Title: Silence Is The Loudest Sound Of All Author: Landel Pairing: Frodo/Sam Rating: R Disclaimer: I do not own these characters or settings and willingly wrote this for fun. I did not do it for money. Summary: Some things are best left unsaid, but that isn’t always easy. Sometimes, the things left unsaid speak volumes. Author’s Note: Title taken from an idea by Mano Mardenna. I had the idea from reading “Ghost”, by Cara J. Loup. In it, she said: “Even though [Rose] she'd heard the story many a time and had traced it herself through a chapter and another and the next, her mind kept poking at things as weren't set down in the Book”. It got me thinking.... The only way to make this Bunny hop properly was to quote sections from LOTR to show Frodo’s thought processes as he wrote it. It was fun to try, though the five days it took to write were strangely compelling. I hope others agree with the need to quote the canon. ************************************************ Busy.... busy.... 15th April 1420 The quill scratched its way across the parchment, halting every so often as the hand holding it paused to reflect on what to write next. Already, that hand had got through two carved feathers today, its owner having lit the lamp on the desk a good time ago. Ink was flowing all too quickly from the nib as it danced and twirled across the page, the blotting paper near to dyed black in its wake. Frodo wiped his hand across his brow. There was still so much to set down. So much to remember before it went from his mind completely. Being back home felt like falling asleep again, and he must not fall asleep before the tale was told to its current end. So he forced the pen on. On, scratching and flitting over the blank pages. So far, Frodo had only written up to when he had reached fifty, and Sam was defending the more unbelievable characters they had met along the way. He couldn’t use their real names so early on in the tale. That would have to wait until Merry and Pippin actually met them. Ents.... But what had people round here always called them?... ‘Tree-men’! That was it, Tree-men! And the sound of the quill skittered on.... Then Ted Sandyman had teased Sam about Elves, saying something about cracked Baggins.... It was so long ago, and so much had happened since then.... but Frodo knew that he had to tell it all, as much as he could. Best not to make Sam as passionate as he really had been in answering Ted’s remarks, he hadn’t met any Elves then. But from the amount of stories he had read or listened to about Elves, he might as well have known one personally. No, best to put something like.... “Sam sat silent and said no more. He had a good deal to think about. For one thing, there was a lot to do up in the Bag End garden, and he would have a busy day tomorrow, if the weather cleared. The grass was growing fast....” And, of course, there had been much more on Sam’s mind than the pigging garden.... Frodo smiled slyly with the memories. Memories of waking up to the sound of his gardener bringing him breakfast in bed, when he had left that same bed less than a half-dozen hours before.... Memories of walking the length and breadth of the Shire with Sam by his side, falling asleep each night in his love and in his love’s arms as the campfire died low. Other memories came tumbling after, warming Frodo with their comfort. But no: Sam was married now, and that sort of ‘tumble’ wasn’t something you wrote into a grand story like he was telling now. But it was a part of his blissful life in the Shire, before it was all sullied in his memory by their journey East.... Frodo felt his right hand start to shake again. Swiftly, he put the quill into the ink well and clutched the trembling hand with his left. He hadn’t the time for this.... Quickly the spell passed and he took up the pen again. This was his tale, and Sam’s love for him had a right to be there. Frodo wrote.... “But Sam had more on his mind than gardening. After a while he sighed, and got up and went out. It was early April and the sky was now clearing after heavy rain. The sun was down, and a cool pale evening was quietly fading into night. He walked home under the early stars through Hobbiton and up the Hill, whistling softly and thoughtfully.” Well, as he’d put earlier, Sam and his other friends had been aware of him poring over maps for some years, and talking to a wide range of travellers that had passed through the Shire about then. Sam’s ‘thoughtfulness’ could be covered that way. And in the quiet of the study, the quill skiting across the page echoed softly on the walls.... ************************************************ A few days later.... 