my Sam.  It was that very night that 
you gently but inexorably made me believe that we *must* love one 
another.  We walked through the woods of Rivendell, hearing the magic 
of the waterfalls, silent with our thoughts.  What were yours?   Were 
you thinking with fear of your rash vow?  No, Sam, not that; not 
you.  Fear and regret have never daunted you.

And what was *I* thinking?  Of you, of course.  I was thinking of 
your eyes, shining with devotion and trust.  I was thinking of your 
lips, set firmly in determination, and wondering how they would taste 
against my own.  I was thinking of your arms, strong and brown, and 
dreaming of how they would feel around me.  I was thinking of your 
body, lovely soft hobbit-flesh over hard gardener's muscle, and 
imagining it under my hands, my mouth.  Oh, I was in a state, my 
Sam!  

Then you stopped and turned to me.  Your hazel eyes were glinting 
copper and green, and your voice trembled a little as you spoke the 
words that broke the long years of my resistance.  As usual you made 
no foolish attempt at eloquence – as I so often do – but said simply 
and plainly what was in your heart.  "I want to kiss you," you said.

Twenty-nine years of love and longing swept over me, and I leapt on 
you like a cat, tumbling both of us to the ground.  Did you think me 
quite mad, my darling Sam?  Well, I was.  Mad with love and desire.  
Your face!  eyes wide and startled, almost alarmed, but then you read 
my eyes.  How could you fail to?  My passion and longing must have 
been blazing out of them.  And your eyes darkened with your own 
passion and I almost swooned at the smokiness that swirled up from 
their depths, and I bent my head and I kissed you.

This morning, so many long months later, so many long nights passed, 
I feel again the warm flood of sticky longing, and my loins stir at 
the memory.  I lean over and trace your eyelashes, down the strong 
line of your jaw, across the lovely curve of collarbone, flicking 
lightly over a brown nipple, and . . .

No, I shan't wake you.  Not yet.  I will finish my Game.

Memories of Sam . . . . .

I bent my head and I kissed you.  I heard a hum as of far-off bees, 
and I felt my heart melt and drip off my fingertips.  I am trying to 
tell exactly true:  this is what happened to me.  

But suddenly the sweetness was engulfed with a roar of something more 
urgent, and my hands tangled in your silky sunlit curls as I ran my 
tongue along the roof of your mouth, tasting the treasures I had 
dreamed of so long.  Your low moan intoxicated me, Sam.  Surely no 
one ever in all the Ages of Middle Earth has felt such love and 
passion as we did at that moment.

We were clumsy, weren't we my darling?  Neither of us knew exactly 
what to do next, and both of us still felt shy and hesitant.  My 
fingers fumbled on your buttons and laces, tore at my own.  You lay 
on the soft grass, staring up at me with such wonder in your face 
that it nearly blinded me.  It took forever to expose all your lovely 
warm skin, but when at last we were naked I pressed myself to you, 
and the sensation of your bare flesh against mine was the most 
glorious thing I ever experienced before – or since.  For a long 
time – minutes?  hours?  -- we kissed, my body covering yours, your 
arms curving up around my back, my fingers tangled in your hair, 
tilting your head this way and that so I could explore more deeply 
the delicious cavern of your sweet mouth.

When, suddenly, it was not enough.  The realization struck both of us 
at the same time, and I lifted my head to look into your eyes.  I saw 
there the same uncertainty I was feeling, but I saw also a devotion, 
and unquestioning acceptance, that made my head swim.  I began to 
tremble, and I rolled us so that we lay on our sides, facing each 
other.  As if guided by one mind, my hand and yours drifted down, and 
we clasped each other for the first time.

After that, of course, it was soon over.  Too soon!  We quickly 
learned ways to prolong the loving, but that first time we were too 
innocent, too eager. 

Afterwards, I was so filled with exaltation I could hardly breathe.  
Your eyes were shining brighter than Earendil's star, and we both 
wept, arms around each other, my tears wetting your curls, making 
them cling to your damp throat.

I reach out to you now, sleeping beside me, breath quiet.  I trace a 
finger along your eyebrows.  They are soft now, but I have seen them 
bristle in indignation, lower in determination.  Light as a whisper, 
my finger floats down the line of your jaw – the line that stands out 
when you're being stubborn – how I love that line!  I brush your 
lips, feeling the stirrings within me, and I snuggle closer to your 
warmth.  With a drowsy murmur, your eyes open, and your lips curve, 
your smile like the sun that shines through the pain.

I cannot leave you, Sam.  So I must live.  For you. 


the end


*If all of the strength and all of the courage 
Come and lift me from this place 
I know I could love you much better than this 
Full of grace 
My love*

Sarah McLachlan		Full of Grace



Series:  Remembrance  6/ ?
Title:  The Hobbit and the King
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairings:  Sam/Frodo implied
Characters:  Sam, Aragorn
Rating:  NC-17
Date Completed:  30 June 2002
Summary:  Sam unburdens his heart to Strider
Disclaimer:  characters and premise not mine; writing mine
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archive:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  I want you to know the kiss was *not* my idea!  Sam 
*insisted*!

Remembrance 6 / ?



The Hobbit and the King

11 May 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)
In the Citadel of the Guard


". . . they are Periannath, out of the far country of the Halflings, 
where they are princes of great fame, it is said."
RotK p 244



"Frodo?  You've hardly eaten a bite!"  

Frodo's voice was sharp.   "I'm alright, Sam.  I'm just not very 
hungry tonight.  I think I'll take a walk in the City."

"Would you like me to come along?"  Sam tried not to nag, but Frodo's 
black moods and isolation were an ongoing worry.

"I said I'm alright, Sam!"  Frodo snapped.  "Stop fussing me!"  He 
turned on his heel and left the dining hall abruptly.

Legolas' sea-blue eyes were thoughtful as he watched the Ringbearer's 
departure.    As if by a sudden decision, the Elf rose lithely and 
followed Frodo from the hall.  Sam gave a little sigh of relief.  He 
was still not fully accustomed to the idea that Frodo was no longer 
in constant danger.  And he preferred that Frodo not be alone when he 
was in thrall to his Darkness.  

He saw Frodo, with Legolas following, walk north from the buttery, so 
he headed south, towards the Place of the Fountain.    As he walked 
his lips thinned and his steps became brisker, more clipped.  Finally 
he dropped heavily onto a bench and clutched his head in his hands, 
digging his fingers into his hair.  He could manage being anxious 
over Frodo, but being angry with him was excruciating.  Sam pounded 
his fists on his knees.  

When the voice spoke at his side he almost jumped out of his skin.

I don't believe I've seen you this angry since our first meeting, 
Sam."  The figure was seated beside Sam on the bench.  Grey eyes 
gleamed in the moonlight, but the rest of the long body was in shadow 
under a dark cloak.

Sam smiled delightedly, fury forgotten in the pleasure of 
remembrance.  "Strider!  If you don't look the picture of how you 
looked that night in the Prancing Pony!"

Aragorn laughed.  "Yes, Sam, Strider.  It is a long way, is it not, 
from Bree, where you did not like the look of me?"  The fine eyes 
softened.  "Perhaps you now trust me enough to talk about what's 
happening to you?  You're suffering, Sam."

"Me suffering?  Not as much as Fro. . ."

Aragorn raised a hand, interrupting him.  "I know Frodo suffers.  His 
suffering is very evident, and of great concern to me.  But tonight 
it is *your* suffering that is in my heart."

Sam sighed.  Aragorn's compassion was soothing to his frayed temper, 
and he felt it would be a comfort to say the things in his heart to 
this wise and true friend.  

"I just don't know what to do with him," Sam began tiredly.  "One 
night he'll be alright, then the next he'll be distracted and 
distant, then another he'll be that irritable and touchy.  I just 
don't know how to help him.

