Title: SOMETHING NATURAL Author: Keith Drummond Author’s email: bardmage070245@yahoo.com Pairing: Frodo/Sam Referred to: Merry/Pippin; Frodo/Aragorn Rating: R Acknowledgement: Many thanks to Landel for his close reading and spot on criticism – even if it did mean re-writing from top to bottom!!! Criticism: Oh yes, please! Both of this of REDEMPTION (just rather carelessly forgot to mention it then). I am new at fan-fic/slash, and any and all snipes, snips, snaps and snarls if they’ll help slap me into shape will be most welcome – I’ve already bought some flame retardant gear! Disclaimer: These characters are the property of the Tolkien Family Trust and New Line Cinema – May the Valar bless them forever. The Tolkien Family would probably have a serious hissy if they knew what we set these lads to doing with each other (no doubt the reason we never got a good snog in the films, even when it seemed the right and proper thing to do); nevertheless, one suspects that the good professor – though long since gone into the uttermost West – would now, at long last, understand. Summary: A prequel to REDEMPTION: Sam and Frodo climb the hill behind Bag End to see the Gift of Galadriel, the mallorn tree planted there in its first ever bloom – and find long restrained feelings spontaneously blossoming as well. . . . Based on film, novel, and the Chronology in Appendix B of THE RETURN OF THE KING. < . . . > denotes accentuated speech, etc. ****************************** April 6, 1420 – by Shire Reckoning It was late afternoon and time to make the tea. Nevertheless, as twilight began creeping in, he went right on brooding through the kitchen window of the smial, finding himself once more restless, unwilling to knuckle down to work, or even to fix a simple meal. He hungry, only the very thought of food was almost sickening. A very small part of his mind was a bit worried. No matter how elven Sam was always telling him he looked, he really was all hobbit. Something must definitely be wrong with him to be feeling this way about food. And, of course, there was. Nevertheless, his mind shied away like a frightened pony every time his thoughts came even close to the real reason for his discomfort and anxiety. It was just . . . easier to let the trivia take him: The business of putting the kettle on the hob, slicing the bread, spearing the slices with the toasting forks, setting the loaded forks just so on the fender, and then waiting for the licking flames to toast the bread to a proper golden brown, while, as they did so, fetching a plate and a cup and saucer from the cupboard (the one that always stuck so), opening drawers to find the right silver, and trekking down the hall to the cool room to get butter and the new marmalade – and, then, of course, all the wearisome bother of tidying up afterward. . . . He just kept steadily telling himself that, restless and fidgeting as he was, it was all really more than he could face just now. He eat. Of course he should. He knew that. A single chance glimpse of himself that afternoon in the mirror he usually tried so hard to avoid had shown him just how gaunt and shadowed he yet remained from the illness that had once again taken him on the thirteenth of March, bringing with it unspeakable dreams, harrowing nightmares in which he still faced the loathsome horror of that foul tunnel above Cirith Ungol as Shelob reached to take him. . . . He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cool glass of the window. Would he ever be able to forget it . . . eventually find a way to leave it all behind him . . . to stop remembering. . . . Or these days – even worse for his peace of mind than dreams of black riders, orcs, or even giant spiders – would he ever find a way to stop himself remembering that, night or day, whenever he came swarming up from tortured sleep, his comforter was always Sam? Dear, sweet, steadfast Sam. Ever there, ever attentive, softly uttering little soothing noises, placidly bathing him with long slow strokes of a sponge dampened with scented water, reassuring him, settling him, calming him with his kind and gentle presence, and the loving touch of his warm and tender hands. . . . With a sudden despairing cry, he wrenched himself away from the window and – even though a part of his mind knew it an unwise thing to do – fled to the cellar at the farthest end of the smial. Without even looking, he snatched up one of the crusted bottles from Bilbo’s stash of Old Winyards, raced back to the kitchen, cleaned the ancient bottle with a soft, damp cloth as quickly as he could without disturbing the wine, rummaged in a drawer till he found Bilbo’s antiquated brass corkscrew, and gently prised the bottle open. And yet, as the heady perfume of the wine rose to his nostrils as he slowly decanted it, a bitter look crossed his face: It had not exactly escaped his notice that he was taking more trouble getting himself a glass of wine than if he had simply made his tea. Which was when, finally, having no real other choice, he