Title: "In Anger" (1/?) 
Story:  "Loyalty" 
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men 
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com ) 
Rating: PG  this chapter (NC-17 later) 
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam, Sam/Boromir 
Category:  Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama
Disclaimer:  All characters herein belong to Tolkien (sob!); I make no 
monetary profit from this but give me feedback and I'm a happy lass.
Summary: After Frodo's night with Aragorn, Sam must deal with jealousy 
and anger.  He happily transfers it to Boromir, whose loyalty to the quest 
he has doubts about . . . 
Notes:   Sort of a warning--for those of you who thought Sam was a 
simple, happy go lucky guy--he's not here.  This is Sam's dark side.
*****
 
 
"It is plain indeed that in spite of later estrangement Hobbits are relatives 
of ours:  far nearer to us than Elves, or even than Dwarves.  Of old they 
spoke the languages of Men, after their own fashion, and liked and 
disliked much the same things as Men did.  But what exactly our 
relationship is can no longer be discovered."
 
--  J.R.R. Tolkien, "Concerning Hobbits",   Fellowship of the Ring.
 
 
**After a space of many years when Hobbits and Men had little dealings, 
there came to pass events which forced four hobbits to leave their lands 
and roam the wide world, learning of Men, and of Dwarves, and of Elves.  
There they found the lands of Men, and with great Men they did learn of 
strength and loyalty, wisdom and honor.  This is the tale of Hobbits and 
Men.**
 
 
*****
 
 
Tale Two:  "Loyalty" 
 
 
Chapter 1:  In Anger
 
 
They were five days out of Rivendell, and already thoughts of warm beds-
-actually warm *anything*--were blown away  by the never ceasing wind 
which tore through cloak, wound its way through jacket, weskit and shirt, 
in to the very bone to chill and create misery.  Sam was in the back of the 
Company, leading poor old Bill who was probably wishing he'd been left 
behind by now.  Ahead of him Boromir, Pip and Merry walked together as 
the hobbits had found only Boromir seemed willing to listen to their 
endless chatter and laugh at their horseplay and jokes.  Ahead of them the 
dwarf and elf walked stiffly, neither talking, eyeing each other 
suspiciously.  At the front led Gandalf, and behind him Aragorn and 
Frodo.
 
After Frodo's night with Aragorn, Sam had been grateful to learn that 
Aragorn was leaving with a party of scouts.  He was away for much of the 
time the rest of the Fellowship was in Rivendell, and during that time 
Frodo and Sam had tightly woven their relationship--he was no longer 
only a servant now; Sam felt truly that he had Frodo's heart in his care as 
well as his person.  He had made love to Frodo, filled him with his seed as 
it were, trying to claim him.  But he could not drive out the jealousy.  Like 
that poisonous shard they had removed from dear Frodo's shoulder, it 
burned deep, trying to pierce his heart.
 
He knew Frodo had remained loyal since then.  He knew Frodo was sorry.  
Strider too—the Ranger had come to speak with him shortly before he left 
on his scouting foray, trying to make certain that things were well between 
Sam and Frodo, apologizing for any hurt he had caused.  To fault the 
future King was near ridiculous—Sam couldn't imagine how anyone could 
fail to fall to Frodo's beauty and plight.  Nor could Sam fault Frodo for his 
needs, especially given that he had since followed his promise.  Frodo was 
too precious to be angry with, too dear.
 
That left only himself to hate.
 
Bill snorted and bobbed his head at something on the wind as they walked, 
but a touch from Sam soothed the animal as it plodded along.  "Steady on 
there, Bill.  Anything we should worry about?"  Sam asked in a low 
voice.  Ahead of him, Boromir gave him a queer look, apparently not 
approving of his speaking with the pony.  Sam bristled.
 
This was one member of the Fellowship Sam wondered if it had been wise 
to include, after his words and actions at the Council.  Strider belonged on 
this mission, and Sam was glad to have his protection even if the 
whispered words he and Frodo shared twisted in his veins.  The elf and 
dwarf had already shown their talent in wood lore for the elf and the art of 
lighting a fire in the wind for the dwarf.  Every time Sam looked at 
Boromir, however, he knew there would be trouble, make no mistake.
 
