Title: The Gift of Chaos Author: KayRey Pairing(s): F/S, M/P Rating: NC-17 Summary: Some birthday gifts are yearned for, some are not. Love is a gift that can both heal and wound. Disclaimer: Not mine; no money made. Characters and world belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, his heirs & New Line Cinema. Hobbits still visiting & quite chatty ... when not otherwise occupied. Authors Note: Combines book & film elements. Pippin should be much younger at the time of this story, but I love PJ's guys. You'll find Tolkien lifts throughout; verse is revised medieval lyric. Many thanks to my beta, Adrienne who always wants to know, "What happens next?" An unwritten law of the Shire concerning Mr. Bilbo Baggins was that whatever the old hobbit became involved in, chaos was sure to follow. "Explodes on contact," was the short version of this rule, according to Tolman "Tom" Cotton, proprietor of the very fine Green Dragon Inn. He was actually quite fond of Mr. Baggins, especially since the old hobbit turned much trade his way. His account was paid in good time as well, and he always tipped generously. "Mr. Bilbo makes a good, big bang in his affairs -- like Mr. Gandalf's fireworks. Order breeds habit and that's what hobbits like. But chaos breeds life and that's something Mr. Bilbo's got plenty of. And you can take that to your mill and grind it, Ted Sandyman." Words didn't make for good grain or grist, but the Hobbiton miller would have his say. "Eleventy-one ... one hundred and eleven years," Sandyman growled. "And Bilbo Baggins hasn't shown a bit of those years since he came back from his adventures more than sixty years ago." "It's no secret he's very well preserved," Cotton agreed. All heads at the inn turned for his reply. Shire-folk had heard this debate many times and never grew tired of it. "But Bilbo's heart is as good as gold. Very generous, he is, to those as might be in trouble or want." "Well, he can afford to be, can't he? There's tunnels running off from those cellars at Bag End, and chests stuffed full of treasure. Gold and silver and jewels." A murmur of agreement rattled through the crowded inn. Many nodded knowledgeably. "So, you've seen those tunnels?" Cotton asked. "You've seen the chests of treasure and the jewels?" "Can't say as I have," the miller admitted. "But everyone knows what's there." "And everyone knows what a miserly old skinflint you are, Ted. You wouldn't have the courtesy to spit on a man if you found him on fire. Not without first haggling price." There was some laughter at that, but not as much as Cotton had hoped for. Sandyman's stingy nature was as much a legend in Hobbiton as the Baggins' fortune. The miller's tightwad history had been the prime topic of interest on many occasions. But not tonight. "Like as not, old Bilbo's been adding to what he first brought in," Sandyman continued. "He's away from home often enough, consorting with dwarves and elves and that old conjurer, Gandalf. And look at what sort of folk come to visit at Bag End -- not the least of which is that troublesome pair out of Buckland and Tuckborough. They're a dark lot, those who live against the Old Forest." "Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin? Aye, now there's a dangerous pair -- especially if your cabbages and carrots are in season." Now that got the laugh old Cotton had hoped for. He chuckled at the miller's dismay. "If those two young ones are your idea of 'dark,' it's time you got yourself away from that mill, Ted Sandyman. You're overdue for a holiday." "I can't afford no holiday, as well you know Tolman Cotton." "I know nothing of the sort. But that's the difference - one of many - between you and me. I don't talk of what I don't know," the innkeeper said. "But I'd recommend if you're that afeared of those lads, it's best you stay away from Mr. Bilbo's party since they'll be there for certain. Coming to stay with Mr. Frodo, they are. It's his birthday, too, you recollect. His coming of age. All the Baggins' Buckland kin and those of the Great Smials will be down to visit. And they're not the sort that takes kindly to folks speaking ill against their own." "All of the Shire's to be invited for the party." Cotton's son, Jolly, spoke up. "And there's going to be presents -- presents for everyone. Marigold Gamgee told me all about it and she should know. Her brother, Sam, works up to Bag End. Carts are rolling up the hill every day. They've even built a kitchen out on the Party Field." "We've all seen it, right enough," Sandyman groused. "And you'll have to agree, Tolman Cotton, that's not the work of a poor hobbit." "I will that," Cotton returned coolly. "But I'd also agree that it is the work of a poor hobbit, and a mean one, to speak ill of a generous neighbor who's not here to say a word in his defense." "Baggins knows how to buy his friends and they defend him well enough," the miller sneered. "Say what you will, Bag End's a queer place and its folk are queerer, the old one and the young. It's too much of a good thing, if you ask me. It ain't natural and trouble will come of it. It will have to be paid for." "As will your account, Ted Sandyman," Tolman Cotton decreed, putting an end to the conversation. "And some time before the New Moon, if you please." * * * * Frodo Baggins heard about the discussion at the Green Dragon by the next day, having got the gist of it from Sam who had got it from Rosie Cotton, who had it first hand from her place in the kitchen at her father's Inn. But it troubled him no more than similar gossip he'd heard in the past. Regardless, there was so much to do with the party preparations, there wasn't time to worry on it. Besides, Bilbo had worked himself into a fair state and someone had to keep calm. "Bother old Sandyman," Frodo told Sam. "He's just grumpy because he wants all the money in the Shire and hasn't got it yet." "He was spouting off over to the Ivy Bush a couple of weeks back," Sam said. "Me old Gaffer put an end to his jabber quick enough." "Your Gaffer needn't have troubled himself, people will just talk all the more. Still, it's good to know we have some friends in Hobbiton." Sam's heart melted under the smile Frodo turned his way. "You've friends a plenty in Hobbiton and beyond," he said. "Folks just get stirred up when they think of treasure." Frodo's smile went to a laugh. He caught Sam's hand in his as they continued their walk along the banks of the Bywater. "Hobbits love a good story and Uncle Bilbo's one of the best that's ever lived in the Shire. He complains a lot, but he loves the attention -- most of the time. Bilbo Baggins, friend of elves and dwarves, slayer of dragons and notorious hobbit burglar." He sighed deeply. "Maybe he's overdone it a bit this time. He's worked himself into a fair state over this party. I almost wish it was over." "Don't go wishing away your good times before they're here. The party will be done with soon enough." "I suppose." Sam squeezed Frodo's hand gently. "What's troubling you?" "Nothing. I don't know." The hobbit shrugged. "There's something going on. Something Bilbo's not telling me." "What makes you think that?" "That's just it -- I can't really say. He's keeping me busy enough, a little too busy, as if he's hiding something. Our solicitor came to visit last week and Bilbo nearly had a fit getting me out of the hole so they could talk - privately, he said. As if I might have spied on them or something." "Don't you be thinking like that. Mr. Bilbo trusts you as his own son," Sam said stoutly. "You're the world to him, Mr. Frodo. You're coming of age now and you're his heir. You know as