just stopped! – and at last allowed the true reason for his nerves, jitters and restlessness to come taunting and jabbering its way into his mind. And as it did so, in the silence behind his closed eyes he railed at the injustice of it all. Why? Why had been the one? The thought ragged at him, as it always did. Why him? For well nigh his entire existence, he had so often and so hopelessly wished his life could have been different. Less troubled . . . more – well, yes . . . just more ! But the galling truth remained: There been a reason he’d ended up the Ringbearer. Gandalf had even told him as much once, how the Valar had chosen him precisely because he a hobbit more than usually self-aware. Well, of course he was self-aware, he reflected angrily. Who had better reason than he to be self-conscious? Ever since he could remember, he had had to fight to be careful, forever mindful, censuring his every gesture . . . and, perhaps most importantly of all, keeping custody of his eyes, making certain to hold them downcast, hidden, alert to wherever they might stray or linger too long, slewing swiftly away before they could meet the eyes of . . . other hobbits – particularly those of the really good- looking ones, the stalwart, well-built ones who stirred him up so easily as they swaggered about among the lasses. . . . Often enough, he’d heard it said that the eyes are the windows of the soul. And knowing it was so, he was frankly terrified of having anyone peering into what kept hidden in the depths of soul, quite as much as he would have raged – indeed, had raged on occasion – at anyone presuming to look through a window into Bag End. He moved the fender aside and, kneeling down, set the decanter in its cloth-cushioned wire basket on the hearth. * Suddenly, an odd movement caught the corner of his eye. Instantly he blazed with anger – and reflexive fear: It was as though his last thought had suddenly come to life. Someone staring into his kitchen. Whoever it was was nothing but a silhouette against the setting sun and was standing right up against the window, a hand shading eyes from the sun’s glare on the glass the more readily to peer within. But then the figure moved and with a gust of relief he realized it was Sam – and though the upsurge of rage vanished, his heart went right on thudding in his chest. Outside, it was Sam’s turn to start as Frodo leapt up into view and, marching straight to the window, threw it open. “Samwise Gamgee! What on earth do you think you’re doing, frightening me half out of my skin like that?” Sam grinned and, turning about, hauled himself up onto the sill, swinging his legs around as Frodo stood back to give him room to do so, and jumping down onto the well-worn flags. “Well, and a good evening to you, Sam,” said Frodo with a grin as his cool sapphire eyes made contact with the warmer hazel of Sam’s. Only for Sam did he break his inflexible rule about the keeping of his eyes. After their wholly unexpected rescue from the fire-blasted ruin of Orodruin, the the two of them shared that glorious and improbable afternoon when Frodo awakened from his fever in Minas Tirith had been and had ever since remained the sole outward and visible sign of their special tie. Yet that – so transparently blazing with unquenchable love – had tied them together in a way no two hobbits had ever been bound before. And if neither hobbit had spoken a word of it since, neither had there been any need for either of them to do so. . . . Suddenly, more even than five minutes before, Frodo found himself yearning for that glass of strong red wine. “I’d say ‘Come in, Sam,’ but you’re already in. Sit. Make yourself comfortable. I’ve decanted a bottle of Old Winyards. It should be just about ready.” He hunkered down again in order to touch the back of his hand to the crystal decanter. “Perfect!” he was murmuring with great satisfaction when, suddenly, a shadow fell over him. He looked up sharply, nearly falling over, remembered fears suddenly gripping him of other shapes at other times overshadowing him like that. But it was only Sam bending over to hand him a thick towel. “Here!” Sam commanded. “Wrap it in that!” Frodo frowned, but took the towel and obeyed. There was a humming excitement about Sam he hadn’t seen in a very long time. He took up the bottle as Sam snatched two ponies from the whatnot and, slipping them into the capacious pocket of his jacket, was already heading for the side door. “Sam?” “Come on, Mr Frodo. You have to see this. And there ain’t much time afore the sun sets.” Gentling the decanter in his arms, Frodo hastened after Sam, who was already halfway up the path to the Birthday Field at the crest of the hill. The grass that covered the hill was long and lush. Ordinary grass, you would have thought. But he wasn’t sure any longer. Because, even in the depths of the previous winter, it had remained strangely green and vibrant – despite being blanketed in snow. The snow, he thought, remembering it. Remembering the feel of it. The cold, deep, and