18th April 1420 Frodo had been going all day. It was past midnight. His eyes were stinging. His hand was cramping up every few lines. The quill nib was beginning to catch the paper. Skrithuuushct.... shoischouu.... ichichtitch.... His head was less than a foot from the page, the hand holding blotting paper automatically going to mop up ink spots as the nib wore away. Shuhuuhhhooschut.... skritch, dotdotdot.... cuuushuuuitoaaac, itch.... The quill made a soothing sound as it skimmed the parchment, like it was murmuring softly to Frodo as he wrote. The only sound in the still room. Now he had got as far as arriving at Crickhollow. Describing himself and Pippin and Sam meeting the Elves had been easy. The wonder and joy in Sam’s face that day would stay with him a long time. Ah, Sam.... he’s got a way with words all his own. Frodo turned back about a dozen pages. How had Sam described them?... Ah, yes.... “‘Well sir, if I could grow apples like that, I would call myself a gardener. But it was the singing that went to my heart, if you know what I mean.’” Frodo smiled in happy remembrance at the sparkle in his gardener’s eye as he said those words. And then he’d curled up, asleep at Frodo’s feet. Frodo remembered the sharp pang that flew up his spine, looking down at that shy handsome face while talking with Gildor. He was leading this young trusting Hobbit, his best friend and lover, into unknown danger. But Sam would.... how had he put it...? Frodo leafed forward a few pages. Oh yes.... “.... ‘I am going with him, if he climbs to the moon; and if any of those Black Riders try to stop him, they’ll have Sam Gamgee to reckon with’,”. Frodo let the pages fall back again, taking up his quill once more, thinking as he wrote. Crickhollow.... Scrit, scriiik.... dot, schuuushk.... scrat.... How could he have been angry at Sam for being the ‘Collector of information’? And the hurt look he had given Frodo when he said he couldn’t trust anyone.... He’d only been half serious, but should have known better. Sam took his master’s feelings so seriously and cared so much.... Frodo felt a slight tightness in his chest. There was no time to dwell on that now, not while writing the Book. And anyway, when could he ever escape his past concerning Sam, when he and his wife lived here with him? Frodo realised he was staring out of the dark window, lost in feelings. No time.... He had to get on, at least to the day when they entered the Old Forest. Then he could stop for the night. Giving himself targets like this made the job easier. Nothing that bad had happened so far, but remembering any of it was an effort. To go back over it.... And the multitude of feelings that Frodo had wrestled with were being toned down. His love for Merry and Pippin, Fatty who would stay at Crickhollow, and Folco and all the rest of his friends and family at the mercy of the coming events.... and, of course, Sam. Setting quill to parchment again, Frodo knew that he would never finish if he wrote it all down.... it would be too much. But there was desperation here somewhere as well. Sam was as much a part of this as he had been. And if it hadn’t been for how close they were.... their love.... He couldn’t leave that out altogether.... Raiitch, craiitch.... scoaarscitch, dot, shuuuschitch.... Quiet clues to how he had felt. How they had all felt. The quill danced on.... ************************************************ A month later.... 16th May 1420 Rivendell. Okay, he wasn’t going to go over it all. He wasn’t. His heart felt a little heavy, but what could he do? Yes, Master Elrond’s house deserved praise, only fitting that he gave it his best shot. But when it came to what Gandalf had told him about Sam as he woke.... Refusing food, water, rest and sleep. Dark rings under his eyes as he stroked his master’s hair, spoke so tenderly to his ear while mopping his soaked brow.... for three days.... Frodo’s right hand began shaking vigorously, and his left shoulder ached a bit as well. He had to drop the quill on the table and try to calm his right hand with his left. This was no good. How was he ever going to get to the end if each painful memory made him react so? He would just have to be less personal. Say less. It didn’t look like there was any other way. Birds twittered in the garden. Frodo could hear Sam outside in the sun making Rosie laugh, sweet giggled bubbles bursting against the study window. But Frodo hardly heard it. The study was still and at peace. He needed it that way, to cope with this. He picked up a fresh quill.... Scritch, scriiiischuuuschhh.... skitch, itk, dot.... shooaaatkit.... After a time, Frodo paused. Did that sound right...? “‘We have been terribly anxious, and Sam has hardly left your side, day or night, except to run messages’....” Yes. Not put the way that Gandalf had spoken, the way that had just made his hand tremble. But it was just as sincere. He dipped the pen and continued.... Frodo knew it was coming up. He’d almost died at the ford. Sam had almost lost him, then sat by him for three days solid..... The first time he had seen his master awake again.... No! Don’t dwell again! Busy.... No time.... The quill twirled on its way again.... “At that moment there was a knock on the door, and Sam came in. He ran to Frodo and took his left hand, awkwardly and shyly. He stroked it gently and then he blushed and turned hastily away....” Frodo stopped writing for a moment, taking a deep breath. “‘Hullo, Sam!’ said Frodo.” It was all that his throat had let him utter. He could feel his eyes beginning to fill now at just the memory. “‘It’s warm!’ said Sam. ‘Meaning your hand, Mr. Frodo. It has felt so cold through the long nights’....” Frodo wiped a tear from his cheek with his left hand, not aware of the great black smear across it from the blotting paper. “.... ‘But glory and trumpets!’ he cried, turning round again with shining eyes and dancing on the floor. ‘It’s fine to see you up and yourself again, sir!’....” Sam’s eyes hadn’t been shining. They had been dripping hard. And try ‘dancing on the floor’ when you’re sobbing so hard you can hardly stand.... And ‘sir’!... Why couldn’t he write the truth?!.. ‘Me dear! My love!’!! Frodo gave in, jamming the quill clumsily into the well before resting his creased brow in his hand, his right arm twitching and shaking by his side. Miserably, he shut his eyes and let warm brine run down his shirtsleeve, staining with the ink that was on his cheek. The silence in the sunlit study was broken only by his sobs of breath. The tenderest evening he had ever spent with his Samwise remained unsaid.... ************************************************ Six weeks later.... 27th June 1420 Scroooochuuucht.... skriiitch, skritchiiit,dot.... scraaaockuuitch.... Keep going.... keep going.... The Falls of Rauros. Frodo had been writing all day. Again. Well past midnight.... But he was so close to a good point to stop. Had to go on.... The quill swept relentlessly on, whispering the story back to Frodo’s ear.... “‘He made up his mind at last-to go. Where to? Off East. Not without Sam? Yes, without even his Sam. That’s hard, cruel hard’. Sam passed his hand over his eyes, brushing away the tears.” Frodo knew that it would hurt Sam, to leave him behind. But he couldn’t justify dragging his love and best friend into Mordor out of lonely fear. He refused to be that selfish. And he knew, as sure as the sun rose and set, that given the chance, let alone the choice, Sam would go with him. If Sam hadn’t come back to the shore then, Frodo really would have left him behind. But as everything had turned out, it was just as well that he hadn’t..... The quill scratched on.... “‘All alone and without me to help you? I couldn’t have aborne it, it’d have been the death of me’. ‘It would be the death of you to come with me, Sam’, said Frodo, ‘and I could not have borne that’. ‘Not as certain as being left behind’, said Sam....” Again, Frodo hated to be so cryptic, but it was the only way that definitely worked. The only method that allowed him to write it down without pausing every half hour or so to wait for his trembling maimed hand to calm down when it cut too close to the bone. Being left behind would feel like dieing.... Those three sentences covered a good five-minute argument. Frodo was quite proud, but still sad at having to silence the most personal parts of the story. If it weren’t for his damaged hand.... and shoulder.... Not again!... Frodo put the quill back into the well. The fourth time today.... He didn’t even bother trying to stop the shaking, just sat back in his chair and relaxed for a bit, breathing deeply and looking out the window at the moon rushing along the clouds, silver and wild in the wind. And another part of their story remained silent.... ************************************************ Four and a half months later.... 31st October 1420 It was dark out. Reaching midnight yet again. The lamp was beginning to sputter, it really needed refilling. Frodo’s eyes were itchy, pink at the whites. Smeagol in the Emyn Muil. There were piles of parchment all around Frodo. Frantic notes he had taken in Minas Tirith and Rivendell from the rest of the fellowship. The last few months’ had been relatively easy. Just a case of writing up correctly what he had noted from his friends. But now he was going from memory again, Frodo was stuck on a tiny detail. He needed to take a break. If he was so tired that something this small was stumping him, he would end up making a stupid mistake. Now, was the moon waxing?... Was it waning?... Oh, he must have been growing again! Just look back through what you’ve written!... I haven’t got time!!... There was a knock on the door. “Master?...” Frodo looked up with a gasp. He swallowed and blinked slowly to compose himself. “Come in, Sam”. “How’re you doing, sir? I thought you might want some supper”. No matter how good Sam may have been at controlling his appearance, he was too anxious to hide it. “You haven’t hardly eaten for a week....” Frodo rubbed his temples, leaning his elbows on the writing desk. “Can’t you stop for a little bit?” Sam knelt down next to his master’s seat, taking his left hand away from his dark locks in his own. “Please!...” Frodo looked down at Sam. He really was worried. Pleading. Frodo felt too weary even to smile Sam a reassurance. “Can you bring me something in here, Sam? I was just writing about seeing the moon after we got soaked in the Emyn Muil, and I can’t remember if he was waxing or waning. Of course, I could read back through what I’ve already written but there isn’t time. And then I wanted to write about Gollum before I stop, but I need to know....” “Frodo!” Sam cried, interrupting Frodo’s exhausted babbling. “Sir.... Stop. Please, stop. Just stop. Let it alone. You need some rest. It’ll still be there in the morning”. Sam did a little smile, but there were tears shinning in his eyes anyway. He reached his right hand up to Frodo’s cheek, gently stroking with his thumb. “Frodo?... My