"Does Bill smell something?"  Merry had noted Boromir's look and turned 
around to walk backwards a few paces, his gold-touched curls blowing 
into his face.  Boromir smiled down at him and used one large gloved 
hand to brush the curls out of his eyes.  The man of Gondor seemed 
strangely fascinated by all the hobbits—all except Sam, who he seemed to 
go out of his way to avoid or talk to.  Sam's fiery glare at him probably 
had something to do with that.  
 
Sam spoke up against the wind, "Perhaps, Mr. Merry, but he don't seem 
too concerned.  I'm certain Bill would tell me if things were amiss."
 
Boromir snorted and shot him a look.  Was that humor in his eyes, or was 
he just feeling' high and mighty?  Sam's brows drew together, anger 
heating his limbs for a moment against the cold.  With a shake of his head 
and a shrug, the Man turned back towards the trail and their slow 
progress.  Sam tried to burn into Boromir's back with his eyes, happy to 
have somewhere else to focus his venom.  It was hard to tell what the 
warrior looked like under his cloak, armor, and other odd garments, but 
one thing was clear—he was larger and stronger than anything that walked 
on two legs Sam had seen, perhaps even stronger than Strider.  If he 
decided to turn on them and attack Frodo for the Ring, Sam wasn't sure he 
could stop him.  That power in his chest and arms was evident when he 
chopped wood for the nightly fire—one hand probably held the strength to 
strangle the life from a helpless hobbit.  Sam feared that strength.
 
He also craved it.
 
"If I were built like that ox, Mr. Frodo wouldn't have nothin' to fear from 
no one, not orc, man or beast!" Sam thought to himself.  An odd shiver ran 
through him as he watched Boromir lift Pippin over a fallen tree in their 
path.  Sam meanwhile was forced to go around after a few failed attempts 
at getting Bill to jump over the log.  
 
"A horse would have served better, I think," Boromir said in a softer voice 
than usual, walking over to help Bill past the tangle of branches and the 
rocks off the path.  Sam seethed at him, hating what he was—a Man, a 
warrior, something like Strider that Frodo seemed to find so fascinating 
but without any of Strider's nobility and gentleness.  He was a boor and a 
brute.
 
And Sam wished he were him.
 




Title: "In Love" (2/?) 
Story:  "Loyalty" 
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men 
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com ) 
Rating: R this chapter (NC-17 later) 
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam, Sam/Boromir 
Category:  Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama 
Warnings:  voyeurism.  :D
 
 
Tale Two:  Loyalty
 
 
Chaper Two:  "In Love"
 
*****
The sun had set, but the wind continued to howl when Strider called for 
the company to halt.  They ate quickly with little talk--except for Pippin 
who had suddenly noticed the tomatoes were gone already--Sam sighed, 
wondering if Merry would remind Master Pip it was *he* who had 
polished most of them off the first day.
 
Merry did, and sparked off something almost like an argument between 
them.  Sam muttered about thick-headed Tooks and Brandybucks low 
under his breath, knowing they'd never hear him over the wind and their 
own words.  He went to set out the bedroll by the fire for himself and 
Frodo, his belly nagging at him that supper hadn't been nearly to its 
standards. 
 
"Expect I'll be changing belt sizes again soon," he spoke aloud as he got 
the bedding to his liking, standing over it to inspect the ground for nasty 
rocks or burrs.  He stiffened at a light touch at his back.
 
"You look wonderful to me with or without your proper girth," Frodo's 
voice was low and thick with need, his lips leaving a moist trail along the 
outer shell of Sam's ear which rapidly cooled in the breeze, sending 
shivers prickling through his skin.  Sam groaned and clutched Frodo's 
hand where it rested on his shoulder.
 