quiet snow. And, incapable of stopping it, demanding memory overwhelmed him once more, wrenching him back yet again to what had happened there. And how longing and reverie had nearly caught him out then. . . . * They first noticed the strange, unnatural green in December, when winter storms were dumping load after load of thick wet snow upon the Shire and, by rights, the grass should have been brown and sere and dead. He himself had been feeling hale and well by then; even somewhat content. For the time being. It was, after all, midway through the long interval between the recurring sickness of the old wound of the Nazgûl that had taken him every October since Weathertop and the just as dreadful recurrence in March of the memory and pain of Shelob. “Do you suppose it’s an effect of the mallorn growing here?” Frodo whispered in wonder to Sam who, even now, insisted on continuing his gardening duties at Bag End – although, just lately, the only thing there’d been for Sam to do was shovel snow off the winding paths of the garden. It had been while doing so that he’d discovered the emerald grass beneath. “Could be,” said Sam thoughtfully. “’Course there is all that magic earth the Lady gave me too.” Frodo nodded, not really paying attention, smiling happily at the enthusiasm of his friend, gardener, and beloved companion. Only, as Sam rambled on, recounting to him the familiar tale of the effects of the Gift of the Lady on the blighted landscape of the Shire, he found himself remembering another time, other moments from their brief respite in Lothlórien. Pleasant dreams of small, happy, brief adventures there that he could never share with anyone. Least of all with Sam. . . . And just like that, Frodo found himself wandering again – only in good memories this time. Memories of the soft eternal springtide of Lórien, of the music and glory of the elves’ singing, of the beauty and mystery of the Lady, of a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon held close in the mighty arms of Aragorn as they murmured of what was likely to come, cuddling quietly together as they lay in the soft dappled light beneath the trees. And another memory as well: Of stammering and blushing and trying to hide his burning face whenever the splendour that was Celeborn chanced upon him; of the amused and tranquil smile of the Elven King as he reached out to lift Frodo’s flaming face with one hand and drew the back of the fingers of his other hand gently up Frodo’s downy cheek from the corner of his mouth to the tip of his ear before brushing his lips against Frodo’s brow – as if knowing precisely of what kind of touch the wandering, so heavily burdened hobbit stood most in need. . . . A snowball in the neck interrupted these maunderings. He swung round to see Sam bent over a snow drift already making another. There was, of course, only one proper course of action: Frodo stooped for a handful of snow and with the inborn accuracy of hobbits throwing things lobbed his own snowball to smash most satisfactorily – right on Sam’s bottom. “Yow!” Sam exclaimed, jumping upright, equally as startled as Frodo had been a half minute before and, turning, sent his new weapon right into Frodo’s midriff. At once, Frodo charged, his black, snow-dusted hair butting into Sam’s belly and sending him tumbling backward into the drift. And Frodo pounced. For a moment, they tussled in the snow bank, tickling each other, wrestling, and grabbing for any hold achievable. But of course Sam was too strong, and soon had Frodo pinned on his back, Sam astraddle him, his hands holding Frodo’s arms outstretched above him in the snow. “Got you!” crowed Sam in triumph, twinkling down upon him. And Frodo, gazing up into Sam’s fathomless, laughing eyes, ceased to struggle and went completely still, his face wiped clean of all expression but naked adoration. As he whispered with simple candour, “You always have had, Sam.” A troubled look passed over Sam’s face. Confused and – not afraid, but uncertain, rather. Puzzled . . . unsure just how he should respond. So Frodo knew: The time was not yet. Quickly recovering both his wits and the situation, Frodo threw Sam off him sideways, scrambled to his feet as Sam was doing the same, and quickly clutched another handful of snow. “I owe you another snowball. . . .” And a few minutes later, laughing like schoolboys, he and Sam were racing back indoors to fresh muffins right out of the oven, and a great pot of scalding hot sweet tea. . . . * . . . but all that had been in December. This was April. And since then, once more, he’d been ill. Besides, it was probably best not to think of that fleeting winter moment when he’d said perhaps too much and with far too unmistakable a meaning. Nevertheless, at the bottom of the path up the hill, he began to go more slowly, almost hesitantly. Because at last the fullness of the real reason for his restlessness and earlier anxiety was erupting into final clarity as he watched Sam blazing in the evening light with that beauty that