love?...” he said looking up anxiously. Frodo looked down into those big forest coloured eyes. He was tired, and knew when he was beaten. The lamp spat again. Frodo twitched slightly, gazing down to the floor. In the silence that followed, he barely said, “Alright”.... After eating some cold chicken pie with Sam, Frodo felt much better. He promised Sam to stop after one more passage. And with the talk they caught up on over the meal, when Sam had even made Frodo laugh at some local news, the least he could do would be to honour Sam that promise. Shaaiischoscoooaatch, dot.... Shhiiiiscucrooaat, scritch, scoat.... So all that any reader would ever learn of the night that Frodo spent with Sam, holding each other for comfort, whispering and caressing at each other’s ear, now it simply read.... “In the end, worn out, they just cast themselves on the ground under the lee of a boulder lying not far from the foot of the precipice. There for some time they sat huddled mournfully together in the cold stormy night, while sleep crept upon them in spite of all they could do to hold it off....” A little more space left empty in the story that was unfolding.... And from sheer habit, Frodo forgot his promise to Sam. The quill went on.... ************************************************ Twelve days later.... 12th November 1420 Frodo was still a little angry with Sam. After he promised to stop writing at the end of the passage he was on, Sam had found his master asleep at his desk the next morning. Sam rarely got angry with him, but a promise was a promise. And Frodo knew how seriously Sam took his promises.... It had been a study in visology for Frodo. Clearly, Sam hated to be stern with his closest friend and master, but that same friend had broken his promise. His promise to look out for his own well being, as he knew all to well. Frodo disliked being ordered about by his gardener, and had made to walk around the village to calm down. But Sam had broken down where he stood, genuinely frightened for Frodo’s health. He really hadn’t slept or eaten much in the last few months. And Frodo couldn’t do anything that he knew hurt Sam out of anger or just to get his own way. Compassion and love won out and Frodo agreed to stop writing for a week Now he was at his desk again. He had hoped that some time off would give his four-fingered hand time to calm down, so he could write the more demanding sections that were inevitably coming up without it taking longer than necessary. But it was still no good. Already he had had to stop and was still shaking too much to write steadily. Gollum, he and Sam had woken up near the edge of the Emyn Muil. He had just told Sam that getting the job done would be enough to concentrate on, not to worry about afterwards. That it was.... How had he said it?... “‘.... More than I can, I begin to feel’. Sam nodded silently. He took his master’s hand and bent over it. He did not kiss it, though tears fell on it. Then he turned away, drew his sleeve over his nose, and got up, and stamped about, trying to whistle, and saying between the efforts: ‘Where’s that dratted creature?’” This story seemed to be steadily becoming quite devoid of the rawness of going through it all. Maybe it was better.... less scary? And it was hard enough to write anyway. If he set it all down.... why, they would still be back in Lothlorien. The quarter of an hour or so that Gollum had been finding some food, Sam had made Frodo’s hand quite wet from tears, and the look of worry in his creased brow.... Frodo dipped the quill in the well pausing for a moment before putting it to the page. More of the tale left out.... ************************************************ A month later.... 10th December 1420 It was the middle of a beautiful day. The Shire really did seem to have been blessed this year. So much food was harvested, the sweetest and most abundant crops and fruitfulness within anyone’s memory. Through the study window, he could feel the pale warmth of the winter sun in the air. From down the lane, he heard Sam and Rosie coming back from the Water, Rosie laughing with her husband’s strong arm about her shoulder. Now he had started asking Sam for help in the tale. As they drew nearer to the Black Land, his own memories tended to be a little faded around the edges, so he needed his friend’s help in remembering the odd detail. And of course, Sam’s own thoughts and feelings were becoming relevant too. As Frodo had become gradually more influenced by their journey, Sam had found himself thinking for them both more often. The first time Frodo broached the subject, Sam had looked dismayed and resigned. He said that he hoped against hope that Frodo wouldn’t ask him to contribute in the telling of the story, but that it was almost inevitable that he would. It had taken a great deal of gentle coaxing and reassurance to get Sam started on how he had lived that time out loud. Frodo wrote Sam’s loving description of his master sleeping in the bracken while Gollum was out finding a rabbit word for word. At the time, Sam’s continued presence had woken him up but he chose to lay still, opening his eyes a fraction to look at Sam.... “He shook his head, as if finding words