"Sir, the others . . ."  Frodo's other hand had wrapped around his waist and 
was snaking downwards, rubbing the soft flesh of his belly, down his hips 
to his groin.  Luckily their backs were to the rest of camp--probably all 
that could be seen was an over-exuberant hug from Frodo, but that's 
certainly not what Sam felt.  Blood rushed to follow the path of Frodo's 
hands; Sam trembled as his member swelled and hardened against Frodo's 
touch.  With supreme effort, he opened his eyes to glance over at the rest 
of the camp now unpacking and rolling out their bedding; Pippin was 
ogling them with astonishment but Merry was dragging him aside, trying 
to distract him.  The others were obviously trying very hard not to look, 
keeping their heads down.  Sam felt his face grow hot.  Oh, what his 
Gaffer would say . . . He struggled to step away from Frodo, but Frodo 
held tight, almost desperately.
 
"Let them see.  I want to show everyone just what you mean to me.  But I 
agree some privacy would be best.  Come to bed.  Please, Sam."  Frodo 
released him with a quick peck to the cheek, then he was sliding under the 
blankets, lying with his back to the fire and the rest of camp, his eyes 
watching Sam expectantly, worriedly
 
Sam dropped down to his knees by the bedroll, his ears roaring with the 
hot blood coursing through his veins now, eyes wandering over to check 
the others again.  Merry and Pippin had settled together with Aragorn 
nearby, apparently already asleep.  Gandalf and Legolas were off away 
from the fire, quietly conversing in some elven tongue.  Gimli was already 
snoring, his back against a tree.  And Boromir had the watch; he sat near 
the fire, poking it with a long stick, intent on the glowing point.  Suddenly 
his eyes shifted to Sam.  Sam flushed and flung himself down next to 
Frodo, strangely flustered and enticed at the same time.
 
The thought that the Man might be watching was a rigid tension in Sam's 
spine as his master slid his arm under him--Sam gasped.  Somehow in the 
short space of time before he had come to join him, Frodo had unbuttoned 
his weskit and shirt and lowered his breeches; under the thick blanket the 
heat of naked flesh against him made him forget the wind, the cold, 
Boromir's eyes--everything.
 
Frodo's mouth ran burning kisses down the nape of Sam's neck; he arched 
in aching need as Frodo's small hands rose to unfasten his clothing, then 
they were rubbing their bare chests together.  His nipples hardened at the 
occasional brush of cold air sneaking past the warm cocoon of blanket and 
bodies.
 
"You looked so depressed back there walking with Bill.  I wanted to walk 
with you, but Gandalf thought it best I stay at the lead with Aragorn," 
Frodo whispered as his hands went to Sam's bared flesh, running feather 
light touches across his chest, down his stomach, up the insides of his 
thighs.  Sam focused on the beautiful look of want on Frodo's face, the 
way his eyes became almost violet, the sheen of sweat on his brow--warm, 
he was warm now, he was complete for a moment, despite his anger.
 
"Ain't important, sir--I understand.  You know I've already forgiven you," 
Sam whispered back, his eyelids dropping, letting Frodo pleasure him, 
letting him warm away the hurt, the jealousy, the niggling doubts that he'd 
never be enough.  He thrust as Frodo's hand closed on him, pulling in slow 
sweet strokes.  His own hands reached for Frodo.
 
Frodo bucked in his grasp, moaning, and Sam couldn't help it.  He opened 
his eyes to see--was Boromir watching?  For some reason the idea of the 
others didn't bother him as much, though it was certainly possible--nay, 
probable--they'd heard as well.  He had to wonder what Pip was making of 
all this if he was still awake.  But Boromir, now, somehow he shouldn't be 
listening.  Strider already knew the sounds Frodo made.  Another Man 
should not know it as well.
 
Sure enough, Boromir was watching; he quickly turned away once he 
realized Sam was watching him as well, wrapping his cloak over his lap 
and shifting his seat to turn away.
 
Sam kept his glare on the Man as his climax neared, even as Frodo kissed 
him deeply, plunging his sweet tongue in and mewling with pleasure as 
Sam entered him with one thick finger as he stroked him with the other 
hand.  Frodo shuddered, throwing his head back and biting his lip to keep 
from crying out as he came, hot and wet in Sam's hand and against his 
belly.
 