"When we were on the Journey it was simpler, somehow.  All I needed 
to worry about was food, and water, and keeping him alive and moving 
toward Mount Doom.  There was always something I could *do*.  I could 
find water for him, or carry him on my back, or wrap him in my cloak 
against the cold.  Now it's much harder.  He's safe now, from the 
Orcs and Black Riders at least, and for that I'm grateful.  But it 
seems like now there's nothing I can *do* for him.  And that's hard."

Aragorn looked with love at the deceptively small figure beside 
him.  "Perhael who should be called Panthael," he murmured tenderly.  
Sam looked puzzled.  "Perhael is 'Samwise', but your name should 
be 'Panthael', which means 'Fullwise'," the King explained with a 
smile.

Sam blushed.  "I don't know about that," he said.  "It's upsetting, 
having everyone take on so over me."

"Would that we could 'take on over you' as much as you deserve, 
Samwise Gamgee."  Aragorn laughed, a ringing sound of joy.  "Hobbits 
truly are amazing creatures.  Gandalf has always told me that I 
underestimate them.  I spent years guarding the Shire without fully 
recognizing their mettle.  Frodo taught me some after the attack on 
Amon Sul, when I saw his resistance to the Morgul-wound, but even as 
we left Rivendell I was still caught up in thinking of hobbits 
as . . . well, as small."  He leaned forward and kissed Sam on the 
forehead.  "You are *not* small, Samwise Gamgee.  And I would that I 
could give you a reward in keeping with the gifts you have given me, 
given all of Middle Earth."

"The only reward I want is Frodo!"  Sam's cry was squeezed from his 
tight chest.  "Will he ever be better, Strider?  He's in so much 
pain.  And yet it don't seem like *enough* pain, if you follow me.  
He brings more pain upon himself."  Sam's eyes dropped, and the blood 
surged into his brown cheeks.  "He. . . he hurts me sometimes.  At 
night.  And he wants me to hurt him."

"And do you?"  Aragorn's voice was calm and even, seeking information 
only.

"Of course not!  I couldn't!  All I want in the world is for him 
*not* to be hurt!"  Sam's eyes began to well.  "Why does he look for 
more pain?  Oh, Strider, he's been through so much!  That last day on 
the slopes of the Mountain, he couldn't even crawl.  I had to carry 
him on my back!  And then when Gollum attacked him -- his poor hand!  
He's had such a cruel time!"

"And what about you, Sam," asked the Ranger.  "How cruel has this 
been for you?"

"That don't matter," said Sam stoutly.  "Anything I've been through 
is small compared to what Frodo has suffered.  But I'm afraid. . ."

"Afraid?" murmured Aragorn encouragingly.

"Afraid he'll leave me!"  Sam burst out.  "I don't know . . . I keep 
thinking he may go away, like old Mr. Bilbo. Go away to live with the 
elves or something."

Aragorn stirred but said nothing.

"And I've nothing without him!" Sam's voice was desolate.

Aragorn put his arm about the hobbit and drew him close.  For a long 
moment Sam let his head  rest on the Man's breast, listening to the 
slow steady beat of his heart, comforted by its rhythm and the King's 
compassion.  Then Aragorn pulled from his jerkin two pipes and a 
small pouch of pipeweed.  He offered one pipe to Sam, who took it 
gratefully, and they settled back companionably on the bench.  The 
lights of the City twinkled below them, concentric circles of life, 
as they looked away over the Hill of Guard.  At length Aragorn spoke.

"Frodo will never be the same hobbit you knew back in the Shire," he 
said.

Sam shook his head impatiently.  "Of course not," he said.  "None of 
us are the same as we were then, nor ever will be, I reckon.  We've 
seen too much and done too much. . .and been too much."  He looked at 
the King next to him.  "The same goes for you, my Lord.  You may 
*look* like the Strider we met in Bree, but you aren't that man 
anymore."

"No, indeed," mused Aragorn.  "No, indeed.  And it is thanks to you 
that I am not."  Seeing Sam blush again, he said, "But I won't burden 
you with more of the praise you so richly merit.  I will return to 
the reward you asked for; which I have not the power to give, alas!

"The Burden that Frodo bore so long has eroded his strength, Sam.  
Yet even that I feel he could overcome, so strong is his spirit.  The 
thing that truly poisons his heart is Cirith Ungol."

Sam flinched at the name.  "Will I ever forgive myself?" he 
whispered.  "Leaving him laying there and letting those Orcs get 
him.  Never, never, never leave your Master!  That was my rule!  And 
I broke my rule, and now. . ." Sam's voice cracked with a sob, "now 
it's breaking *him*."

Sam's face was stark with agonized memory.  "When I left him laying 
there under the cliff, dead as I believed, I thought that was the 
blackest moment of my life.  I knew that all the Light was gone from 
the world, and that I would walk in the darkness forever after.

"But then the Orc company came and found him, and that was worse; 
much worse.  The stories of what Orcs do . . . it wasn't to be borne, 
that's all.  I would have thrown away the Quest, the Ring . . .   I 
knew it would ruin everything, but I couldn't help it.  My place was 
with him.  I had to go after him, if only to keep his body from 
being. . ."  Sam's voice failed.  He drew several deep breaths.

"Well.  Then I heard them Orcs talking among themselves and learned 
that Frodo was *alive*."  Sam shuddered at the remembrance, his eyes 
wide with horror.  "And that was the worst of all.  I felt such joy 
like I had never known, then such agony and oh! such horror that I 
like to swooned.  I had left him!  Left him alone and helpless!  Left 
him to those foul Orcs!"

Sam's sobs tore through his words, but he continued.

"It was forever, forever before I found him.  I had near given up.  I 
got to the top of the Tower, to a dead end, and I couldn't find him, 
not anywhere!  I sat down and a song came to me unbidden-like.  But 
then I heard *his* voice!  The singing in the Blessed Realm can't be 
no sweeter.

"Then the Orc came and put the ladder up and I saw the turret room.  
I ran up the ladder and saw that Orc raising a whip over Frodo 
and. . ." Sam's eyes blazed.  "I slashed him with Sting, and tripped 
over my own feet doing it, but he fell down through the trap door and 
killed hisself, curse the filth.  And then I saw Frodo.

"Oh!  Strider!  He was beaten and broken, and his blood was. . . oh, 
what they had done to him!  I took him in my arms, and I think I 
would have been perfectly happy to spend the rest of my life sitting 
on that filthy floor in that foul Orc's den, just holding Frodo in my 
arms."

Aragorn let Sam weep for several minutes, his silent understanding 
soothing the distraught hobbit.  The King's eyes looked far, over the 
City, beyond the City Wall.  Mount Mindolluin rose, black and 
forbidding, to his right.  Yet the slope beckoned him somehow.

"Have you ever loved another, Sam?" he asked.  

"Nay, not since first I met him," choked Sam.  "I was but a child, 
and he was so tall and fair and lovely!  I followed him around like a 
puppy, but he tolerated it -- why I can't think.  I must have been an 
almighty nuisance to him, but he never seemed to mind.  

"But I couldn't let him know how I felt.  I was his servant, and it's 
the duty of a servant to care for his Master, not to. . ." Sam 
blushed.  "Well, I just knew that even thinking of Mr. Frodo in that 
way was putting myself above my station.

"I had begun to think about getting married.  It's in the normal way 
of things, after all.  Rosie Cotton is a likely lass, and she favors 
me, seemingly.  Even when I made plans to go with Mr. Frodo on this 
Journey, I was still thinking I would wed with Rosie when I 
returned.  But . . . well, Frodo and I came to declaring ourselves to 
each other.  At Rivendell, it was."  Sam's face was lit with memory.