well as I them Sackville-Bagginses always hoped Bag End would be theirs. They've been making a fuss about it since before you came to Hobbiton. I'll wager Mr. Bilbo's just making sure you're to get what's rightfully yours." "But why? Bilbo's fine. He's got years yet to keep being fine. Why should he bother with all this inheritance nonsense now?" Sam gave a little shrug and looked out over the Bywater. Frodo allowed the gardener his silence for a moment, but he wasn't to be put off long. "Sam ... what do you know?" "Me, sir? Me ... I don't rightly know nothing." "Samwise Gamgee, if you --" "I said I don't know and that's what I meant," Sam insisted. Then faltered. "I just wonders sometimes ... that's all." "About what?" "Um ... This and that." "Sam -- don't play the village idiot with me. Tell me what you think." "I think I've heard Mr. Bilbo talk about going to see the elves," Sam said slowly, watching the ground at their feet as they continued along the bank. "He talks about going back to the Misty Mountains, about seeing his friend, Balin. Except not so much lately, it seems. For the last few months, come to think on it, he don't talk about going nowhere." "And you think this means...?" "I don't think nothing, me dear, because I don't know nothing to think. Not for sure." He shrugged again, then looked up to hold Frodo's gaze with his own. "But I suspect right strong, like you, that something's up. Still, trying to guess what Mr. Bilbo's up to is about as smart as trying to empty the Brandywine with a teacup. He's a playful one. You know how he loves his jokes." "Hmph. I know. He might be the only one to 'get' the joke most times, but he will have his games." Frodo released Sam and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I wouldn't worry - but you know the kind of excitement Bilbo stirs up. Then he gets himself upset and ... and he's getting older, no matter what people say. It's not good for him." "I know you love him," Sam said gently. "You worry." Frodo offered a timid smile. "You understand. You always do." Sam slipped his arm about Frodo's shoulders; Frodo put his arm around Sam's waist. They walked in silence for a while until Frodo said, "I'll ask Gandalf." "What?" "Gandalf will be here tomorrow. He'll know what's up with Bilbo. I'll get it out of him." "Will you that?" Sam asked. His lips quirked up at the corner. "You know there's a caution about bothering wizards. It's not smart to corner them up and provoke them, if you take my meaning." "They say the same thing about cornering hobbits, too," Frodo returned with a grin. "And rightfully so. If Gandalf knows anything, I'll have it out of him. You see if I don't." "Well, I know there's not much you couldn't get out of me, more's the pity, and just for a bit of a smile." Blue eyes beamed from under the lace of dark lashes. "I'll be happy to give you more than a smile, Samwise Gamgee, if you'd care to lie with me up under that tree for a spell." "That would please me no end." Sam beamed back. "Especially since this is the first minute we've had to call our own all week." "Bilbo's kept you running as much as he has me." "That he has." "Our minutes are wasting." Frodo laughed and pulled away. "Race you," he called back over his shoulder. It wasn't much of a competition. Sam caught him a few yards up the hill, boosted him up over his shoulder, and climbed the rest of the way to the tree, where they collapsed, laughing, under rich green boughs. The day was pleasantly warm for September. Breathless, they laid on their backs, shoulders and hips touching, and gazed up at blue sky and sunlight through leaves. Frodo rolled to his side, propping his head up on his hand. He smoothed the front of Sam's shirt and slowly began to undo the buttons. Sam smiled back at him, his eyes clear green and bright, full of love and a hint of mischief. "I love your eyes," Frodo said softly. "They're like magic, the way they shift color from grey to green. Sometimes brown. Always bright." "Is that all you love, Master?" "No." Frodo chuckled and lowered his head to place a kiss on the hollow of Sam's throat. He slipped his hand inside Sam's shirt. After a minute Sam gasped. "What ... are you doing?" "Experimenting. You haven't told me what you want for my birthday." "Well, if you wish, you could do some more ... experimenting." "Is that all?" "Uh ... well. I could use a new pair of trimming shears." Frodo raised his head. "You could?" "Don't you play village idiot with me, Frodo Baggins." Sam palmed the curve of his lover's face. "What I'm wanting is the same thing I wanted last year and the year before that. And all them other years I never had the nerve to speak, much less take." Frodo laughed softly, fingertips whispering against the ridge of Sam's collarbone. "And that would be...?" "You. It's always you, m'dear." "I like your answer." Frodo put his face very close to Sam's so that their lips brushed as he spoke. "Do you want to know what I want for my birthday?" "I have a fair idea already...." Sam swallowed and cleared his throat but his voice still rasped when he spoke. "But if we're talking presents, I've one big favor to ask of you -- right now." "And that would be?" Frodo's eyes were wide with inquiry as his thigh came to rest between Sam's legs. Sam made a slightly strangled sound. His fingers slid into Frodo's curls and tightened. "Please ... just ... stop ... talking now. And start doing." "All right," Frodo agreed pleasantly. And he did. * * * * It was obvious to Frodo that Gandalf the Grey was not only aware of whatever plot Bilbo was brewing, he was involved in it right up to the tip of his pointy hat. It was also apparent that it would take more than a young hobbit's smile to get the details out of the old wizard. "All right then, keep your secrets." Frodo acknowledged defeat, too happy to begrudge the victory. It was such a pleasure to see Gandalf again. Besides, if anyone could keep Bilbo's schemes from spiraling out of control, it was the wizard. So Bilbo's disappearance caught him completely unprepared. The birthday party had sailed along very well up until that point, despite Merry and Pippin's adventure with fireworks and dragons. Rough waters had begun during Bilbo's speech as he announced: "I have called you all together for a Purpose." Something about the way he said that made an impression. The words were absorbed with near silence and one or two of the fey-blooded Tooks pricked up their ears. Pippin's grass-green eyes fairly glowed from across the party field and Frodo felt all the nerves along the back of his neck and shoulders shiver as if one of Gandalf's sparklers had gone off across his skin. "Indeed," Bilbo continued, "for Three Purposes. First of all to tell you that I am immensely fond of you all, and that eleventy-one years is too short a time to live among such excellent and admirable hobbits." There was a tremendous outpouring of approval at that announcement, but Frodo's sense of unease increased behind his smile. "Secondly, to celebrate my birthday," Bilbo said. "Or I should say our birthday. For it is, of course, also the birthday of my heir and nephew, Frodo. He comes of age and into his inheritance today." Frodo blushed a bit under a barrage of cheering. Seated a few tables away, the Sackville-Bagginses, Lobelia and Otho, scowled. "Together we score one hundred and forty-four," Bilbo went on. "Your numbers were chosen to fit this remarkable total. One gross, if I may use the expression." The cheering stumbled to a halt and Frodo winced. Seated behind him, Sam stifled a groan. Many of the guests, Lobelia and Otho particularly, were