was only and ever Sam’s alone. How was it possible to love someone so much? So much it hurt as deeply as any of the wounds he’d taken on the Quest. So much he could almost wish them back waiting to die on the crumbling slopes of Mount Doom if only . . . just once more . . . he could be wrapped in the circle of Sam’s strong arms. But in the end there was only one thing to do. Go on. Go on though the sorrow of it pressed upon him with a weight like that of the Ring itself. He would share in Sam’s enthusiasm for whatever it was he’d found. He would guard himself as ever so that not even a sigh would escape him, much less allow his sadness to take him and risk shaming tears in front of the hobbit he’d come to love more than life itself. He just had to go on. That’s all. And so he did. Besides, Sam had come to a halt at the very crest of the hill at the very place where once the great birthday tree had stood before being chopped down by Saruman’s thugs and where they’d planted the seed of the . . . Rather breathlessly, Frodo reached Sam’s side just as he grunted with evident satisfaction and, gesturing, said, “There! What do you think of ?” The mallorn sapling, still only waist high – and a hobbit’s waist at that – was in full golden bloom, the long light of the westering sun seeming to set the blossoms covering it glowing as if with their own internal light. “You had to see it, Mr Frodo. You had to. Pity ‘tis only April though. The days ain’t really long enough. Should rightly bloom in high summer so we could see it when the gloaming lasts till ten or eleven.” Sam turned, grinning, to his master and best friend. Only Frodo was neither looking at the sun nor the blossoms of the mallorn. Instead, he was gazing helplessly at Sam. And despite all resolve, his eyes were shining – even in the fading light – as he held the towel-wrapped decanter to him as a drowning mariner clasps a spar of wreckage, his expression stricken and lost. Immediately, Sam was at his side, easing him down into the cushioning grass, unwrapping the decanter, and quickly wadding the towel up to fashion a pillow for Frodo’s head. “I’m sorry, Mr Frodo. I wasn’t thinking. I must have taken leave of me senses. I really am a ninnyhammer, I am. Here you are only just recovered from your March illness, and me all of a twitter, what with the wedding and all. . . .” With a strangled cry, Frodo twisted onto his side, curled up into a ball, weeping as if he would never stop. “Oh, Mr Frodo!” Sam began helplessly. But then, quickly, practical as ever, he fished the two small wine glasses from his pocket (he would have preferred they be larger, but you have to do with what you’ve got sometimes, now, don’t you?), uncorked the decanter and filled one of the glasses. He turned back and, his voice soft, his touch as deft and tender as if soothing a three days’ child, he gentled the still helplessly weeping Frodo up and, cradling his head with his left arm, encouraged Frodo to drink – as night began wrapping her mysteries about them. . . . * Presently, his self-possession somewhat restored, though still not trusting himself to speak, Frodo sat up, refilled his glass and, having fetched the other glass from where it had come to rest in the high grass, filled it and handed it to Sam – and did something he’d never even dared to think of doing since that dreadful march through the dying abandoned groves and tare-strewn fields of Ithilien. Frodo leaned back on Sam, resting against his chest, and nestling his head into the curve between Sam’s shoulder and neck. He felt Sam’s left arm, as if on its own, come up to encircle him, his thumb idly stroking Frodo’s arm through the midnight blue velvet of his jacket. And for no more than a fraction of a second, Frodo would have sworn he felt the weight of Sam’s head rest gently against his. Together, then, close and content in their little nest in the high grass, they sipped the rich wine in silence and watched the last light fading away behind the Ered Luin so far to the west, the warmth embracing them not yet the soft muzzy languor of summer, but comfortable enough and pleasant. “Mr Frodo,” Sam finally murmured, the wine having loosened his tongue. A moment or two later, his head still leaning against Sam’s broad shoulder, Frodo said, “Yes, Sam?” “Begging your pardon if I asks as shouldn’t but you’re . . . what . . . fifteen years older’n me?” “Sixteen, Sam.” “All right, sixteen years. Well – again begging your pardon, sir – but . . . well, why then haven’t you . . .” “Sam!” Frodo interrupted quickly before this could go any further, and with that certain unmistakable firmness Sam remembered well: “Don’t!” Frodo continued after a moment. “You’re finally going to marry Rosie in but three short weeks.” “I know.” “I think you should focus on that! Not on me!” Sam disengaged and reached over with the decanter, refilling first Frodo’s glass and then his own, recorked the decanter, and took a healthy swallow of the strong wine. And then, immediately, and without a