"The night of the Council, if I'm not mistaken," said Aragorn, 
smiling.

Sam looked up startled.  "How did you know?  Did Frodo. . ."

"My very dear Sam," laughed Aragorn.  "You and Frodo were glowing 
brighter than Gandalf's fireworks.  It was very obvious to everyone 
who knows you what had happened.  And it was joy to everyone who 
knows you to see your bliss."

Sam forgot his embarrassment.  Aragorn's tone was amused but fond:  
no teasing, and certainly no censure.  "There could never be anyone 
for me but him," he said dreamily.

Suddenly Aragorn was angry, angry at the fate that gave such 
suffering to Sam.   This magnificent person deserved happiness, not 
more pain.  He never knew what impulse moved him, but swiftly he 
turned and took Sam into his arms.  

Sam saw the grey eyes looming over him, the chiseled lips very close 
to his own.    The smallest movement would bring their mouths 
together.  

Sam made that movement.

As their lips touched, a feverish shock coursed through them, 
startling them both.  They broke apart, but then, languidly, Sam's 
eyes drifted closed.  Gliding his hand up to cradle the back of 
Aragorn's head, he pulled the Man's lips back to his and drank of 
them deeply.  He savoured the taste of pipeweed; reveled in the 
unfamiliar chafe of bearded chin.  So different!  yet like, somehow.

It was several minutes before Sam broke the kiss again.  "I 
think. . ."  he had to stop and clear his throat before he could 
continue.  "I'm thinking we shouldn't be taking this any farther, 
Strider, if you take my meaning."

Aragorn's laugh was a bit unsteady, and his voice husky.  "Then I 
believe we should stop right now.  Sam . . . I'm sorry . . ."

Sam grinned.  "Nay, I'll wager you're not, begging your pardon.  Nor 
am I."  His face changed, became thoughtful.  "'Tis refreshing to 
know that I can still be stirred by another.  A relief, it is, in a 
way.  But a worry, too, if you follow me."

"Yes," said Aragorn softly.  "Yes, I know what you mean.  But . . . . 
Sam!"

Sam looked at his bemused face and suddenly he couldn't help 
grinning.  "Now here you are underestimating hobbits again, is that 
it?"

"No!  I mean . . .I think. . ."  Aragorn's eyes lit with 
delight.  "You're right, Sam!"  The King's laugh rang out across the 
Courtyard.  "Gandalf was right -- as usual – and so are you, my dear 
Panthael.  I am indeed still underestimating hobbits."  

He leaned over and kissed Sam swiftly on the mouth, and the levity 
was gone from his tone.  "You are a diamond, Samwise Gamgee.  Yet I 
mourn for both of my beloved Ringbearers.   My heart tells me that 
Frodo may never be fully healed.  And with the wounds he carries, I 
fear he cannot return your love as you deserve."

Sam's eyes still glowed with the heat of their kisses, but his voice 
was sad.  "Aye, I can't deny I've feared that myself at times.  But 
any way else wouldn't be in the right of things.  My belonging to 
Frodo is what's meant to be.  I love him, whether or no."


the end



*though the future's there for anyone to change
still you know it seems
it would be easier sometimes
to change the past*

Joan Baez		Fountain of Sorrow


Series:  Remembrance  7/ ?
Title:  The Assassin
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairings:  Sam/Frodo implied
Characters:  Legolas,  Frodo
Rating:  NC-17
Date Completed:  1 July 2002
Summary:  Frodo and Legolas discuss the nature of evil
Disclaimer:  characters and premise not mine; writing mine
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archive:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  In an interview Orli said that PJ's consistent 
direction to him was "You are an assassin.  You are an assassin."

This story is dedicated to Victoria Bitter, whose exquisite "Beauty" 
inspired it.

Remembrance 7 / ?

Legolas Remembers


". . . by slow arts of cruelty were they corrupted and enslaved; and 
thus did Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and 
mockery of the Elves. . . ."
The Silmarillion  p 50


Frodo strode from the buttery, but as he turned North, between the 
Tower and the King's House, his irritation abruptly ebbed.  Would he 
forever hurt those he loved most?  Almost he turned back to Sam, but 
his eye caught on the Eastern Wall of the Citadel.  From thence he 
could look out across The Pelennor.  

The Tower of Cirith Ungol had collapsed in the Fall of Mordor, but 
Frodo did not need to see it to know where it had been.  Forever it 
stood behind his eyes, stark and menacing against the backdrop of 
remembrance.

He did not hear the light step behind him until the Elf spoke.  "Do 
your wounds pain you, Frodo?"

Frodo did not turn.  "Not the wounds on my body, Legolas."

"But your spirit continues to bleed, is it not so?  Is it the memory 
of your Burden that is troubling you?"

Frodo's eyes were reluctant to leave the East.  "Would that it were 
so simple.  No, Legolas, the Burden fatigued me.  The loss of the 
Ring has left an emptiness in my heart that will never be filled.  I 
have been scored by knife, sting, and tooth.  Yet these are not the 
wounds that torment me."

For several moments they stood silently.  The Elf looked long at the 
diminutive figure at his side -- so small, yet so large in spirit.  
At length he asked quietly, "You were captured by the Orcs, were you 
not?"

Frodo stiffened.  "Yes.  And you're right, Legolas, those wounds are 
very deep."

"Elves do not usually survive rape," said Legolas.  His voice was 
still serene.

Frodo whirled, eyes wide and startled.  "What do you mean?" 

"You know, do you not, that the immortality of the Elf has two 
conditions?  As you have seen, an Elf can be killed in battle.  
Immortality does not defend against the arrow and the sword.   But an 
Elf can also die of grief."

Legolas had Frodo's full attention now.  His eyes were sapphire, dark 
and intent on the slender figure before him.

"The Firstborn were gifted with the Light of the Trees.  For a 
timeless period they wandered the forests in perfect joy, but the 
changefulness of Mortal Lands affected them, and many sailed across 
the Sea to Eldamar.  Those of my kindred who remain in Middle Earth 
have stilled the Sea-Longing, but it remains hidden deep in our 
hearts, an orifice of despair.  When grief opens that portal to the 
Sea-Longing, an Elf may choose to cast himself into the chasm rather 
than bear it."

Frodo's brows contracted, his face twisting in horrified 
fascination.  

"Rape is a grief that few Elves are able to bear.  The well of grief 
overwhelms them, consumes them, and they drown in their own 
suffering."

Legolas' fair face was unlined, but his sea-blue eyes were soft with 
pity as he looked at the Ringbearer.  He had perceived in this 
deceptively small Mortal a sense of desolation that resonated with 
the Sea-longing so recently woken in himself.  He put out his hand to 
grasp Frodo's gently, and held it as they began to walk away from the 
Eastern wall.

Frodo did not ordinarily relish contact with his maimed right hand, 
but the Elf's slender fingers were cool and soothing.  They walked, 
hand in hand, feeling the night breeze on their faces.

"You were short with Sam tonight," said Legolas.  Frodo shot him a 
glance.  The perceptive Elf had unerringly maneuvered Frodo to the 
most important issue.  "It is unlike you to speak sharply to anyone, 
particularly Sam"

"You are right, Legolas," said Frodo.  "It is unlike me. Or it is 
unlike the hobbit who once was me.  I fear I am no longer the person 
I once was."

"And you fear you have become a lesser person?"  

"Yes!"  Frodo stopped and turned from the tall Elf, facing back 
towards the East.  "I . . .I hurt now.  I need hurt.  I need *to* 
hurt.  And most of all, I need to hurt *Sam*."  Frodo trembled with 
the extremity of his anguish.  "Do you know why that is, Legolas?  
Why does my pain cause me to inflict more pain on myself -- and on 
Sam?  Sam, of all people!"