insulted, feeling they had only been asked to fill up the required number, like goods in a package. "I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you as well as you deserve," Bilbo called out. It seemed he could barely contain his merriment. Well, fine, Frodo acknowledged with a wry smile. Bilbo's joke had now exceeded all previous endeavors; he'd managed to offend absolutely everyone. The party goers had gone nearly silent. Frodo felt Sam's presence, his concern as palpable as a touch. But he couldn't take his eyes off Bilbo. "I've put this off for far too long." Bilbo's voice cut into the still night air, serious now. "I regret to announce this is The End. I am going now. I bid you all a very fond farewell. Goodbye." In the next instant, Bilbo was gone. At that last moment, the gentlehobbit's gaze had settled on Frodo; his old eyes had sparkled with affection and regret. Frodo took in a deep breath. The Ring -- he knew Bilbo had used the Ring. But why? A crash of thunder and a flash of light followed Bilbo's disappearance -- not lightning, just more of Gandalf's fireworks, real magic this time. Instinctively, Frodo knew it was smart to cover the use of the Ring. He looked around, distressed, but Gandalf had disappeared as well. In the meantime, one hundred and forty-four flabbergasted hobbits sat back speechless. Frodo leapt up and lunged forward through the crowd, managing two steps -- nearly three -- before every Baggins, Boffin, Took, Brandybuck, Grubb, Chubb, Burrows, Bolger, Bracegirdle, Brockhouse, Goodbody, Hornblower and Proudfoot began to talk at once. Old Odo Proudfoot removed his feet from the table and stamped. "Outrageous!" he sputtered. "Simply outrageous!" Frodo tried to press forward, but a hand fastened onto his arm and reeled him back. He turned to find Ted Sandyman, only inches away from his face. "What is going on here?" the miller demanded. "What kind of mockery is this?" Before Frodo could compose an answer, Sam was up and over the table. The gardener's fist closed on Sandyman's arm, tearing him away. "Leave off him," he growled. "And mind your tongue, miller." "Hey there." Sandyman retreated quickly under the promise of Sam's wrath. "Tell the gardener to stand down." Frodo placed himself squarely between the two. He spoke softly, but there was an undertone in his voice that carried to every corner of the party field. "Master Gamgee stands by me," he said. "As I stand by him. Best heed his words as I do, Mr. Sandyman." The miller scowled, looking from Frodo to Sam and back again. A sullen anger flushed his face, mixing with the many tankards of ale and wine he'd swallowed over the course of the evening. "If I seem offensive," he growled, "it's because I've been offended. As has everyone else here." "I'll agree my uncle's humor is eccentric, but it's his party and his whim," Frodo said. The uncertain youth had been replaced by someone tall and fair and quite regal. "I'm sorry if he gave offense -- but we all know Uncle Bilbo. He means no harm. And he will have his amusements, even if he's the only one to be amused." A wave of laughter tittered through the gathering. "He's mad, I always said so," was the most popular comment, although spoken now with less of the anger that had surged through moments before. "Here now!" Merry Brandybuck called out. "I'd say the joke is on old Bilbo. For surely that was the shortest speech he's ever given in the history of the Shire." Merry's words were greeted with healthy laughter. Frodo turned to find his cousins had shoved their way through the gathering to his side. "I say good health to him - and longer life to Bilbo Baggins." Rory Brandybuck, Merry's grandfather, raised a tankard overhead. "The old rascal has gone, but at least he's left the vittles. His share as well." The hobbits liked that idea and let it be known with cheering and laughter. "Let's drink his health, then," Frodo agreed, relieved. "We'll have another round of wine -- the best -- and do it with style." "Can we cut the cake, too?" Pippin asked. "I'm fair famished." "How can you be famished?" Merry demanded. "You haven't stopped eating or drinking since we got here." "Aye. But I'm famished for cake now." "I can see you're about to pass out from the hunger," Merry teased. "You let Frodo cut the cake, it's his birthday." "Help me blow out the candles and serve." Frodo slipped his arms around his cousins. "Come on. You, too, Sam." Sam blushed, holding back. "Begging your pardon, Master. That's not quite proper." "It's my birthday, Samwise Gamgee, and I'll decide what's proper and what's not." "Well," Sam said. "Since you've come of age and all, I reckon you know best." "I do." Frodo laughed. "Come on, all of you." An arm around each cousin, Frodo made his way towards the double-tiered confection. The sea of hobbits parted easily around him as the wine stewards busied themselves, refilling glasses with the best of the Shire wine. Followed by her brothers, Rose Cotton pushed by the still-glowering miller. "Let that be a lesson to you, Ted Sandyman," she advised with a laugh. "Don't go grabbing what don't belong to you. You might lose a hand next time. Maybe an arm." Sam smiled at Rosie's comment and offered his arm, but his eyes stayed on Frodo as they made their way to the Party Tree. Always the gardener, he liked to walk behind and watch how Frodo moved. There were times when the scholarly hobbit walked like he was in a dream, lost in some fair place of his own making. At other times, like this, Frodo was keenly aware of and reacting to everything around him. Sam's heart swelled with affection. No matter what his mood, Mr. Frodo fair shimmered, a rare blossom in a field of noise and color. Strong and true he was, yet needing a bit of shelter, a protector to help him thrive among the more aggressive foliage. Sam noted with satisfaction, how Ted Sandyman sat himself down, quiet now, at his table. He watched the Sackville-Bagginses leave. Otho and Lobelia packed themselves up in a wrath, but they couldn't draw attention from his master. This was Frodo's moment now. Frodo stepped up on the bench they'd set before the cake and it was like a piece of the moon had stepped down into Hobbiton. Sam swallowed and moved closer, drawn. Frodo turned to smile at him and, suddenly, there were more colors in the land and a breath of spice-scented flowers carried in on the breeze from some elf-living place. Merry and Pippin led others in crying, "Speech! Speech!" as Frodo surveyed the crowd. "I think there's been enough speeches." Frodo shook his head with a rueful smile and laughter returned again. "My uncle should have thanked you all for coming. I will thank you for staying." "Make a wish then," Pippin demanded. "And let's have the cake." "If you ever grow into the size of your appetite, Peregrin Took, you'll be the biggest hobbit in all the Shire." Frodo shook his head. "All right then ... a wish." Waiting, the crowd grew silent once again. Nerves were still frayed; Frodo could see that in the eyes that stared back at him, old and young. Sam frowned, folding his arms over his chest; he looked as though he might just be preparing to do battle. Again. Frodo held out his hand, drawing Sam up to stand beside him. Pippin stepped up at his other side, with Merry following. The breeze rifled through Frodo's curls and across his brow, a cool caress. He stood in silence, gazing out over the field. They didn't know what to expect from him -- insult or honor. He was the Strange One of the Shire, the sudden orphan, the reader of books and speaker of foreign tongues - kin and heir to Mad Bilbo Baggins. As a