Sam felt his balls tighten, the exquisite pressure at the base of his spine, 
but even as he hovered on the edge he saw Boromir glance back, saw a 
flush of lust in his eyes.  For one instant it was Boromir's hands on him.
 
He came.
 
Hissing as waves of pleasure crashed over him, Sam clung to Frodo hating 
himself, hating Boromir, and most of all hating the fact that no matter 
what, he simply couldn't hate the one who had originally hurt him.
 
"I love you," he said, pulling Frodo close, burying his head against his 
master's shoulder to black out the darkness, the hurt.  He felt tears escape 
the corner of his eyes to fall in Frodo's hair as Frodo returned the embrace, 
his slender arms holding Sam's larger frame tight, his kiss-stained lips 
brushing his brow.
 
"I love you too.  But you've become distant.  I don't know what to do, 
Sam.  I don't know how to make you forgive me.  I know you haven't."  
His words were gentle, without anger, only soft with regret.  Sam choked 
on a sob, huddling against Frodo.  Truly he didn't deserve such a one.
 
"I'm trying, sir, I really am trying.  I understand--I just can't seem to get a 
hold of my feelings," Sam murmured into Frodo's chest, holding tight.  He 
heard the sound of Gandalf and Legolas as they returned to their bedrolls, 
and a crackle as Boromir added a fresh log to the fire.
 
When it was quiet once more, he heard Frodo sigh, rubbing his back in 
slow circles.  "Just rest, Sam.  Don't try so hard.  *Be* angry with me if 
you need to be.  I want your happiness too, you know."
 
"But--"  Useless to try to explain how impossible that was, but Sam 
couldn't help retorting.
 
"But what?"
 
"Nothing, sir."  No, he couldn't do it.  He could never do anything to hurt 
Frodo, to risk losing him.  Might as well ask him to fly.
 
"I'm not your 'sir' in this, you know, Sam."
 
Yes you are, Sam thought, but said nothing.  You'll always be my 'sir'.  
You are everything.
 
He drifted off to sleep with that thought, still clinging tight to his love.
 


Title: "In Contention" (3/?) 
Story:  "Loyalty" 
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men 
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com ) 
Rating: PG  this chapter  
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam, Sam/Boromir 
Category:  Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama
Summary:  Sam changes his view of Boromir.
Notes:  A thank you to my fencing instructor--knew I'd use that 
knowledge some day.
 
 
Chapter 3:  In Contention
 
 
For a week it was much of the same--rugged terrain, a far away glimpse of 
mountains to the east, and a wind from them that just would not let up.  
After a lone wolf startled the company out of sleep with its howling that 
night Sam and Frodo had lain together under Boromir's eyes, Strider had 
changed tactics to travel in the morning and night and sleep in the 
afternoon, without a fire.  Sam was cold, he was hungry, his feet were so 
numb he didn't even notice when he cut them on sharp rocks or twigs, and 
he was testy to boot.  Small wonder Frodo generally left him alone.
 
The sun was just past it zenith when Gandalf called for a halt to eat and 
rest.  The sky was clear today, 'perilously clear," Strider called it.  After a 
cheerless meal of dried meat and fruit, Sam sat for a moment in the shade 
of a large boulder, watching Boromir teach Merry and Pippin the finer 
points of swordplay.  Frodo was asleep next to Gandalf.  Of all them he 
seemed to tire the most easily, no doubt thanks to the Ring and his mended 
wound.
 
Sam blinked as Merry came up to him and held out a hand to offer Sam 
help up.  "Boromir says you should be practicing with us."  The look on 
Merry's face was apologetic but eager; he was probably tired of having to 
defend himself against Pippin's boundless energy.
 