"Perhaps Sam is the mirror of the goodness you fear you have lost," 
replied Legolas.  

Frodo's shoulders began to shake with sobs.  Legolas sighed deeply.

"Do you know how the Orcs came into being?"  Legolas' voice was still 
cool, but a tremor ran under it that raised the hair on Frodo's nape. 

"They were Elves once.  When the Firstborn awakened, Melkor send 
shadows and evil spirits to spy upon them and waylay them.  If Elves 
strayed or walked alone, they would often vanish forever, captured by 
the Shadows.  

"None living has ever returned from the pits of Utumno, nor 
understood the dark mind of Melkor.  Yet the wise of Eressea believe 
that the vanished Elves were imprisoned by Melkor, and by slow 
cruelty were corrupted.  Thus, by long torture, were the enslaved 
Elves made into the hideous race of Orcs."

Frodo had dropped the Elf's hand and was backing away, his face 
twisting in panic.  "Do you mean that torture is what creates an 
Orc?  I thought the Orcs were created by Sauron!  Are you saying that 
Orcs -- Orcs! -- were not originally evil?  That a tortured prisoner, 
even be he one of the Firstborn, will become as his tormentors?"  
Frodo's eyes swirled with dark shadows, and his lips drew back from 
his teeth in a rictus of horror.  "Where then is my escape?  Is the 
cycle of cruelty forever unbreakable?  Ai!  Am I then doomed to 
continue the brutality, even with those I love?"

Legolas was alarmed at the extremity of Frodo's terror.  Obeying he 
knew not what consideration, mindful only to quell the rising 
hysteria, he drew back his arm and swiftly slapped Frodo.

Either his blow was harder than he intended, or Frodo was weaker than 
he realized.  The hobbit was flung to the ground, his hair falling 
over his face in dark tangles.  Alarmed and remorseful, Legolas 
swiftly stepped toward his fallen companion.  But Frodo's eyes turned 
up to him, and what the Elf saw there froze him to the marrow.

The eyes were avid, shiny with an unclean lasciviousness.  Quickly, 
they cleared and were again Frodo's eyes, but Legolas was rooted to 
the spot in horror and grief.  Frodo gazed up at him for several 
moments.  "So," he said quietly.  "Now you see."

"Indeed,"  said Legolas softly.  "Indeed, I see."  He extended his 
hand to help the fallen hobbit rise, and kept the hand in his cool 
fingers as they resumed walking.

"It is the one thing -- the *only* thing -- that Sam cannot 
understand,"  said Frodo.  "He hated Gollum with all the purity and 
simplicity that is Sam.  How could I tell him that I was 
becoming. . . that I *have become*. . . like Gollum myself?

"As we traveled across the Dead Marshes, I grew to know Gollum much 
too deeply.  I discerned his thoughts, and the ravenous yearning that 
drove him.  I knew his mind.  I read his heart.  And I began to feel 
my own mind and heart being twisted into the same mould.

"Sam will never be able to understand, as I do, why Gollum betrayed 
us to Shelob.  And Sam will never understand that it is Gollum, and 
not I, who fulfilled the Quest."

Frodo turned back to face the East.  A smudge of darkness still 
marked the annihilation of Mordor.  His voice was desolate.  "I 
claimed the Ring, Legolas. In the end, I claimed it for my own.  But 
for Gollum's attack, I would now be a wraith -- or worse.

"I became Gollum.  Only Gollum prevented me from becoming the Dark 
Lord.  And there is nothing preventing me from becoming an Orc."

The small shoulders were so tight and tense it seemed they would cut 
through the fabric of the Elven cloak.  Legolas did not make the 
mistake of placing his hands on those shoulders.  His eyes followed 
Frodo's to the East.

"At the Battle of the Hornburg, I massacred Orcs.  Many fell to my 
bow, but I gloried most in slaying them with my knives.  I was wet 
with Orc blood, and it was pure sensual pleasure.  I slaughtered so 
many Orcs that my arms became weary.  And I exulted in every death.  
I remember each Orc individually, separately, lovingly, as his black 
blood was spilt by my blades."

Legolas's ageless eyes found Frodo's.  "Elves have a connection of 
souls.  When an Elf dies, all Elves feel an emptiness.  When the 
death is from grief, the emptiness is a paean of excommunication.  

"But there is a special destitution that I feel within the Orc.  I 
feel the abyss left by annihilation of their Elvishness; and I feel 
the foul anchorage of their Orc nature within that void."  

Frodo stared at his companion.  The fair Elvish face was more 
distressed than he had ever seen it, even on the Dimrill Dale after 
the Bridge of Khazad Dum.  "What are you telling me, Legolas?" he 
whispered.

"I am telling you that in Helm's Deep I became an Orc.  My soul 
hummed with hatred -- not hatred *of* them, but *their* hatred.  I 
have tried to tell myself that I was killing them out of mercy, but I 
was not.  I was killing them for the same reason that Orcs kill 
Elves.  I was killing them out of lust for their blood."

"Yet -- you are no Orc,"  cried Frodo.  "You are still an Elf, you 
are still of the Firstborn.  You haven't lost your soul to them.  You 
are still Legolas!"

"And are you not still Frodo?" asked the Elf tenderly.

Frodo went rigid.  Legolas' face was serene again, cool and impassive 
and beautiful.  He gazed calmly into Frodo's wide startled eyes, and 
held the gaze until Frodo's eyelashes began to flutter.  Then the 
tall Elf took the Ringbearer gently into his arms.  Frodo sagged 
against him, and Legolas held him for many minutes before he guided 
the exhausted hobbit back to the tower, to his bedchamber, to Sam.


the end


*Through these fields of destruction 
Baptisms of fire 
I've witnessed your suffering 
As the battle raged higher*

Dire Straits		Brothers in Arms


Series:  Remembrance  8/ ?
Title:  The Choices of Master Samwise
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairings:  Sam/Frodo
Characters:  Sam, Frodo
Rating:  NC-17
Date Completed:  5 July 2002
Summary:  Sam remembers the past and muses about choices
Disclaimer:  characters and premise not mine; writing mine
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archive:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  What an experience, speaking in 1st-person Sam!  More 
like channeling than writing


Remembrance  8 / ?

The Choices of Master Samwise

"I love him.  He's like that, and sometimes it shines through, 
somehow.  But I love him, whether or no."
The Two Towers p 260


You're still out when I return to our chamber.  It's just as well.  
Legolas will look after you, and I've much thinking to do. . . .

****


There has never been anyone for me but you.  I belonged to you from 
the moment I saw you -- mayhaps before.  I remember thinking, when I 
heard your parents were drownded the same year I was born, that 
that's what my job was -- to keep you from being alone.

I just didn't find out it was my job until I was nine years old.

My Gaffer had told me there would be a new Mr. Baggins moving in up 
at Bag End:  "Mr. Frodo Baggins, that will be, Sam," he said.  "Mr. 
Bilbo's cousin he is, and Mr. Bilbo has adopted him.  He's rather a 
queer one, bein' raised off in Buckland and around them Tooks, but a 
Baggins just the same, and Gamgees look after Bagginses."

I remember like it was yesterday.  I was trimming a primrose bush 
when a shadow moved over the grass.  When I looked up all I could 
think was that the shadow had fallen because the Sun had been 
outshone.  I saw red and golden sparkles coming off your black 
curls.  And your eyes -- your eyes were brighter than July sunshine, 
than a harvest moon.  

I could only gape up stupidly.  I must have looked quite daft, but 
you smiled.  And then I knew what brightness really was.