rule, hobbits were wary of Strange. That would never change. Frodo stifled a sigh. It was such an easy thing to give hurt. There were some, he knew, who took pleasure in that. He shivered then, remembering a time when he felt no more than a frightened sparrow waiting for the next attack. For all his eccentricities, Bilbo wasn't one to inflict pain for the satisfaction of it. Neither was he. Suddenly, Frodo became keenly aware of Sam, Pippin and Merry standing beside him. Each of them was so much younger then he, and each so much stronger. They had never known a moment without love or without a home. It leant them a near invincible strength, a strength they willingly extended to him. Uncertainty melted away. "No home can be complete until it holds the hearts of family and of friends." Frodo's voice carried strong across the field. "I've found a wealth of both in Hobbiton and beyond. May it be so for all Shire folk, on this day and Forever." Frodo leaned forward to blow out the near torch-like blaze. He soon waved hands beckoning and Sam, Pippin and Merry pitched in to help. For the rest, it was as if another great breath - of relief - had been released. All cried "Yea!" with one voice. Freshly filled tankards were raised and laughter followed cheers for the remainder of the feast. After the initial cake cutting, Frodo felt it was his duty, as host, to speak with the remaining guests. He wandered through the party field and greeted each one. While it was generally agreed that Bilbo's joke was in very bad taste, most believed that the nephew's courtesy did much to make amends, especially since Frodo kept the food and drink coming. Everyone asked what Bilbo was up to, but all Frodo could offer was, "No doubt everything will be cleared up in the morning." Old Rory Brandybuck was not so sure. Neither age nor an enormous dinner had clouded his wits, and he said to his daughter-in-law, Esmeralda: "There's something fishy in this, my dear. I believe that mad Baggins is off again. Silly old fool." "I know how to brighten the mood," Merry offered. "Gandalf's left his fireworks and --" "You stay away from those, my young rascal," Saradoc Brandybuck warned his son, raising his hand. "Unless you want to experience fireworks of my own devising." "Right, Da. Don't worry." Grinning ear to ear, Merry backed away quickly, heading towards the kitchen. Pippin followed, snagging another helping of cake, which was even better than he'd had reason to hope - and he had hoped for a lot. It was a miracle of confection - buttery yellow layers divided by tasty fruit glazes, strawberry, blueberry, peach, raspberry and lemon. It was just what a rainbow should taste like, the young Took reasoned. The two cousins secreted themselves in the kitchen area and dug into the cake and a bottle of pale, sparkling wine they'd secured for themselves earlier. Merry gestured at the crowd. Across the way, Frodo was making small talk with Odo Proudfoot and his wife. Actually, it seemed Odo's wife was doing most of the talking and, wonder of wonders, she was smiling. "Look, Pip," he laughed. "Would you have ever believed it? There goes our cousin, the prince of Hobbiton." "More like 'king,'" Pippin said around a mouthful of cake. "If you're asking." "Is that so? If Frodo's king, you may kiss my royal arse!" "Later," Pippin promised. Then said, "Be nice to Frodo, cuz. He's going to be very sad when his Sam gets the Call." Merry sobered instantly. "What did you See?" "Sam with babies. Lots of 'em. He's going to make a good father." "When?" "Dunno. But I Saw it strong. He'll get the Call and he'll marry." "No, I meant when did you See it?" "When Bilbo was doing his disappearing. It come over me fast. Then it left." Merry chewed for a while in silence. Having refreshed themselves, the musicians were striking up new tunes. Ordinarily, the music would have called him to dance or new adventure. Not now. Finally he asked, "What about me? Will I be a father, too?" "No." Meriadoc Brandybuck let out a breath, more relieved than he thought possible. Pippin rarely had Visions, but when they came, they were always true. Still, he had one more question: "And you, Pip? Will you be having babies?" "Not unless you're giving them to me." Pippin's fox-sharp features drew together in a comic face. "I don't know, Merry. You know as well as I that Seers can't see anything about themselves." "But we'll stay together, won't we?" "Far as I know, as long as I draw breath, Merry, m'love." Pippin's Tookish burr fell like a caress on his cousin's pointed ears. "Right...." Merry smiled softly and reached over to clean a smear of frosting from Pip's cheek with the back of his fingers. Merry sucked the sweet off his hand, gazing into bright green eyes that looked back at his, just as steady and just as loving. "I'm going to be nice to Frodo," he declared softly. "But not too nice or he'll suspect." "Aye. Good thought that," Pippin agreed. "Do you suppose there's any more cake left?" * * * * About midnight, carriages began to arrive for the important folk. One by one they rolled away, filled with full but still curious hobbits. Sam rounded up a host of gardeners, who had come by arrangement, and removed in wheelbarrows those who had inadvertently remained behind. Frodo stifled a sigh, sandwiched between Hending Mugwort of Combe and his wife, the former Estella Brandybuck. Hending was a prosperous hobbit in name, fortune and girth. He was sausage fingered, plum cheeked and cherry-nosed with a fuzzy wreath of gray-brown curls circling his balding pate. Estella was nearly a duplicate of her well-to-do husband, although she had considerably more hair. "A lovely party, all things considered," Estella said for the umpteenth time. "Even with Bilbo's jokes." "Indeed. Lovely." Hending's head nodded in agreement, too much wine and a need for sleep. "Just grand." "I haven't seen a feast come close to the likes of this since the Hardbottle wedding this past spring," Estella continued. "Even so, this cake was far better." "Better? It was grand," Hending said. "Grand." Frodo kept smiling. 'Grand,' it seemed was the Mugwort word-choice of the evening. He let his attention drift across the party field where Sam talked with the Cotton boys. And with Rose. She beamed at the gardener as if the sun rose and set with Sam's smile. Discomfort fluttered in Frodo's stomach. Rosie was a sweet girl and a friend; it wasn't right to tease her. He knew too well what it was like to yearn without hope. He shifted his attention to the kitchen, looking for his cousins. Merry and Pippin sat knee-to-knee, straddled over a bench. Tenderly, Merry cleaned the remaining soot from Pippin's face with a damp rag. Pippin sat very still for these ministrations, face tilted up and hands folded neatly in his lap, unusually quiet. It reminded Frodo of earlier times, when Pippin had been but a wee hobbit in the care of his roughneck cousin. Pip had always been the one to bring out the gentle side of the spirited Brandybuck, as Merry had been the only one who could make the little sprite willingly behave. There hadn't been much surprise when the two claimed each other once they were old enough for it. Merry daubed a last bit of grime from Pippin's face, holding his chin up in his hand. It wasn't a perfect job; only a real bath could take care of that. Still, it would do for the time being. Merry leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on Pip's mouth, then let his hands come to rest in his lap as well. The two gazed at each other with a longing Frodo could feel clear across the field. "...News outside the Shire only arrives infrequent-like