Sam sighed.  This was Boromir's latest project:  ready the hobbits for 
battle.  Since Frodo had volunteered to take the Ring, there had been tutors 
in Rivendell eager to teach him basic self defense.  Sam had learned a 
little from some of the elves, then on the journey Strider had continued the 
lessons, but Sam had trouble learning from him, and the elves too, for that 
matter.  The Ranger and elves moved with the same easy grace--grace 
Frodo had learned quickly, treating it like a dance--but grace was not one 
of Sam's strong suits.  He felt about as graceful as a duck in a dress.  
(Something he knew about firsthand as his sister Marigold had once put 
her dolls' clothes on a neighbor's duck and watched it careen and crash 
around the Row, overturning Dad's wheelbarrow and a few of Ma's potted 
geraniums.)
 
Sam had felt so awkward, he hadn't learned much, he knew.  And with 
Strider in particular he seemed to have trouble concentrating on the 
lessons--when he watched the Ranger bestow praise on Frodo and smile 
one of his rare smiles, it was as if a hive of angry bees had taken up 
residence in his head.
 
So it was with reluctance he took Merry's hand and forced his tired legs to 
stand.  At least he wouldn't feel too clumsy next to Pippin and his mad 
lunges.  And he didn't much care what Boromir thought of him so there 
would be no embarrassment there either.
 
Sam started to walk over to where Boromir and Pip were practicing in a 
clearing between clumps of brush, when Merry pulled him aside.  "Sam, 
I've already spoken to Frodo, but I thought I should talk to you too.  I want 
to say I'm very happy you and Frodo have--" he blushed, "--well, have 
found each other."  His brows drew together as his eyes watched Pippin 
parrying Boromir's blow.  The two were laughing.  "I do have to say you 
two have put me in a rather uncomfortable position."
 
Sam felt the blood rush to his face.  "I told Mr. Frodo--"
 
Merry laughed.  "Yes, he told me.  It's quite all right.  I could hardly keep 
Pippin innocent forever.  It's just . . ." Sam didn't think he'd ever seen the 
Brandybuck blush, but that's what the rose color creeping into his cheeks 
just had to be.  "Well you see I . . . and he--not yet, mind you, but he's 
been asking.  And I'm really trying to protect him.  It's not a good idea--
we're both heirs who have to marry and have children and it will only end 
up hurting him . . . so I've managed to hold it off so far."  His lips made 
the little puckered shape they made whenever he was frustrated; many a 
time Sam had seen that look in regards to figuring out Mr. Frodo's mind 
before he decided when to leave the Shire.
 
Did Merry mean what Sam thought he did?  That Pippin wanted a sort of 
relationship like Frodo and him?  They were close cousins . . . so very 
close.  Yes, it made sense.  He could see it blossoming.  But not quite at 
this time, just like he and Frodo had been just a little too soon.  Winter 
frost could kill a bud that opened too early.  Sam wasn't sure quite what to 
say, except, "Well, best of luck to you and Pip, then.  I know you'll take 
good care of him."
 
Merry clapped him on the shoulder.  "Believe, me, it's not as easy as all 
that!"  He grew serious a moment, his eyes intent on Sam and it seemed he 
was debating with himself.  "I should also say . . ." He trailed off, eyes 
going dark, inward.  He glanced over at Frodo.  "He mentioned you 
wondered who . . ." He blew out a harsh breath, scowling and eyeing Sam 
with what looked like worry.  Sam shook his head.  What was he trying to 
say? 
 
Pippin called out "Merry, are you going to take all day? My arm's getting 
tired!  Get Sam to keep Boromir busy a bit!"
 
"We can talk later," Merry said in a rush, dragging Sam along.  "Just this--
be gentle with Frodo's heart.  He doesn't show things sometimes, when 
he's hurt.  Rather like some others I could mention."  Before Sam could 
puzzle that one out, he was next to Pippin and Boromir and Pippin was 
helping to unsheathe his short sword and arrange his cloak for fighting.  
Sam gave a long suffering look at Pippin but the little mite only grinned.
 
Boromir stood next to Sam, and Sam was reminded again just how *big*a 
Man Borimor was; Sam was about eye level with his--hmm, well, best not 
to think on that.  "All right then, Sam, get into the ready position.  We'll 
try you against Merry for a moment."
 