"Hello," you said, "I'm Frodo Baggins.  You'd be Samwise, wouldn't 
you?  The Gaffer's youngest son?"

I couldn't speak.  You knew my name!  I couldn't breathe.  I finally 
stammered out some fool thing, but it made you smile again and that 
undid me completely.

Do you remember that day?  Probably not.  You were just meeting the 
gardener's son.  I was meeting my life.

I didn't know at the time what I was feeling, of course.  I was only 
a little lad, and the longing your eyes had opened in my heart had 
not yet burned its way down into my loins.  But that followed as the 
years passed.

You seemed to favor me, to want to be around me.  I didn't stop to 
wonder why.  Seeds sprout, rain falls, sun shines -- who questions a 
miracle?  I neglected my chores at home to spend time at Bag End, and 
walking the Shire, and sitting in the grass, just being with you.  My 
Gaffer never complained.  I wonder, now, if he knew what was 
happening to me.  We never spoke of it, not direct-like, though he 
said to me many times, "Sam, Gamgees look after Bagginses -- and it 
looks as if you've found your Baggins to look after."  I would blush 
and gulp and he would just smile.

I had my tumbles with the Hobbiton lasses -- and lads, truth to tell -
- so I learned about what bodies could doo and the fun that could be 
had.  It never amounted to much, just foolish games, but I always 
suspected that it could be more.  

I didn't learn what bodies can *really*  do until Rivendell.

If Gandalf hadn't picked me to go with you I would have followed you 
like a calf after its mother, so it's just as well he did.  Ah Frodo, 
if I had not been there, under your window that afternoon, would you 
have slipped away without me?  You tried to, my Frodo.  You tried and 
tried to slip away from me.

You almost did slip away from me, that night at Weathertop.  

During the terrible journey from Weathertop to Rivendell all I could 
think, over and over, was  "He's going to die and you've never kissed 
him.  You're a fool, Samwise Gamgee.  Your Gaffer didn't know the 
half of it.  If he lives. . .  if ever he smiles at you again . . ."

When you awoke from your terrible black sleep, it was like the sun 
coming out from behind the clouds.  

The celebration Feast was a trial to me, Frodo.  They wouldn't let me 
serve you, as I ought, but made me sit with all the great lords and 
ladies and Elves.  Elves!  All my life I had wanted to see Elves, and 
now I was surrounded by them and all I could see was you.

I was so frightened at the Council.  The terrible stories of Kings 
and wizards and Dark Lords and Black Riders went on and on.  All I 
could think was, "We're safe here.  We've brought the Ring this far.  
Now we can go home and let these great lords and ladies take care of 
this as is their right."  Then, slicing through my woolly-headedness, 
was your voice.  "I will take the Ring to Mordor," you said, "though 
I do not know the way."

My heart stopped, but not my feet.  I had been sitting in the corner, 
hoping no one would notice me and tell me to leave, but at that my 
feet moved without my knowing it, seemingly.  "Mr. Frodo's not going 
anywhere without me!" I heard myself say, and knew it to be nothing 
less than the truth.  You weren't going anywhere without me.  Not 
never again.

That night we weren't sleepy after supper, understandably enough, and 
you suggested we take a walk in the woods of Rivendell, just you and 
I.  I couldn't think of anything in Middle Earth I wanted more.  As 
we walked I felt my heart swelling and swelling like to split my 
jerkin.  My ears were humming so I couldn't hear a thing until I 
heard a voice.  "I want to kiss you," it said.   And I hardly had 
time to realize it was my own voice speaking before you leapt on me.  
We tumbled to the ground, and I was horrified, thinking I had 
mortally offended you, but then I saw your eyes.

Did I say your eyes were bright the day I met you?  That night in 
Rivendell they were blazing brighter than a harvest bonfire, and even 
a ninnyhammer like myself couldn't miss the invitation in them.  My 
breath had been knocked out when you fell on me, and looking at those 
eyes didn't make breathing no easier.  But that was nothing to what 
happened to my breath when you bent your head and you kissed me.

Tonight, all this long and terrible time later, I can still taste 
your mouth, sweeter than August plums, headier than the Green 
Dragon's best ale.  I can remember every second, every touch of that 
night, but I couldn't for the life of me say how we got our clothes 
off.  All I knew was that we were naked and you were in my arms and 
your skin was pressed against mine and now I could die, it was 
alright now, this was all I had ever wanted.

Not for you, though.  You wanted more, and soon took it as was your 
right.  Afterwards, we both wept.  It had never come on me like that, 
not at all, not with any of the games I had played in Hobbiton.  I 
knew then that you were the only one, the only one for me, the only 
one I could ever belong to.

But tonight, Strider kissed me.  

Nay, he didn't kiss me.  *I* kissed *him*.  He left the choice to me, 
and I kissed him -- Strider, of all people!    And not Strider, truth 
to tell, but the King Elessar!  and wouldn't my Gaffer have a thing 
or two to say about *that*.  He often warned me I'd come to a bad 
end, but even he couldn't have guessed such an end like that.

Tell true, Samwise Gamgee.  He stirred you.  His lips are soft, and 
his mouth is sweet, and the scrape of a bearded chin was unfamiliar 
and wonderfully exciting.

I never thought, never, that I could be truly stirred by another.  

It's a relief, in a way.  I can't deny that I've worried.  The 
Ringspell was sucking love from your heart, and your sickness has 
changed you.  I worried.  If he cannot be yours, Sam, who is there 
for you?  No one.

So, yes, it's a relief to know that, if it comes to that, maybe I can 
love another.

But it's a torment too.  

Since I was nine years old I've known that my heart belonged only to 
you.  From the time my body began to recognize you, I knew that you 
held the only key to unlock its miracles.  Now, I have to face the 
knowledge that mayhaps that lock isn't so choosy like I thought it 
was.  An uncomfortable thought.

Yet maybe not.  Maybe it's like the difference between apples in 
March and apples in September.  In March the apples are the only 
fruit left after the winter, and one needn't bother oneself wishing 
and hoping for peaches and plums.  But in September, with all the 
trees heavy-laden, I can walk through the orchard, see all the fruit 
glowing in the sun, and choose for myself the reddest, sweetest apple.

I had thought you were my fate, my destiny.  Mayhaps you are, but now 
I know you are also my choice.  Having tasted the sweetness of other 
fruit, I choose you.

****


I'm so deep in these thoughts that I don't hear you at the door; my 
first hint that you're here is a feather-kiss under my ear.  Such a 
tiny touch, but, as always, it completes me, makes me whole.

I smile and reach for you.  You  give a sigh of contentment as I draw 
you onto my lap.  These big carved chairs in the King's house are far 
too large for a hobbit but, especially with a bolster, they're sized 
just right for two.

You melt into my lap, every curve fitting perfectly.  Your arms are 
around my waist, your head on my chest.  I can smell wind in your 
soft dark curls, and I brush my lips across their tangles.  Nuzzling 
like a newborn lamb at its mother's coat, I follow with my lips the 
line of your hair down to the delicious point of your ear.  There I 
halt awhile, nibbling, suckling the earlobe, tickling the tender spot 
behind your ear.  You squirm in my lap, knowing what your squirming 
is doing to that selfsame lap,  and your face turns up to mine like a 
flower to the sun.  I plunge recklessly into the bottomless blue, 
feel it close over my head.  I could drown here.

Unable to bear the brightness of your eyes, I gently press my lips 
over them, and they close softly, sweetly.  Released, I can now begin 
to explore.  I press the softest kisses at the very corner of your 
mouth, focusing all on that tiny point of joining.  Your breathing 
deepens.  The miracle is happening again.