and second hand." Hending had stirred himself enough to pontificate; he still nodded to excess. "I only listen to it with half an ear, but it seems to me the living is rough and dangerous in the outside world. Not very hobbit-like, not at all." "What news from Gandalf?" Estella asked and Frodo remembered that he was supposed to be part of this conversation. "Um ... Gandalf seems to think the world knows little about the existence of hobbits and is likely to care less." Across the field, Pippin leaned forward and very deliberately licked Merry's nose. Then kissed it. Quick. In the next instant, he'd bounded up off the bench and was disappearing at a run towards the Grove. Merry took only a heartbeat to begin chase. "Well, that's grand news indeed." Hending's sagacity nearly carried him forward and off the bench. Frodo grasped his arm and steadied him. "Although I hesitate to understand why a hobbit like Bilbo Baggins would allow a wizard into his home." "My dear," Estella sighed. "He is Bilbo Baggins. What else do you expect?" "Oh." Hending seemed to wake up a bit. "Oh. Quite right. Of course." Frodo let the course of the conversation play around him, watching his cousins disappear into the shadows of the trees. He was so ready for this party to be over. Very young hobbits had disappeared to home and bed long ago, along with their parents. The only youths who remained were sitting with the handful of musicians; they would soon depart into the Grove as well, couple by couple. He darted a glance at the old hobbits on either side of him and could no longer conceal the sigh. So this is what it meant to come of age. "...Yet Gandalf does lovely fireworks," Estella was saying wistfully. "He does," Hending agreed reluctantly. "But he's still from outside, my dear. No good can come of that." "They manage well enough in Bree, from what I hear," Frodo offered. "Hobbits and Big Ones working and living together. Dwarves and elves journey there, too." "Bree - that wild place!" Hending shuddered. "A town of ruffians, outcasts and malcontents, not suited for living elsewhere. Might as well throw yourself into the Old Forest as truck with that lot." "But you live in the Bree-land," Frodo protested. "We live in Combe." Hending took in a deep breath, crowding Frodo against his wife. "We have no business with the village of Bree. No self-respecting hobbit would." "My pardon, Mr. Mugwort. I meant no offense." "There's none taken," Estella soothed. She reached across Frodo to take her husband's hand. "It's too far past Hending's bedtime and it leaves him grumpy. We should have taken that earlier coach, my dear, but you would stay for one more round." "It was very good ale, my dove." Hending turned a doting smile on his wife, capturing her offered hand in both of his. Frodo was feeling quite trespassed upon at this point. Amends for Bilbo's behavior had been made with Hending and Estella, and he wanted no further part of it. He leaned back until the table edge bit into his back. The Mugworts seemed to have forgotten his presence entirely. He searched for escape, but short of breaking free, leaping to his feet and running, there didn't seem much chance of it. Diplomacy hung by a thread. Frodo looked up, imploring, searching for rescue to find Sam barreling across the field, heading towards him. "Help!" Frodo mouthed silently. Sam nodded, biting back a grin, and Frodo almost breathed again. "Begging your pardon, Master, but you're needed at the kitchen." Sam came to a halt, leaned forward and grabbed Frodo's hands. He took a deep breath, pulled, and Frodo was on his feet. Frodo staggered a bit and Sam latched onto the back of his shirt and weskit, holding him steady until he regained his balance. "And the coaches?" Frodo asked. "Last one's on its way," Sam said. "Jolly saw it topping the hill just a moment ago." "That's very good," said Estella, but her eyes never left Hending. "Grand," said Hending, but he only saw Estella. "Then we'll be off," Sam said. He captured Frodo's hand, urging him away. "I'd say your work here is finished, Mr. Frodo." "Thank Elbereth," Frodo groaned and allowed himself to be led away. Sam chuckled softly. "You didn't look but half squashed there." "That's twice tonight you've saved me." Frodo brought Sam's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss against his knuckles. "That would make you my hero in any song." "No hero, Mr. Frodo, just a gardener, tending his own." Sam blushed. "Though I'd think by now Ted Sandyman would know enough to keep his hands to hisself." "Don't be vexed, Sam. The miller's interest in me is purely business. His heart is set on having all the money in the Shire like the S.B.'s dream of owning all the land - and especially Bag End. I'm just in the way of it." He gave a little shrug. "I'm used to it by now. You should be, too." "I won't never be used to it," Sam grumbled. There were other things he wanted to say, especially about the miller, but he kept those words to himself. They'd argued over this before. "You love me," Frodo said quietly, "and that makes me fair in your eyes - for which I am very grateful. Only you live in my heart, Samwise, First and Forever." "Aye, m'dear. First and Forever." "I take it there's no real emergency at the kitchen?" "No. And even if there was, folks be too weary and full of drink and food to do much about it. I just missed you is all. And you looked like you could do with a bit of rescuing." "You thought right," Frodo said placed a kiss on Sam's cheek. They continued in silence into the Grove. The woods became thicker around them, the trees themselves changing character, growing deep green and tall, stout limbs fingering the air with many branches. This was the last full flush of Summer, before Autumn's glory of color set in. The undergrowth became dense with fern and moss. A sacred place, heavy silence enfolded them, broken only by the soft pad of hobbit feet and the faint sound of music carried on the breeze. A maid's voice blended with flute and string: How sad it is to my eyes, when the dawn comes to the skies Telling my true love to arise and with me no longer stay. Nothing I hate so much as day Which keeps me away, love, from you...." As his senses adjusted to the dark and quiet, Sam became aware of the rush of water from the nearby stream and the whisper of wind through the trees. Even the moonlight seemed to change within the Grove, growing stronger where it pierced the treetops. Yet it seemed a piece of the moon was walking at his side. Frodo's fair skin glowed softly in the night and went brighter whenever a pale beam touched him. That light made stars in his master's dark curls and bright, wide eyes. Sam stared at the loved profile and took in a deep, slow breath. Frodo never seemed to understand how beautiful he was. Perhaps that was part of the appeal. Sam released Frodo's hand and wrapped his arm around his shoulders, drawing him into the warmth of his body. Frodo slipped his arm around Sam's waist and leaned into Sam's shoulder, peering up at him. His lips parted, a clear invitation Sam had longed for all evening. Sam stopped then and turned him in his arms, taking joy, as always, in the way their bodies fit together. He kissed the perfect bow of Frodo's upper lip, gently, urging his mouth open. Then used lips and tongue to tease for more. Frodo was completely passive at first, letting Sam feed softly at his mouth. He kissed back slowly, almost hesitantly. Then his lips moved against Sam's, demanding. Sam made a small noise in the back of his throat and pulled Frodo in tighter. The kiss became more, almost hard enough to hurt, and