Merry raised his sword and did a few quick lunges and retreats, testing 
Sam's defenses as Sam clumsily tried to remember the correct way to 
parry each attack.  They got their blades tangled, and Sam nearly dropped 
it.  He fought down a flush of shame as he faced Boromir whose face 
showed only a troubled expression.  A kind face . . . Sam had never 
noticed that before . . . 
 
"Has no one taught you the proper guard positions?"  Boromir said at last.  
 
Sam caught himself from snapping back something insolent just in time.  
Why did this Man upset him so?  He felt a strange, raw need to impress 
him, and his failure was beginning to hurt.  "The elves did, sir--well at 
least they tried.  I guess I'm just not suited to be a warrior."
 
Boromir looked at him with something perilously close to pity.  The *last* 
thing Sam wanted.  "Nonsense.  Of all the hobbits I would expect you to 
be best at this, with proper training.  You have the build--" He smiled.  "--
and the temperament for it."
 
What was that supposed to mean?  Sam's belly heated in anger, but before 
he could mutter an excuse to quit and leave, the warrior crossed behind 
him then knelt down so that Sam's back was hard against his chest, his 
legs against Boromir's taut thighs.  One of Boromir's hands reached out to 
take Sam's sword arm and with gentle pressure moved it into the 'ready' 
position; the other pressed down at Sam's waist to put him into a defensive 
crouch.
 
"Here, let us teach it to you this way," Boromir's husky voice rumbled 
somewhere near Sam's ear.
 
This was *not* supposed to be exciting him . . .but it was.  Sam felt his 
whole body responding and cursed the thin fabric of his breeches as his 
backside rubbed against the supple leather of Boromir's surcoat and the 
hard chainmail beneath that.  He fought to keep himself from trembling or 
the blood wholly rushing to his face as Boromir turned his left thigh back, 
positioning his foot, and murmuring, "Keep a perpendicular stance--most 
stable, and well enough apart to either leap forward or back," then that 
same hand was trying to shake out Sam's free arm.  "If you're fighting 
against a larger enemy--which will be most of the time for you little ones, 
use both hands on your sword.  Otherwise, relax this arm back here, out of 
the way."
 
Sam forced himself to relax and let the big Man show him the proper 
positioning.  He had to admit, were it not for his sudden discomfort, this 
*was* a much better way of learning.  Once his body was shown the 
proper position, it remembered it.  Boromir wrapped both arms around to 
show him the eight parry positions, naming them, "Arm up to defend the 
head--parry one.  Parry two.  Down to defend the body--your most 
common target.  Parry Four.  Parry Six.  Lower, Parry seven.  Parry Eight.  
And to complete the defenses, parry three, and parry five.  Show me."
 
Sam did so, running through each parry several times before Boromir gave 
him a slap on the back and a "Good Job!"  The Man rose to his feet, and 
Sam was hard pressed not to stop him or lean back for just a little more 
feel of that strong body.  Oh toads and salamanders!  How shameful was 
this, being *attracted* to the ox!  Except he wasn't behaving like an ox 
now.  He was being downright kind.
 
Sam wasn't sure if he was feeling hot or cold; the wind blew his hair into 
his eyes and his cloak around him, hopefully hiding any evidence of his 
state as Boromir set Merry against him again.  
 
Merry and Pip had apparently missed whatever reactions Sam had been 
going through with Boromir behind him; with a brazen shout, Merry 
attacked, trying out feints and stabs and even a few disengage moves that 
Sam was hard put to defend.  Still, it was a sight better than last time; at 
least now his parries were actually working.  Pippin cheered and Boromir 
stifled a chuckle into his glove, and after a moment Sam could feel himself 
smiling as he hadn't smiled in days.  Almost fun, this.  Not that he really 
felt much of a warrior, training or no.  He'd have Boromir know he was 
still a gardener at heart.
 
He actually tried a few lunges of his own and managed to knock Merry's 
sword away on a rather forceful riposte.  Merry laughed and threw up his 
hands.  "I'm spent.  How about we call that a lesson?"
 
Pippin nodded.  "I'm hungry."
 