Holding you cradled in my left arm, I can unbutton the fine linen 
shirt.  Satiny skin, scored by knife, sting, and lash.  I run my 
tongue along each scar that marks but can never mar your beauty.  My 
lips close around a nipple, suckling, scraping softly with my teeth.  
A long murmur flutters from your lips, and I smile.  I kiss each 
shoulder as I slide the soft linen shirt off and let it drop to the 
floor.  You shiver a little; not with cold.

Now my mouth can return to yours, and at last I kiss you full on the 
lips.  My tongue tastes the roof of your mouth, and you groan.  The 
sound echoes deep in the pit of my belly.    I let my fingers plunge 
into your curls, feeling their softness feather my wrists like a baby 
bird fallen from its nest, thumbs stroking behind pointed ears, palms 
cupping your head as if you were but a babe.  Your arms curve under 
mine, and up to clasp my shoulders, where your fingers cling.

When the kiss breaks, your eyes are so close that I can't but plunge 
in again, dissolve in them.  You are smiling.  "You taste of 
pipeweed," you murmur.

"Aye, I was sitting with Strider after supper," I say.  

end



*Whatever you fear 
Whatever you hide 
Whatever you carry deep inside 
There's something more than this 
Whatever you love 
Whatever you give 
Whatever you think you need to live 
There's something more than this 
 
In the shadow cast as you were leaving 
In the beauty of the ending day 
There is always something to believe in 
Something as I watch you slip away*


October Project		Something More than This




Series:  Remembrance  9/ ?
Title:  Return to the Shadows
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairings:  Sam/Frodo 
Characters:  Frodo, Sam, Gandalf
Rating:  NC-17
Date Completed:  30 June 2002
Summary:  Frodo's Darkness continues to haunt him
Disclaimer:  I do not own the hobbits, nor the wizard, nor the 
premise.  I do, however, accept complete responsibility for all the 
angst I'm putting them through in this series.
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archive:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  Oh, Frodo. . . .

Remembrance 9 / ?

Return to the Shadows


9 June 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)
Minas Tirith

"All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to 
us."
Fellowship of the Ring  p 60



Frodo wakes to nightmare.  

Rough stones slimy rags, cold under naked skin.  Dizzy, disoriented, 
sick.  

Feebly he stirs.

A clamor of hideous voices, a rough hand grasps Frodo's hair, yanks 
him to his feet.  He cries out, head bursting, mind reeling.  He 
opens his eyes to a snarling Orc holding him upright by his hair, 
leering into his face.

His left shoulder throbs with cold agony, the back of his neck with 
evil fire.  His stomach twists, his head is bursting, but the 
worst. . . . 

*Nothing*.  A void, emptiness, a vacancy at his breast.    *It's 
gone*.  

He is thrown brutally to the floor, bruised on the stones, face 
pressed into fetid rags.  His wrists and ankles are pinned by 
horribly strong claws; an Orc descends upon him and he shrieks as 
agony rips through him.

It's gone. .  It's gone. . . the Quest has failed. .  I have 
failed. .  all is lost. . It's gone. .  I have failed I 
havefailedihavefailedihavefailed. . . . 

. . . . the tearing agony goes on and on. . . .

I have failed, It's gone It's gone it'sgoneitsgoneforever.  My 
punishment -- my *just* punishment -- will go on forever and ever and 
ever as Middle Earth descends into darkness. . . . .

 . . . . ihavefailedihavefailedihavefailed. . . .

Frodo knows he has no right to scream, but he cannot repress a tiny 
whimper:  "Gandalf. . . .Gandalf!"


***


A miracle.  

The claws loose him.  He skitters across the slimy stones but they 
are yielding, billowing around him, they aren't stones at all, he's 
lying on a feather mattress with soft linen sheets and. . . .

"Frodo!"  

Sam.  A miracle.

"Frodo.  I'm here.  It's your Sam.  Come back, Frodo.  Don't go there 
no more!  Don't go. . ."

Frodo's eyes opened.  Sam was grasping his arms gently, eyes 
searching his face urgently.  Frodo was panting, sweating, terrified, 
but he was back.  He could see Sam, he could see the hangings around 
their bed.  

With a whimper he launched himself into Sam's arms.  Sam held him 
close, arms and legs wrapped around him so tight it hurt, not nearly 
tight enough, lips in Frodo's hair murmuring of love and comfort. . . 
Sam . . . Sam. . . .

Frodo did not hear the door open, so when he felt the gentle hand on 
his head and looked up, the white-robed figure could have been 
another apparition.  But this one was welcome, this was the one he 
had summoned.

Gandalf swept up both Ringbearers in his arms, a warm blanket tucked 
around them, and strode to the chair before the fire.  "Naur an 
edraith ammen!"  He spoke softly, and the banked coals blazed.

Gandalf sat in the great chair cradling Frodo and Sam in his lap.  
Frodo was wrapped in Sam, arms and legs intertwined, soft wool 
against bare skin, warmed in Gandalf's enveloping incandescence.  He 
closed his eyes.  This was Eldamar, this was Valinor.  This was all 
he ever wanted.

Except. . . .

***

. . . . Flames leap hungrily.  There is a rumor and a rumbling as of 
great engines in the depths.  Frodo stands at the very Crack of Doom, 
as still as if he had been turned to stone. . . . .

***

"Frodo."  Gandalf's voice was commanding.  "Frodo.  Where have you 
gone?  Take us with you."

Frodo started, gazed at the wizard.  "Frodo.  You cannot continue to 
go into the Shadow alone.  Take us with you.  Tell us what you are 
seeing.  Let us help you."  Sam's arms squeezed encouragement, his 
lips soft behind Frodo's ear.


****

. . . . Flames leap hungrily.  There is a rumor and a rumbling as of 
great engines in the depths.  Frodo stands at the very Crack of Doom, 
as still as if he had been turned to stone.  His hand rises to his 
breast.  In exaltation he grasps the Ring and, with a great wrench, 
bursts the chain on which it had hung so long.  Glorying in his 
victory, he raises his arm to cast the Ring into the fire.

The Ring's voice is shrieking in his head.  *"Agh burzum-ishi 
krimpatul!"*  

And the familiar promises, threats, coaxings.  He sees again, very 
vividly, himself as White Lord of Middle Earth, restoring all to its 
former beauty and peace.  He sees Sam, healed of his hurts and 
weariness, at his side forever.  He sees a land filled with Elves and 
Men and industrious Dwarves, all living in harmony, and a Shire 
blooming unparalled, filled with merry, carefree hobbits.

He is not moved, not tempted.  He is familiar with these 
blandishments.  He knows them all to be vain.  He raises his arm to 
cast the Ring into the Fire.

When. . . a soft voice.  Not the razor-shriek of the song  (*ash nazg 
durbatuluk. . . .*), not the oily insinuating voice of the Temptor  
(*all this can be. . .*), but a soft, fair voice speaking a single 
word.  With a shock Frodo recognizes the language as Elvish.

"Lostaren".

Forget.

And Frodo is rocked to the core.  The word sings through him, cool 
and light.  *Lostaren*.  His heart lifts, his mind is cleared of its 
dark mists.  *Lostaren*.   To erase his memories, to give him the 
balm of forgetfulness . . . . . 

In ecstasy Frodo turns, raises the Ring high, glorying in its shine, 
in its promise . . .   ai!  *Lostaren*.  

"I do not now choose to do this!"  he cries.  "The Ring is mine!"  He 
draws the Ring onto his finger, ravished by the cool golden slide, 
swooning in its seductive embrace.

****

Frodo had fallen silent.  His tears dripped slowly onto Sam's hands.  
Sam cradled him close, cheek pressed against Frodo's hair while 
Gandalf held them both.  Frodo could hear the wizard's heartbeat, 
slow and steady and soothing.  He let the tears fall.