Frodo opened his mouth wider, letting Sam inside completely - as deep as he wanted to probe and lick and taste. Frodo wound his arms around Sam's neck when they broke for air. Sam held him back, just as hard. He did something with his legs that made Frodo cry out, but not with pain. "Now?" Sam asked. His voice was almost normal, breathy, but normal. How to speak? Frodo closed his eyes and tried to remember, shuddering at the strength that surrounded him. For a moment, it seemed as though all the world had vanished, leaving nothing but the arms and body that held him. He lost himself for a moment thinking of that strength looming over him, bearing into him. He gasped and looked up as Sam's fingers bit into his hips. "Now?" Sam asked again and his voice was rougher. Deeper. Almost a growl. Frodo nodded, nearly breathless. Kissed him again. His teeth bit gently, but firmly into Sam's lower lip. Blunt fingers dug into Sam's shoulders. When speech failed, the language of flesh answered well enough. They moved off the path into the thick of the trees, stopping at the first clear, moss-covered patch. The move gave them time to come back to themselves a bit. The heat was still there, but transformed into something less primal. Sam settled himself near the base of an ancient oak, pulling Frodo down to him. He fastened his hands on Frodo's waist and lifted, bringing him around to sit with his knees on either side of Sam's thighs. Sam unbuttoned the front of Frodo's shirt. He slid the garment over one moon-pale shoulder and leaned forward, pressing lips and tongue to smooth skin. Frodo sighed, tracing a path down the side of Sam's face and jaw; he ran a fingertip up under his chin. "Sam..." "Hush now..." Sam murmured. "Let me look at you." He finished removing Frodo's shirt and weskit and tossed them aside. Frodo shivered under Sam's gaze, lifting his hand to the buttons of Sam's shirt. "I want to see you, too," he whispered. "You will." The gardener laughed softly. "I never finished telling you what I wanted for your birthday." "If you're still looking for trimming shears, I'm afraid I don't have them on me." "You're a playful cat." Tenderly, Sam smoothed a dark curl behind Frodo's ear. "What I want, Frodo Baggins, is you. Tonight. It's all I thought of, with the Moon shining like she is. Laying you out under her and watching the stars dance on your skin." "Oh, Sam..." Frodo twisted his hands around the collar of Sam's jacket, leaned forward and kissed him. Sam lowered his hands down the line of Frodo's bare back to end with his hands at his hips, thumbs splayed along the waistband of his trousers. Sam laid his forehead in the curve of Frodo's neck and shoulder. "Shire love you, Frodo," he whispered. "There are times when I just want you so bad. I just want." Frodo cradled Sam against him, comforting. "It's the same for me," he said. "It is," he insisted when Sam started up. He clutched Sam's collar in his fists again, bringing their foreheads together. "You're the first thing I think of in the morning when I get up. The last thing at night. Sometimes, during the day, I just stop - and listen for you. Just to be sure you're near." Frodo was shaking now, but made no effort at control. There was no control for it. "Ask me what I want for my birthday. Go on. Ask." Sam shook his head, suddenly sober. His reply was barely audible. "No." "You know what it is." "Aye. I do." "Then tell me." "I won't. I can't." Misery glistened in Sam's eyes. "It's not proper." "Shouldn't we decide that? Don't we have that right?" Frodo drew in a shaky breath. "Beren's balls. Everyone in the Shire knows what we are to each other. What difference could it make if -" "It would make a difference. Master." Sam cut him off. "It's one thing for a pair of lads to couple under the Midsummer Moon, and a sweet thing if the pairing lasts until one or both get the Call to wife and family. But a gardener's son don't share a bed and a home with a gentlehobbit, and one of the old blood. It just ain't done." "I don't care." Frodo's voice was low and angry. "Let them think what they want. They already do." "Mr. Frodo, m'dear ... me dearest, don't take on so," Sam pleaded softly. "You're breaking my heart." Frodo closed his eyes. It was pointless and hurtful to argue again. "I'm sorry," he murmured. " Forgive me. Please. Tonight was so ... it was more than I thought it would be." "You only come of age once." Sam brought Frodo's head down to his shoulder and smoothed his hair. "Just the one time, Master mine. It's a mighty big thing." Frodo sighed, weary. Discouraged. "So they say." "It's true. You should have seen yourself tonight. You were the best of them all." "Best?" A dry chuckle escaped. "Say 'most desparate' and you'd be almost right." "But it's true. Mr. Bilbo left you with a fair disaster. Nobody can work up a crowd of folks like your uncle, but I've never seen a madder lot of hobbits in all my days. Never heard of it either, in all the stories and songs I've heard and you know that's plenty." Sam smiled with the memory. "But there you were, facing them off, defending Mr. Bilbo and gentling them down. Next thing I see, you've got them drinking his health and cheering." "Well, it was fairly obvious I couldn't outrun them all." "You know, it was almost like a kind of a gift," Sam went on, wondering. "He riled them up - almost deliberate like, if you take my meaning. And then left you to take care of it, to show them what you got. What you're made of. And you did." "Sam..." Frodo burrowed against him, smiling now. "I think you're showing the bias in your heart. This is not the first time I've cleaned up after one of Bilbo's adventures. It probably won't be the last." "Tonight was different," Sam insisted. Frodo sat up. "If it was, it was because you were beside me - every step of the way. From the moment Ted Sandyman grabbed my arm, to when I cut the cake and walked through the crowd, talking to everyone. You were with me." "So was Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin." "No. Not like you, Samwise Gamgee. You know Merry and Pip would have enjoyed a brawl as much as Gandalf's fireworks. It could have gone either way for them and they'd have been just as pleased." "They're just playful-like. Frisky. They don't mean no harm." "You're telling me?" Frodo chuckled. "Still, chaos follows them - just like it follows Bilbo, for good or not." "But that's not your way. It never has been and it never will," Sam said firmly. "T'was you what set the tone of the evening. It was you who made it all go right." "And it was you who helped make that happen, you stubborn fool of a Gamgee." Frodo cupped Sam's face between his hands. "Don't you remember how they looked at us when I cut the cake? We shared cake and wine together - from my plate, from my cup - in front of all of them. The Shire didn't just drink my health, but yours as well. Please ... allow yourself to accept the respect others give you. And through you, to me. Your family is as old and fine as mine, Master Gamgee, and much less eccentric. You're the Gaffer's son; I'm kin to Mad Baggins - his heir in so many ways. Who do you think the Shire loves best?" "No...." Sam shook his head firmly. "You're wrong." "I am not," Frodo insisted back. "I've come of age, and by your own reckoning, I know everything now." "Silly git." "Hopeless idiot." "No, not hopeless. Not while I've got you, me dear." "Then you'd best hold on tight, because you know what a wander-risk we Bagginses are. Mad, bad, and liable to lob off on an adventure at a moments notice." "Not without me," Sam growled. "I'd track you to the end of