useless, and murmured: ‘I love him. He’s like that, and sometimes it shines through, somehow. But I love him, whether or no’. Gollum returned quietly and peered over Sam’s shoulder. Looking at Frodo, he shut his eyes and crawled away without a sound....” Sam had objected at that bit strongly. “Surely I would have heard that old Slinker creeping up on us!... Nay, Mr. Frodo. You’re mistaken!...” It had been difficult to explain away that account of events while asleep to Sam. He got round it by saying that he wanted people who might hear the whole tale to know that Gollum wasn’t all evil. He had said that gently to Sam, holding up his right hand to make sure that Sam was reminded of the missing finger. Sam had to leave the room, putting his sleeve up to his eyes.... Frodo sighed, deep in thought. It was just as well that he had to keep a good chunk of emotions and feelings out of his writing to get it done. Though they had recounted their journey after Rauros falls to all the rest, they had never really spoken of it to each other. Sam seemed to find talking about it difficult as well. Telling what he had thought while standing at the Black Gate had been easy enough, but now things were getting harder.... Frodo dipped his quill, and once again forged a little more onto the blank page.... ************************************************ A month later.... 7th January 1421 Skitchhhh, scritch....scat, scratch, dot.... Schuuuistraaacht.... It was the dead of night again. “Hang on, Sam. Hang on....” Frodo was concentrating hard. Sam yawned, putting his hands behind his head. “Sorry, sir.... Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but can we call it a night soon? Just I’m awful tired”. Frodo finished the line he was on then looked up, smiling. “Yes, Sam. Nearly done for today”. He paused, looking at his friend. Then leaning forward he put a hand on Sam’s knee, squeezing gently. “Thank you, Sam.... You know, there is still a lot to write....” Sam sighed, affection in his eyes. “I know, Mr. Frodo.... I know”. Then with a determined expression, he dictated the evening’s last few lines.... ““Ah well, sir”, I said. “You said my master had an Elvish air; and that was good and true”.... I know, I know”, Sam grinned as Frodo gave him an exasperated look to slow down. Skiiiirrch, shcuuuhhhctoooaahct.... skit, dotdot, chhoooaaaat, scritch.... ““But I can say this: you have an air too, sir, that reminds me of, of-well, Gandalf, of wizards”. Schischt, skoooaatchiiiuuuscht, dot, scritch.... schiiuuuooot, scrit.... “Then he said to me, “Maybe”, he said. “Maybe you discern from far away the air of Numenor. Good night!” And that was it, sir. He left”, Sam finished, waiting for Frodo to stop writing. When the ink finished flowing across the page and the quill was set back in the well Frodo leaned back, allowing himself a good stretch and yawn. Sam watched for a moment, thinking. Then he said, “Sir.... before I came in to help out tonight....” “Yes?” Frodo said languidly. “Well, Mr. Frodo, I was just wond’rin’.... what you said about the bed we was given to sleep in?... About what we did.... instead of sleeping?” Sam asked bashfully. He wouldn’t have dared say this if he thought Rosie might hear him. Frodo knew that. After a moment, Frodo leafed back four pages scanning the lines with a finger. “Where was it?... Ah! Here we are. “The hobbits were taken to a corner and given a low bed to lie on, if they wished. Meanwhile men busied themselves....” There you are”, Frodo smiled half heartedly, knowing that Sam would ask ‘why’. Sam looked predictably taken aback. “But.... there’s nothing in there about what we did in the bed!” “Sam, I know I didn’t say it ‘out loud’. But it is there”, Frodo explained, looking back to the Book. “I said, “....if they wished.” It’s not set out boldly, but I did.... hint at it”. Frodo finished quietly, looking at his feet. After a long pause, Sam said, “Are you ashamed?...” Frodo looked up again, and Sam saw resignation in his eyes. Sam wanted the truth?... Very well.... He would speak it.... “The hobbits were taken to a corner and given a low bed to lie on, if they wished. They could barely keep their hands off each other when the veil was pulled across the front. Sam was so worried about his master, tears leaking from his eyes now that he thought no one but his love could see them. Worried for his master’s strength, worried for his master’s sanity, worried for his rash words earlier when Faramir had chided him”. Frodo could feel his right hand begin to tremble, his left shoulder twitching as the emotions came back to him. “And Frodo was so glad to be able to be here, close with his Sam without prying eyes around. Now he could be as intimate with his friend as he had craved for days, fear and weariness driving them closer together, the weight of the ring around his neck growing worse, clinging to the pure, rock solid love they shared.... hoping....” Frodo stopped. His arm was shaking full force as he let the memories come back to him. Letting them jolt him where he sat, so Sam would see. All the love and fear and pain together. A tear ran over his cheek. Sam put a hand up to his mouth, all colour drained from his face. His eyes stared wide with horror at what writing the Book did to his beloved master. And without needing any spoken explanation, Sam agreed that another part of the great tale was best left silent.... ************************************************ Two months later.... 