word, took hold of the amazed and delighted Frodo and pulled him back against him, his left hand enfolding his head and tucking it snugly back into the crook of his neck and shoulder. “Aye,” he said, as if speaking half to himself. “And I am glad you brought that up.” Frodo said nothing. He just waited. It was dark now, but the moon had already been high ere even the sun had set. When Sam said nothing further, he finally lifted his head to look up into Sam’s face. There was just enough light to see Sam gazing down at him, his eyes like pools of midnight water in the dim silver light. “Sam?” he said, and then helplessly just said the beloved name again: “Oh, Sam!” It was all he could think to say as his eyes began once more to burn. And, seeing the moonlight reflected in Frodo’s shimmering eyes, and knowing full well what was causing that gleaming lustre, Sam set his glass aside and, taking Frodo’s from him, set it to one side as well. And as if it were the easiest, most natural thing in the world to do, he reached out with both arms this time, wrapped them around Frodo, and, lying down on his back, pulled the frailer Frodo down to lie full length upon him in a strong embrace full against his own thickly muscled body, his left hand playing across Frodo’s back, his right hand gently caressing the older hobbit’s tousled black curls. For a long, long time, then, they simply held one another. Resting in each other. Each content finally to feel the solid presence of the other held tightly against his body, the strength of his arms. His glowing warmth. . . . His love. . . . * Eventually, however, Sam whispered softly into Frodo’s ear, “I’ve loved Rosie forever. You know that.” He felt Frodo’s nod against the shoulder on which his cheek rested. “But the truth is, Mr Frodo, I love you too. I have . . . always.” Sam heard Frodo mutter something too muffled to be made out. “I’m sorry, Mr Frodo?” Slowly, as if it pained him to break away from Sam’s strength and warmth, Frodo sat up and, looking straight down into Sam’s fathomless eyes, finally told him the truth: “I’ve loved you since the day I first saw you, the day the Gaffer brought you to work here at Bag End.” “I was but eighteen!” said Sam in surprise. “I know. And I but one year shy of coming of age.” He smiled and drew a finger along Sam’s jawbone. “I knew who you were of course. And certainly I’d seen you around. And I remember thinking, ‘Now a lad who’ll break the hearts of the lasses. Aye . . . and of some of the lads, too. . . .’ For I also remember the way young Nick Cotton would look at you when he thought you couldn’t see. Surprised you never noticed, actually.” “Oh, he let me know soon enough what it was he was after,” said Sam dryly, also rising up. “Did he really?” “He did. Only it weren’t what was looking for.” “Rosie?” “No, Mr Frodo.” “No? What then?” “You, Mr Frodo.” “Me?” “Well, you see Mr Frodo, I did . . . I remember seeing you looking at me all those times in the garden. And even then, even though it went against everything I’d been taught, I thought . . .” “Yes, Sam?” “Ah, well. It don’t matter none. Not now. It were naught but stupid fancies. Leastways, I always thought so. Then. . . . I mean, you were Mr Baggins of Bag End and me just the youngest son of old Hamfast the gardener. I wanted you, though, sure enough. Aye. Even then. Though I never realised just what it was I was wanting. . . . Not then.” “When did you know?” “In Moria. In the dark.” Sam reached out and cupped Frodo’s face in his hands. “When you held my hand, because I was so scared. And then – just when I began finally clearly realising how much I wanted to take you in my arms and hold you and kiss you and have you kiss me back and then have us make love to each other – that thing, that creature stuck that boar spear into you, and I thought I’d lost you just as I was beginning to understand and accept how much I wanted you, how much I loved you, how much I needed you.” It had all come out in an astonishing rush. Samwise Gamgee, Samwise the Stouthearted, had finally found his voice. And it was strong. For the space of a few heartbeats, neither hobbit said a word. And then, spontaneously, at the same moment, each hobbit canted his head slightly to the right, and together – finally and forever – they closed the distance between them. Almost at once the kiss deepened, until, coming up for air, each was resting his chin on the other’s shoulder, each trying to regain his breath, each holding on for dear life, each trembling with rising desire. It was Sam who finally grasped Frodo by the upper arms and pushed him slightly away so that, once again, he could look into Frodo’s eyes. “So what do we do now?” he asked. “Do?” said Frodo. “Do we go away together? To Rivendell. . . . Or Minas Tirith? Strider’d look after us. King Elessar, as I ought to be calling him now. . . . Or Lothlórien?” He gestured at the sapling mallorn beside them, its blossoms once more alight under the silver moon. “The Lady surely . . .” “But what about Rosie!” Frodo