Middle Earth and back again, if need be." "You would?" "Just you try going anywheres without me, Master Baggins." Sam pulled him close again. "Just you try...." Frodo answered his words with a kiss. Sam was the silk of warm, wet petals in his mouth, the taste of sun-baked grass and wind before storm. His hands moved down Sam's chest, opening his shirt, his trousers until he held the heat of him in his hands, thick and hard. When he looked up again, Sam was staring back at him, green-flecked eyes dark with a desire that stopped Frodo's breath. Sam ran his hands up Frodo's arms, palming his shoulders, urging him down to lie before him. Deft fingers made quick work of fastenings and he slid Frodo's trousers over his thighs until they stopped, caught at the knees. Frodo raised his legs to let him remove the last bit of clothing until he finally lay naked, moonlight spilling over his body. For a time, all Sam could do was stare. Frodo was a slender, fey creature; his skin was flawless, pale as frost yet warm and smooth to touch. He shuddered, staring down at him. It was as if all the blood had run out of his brain and gathered in one low, burning place. It made it hard to think. Frodo laughed gently, shoulders shivering. "I've never had anyone look at me like you do," he said. Sam frowned, puzzled. "Like what?" "Like I'm something to eat." Sam blushed in turn and returned the laugh, a soft, joyous sound. "Well," he said. "We could get to that, if that's what you're wanting." "Um ..." Frodo deliberated. Only briefly. "I think I'd rather have you. Did you bring...?" "Yes." The word left him in a gasp. Sam reached into his pocket for the little flask of sweet oil. The metal was warm and smooth in his hand, almost like flesh. He palmed the flask and popped the corked lid with one hand. The stopper dangled from a silver chain, fine as thread, looped tight around the neck. It had been a birthday gift from the year he had become old enough for such things. But now the time for words was over. Frodo rose up to his knees, closing in and straddling Sam's thighs, granting access to his body. He slid his arms around Sam's neck, leaning into the warm expanse of skin where Sam's clothing parted at his chest, waist and loins. Parts of his body began to tighten and burn as Sam worked him open. He dipped his head to kiss and nip at Sam's throat, his mouth. His ear. Sam coated his fingers again. Part of the flask's magic was that it kept the oil warm with his own body heat while it waited in his pocket. He was generous in its use. Frodo quivered at his touch, that dear face only inches from his own. Bright blue eyes had gone wide and wild, and so close they filled all his view. Frodo's breath released in shuddery little pants - in and out, in time with Sam's efforts - hot against his skin. When he was done, Sam's hands settled on Frodo's hips to calm him. To calm himself. Moaning, Frodo ran his hands down Sam's body. He knelt and buried his face in Sam's groin, taking the length of him into his mouth in a sudden movement that brought a cry from deep in Sam's throat. He threw his head back, lips half parted, breathing his master's name out like a prayer. But Sam's hands soon closed on Frodo's shoulders. He shook his head, feverish, at a look of inquiry. "I won't last long," he gasped. Frodo raised himself, sliding back up over Sam's thighs. He reached behind to find the fur covered member and brought the head to his opening. The foreskin slipped back, and the crown rode against him like wet velvet. Straining, back arching, he brought Sam inside slowly, one tight inch at a time, until he was sheathed deep within. His own heated length pressed against the welcoming, sweat-pearled warmth of Sam's body. They took a moment to breathe then. Together. Sam's arms wrapped around him, holding him. Frodo's fingers kneaded the muscles of Sam's shoulders, blunt fingers digging in. If he'd had nails, he would have left marks. Sam whispered Frodo's name again - and again - until it became a moan. Until Frodo touched his lips to Sam's, flicking his tongue against the edge of Sam's teeth. He started to pull back and Sam's hand slid up to cup the back of Frodo's head. He closed his fist in sable curls, holding him still. Obedient, Frodo lowered his mouth again, surrendering to Sam's claim, pierced now below and above. The fire of it was like a brand within him. Frodo's heart beat so hard, he could feel it pounding inside his chest. He wondered briefly if Sam could feel that thunder, too. Then Sam thrust up and Frodo gasped and lost the thought. "You're ready for me," Sam whispered - not quite a question. Frodo nodded and their eyes locked onto each other as the dance began. Sam drew himself out, part way, then in, shifting for the best angle to thrust. Frodo squirmed restlessly, his need just as fierce. Sam used his hands and strength to force him into position, and plunged into him. Frodo moaned and tossed his head. He couldn't stay still. He had to move, had to rise up on the shaft that filled him, then drive himself down. Sam thrust harder - pulling out nearly to the head and sliding back, flesh into flesh. Soon they were racing together, hard and fast. Frodo braced his arms on Sam's shoulders. Every nerve felt alive and enflamed and he could feel - everything. The thick moss beneath his knees and along the top of his feet; the slight abrasion of Sam's trousers against his thighs; the cool night breeze breathing against his back; skin slicked with heat and need beneath his arms, his hands; the blissful friction of Sam's belly. But most of all, he could feel their joining, like the center of life and light and wave after wave of pleasure. Sam's breath quickened and he faltered for a moment, using rough, sure hands to move Frodo's hips as if he were searching for something. Frodo's half-formed moan turned to protest, caught somewhere along the edge of pain. For one heart-stopping moment, he was afraid Sam would stop - that it would all stop. His hand clenched into a fist, flailing helplessly at the night. With a satisfied grunt, Sam slammed home again, as deep as he could. Frodo choked on a scream, writhing and bearing down hard. Sam had found the jewel inside his body and ran himself over it, again and again. Blue eyes flickered shut and Frodo's mouth opened, head dropping forward; small, harsh sounds forced their way from his lips. The sound of it made Sam's breath quicken even as Frodo's slick fire tightened around him; his thrusts took on a final urgency. Pleasure grew within Frodo's body like a small, blazing bud of a flower spiraling into bloom. It swelled large and larger, flowing outward, until it pulsed and burst into flame. Frodo shuddered fiercely, locking onto Sam as if he might disappear himself - vanish into the night if he didn't hold on tight enough. The rhythm of Sam's body changed. Then stopped. A swelling warmth spilled within Frodo, filling him. The heat of it was searing, as if they might actually melt into each other. Frodo closed his eyes and color burst behind his lids, brighter than Gandalf's magic. Distantly, he heard voices joined in a song of passion and realized it was Sam. And it was him. When Frodo returned to himself, he was looking up at the stars through the trees. He blinked and became aware of the sharp scent of musk and earth; he felt crushed moss and fern beneath him, as well as the sharp prick of several small acorns he hadn't noticed previously. Early morning air made him cold along one side of his body. Sam kept him warm on the other, sunflower locks moving slowly against Frodo's belly, lapping spent seed, cleaning