4th March 1421 Well past three in the morning.... The tension in the study was agonising. Sam was sat forward in a chair at Frodo’s side, head in hands. Sobs heaving his chest. He sounded hoarse from crying, only the in-breaths rasping his throat. Spittle dripped from his open mouth. Frodo didn’t even move. He sat looking at the page before him, hands resting together between his knees, back hunched forward. He was beyond tears, just feeling numb. Silent. He had steeled himself for this last two week’s writing over the last two months, knowing what was coming. And now they had finished it. It seemed only right to call this chapter “The Choices Of Master Samwise”. It was the very least that his beloved gardener deserved. Polite and thoughtful though hobbits may be, even Sam had to admit that his actions were worthy of at least some praise from those that didn’t know them. So they had settled on saying “‘Master’ Samwise”. They had been here, sat quietly, for nigh on half an hour, Sam weeping as they both ran through it in their minds again. How he had kept his hand and shoulder from shaking, Frodo couldn’t even guess. He did his best not to think about it for fear that it would jinx the good spell. But now it was done. It had been serious torture to watch his friend racked with sorrow and guilt as he retold the events after Shelob had stabbed his master in the neck. Then when he thought that.... well, that he would have to go on alone. And the joy at hearing that his master wasn’t dead, and coming upon the gate below the tower.... At each point where Sam had broken down shaking with tears as he told Frodo every detail he could remember of those dark days, Frodo put in as much reverence for his master Samwise as he dared. The cruel spates of Sam’s pain came back through his mind now.... “.... Then he charged. No onslaught more fierce was ever seen in the savage world of beasts, where some desperate small creature armed with little teeth alone, will spring upon a tower of horn and hide that stands above its fallen mate....” “.... And with that he staggered to his feet and was Samwise the hobbit, Hamfast’s son, again....” “.... ‘Frodo, Mr. Frodo!’ he called. ‘Don’t leave me here alone! It’s your Sam calling. Don’t go where I can’t follow! Wake up, Mr. Frodo! O wake up, Frodo, me dear, me dear. Wake up!’....” “.... drew his grey hood over his head, and night came into his heart, and he knew no more....” “.... He was still in the same place, and still his master lay beside him dead. The mountains had not crumbled nor the earth fallen into ruin....” “.... He looked on the bright point of the sword. He thought of the places behind where there was a black brink and an empty fall into nothingness....” “.... ‘And then he’ll not leave you again. Rest you quiet till I come; and may no foul creature come anigh you! And if the Lady could hear me and give me one wish, I would wish to come back and find you again. Goodbye!’....” “.... Sam yelled and brandished Sting, but his little voice was drowned in the tumult. No one heeded him....” “.... Sam hurled himself against the bolted brazen plates and fell senseless to the ground. He was out in the darkness....” Frodo slowly leaned forward and shut the book.... He decided to take a couple of days off from writing before going back to his other friends’ notes again. And Sam had to stop too. Frodo had argued till he was blue in the face that Sam needed to spend time looking after Rosie who was about to give birth any day now. But Sam wouldn’t hear it, determined to finish the passage they had begun. Almost as if he daren’t stop.... He got out from his chair, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Without needing to be asked, Sam pulled Frodo into his lap and hugged him hard to his breast, his crying renewed. “Shhh, Sam.... It’s all right.... I’m here. I’m here”, Frodo comforted, running his arm across Sam’s shuddering back. “Sshhhh, my love. Shhh.... We’re safe, you and me. Thank you.... Oh, thank you, Sam....” He leaned down, planting a firm kiss on Sam’s head so he would feel it through his sun drenched locks. Sam quieted again, only breathing in loudly as the sobbing passed. Frodo rocked them both gently in the chair, rubbing and patting Sam’s back to soothe him. Parts of the story that ought to have been shouted.... the love and loyalty of one being for another.... were left savagely muted. Sam’s sobbing aside, the silence in the study was loud and clear.... ************************************************ Four Months later.... 