interrupted. “D’you think she wouldn’t understand, Frodo? She knows. She understands. She’s even talked to me about it. A bit sideways, I’ll grant you, but, trust me, she knows. I kind of gather she even approves, though ‘tis strange to her, no doubt. But she’s a good lass, and a kindly and sweet one. She knows I love you, I tell you, and that, if you did but ask me, I’d follow you wherever in Middle Earth or even beyond you wanted to take me.” And Frodo – for all he’d just had the single most passionately desired wish of his entire life granted – knew, with a slowly burgeoning immensity of grief, precisely what it was he had to do. “Sam,” he said, brushing Sam’s face with the back of his hand, “I love you. And have always. As you would say it, forever. And more than I can begin to tell you. An hour ago and I thought . . . I really did think I was close to dying for the love of you.” “Do you think I haven’t felt the same? Do you think I don’t know how you looked at me? Did you never see me looking at you, my heart fair breaking with wanting you?” “No, I didn’t. Because I never really dared to hope. You were in love with Rosie. You’re going to marry her.” “Frodo. . . .” “Hear me out, Sam. Can’t you see, love? And you are, you always will be my one and only love. But if we were to love the way, I think, both of us want . . .” “I do.” “I know. Now. But as I started to say if we were to love, we have to leave the Shire. Forever. . . . Forever, Sam! There’d be no coming back once folk knew where we’d gone. And why. And you have to stay here, Sam. Here in the Shire. Because it’s where you belong.” “But . . .” “No, Sam. No buts. And I shall tell you why: You only bore the Ring for a few days. Nevertheless, you did bear it. And now you have to tell me: What did it do to you?” “Something,” admitted Sam eventually, reluctantly. “I’m still not sure just what it was rightly. Except that it hurt. And even in my greatest moments, us getting home and sending Saruman’s thugs packing, or spreading the Lady’s gift all round the Shire, or Rosie accepting me, or even you and me finally kissing here just now, it’s as if, way down at the root of my soul, something’s gone missing, there’s a kind of, I don’t know, some kind of . . .” He went on struggling to find the right word, until Frodo supplied it for him: “Emptiness?” “Aye, that’s it. . . . Emptiness.” Sam’s expression was troubled now. Uncertain. Again. “And you know how long I carried it,” said Frodo bleakly. “This is only the second year since we got home, Sam, and yet . . .” He broke it off, but there were other of Frodo’s words that came flooding into Sam’s mind. Words whispered breathlessly, desperately, during the recent recurrence of his illness. Words that came unbidden, unwanted, freezing Sam’s blood: “. . . I am wounded; it will never really heal. . . .” “Mr Frodo?” With all the love in the world, Frodo leaned into Sam and, once, so gently, so tenderly, kissed him again. “Sam,” he said softly like a blessing, “marry Rosie. Have half a dozen . . . have a children. And live a long and contented life. But I . . . I just don’t know how much longer I can bear it.” “Bear what?” “The emptiness. The sense of loss. The wounds I’ve taken return to haunt me and make me ill every year. But all year . . . every day . . . all night long . . . every night, I am more and more like some great cavern deep underground where no light ever shines.” Roughly, Sam pulled Frodo to him and, with bruising strength and passion this time, kissed him again. Hard. And for so long that Frodo wondered if he would ever let him go. When they did break apart a good time later, Sam pulled Frodo into a clutching, desperate embrace. He growled fiercely into Frodo’s ear, “My love will fill your cavern and breach the darkness with light,” And, presently, pulling back, his hands rising to cup the side of Sam’s face, his thumbs softly caressing his cheeks, Frodo whispered, “Noble words, my Samwise the Brave. But you have to let me go. You know you do. Just as I have to let you go.” “But . . .” Frodo’s right hand, the one with the missing finger that, even now, throbbed with phantom pain, gently silenced Sam’s protest. “No, Sam. Listen to me. I love you. And you’ve made me the happiest hobbit that ever lived telling me . . . me, you love me, too.” “I do. So much.” “Yes. I know. And although I do not know much about love, I know that ours is as holy and true as ever the light is holy that shines upon the leaves of Lórien. But I have taken mortal wounds, Sam. Three of them. And should our love come to fruition” – he was staring now into the dark and hidden west – “I suspect we both know it will only happen somewhere beyond Middle Earth. Somewhere over there,” he nodded his head, “in the eternal West. Only there will we be truly healed, both of us, and be able truly to love. “And so my dear Sam, my most beloved Sam,” – he turned his head to look directly into Sam’s sorrowful and puzzled face – “love Rosie!” he commanded. “Live your life. And we