him. His tongue was still rough with the after-shock. Frodo felt teeth, too, nipping gently, and smiled. It tickled. Frodo turned, slowly bringing himself up against Sam's lower belly to return the favor. And the pleasure. Sam acknowledged him with a low hum of content. Soon enough they were lying head-to-head again. Frodo stretched, reveling in the small pains that echoed the joy he had known. It was like the burning ache one felt after a really good run, yet more. Sam cradled him, hands caressing, lazy. Frodo snuggled closer and licked a spot across his breast in a slow, wet line. Sam chuckled softly. "Haven't you had enough?" Blue eyes peered up at him. "No." Sam laughed, pleased, and hugged him. He placed a soft kiss on Frodo's lips. "It'll be light soon." "Hm...." After a minute Frodo said, "Do you think Merry and Pip are still out here?" "Might be." Sam shrugged slightly. "They wouldn't be the only couple to take in one of the last warm nights in the Grove. It'll soon be too cold, the ground too hard for this." "They say it will be a cold one this season. Maybe Gandalf will winter over with us this year. He loves the Shire." "He does indeed." Sam yawned. "That would be fine, having Mr. Gandalf with us for the season." "I wish you didn't have to go tomorrow." "Me dear, it is tomorrow." "You know what I mean." "The Cottons will need my help in sorting all the returns - barrels, plates and all. And that crew we've got will need some proper coaching if the job's to be done right. It could be a proper balls-up with folks making their way past ale-dreams and after-wine. I expect we'll have a late enough start as it is." "Give them a chance to sleep it off. There'll be better mood and less breakage if you do. I'm sure Bilbo won't mind." "I'm not sure Mr. Bilbo will be about to mind or not." Sam sighed. "Folks will be arriving for their birthday gifts tomorrow. He might be a brave one for trolls and dragons, but Lobelia and Otho, that's a different tale entirely." "If I know Bilbo, he'll be charm itself tomorrow. And if he's not, Gandalf will be there." Frodo yawned. "And Merry. And Pippin." "Aye. They'll be helpful." Eyes met in shared jest. Laughter claimed them then and each enjoyed the feel of it in the other's body. It surprised Frodo how good that was. In it's way, it was as fine as the passion had been. "Oh ... I don't want to move from here," Frodo groaned. "But I've got to get dressed. Got to get back." He pushed himself up to look for his clothes. "Right you are, Mr. Frodo." Sam followed, busying himself with fastening buttons and smoothing wrinkles. "It wouldn't do for the Master of Bag End to freeze his skin off in the Grove the night of his birthday celebration. I won't be held accountable." Frodo laughed. "Who else would be accountable, if not you? Could you see me freezing in the Grove with anyone else?" "You'll never find anyone that'll keep you warmer than me. And it's my intention to keep you too busy to try, if you take my meaning." Sam took Frodo's shirt from him and began to brush crushed fern and dirt from his master's back and arms. A darkening bruise stopped further words. He held Frodo's arm gently, his smile going into a scowl. "The miller was drunk," Frodo said softly. "He was mean with you," Sam retorted. "He meant to hurt you." "No. Just drunk. And he's mean to everyone." He cupped the side of Sam's face. "Let it go." "You'd defend the devil himself. Sandyman don't deserve it." "He doesn't deserve your anger either. Don't waste anything on him, Samwise. He's not worth your trouble." Sam faltered under blue eyes. Frodo took his shirt and slipped it on, none the worse for wear, and finished dressing. Finally, Sam said, again, "I wish I could be at Bag End with you tomorrow." "I wish you could, too. But then, I wish you were with me always." "I know your wishes, Mr. Frodo. They're not so far from my own." Sam took in a deep breath. He planted his feet squarely in the earth and hung his head. "I'd give you the gift you wanted if I could. Come and live with you, share a life at Bag End, if it was the proper thing to do. But I won't give them leave to talk about you or think less of you because you've taken up with the gardener's son. I won't let you settle for less than you should have." "Oh, Sam...." Frodo nearly touched him. Then stopped. "You don't think, after all this time, there's anyone left in the Shire who believes I might still take a lass into my home?" He tried to lessen the bitterness in his words. And the pain. "Not that there's lass fool enough to have me, when she knows where my heart lies." "More fool the lass who wouldn't welcome you to her heart and bed." Frodo caught his breath. "You could stand by and let that happen?" "Aye. I would," Sam said softly. "And dance at your wedding, if it made you happy." "Then you're a stronger hobbit than I am, Samwise Gamgee." Frodo turned away and wrapped his arms around himself. He didn't dare risk any more words. Sam reached for him, comfort in his face, in every line of his body. Frodo avoided his touch, stumbling towards the path. "I've got to get back." Determined, Sam called after him: "But I'd never leave you. Not willingly, not by half..." He faltered, staring again at the ground as Frodo turned back to him. "Though it's sometimes ... sometimes that I dream and I see you leaving me. Going far, far away. And with you goes all the light in the world and I'm left in the dark." "Dear Sam ... that's horrible!" Frodo quickly closed the distance between them. He clasped Sam in his arms, pulling him into the shelter of his body. For long moments they stood there, each holding the other. Finally, Frodo said, "I think you should leave the dreaming to Pippin. Please. There will be no more nightmares, not on my account. I forbid it. I love you too much." "And I love you, Master," Sam returned, holding back as tight as he could, careful of bruises. "I expect I always will." Frodo took Sam's face in his hands. "I meant what I said tonight," he began. "About finding my home here. In Hobbiton. Just knowing you love me and you're near. Shire love you, Samwise, I can't even conceive of a life without you. How could I leave you?" "If you're asking me, I'm hoping that's never," Sam answered softly and kissed him on the lips with love and need and solace. "Not ever." The Grove was quiet around them, as still and dark as it could be, just before the morning chorus of birds set off, heralding a new day. Frodo pressed his cheek to Sam's, reluctant to move out of their embrace. He felt drained, open, raw with love and want. The only strength he had left was holding him in his arms. Slowly, he moved his cheek up and down Sam's. "What will become of us?" he murmured. "I don't know." Sam rubbed his back, comforting. "We have what we have, just like anyone else, and that's a sight more than most. No one's got a firm hand on tomorrow and what that might bring. Maybe we should just make do with this. For now." "And may the Shire bless and keep us?" Frodo asked, his eyes a little too bright. "The Lady may bless us," Sam returned. "And I hope She will. But I'll be keeping you to myself, Mr. Frodo, for as long as you'll let me." "How about Forever?" "You're the master here, me dear. Why don't you see if you can arrange it?" "Consider it done," Frodo promised. "I'll take care of it myself, first thing tomorrow." The wind picked up again, whispering through the trees with the first breath of dawn. A lone nightingale answered the call, announcing the coming day. "Well, listen to that, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, wondering. "Tomorrow's already here."