29th June 1421 Frodo had made a real dent in the last part of the story. He had finally got through all of his notes for the times that he and Sam hadn’t been part of. It had been hard work, and Merry and Pippin had been needed at a couple of points where Frodo’s writing had become too fevered to make out. They only called on Sam when they couldn’t agree between the three of them. It simply wasn’t fair to drag him away from Rosie and little Eleanor more than need be. So between his two cousins, himself and Sam, they had got it as right as it ever would be. Not that they hadn’t had the occasional heated talk about the odd finer detail, but now at least everyone was happy with what was written down. Now for the final stint.... The last gasp.... He had considered many times that the section about Sam finding him in the tower would be best to go straight after “The Choices Of Master Samwise”. But Frodo wanted to break up the intensity of Sam’s account, so he decided long before reaching that part of the tale to split it in two. And secretly, he hoped that it would distract anyone reading the Book from the painfully obvious love that Sam had for his master. Even Merry and Pippin had made diplomatic comments about that after reading it. So he needed to keep the connection quiet.... And apart from anything else, Sam needed a break from talking about it all. He had been quite exhausted after so many late nights and longer days spent in the study talking about things he had no desire to remember. And that was before the birth of Eleanor to begin with. So Frodo had wanted to give him a rest.... In the end, it had been easier than the ‘Choices’ chapter, but ‘The Tower’ was still a drain for Sam. Who was he kidding.... It was a drain on them both. It had taken a whole evening just to write about how Sam had actually found him, for Frodo’s hand was gone back to twitching and shaking. But eventually they had got through it, that blessed reunion. Frodo had to concentrate very hard on that bit. He felt proud again for ending up with a passage so subtle and ambiguous. But he just didn’t have the time or strength to write it all. No time.... Frodo felt it was best summed up by the phrase.... “‘Well, you have now, Sam, dear Sam’, said Frodo, and he lay back in Sam’s gentle arms, closing his eyes, like a child at rest when night-fears are driven away by some loved voice or hand....” It appeared to even fool Merry and Pip. They had just wiped at their eyes, not a smirk or concerned doubt in sight. Then, of course, there was the point when Sam had offered to share the burden of the ring.... Frodo didn’t need to check what he had written to remember *that*.... “.... But now the vision had passed. There was Sam kneeling before him, his face wrung with pain, as if he had been stabbed in the heart; tears welled from his eyes....” Sam had to leave the room, not heeding Frodo’s cries for him to stop. Frodo had been honest then. He owed Sam that at least: to tell of the tears Sam shed at his master’s deluded cruelty. But still, Frodo knew that silence was the only way.... The quill sped on.... ************************************************ Two weeks later.... 14th July 1421 It was late again. Past midnight.... Frodo’s hand was cramping up again, but he had learned over the last months how to ignore it. He could finally see the end in sight and had no intention of slowing down now that he was so close. Ever since leaving the Tower, it was Sam who had kept them both going. Frodo had reluctantly admitted to Sam that the quest and the Ring were consuming his mind and body by then. It took all of his strength to resist the Ring, let alone worry about where they were. Of course, Sam didn’t need that explanation. He had been there.... Scoooiitch, scraaiiitch, dot.... cuushcuuusctrich, skitch.... dotdot, skriiiitch.... “.... ‘I begin to see it even with my waking eyes, and all else fades’. Sam went to him and kissed his hand....” They would never know how tender Sam had been.... Scrit, scrat, shooaaatchiuuusch.... Shooaaarrrtoooaar, dot, skatch.... The love in his face and eyes.... Shuuuuistraaooochhh, dot.... sketch.... How he had kissed much more than his master’s hand.... Frodo felt the shakes coming on again, setting the quill back in the well. Not again.... No no no nononono.... ************************************************ Next evening.... 15th July 1421 Frodo was finding it harder to write. His left good hand was taking a serious pummelling for the sake of his damaged right. He couldn’t keep this up. He had snapped at Sam quite nastily earlier this evening and now needed some help remembering things rightly. But he daren’t call Sam back just now. That would be cruel, taking his weariness out on one who loved him so dearly then asking of him when the mood suited him. He wasn’t sure if he’d dreamed it or if it really had happened. He thought Sam had murmured, “I didn’t ought to have left my blanket behind”, but couldn’t be sure. And was it also imagination that made him remember Sam comforting him with his arms and body?... No.... he had been as accurate as possible so far. He would not stop now. “Sam?...” Frodo couldn’t keep his silence now.... ************************************************ Five minutes later.... Sam was sat on the desk edge, no trace of anger or sullenness in him. He stroked Frodo’s head lovingly. “And when I saw you there, trying to drag yourself up that mountain with your hands.... Oh, sir”, Sam sighed. “I wept in my heart, but my eyes stayed dry. And I said....” “I know what you said, Sam”, Frodo said, so quietly. “.... So much love in your....” he quivered into silence. And in the silence, the scratching pen sounded out its tale to the endless page.... ************************************************ Three days later.... 