will not speak of this again. Because I won’t do that to you. And I won’t do it to Rosie.” “But like I was telling you, Frodo, she knows! She knows how much I . . .” “That’s wonderful!” Frodo’s hand on Sam’s lips, still swollen from the strength of their passion, once again stayed his protest. “I always knew there was great stuff in the Cottons. But it would not be fair to either of you to do otherwise. . . .” September 22, 1421 – S.R. In all the fuss and bother of the trek to the Gray Havens, and the wrenching sorrow of parting from his beloved, he’d only been able to snatch but a brief talk with his Frodo – and only then by dragging him off by main force round one of the buttresses of Cirdan’s great castle. “Will you please let me kiss you one last time?” he pleaded; they had, after all, not so much as laid a finger on one another since May the first the year before when Sam had finally indeed married Rosie. “It’s . . . just not a good idea, Sam,” said Frodo gently, for all that Sam could see the almost tangible love streaming from Frodo’s eyes, even as it had done this last year and a half since their all too brief encounter beside the mallorn tree. “Do not be too sad, Sam. Don’t you see? You cannot be always torn in two. And if I were to stay, you would be. And I think you know that. You will have to be one and whole for many years.” “But it’s not fair, Frodo,” Sam protested; “I’m never going to see you again!” His heart already nearly shattered from the news of Frodo’s departure into the West, this last refusal only completed the break. Frodo just smiled in that mysterious way of his, gently touched Sam’s mouth, and then, taking him by the hand, tugged him back around the great buttress toward the pier – to find Gandalf waiting for them as they emerged from the shadows. “I’m sorry,” said the wizard. “I didn’t mean to pry, but I was looking for you two and so couldn’t help but overhear: ‘Never?’ my dear Sam?” he then asked, gently caressing the younger hobbit’s cheek. “Now that is a very long time indeed. And one can know precisely what the future will bring. “Come, Frodo,” he finished. “It is time.” Frodo kissed Merry and Pippin on the brow and embraced them gently, whispering to each as he did so, “Watch over Sam.” Finally, he turned to Sam. And, suddenly – ignoring his own injunction – he stood on tiptoe and wrapped his arms around Sam, whose arms in turn reached around Frodo with all the strength and sorrow of his love. For one last time, their mouths met in a kiss and embrace of depth and love and passion . . . and farewell. Behind them, seeing it – and sharing the weight of sorrow – Merry and Pippin felt for and clasped one another’s hand, taking comfort in their own love at this last unhappy good-bye. Sam and Frodo broke apart, neither of them able to see altogether clearly. “And Sam,” said Frodo, struggling despite his sorrow to smile, “see to it that those two” – he gestured at Merry and Pip – “behave themselves.” “I will, Frodo. I will. . . .” Frodo turned away, resolutely marched down the pier and onto the gang plank, and so embarked upon the ship that would bear him into the Uttermost West. To what or to where, no one really knew. For none who has made that journey has ever returned to speak of what lies beyond the sundering sea. On board, only once did he look back from the quarterdeck at Sam and smile, his eyes still luminous with love – and yet also suddenly ablaze with some joy that seemed to have descended abruptly upon him radiantly and gloriously to possess him. He nodded once, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, turned away aft, opened a door . . . and was gone. . . . Only then did all the others who were going with Frodo – Celeborn, Galadriel, and even Bilbo – come to kiss and embrace Merry and Pip and Sam as well. And when they too had embarked and were gone below like Frodo, to the hobbits’ amazement, even Gandalf came to them. “I will not say: do not weep, for not all tears are an evil.” And he, too, kissed each of them on the brow. But only to Sam, unheard by the others, did he whisper: “My dear Sam, strange as it may sound to you now, remember this: There is always hope.” “Mr Gandalf?” “Yes, Sam?” “D’you remember how I once asked you not to turn me into something unnatural?” “Of course I do. I didn’t, did I?” “No.” Sam smiled up into the loving wizened eyes of the wizard. “But what you did that evening, I’ll never forget.” “I beg your pardon?” “You turned me into the most naturalest hobbit that may have ever lived in the Shire, barring Mr Frodo, by what you done, sending me out with him like that, making me realize that I love him more than life itself. I just wanted you to know that, and that I’ll be thanking you for it till the end of my days.” Sam threw his arms around the waist of the tall wizard and gave him a royal bear hug. “And may those days be long upon the land that is that most blessed Realm of the Shire,” said Gandalf, who then raised his voice so the others could hear, too. “And now may the