"I will not ask you to forgive me, Frodo.  I fear I shall never 
forgive myself."

Frodo's head jerked up, his eyes wide and startled, but Sam smiled 
and nestled gratefully closer to Gandalf.

"In Rivendell I vowed that I would help you carry your Burden.  Yet 
ever when you were in greatest danger, I was not with you.

"At the beginning your journey, I was in the dungeons of Isengard.  
When you faced the Witch King at Weathertop, I was flying across the 
Wild.  And I left you at Khazad Dum.  I left you to face the most 
perilous portion of your Quest alone.

"Frodo, Sam . . . .  of all the horrors of the War of the Ring; of 
all the losses sustained by Middle Earth in this terrible strife, 
there are none I regret so bitterly as those you have borne.

"The wise cannot see all ends -- and, if they are wise, why should 
they expect to?  You were meant to carry the Ring into Mordor 
alone. . .  together.  Yet greatly do I rue the cost to you.  Would 
that I could bear some of the pain for you."

Frodo looked into the face of his friend, guide, teacher. . . 
father.  He saw there an emotion he would never have expected on that 
wise visage.  He saw shame.

"You cannot blame yourself, Gandalf!"  he cried.  "None of this is 
your fault.  We could never have prevailed without you.  This has 
been your greatest task, your triumph!  How can you say you have 
wronged me, wronged us?  None of what has happened is your fault!"

Neither Gandalf nor Sam spoke.  After long minutes, Frodo's slow 
tears resumed, releasing the shame, cooling the pain.  "Nor, perhaps, 
is any of this *my* fault," he whispered.  

"The solution, Frodo, is to look at what *is*," said Gandalf.  "And 
the problem is to look at what is, and deem it evil."


7 July 2002

the end


Series:  Remembrance  10/ ?
Title:  Third Interlude:  Return to Love
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Pairings:  Sam/Frodo 
Characters:  Sam, Frodo
Rating:  NC-17
Date Completed:  10 July 2002
Summary:  A sunny day, a second breakfast picnic, and Sam.  MMmmmmm.
Disclaimer:  I own no hobbits, goldurnit, but I write about them 
incessantly
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archive:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  I love f/s.  I *love* it!



28 June, 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)

Minas Tirith


"Then Aragorn cried:  'Ye! utuvienyes!  I have found it!  Lo! here is 
a scion of the Eldest of Trees!. . . . And Aragorn planted the new 
tree in the court by the fountain, and swiftly and gladly it began to 
grow; and when the month of June entered in it was laden with 
blossom."
The Return of the King p 250


"We've seen a good many fine and wonderful things in our travels," 
said Sam, "but I think this may be just about the wonderfullest."

Frodo smiled down at Sam, kneeling beside the blooming mallorn tree 
in the Place of the Fountain.  He loved seeing Sam like this:  earth 
mixing with his good sweat; hazel eyes sparking green and copper in 
the sun.  When he was working with living things Sam was utterly 
irresistible -- even had Frodo the inclination to resist him.  Which, 
today, he had not.

Frodo laid a hand on Sam's head, twining sunlit curls in his fingers, 
lifting damp tendrils from the strong neck.  "My gardener," he 
murmured.

"Aye, everyone has their task, and gardening is mine, seemingly," 
said Sam comfortably.

"Hmm.  I have in mind exploring some of your other talents today," 
said Frodo softly.

The sparkle of invitation was unmistakable in the bottomless blue 
eyes.  Sam smiled up into them.  "Aye, that we could do," he agreed, 
his voice a little husky.

Frodo gave him his best Pippin-style pout.  "I'm hungry, Sam," he 
said.

"Hungry!  You haven't been hungry for . . . let's get you something 
to eat right now," and Sam leapt up to hurry towards the butteries, 
passion forgotten in solicitude.

"They don't serve second breakfast in the dining halls at Minas 
Tirith."   Frodo maintained his pout, though a smile was beginning to 
curl its edges.

"Nay, even Master Took has been unable to establish that custom 
here.  But I'm sure I can find us something."

"I have a better idea."  Frodo's teasing sideways glance did 
interesting things to the pit of Sam's stomach.  "Why don't we pack 
up a nice second breakfast and go on a picnic, just us two?"

Sam started purposefully toward their rooms.

"Sam!  Where are you going?  The buttery's that way!"

Sam grinned back over his shoulder.  "I'm packing the blankets 
*first*."

****

"Where did you find apple tart?"  Frodo asked dreamily.  He was lying 
on his back, the sun warming his face.  The murmur of the Anduin and 
drone of dragonflies was hypnotic.

"Baked by Master Meriadoc himself," said Sam.  Merry hadn't wanted to 
relinquish two of his precious tarts, but few people could resist Sam 
when he was begging something for Frodo -- and Merry was not one of 
those few.

Frodo rolled up on one elbow and looked over at Sam through half-
lidded eyes.  "What are you doing way over there, and why are you 
wearing all those clothes?" he asked languidly.

Both sounded like very reasonable questions to Sam.  

By the time Sam was undressed Frodo was also naked on the blanket, 
and the sight took his breath away.  Frodo, meantime, was feasting 
his eyes on the sight of a naked Sam standing silhouetted against the 
afternoon sun.  "C'mere,"  he said, rolling to his back and opening 
his arms.  Sam slid comfortably between Frodo's raised knees.

One of Sam's favorite games was trying to decide just what part of 
Frodo's ear was the most delicious.  Was it the delectable pointed 
tip, or the lush softness of the lobe?  The delicate shell-like 
curves within, or the fragrant hollow just behind the ear?  The 
latter had the advantage of making Frodo shiver when Sam placed his 
lips there.  Yes, the shiver definitely gave that spot an unfair 
advantage, thought Sam, repeating his attentions and listening to 
Frodo's breath catch.

Frodo placed his right foot on the back of Sam's thigh and slid it 
down the well-muscled leg.  His hands traced over Sam's shoulders, 
down his flanks and around to the tight buttocks.  Fitting his palms 
to their lovely curve, Frodo pressed Sam closer to him and moaned 
appreciatively.  Sam's mouth came around, tongue tracing a hot wet 
line from the ear to the corner of Frodo's lips.  He kissed Frodo 
softly, small sipping kisses, then continued a trail of kisses down 
to the spot where Frodo's throat joined his shoulder.  There he 
sucked softly, running his teeth very lightly along the cord of the 
neck.  Frodo shivered again.

When. . . Sam saw the incredible blue eyes swirl, taking Frodo away 
from him.  But this time was different.  Frodo's face remained 
relaxed, a smile curving the full lips, and when his eyes focused 
again his face shone with happiness.

"Where did you go just then?"  Sam asked.  

"Dear Sam."  Frodo pressed a soft kiss to his lips.  "You always know 
when I go away don't you?  I was just remembering another time, 
camping by a stream.  Back in the Shire, our first night out.  Do you 
remember?"

"I remember having a hard time sleeping," groused Sam, nuzzling 
Frodo's neck.  "I stayed awake half the night, thinking of you laying 
there just an arm's reach away."

Frodo sat up, smiling with delight.  "Did you really?  What fools we 
were!  I did the same, Sam.  All day I had watched you walking, and 
seen the outline of your chest when your shirt got wet with sweat, 
and I thought I would go totally mad with wanting you."

"Back then I could never have imagined that I'd be here, making love 
with you," agreed Sam.  "Or leastways I imagined it all the time, but 
I never had a hope any of my imaginings would truly happen."  

Sam looked down at the flushed face below him and smiled.  "The 
reality puts even my very best imaginings to shame," he said, and he 
slid himself down to Frodo's quivering loins.  Sam licked his palm 
and grasped the shaft, sliding gently up and down while he whirled 
his tongue around the velvety tip, loving the salty sweet taste.  
Slowly, using steady suction, he drew Frodo deeper and deeper into 
his mouth while gently squeezing the taut orbs below.