18th July 1421 Deep night. Frodo had tried to write the end of the quest in the first person. He really had. But the agony in his left shoulder was too much. And the ring hand shook so much it was all he could do to get the quill nib into the ink well, let alone write on the page. He had kept trying all of the day before yesterday. So he had no choice but to let it be told from Sam’s point of view. And here they both were. Frodo and Sam, alone again, at the end.... Not of all things, but of their part in telling the tale of the Ring. The joy on Sam’s face as the dear master stood before him unburdened while the mountain erupted.... And the joy on his face now.... Now they were in a tangle of urgent limbs and torsos, breathing heavily, lost in the sensation of each other, clothes scattered about the room. This time at the end, they had strength enough to follow their hearts to the end. Something that they had not the strength for on the mountain. And now there was no choice. They had to go on, taking each other to the end. As vital as breathing. Some sort of desperate cleansing that they both needed. This time as they fell to the ground, Gwaihir would have seen the tender passion they shared. But no one was witness to this mad repeat of the end on the mountain. The only other present was the Book. And in the quiet heat of love in that room, the Book was shut.... ************************************************ Nine weeks later.... September nineteenth, 1421, S.R. .... Frodo couldn’t help it. Ever since Sam had taken charge of the Ring at the Tower, he had changed. Frodo couldn’t help but see him as an equal, in all senses of the word. And when they made their way back to the Shire only to find the war on their own home ground, it was Sam that really oversaw the restoration work. He was a changed hobbit. Well, after facing the unspeakable evils in the Dark Land.... vagabond men and surly hobbits were nothing to lose sleep about. But things had also changed for Frodo himself. The way he loved Sam was changed too. Too much had happened to ignore. There was no way back, only forward. But he felt himself being left behind, somehow. It wasn’t intentional, he knew that. Sam was trying to repair Saruman’s damage to make him feel at home again. But it wasn’t enough. In payment of his weakness and surrender to the Ring, he had lost his finger, paid in flesh and blood. The significance was not lost on Frodo: It was gone and he would never get it back, just as the ring that he had claimed for his own. Of the nights he had heard Sam weeping in the kitchen and had emerged from his room only to glance across the hallway to see Rosie emerge from hers and Sam’s, all he could bring himself to write was.... “.... Frodo dropped quietly out of all the doings of the Shire, and Sam was pained to notice how little honour he had in his own country. Few people knew or wanted to know about his deeds and adventures; their admiration and respect were given mostly to Mr. Meriadoc and Mr. Pippin and (if Sam had known it) to himself....” The last entry Frodo made in the Red Book was happily easy. He had already foreseen a good half-dozen children that Sam and Rosie would have together, and had written the last two bits of dialogue that his part in the tale still held. And as Sam came into the room, he said just as Frodo had written.... “Why, you have nearly finished it, Mr. Frodo!” Sam put his hand on Frodo’s right shoulder, leaning his mouth down to Frodo’s ear. “Well, you have kept at it, I must say”. “I have quite finished, Sam”, said Frodo, softly. “The last pages are for you”. What bigger gift could he give his Sam? The story that had almost claimed his life more than once, that had taken so long to set down in black and white.... Sam deserved to have a part in telling it for real, writing it for himself. Frodo smiled wryly.... Just as well ‘Mr.’ Bilbo taught Sam his letters then.... “What is it, Mr. Frodo?” Sam smiled at Frodo’s ear. “Oh, nothing.... Nothing”, Frodo replied. After a moment, thinking about something or other, Frodo said to him, “Come on, Sam. I could do with a cup of tea”. Sam smiled, hugging Frodo about his middle as he leaned forward to shut the Book. Chuckling, he said, “Right you are, Mr. Frodo, me dear. Right you are”. ************************************************ From outside the study window could be heard the free sound of laughter. Laughter from both an older hobbit and a fair-haired bairn spinning in his arms. Laughter in a golden autumn afternoon that filled Sam’s heart and ears with joy.... And in the study the Book was quiet, no quill whispering across its surface. Somehow, it sat with a presence in the room. As if part of the magic from the tale within it gave it a silent awe and light.... Silence that spoke of many things.... Love, and hope, and fear, and loss, and war, and death, and life. But now, no new winding being added to the tale, the silent spaces left in the story were loud and clear. The silence was the loudest sound of all. ************************************************ END