Valar bless you all forever. Go in peace!” And in peace, however tinged with sorrow, they went. Home. October 6, 1421 – S.R. After Merry and Pippin left him in order to head off to their own homes in Buckland, Sam went more slowly, presently even getting off Bill and guiding him by the reins. Walking was better; it gave him time to think. So much had been said, and so much hurt and sorrow taken, that, for most of the journey back to the Shire from the Havens, none of the three had spoken much at all. Indeed, cold comfort though it was, Sam was content essentially to ignore the other two hobbits, watching, instead, the way little fragments of memory were sparking fitfully in the depths of his sorrow as if he were watching a sad and meagre display of fireworks happening somewhere else far, far away. Until one tiny shard of light seemed to pause – and linger. A recent memory, from the ride to the Havens: “Do not be too sad, Sam,” Frodo had whispered to him as Cirdan’s groom led their ponies away; “your time may come. . . .” He wasn’t at all certain what it meant, though he suspected it just to tie in with Frodo’s reference to him as being another of the Ringbearers and – though the connexion made even less sense – to Gandalf’s strange urging of him not to give up hope. It made no sense, he decided in the end; no sense at all. It was but the comfort the departing always give to the ones they were leaving behind. Even so, those little fragments went on flickering inside till, presently, he realized they were no longer merely sparking but instead were now burning steadily, if distantly and dimly, like the tantalising glow of a far off light barely glimpsed across a shadowed plain that still remains to be crossed. Before he could dwell on that slowly kindling thought, however, he reached Hobbiton, the Water lay just ahead, and, presently, he was at the turn off up the Hill. . . . Quietly, Sam let himself into Bag End, and stood silent and still in the entry hall as he looked about. Everything everywhere so comfortable . . . so familiar . . . and now, suddenly, almost alien, empty and strange . . . and all because had left it forever. He made his way through the darkened smial to the kitchen, and just stood a moment, watching Rosie holding Elanor on one hip as she stirred the great stewpot on the hob. A few minutes later, Rosie sensed him and turned that sweet and loving smile upon him, while Elanor gurgled to see her daddy come home. And seeing the sorrow still on him, Rosie quickly set Elanor into her chair, came to him, and enveloped him, radiating all the understanding and love that she bore for him. Sam smiled, his arms around her, resting his chin in her fair corn gold hair. She tugged at him then, fussing him into the sitting room, chivying him along till she had him lovingly settled in his favorite chair in front of the fire, and dashed back toward the kitchen. He even managed a smile when she came scuttling back into the room mere moments later, a great mug of frothing ale in her hands. She handed it to him, and then, in a teasing, pert and yet infinitely loving imitation of his own manner, she planted her feet in front of him where he wallowed in his chair. “Now you drink that up, Samwise Gamgee!” she commanded in her most Sam-like way of speaking, wagging a finger at him. “You need it and you know you do. ‘Course you do. Sorrow is thirsty work, Sam. Or didn’t you know that? Hobbits!” She addressed the ceiling. “They never seem to learn what any maiden knows from the day she first lets down her hair and starts letting into her life!” She snorted, arms akimbo, and this time he laughed a great bark of laughter – and drank, thanking her with his eyes. Coming up for air when he’d sent half the ale where it was supposed to go, he grinned and, suddenly leaning forward, seized her round the waist and pulled her down into his lap. “Wait!” she said, and, still laughing, leapt up and dashed into the kitchen again, returning a minute later with a giggling Elanor whom she planted right into her father’s lap. “There. Even better than ale, what?” He laughed again and began kissing and fondling and tickling this so fair, so magical child, setting her to gurgling and giggling and snatching at his teasing finger. “Sam?” said Rosie. He kissed Elanor’s fine yellow curls, and looked up at Rosie. “It’s all right,” he murmured, and, placing his cheek against his daughter’s head, closed his eyes and softly breathed, “It’s all right.” And suddenly he knew that Frodo had been right. This where he belonged. . . . For now. . . . If loving Frodo had seemed to him the most natural thing in the world, well . . . then so was this. And a wave of sheer happiness such as he could never have anticipated just an hour before washed over him. He smiled again at his still somewhat anxious Rosie. “It’s all right, Rosie lass,” he reassured her again, and took a long, deep breath, and even managed a crooked smile as he let it all out again in a great sigh. “Well, I’m back. . . .” THE END 6