Frodo's back arched, and his hands tangled in Sam's hair.  "C'mere," 
he said again, reaching down to tug at Sam.  Sam willingly turned 
himself so his own throbbing erection was within Frodo's reach.  A 
cry burst from him as Frodo's warm mouth closed over it.

The taste of Frodo's sex in his mouth, the feel of Frodo's mouth on 
his sex, the glow of happiness that had overlaid the entire day, 
ravished Sam.  

Too soon, much too soon, Frodo's mouth left him, and he pulled 
himself away from Sam's attentions.  Sam sat up to meet him and they 
embraced, arms and legs intertwined, rocking to and fro in the 
sunshine.  Frodo caught Sam's hand and with both hands they grasped 
their shafts together, increasing the friction, loving the twining of 
fingers.  

Frodo's breath was ragged.  "Sam," he gasped.  "Sam . . . I 
need . . . '  With a lithe movement he grabbed the pack that had held 
their picnic.  Scrabbling in the bottom, he produced a tiny bottle of 
scented oil.  "Sam," he said.  "Make love to me Sam.  Please."

"Are you sure?" whispered Sam gently.  Since his torments in the 
Tower of Cirith Ungol, Sam had decided that Frodo might never be able 
to accept that act of love again.  "Are you sure?"

"Sam, I need your light.  I need your love.  Bring it into me, Sam.  
Please."

"Aye, then, let's be doing this right," said Sam huskily, and he laid 
Frodo gently down on the blankets.  "Now you be speaking if you need 
to stop," he warned.

"I won't need to stop."  Frodo's smile was incandescent.  "You won't 
hurt me, Sam."

"Nay, I won't.  Never," murmured Sam.  He uncorked the little bottle 
and applied oil to his fingers and to Frodo's opening.  Massaging in 
a gentle circle, he let the warming oil allow the slide of his finger 
into Frodo.  

Frodo gasped, and an instant of panic flashed over his face.  Sam 
immediately stopped, motionless, waiting.  Then, seeing the face 
below him relax, he extended his finger further, searching for the 
firm node that they had named the Sweet Spot.

When he found it Frodo's hips bucked and an exultant cry burst from 
his lips.  Sam smiled, caressing the firm nodule, watching Frodo's 
face, feeling his own erection swell and throb.  Still caressing, he 
slid a second finger into Frodo, gently stretching, soothing.

Frodo's hand strayed to Sam's shaft, holding it gently.  Sam glanced 
down and saw that it was the right hand, and Frodo had allowed Sam's 
member to slide into the gap between the second and fourth fingers.  
Tears pricked Sam's lids as he leaned down to kiss Frodo deeply, 
easing a third finger inside.

Frodo's eyes opened wide, wide, drowning Sam in their blue 
depths.  "Now, Sam . . . please . . . please," he gasped.

Sam knelt between Frodo's pale thighs, parting them gently.  Frodo 
slipped his legs up Sam's arms and over his shoulders.  Sam smiled 
down into Frodo's eyes as he applied more oil to himself and to Frodo.

The tip of Sam's shaft slid in smoothly and gently, making both of 
them gasp.  Frodo's gasp was not without alarm, and again Sam 
stopped, waiting, holding.  Then he bent to kiss Frodo as he slid 
deeper in a careful silken glide, testing the angle, seeking their 
Sweet Spot.

And finding it.  Frodo's mouth opened against Sam's, shouting 
soundlessly, as his fingers plunged into Sam's silky curls and hung 
on as to a lifeline.

Very slowly, Sam withdrew, almost all the way.  Very slowly he 
pressed back in, stroking at a slightly different angle.  Frodo's 
entire body shuddered, and he clutched Sam convulsively.  Sam lifted 
his head, missing the delight of Frodo's mouth, but revelling in the 
sight of his face, lost in abandon, eyes clenched shut, curls 
tangling as he whipped his head from side to side.

"Sam!  Please. . . Sam. . . Sam. . ."  Frodo was incoherent with 
passion, consumed by his desire and his need.  His hips raised 
themselves convulsively against Sam's, pleading.

Sam laughed low in his throat.  "Nay, I shan't be hurried here," he 
whispered into Frodo's ear, and Frodo laid his arm across his eyes 
and moaned.

Sam was transported by Frodo's clenching embrace, the hunger in his 
face, his hands clutching Sam's shoulders.  When Frodo's heels beat 
an urgent tattoo on his back, Sam felt he might swoon with the 
sensation.  But he breathed deeply and maintained a slow, steady, 
deliberate rhythm, pulling out dangerously far, stroking in 
deliciously deep, and again, and again.

Until finally he could bear it no longer.  Passion gripped his spine, 
forcing the rhythm to quicken, his thrusts sliding impossibly 
deeper.  When he spent himself within Frodo's body, he felt as if he 
was planting there a seed of life, of love.

Sam slid quickly down Frodo's chest, sliding the tense legs off his 
shoulders, and swiftly took Frodo into his mouth, and almost 
immediately Frodo came.  

Frodo's essence within him, his essence within Frodo.  It was so 
right.  At last Sam allowed the languor of the aftermath to overtake 
him.  Drawing Frodo into his arms, throwing a leg over the still-
quivering hips, he held him tightly.

Frodo was sobbing, hands splayed across Sam's back, legs intertwined, 
seeming to be trying to draw Sam inside his skin.  Gently Sam soothed 
him, cradling the curly head against his shoulder, whispering 
nonsense syllables of love into his ear.

Many moment later, Frodo's sobs became words.  "I choose you, Sam.  I 
choose you.  I choose life.  I choose you."

"What do you mean, dearest?" Sam asked gently.

Frodo's breath was returning to normal, though tears still glistened 
on the black lashes.  "I have only two choices, Sam.  I can choose 
the Darkness -- and sometimes that seems like the most logical 
choice.  It would be so easy to slide into it, let it cover me."  

He kissed Sam's mouth, which was beginning to open in protest.  "No, 
Sam.  I will not make that choice.  I will fight that choice.  

"You are my only other choice. The love, the light, the life within 
you.  It is my only choice, my only chance to fight the Darkness."

Frodo's eyes were troubled again.  "I don't think I will ever be rid 
of the Darkness, Sam.  It will still claim me sometimes.  I will need 
your light, your love, to bring me back.  It seems like so much to 
ask," and again Frodo pressed a kiss against Sam's protest, "but it 
is my choice."


the end


"and it's `coz you've thrilled me
silenced me, stilled me
proved things I never believed
Oh!  the face on you
the smell of you
will always be with me."

Sinead O'Connor		Three Babies


Series:  Remembrance  11/12
Title:  The Choice of Luthien
Author:  Uluithiel
Email:  uluithiel@hotmail.com
Website:  http://cormari.sinfree.net
Pairings:  Sam/Frodo implied
Characters:  Arwen,  Frodo
Rating:  NC-17
Date Completed:  13 July 2002
Summary:  Arwen transfers her burden
Disclaimer:  Hobbits & Elves:  not mine.  Writing:  Mine
Feedback:  please, please, please.  
Archive:  I'd be honored
Story Notes:  I'm so angry.  *So* angry.


12 July 1419 (in the Shire reckoning)
Minas Tirith

But the Queen Arwen said:  'A gift I will give you.  For I am the 
daughter of Elrond.  I shall not go with him now when he departs to 
the Havens; for mine is the choice of Luthien, and as she so have I 
chosen, both the sweet and the bitter.  But in my stead you shall go, 
Ring-bearer, when the time comes, and if you then desire it.'
Return