Boromir sighed, shaking his head at the two, and with a great sweep of his 
hand, said, "Very well, then, off with you.  But I think I'll have one more 
go with Sam here."  He stared at Sam, his grey eyes unfathomable.  "If 
you don't mind."
 
Sam shrugged, not trusting himself to say anything further.  He was 
trembling again, but whether with fear, ire, or expectation he wasn’t quite 
certain.  This Man certainly seemed to stir up his emotions as few others 
could, but he couldn't rightly say why.  He didn't trust the Man, not farther 
than he could throw him, and he didn't like him.  Or at least he hadn't liked 
him, until today.  And he certainly did not want him.  Absolutely not.  
Despite the fact his body was responding again just by the look Boromir 
was giving him . . . 
 
Boromir drew his blade, a good two and a half times the length of Sam's 
short sword, and took up position across from him, his gaze dark and 
smoky.  "I know you've never trusted me, Sam, but I am doing this for 
you.  We all know you're going to be closest to the Ringbearer in any 
trouble, and I think you need to be able to defend yourself against an 
enemy.  Let's pretend someone my size is attacking you.  How will you 
defend?  Or attack?  I'm going to first go through the parries again with 
you, let you feel what it is to deflect a larger blade.  Then I'm going to 
attack.  Are you ready?"
 
Did Boromir know Sam's fears?  That someday he really *would* have to 
defend Frodo, very likely against Boromir himself?  It was unsettling, but 
Sam couldn't deny the fact he needed this practice, for precisely those 
fears.  He swallowed and gave a nod, grasping the hilt with both hands and 
checking his stance to the way Boromir had shown him.  Then he watched 
for Boromir's movements.
 
"Parry one!  Parry four!  Parry seven!"  Boromir went from parry to parry, 
striking with what had to be near his full strength so that Sam was hard put 
to deflect the blows, forced several times to retreat or be hit with the flat of 
his blade.  Relentlessly the Man delivered blows, until Sam's arms were 
aching and sweat poured into his eyes, but miraculously, he was holding 
his own; one hit did connect with his shoulder, hard enough to leave a 
bruise, but that was all.  He was amazed that he was actually strong 
enough to deflect blow after blow.  Boromir stopped calling out the 
necessary parries and began advancing on him and now Sam knew he had 
to attack or be overcome.  He tried a disengage, but that was useless--he'd 
never wrest the sword from the big Man.  He tried lunging under 
Boromir's defense, and one swipe actually came rather close.  Boromir 
backed up a step and lowered his blade.  
 
"I don't think I want you coming closer than that.  Very well done."
 
They were both sweating, Sam saw; he had actually given the warrior a 
decent workout.  With a smile, Boromir offered him a gloved hand, which 
he shook, smiling.  "Fair to say I've gotten the gist of it there, sir?"  Sam 
panted, feeling giddy and relaxed all at the same time.  The anger was 
gone.  He felt himself again.  For the moment, anyway.
 
Boromir made a move to ruffle Sam's hair, as he so often did Merry and 
Pip, but hesitated just shy of his head, moving instead to squeeze a 
shoulder.  "Fair to say, yes, I would say that."  He seemed ready to say 
more, his lips partially open--Sam felt a shiver go through him imagining 
the feel of those lips, the neat trimmed beard.  Suddenly he felt chilled and 
afraid again.  He drew close his cloak. 
 
"I'd best be back to Mr. Frodo.  Little enough time to rest before we move 
again, I expect," Sam murmured, and ducked away before he could find 
out what else the Man was struggling to tell him.
 
As he passed through the brush back to camp, he heard Boromir behind 
him, "You're a loyal one, Sam, very loyal."  There was no mistaking it--
pain and regret in that voice.  Sam fought the urge to look back and see the 
expression on the Man's face.
 
Frodo was still asleep.  After a good swallow of water and change of 
shirts, Sam managed to calm himself enough to where he could lie down 
next to his master and think of sleep.
 
But it was a good while before sleep finally found him.
 
He wasn't so sure of his loyalty any more.
 



Title: "In Peril" (4/?)
Story:  "Loyalty"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: PG-13  this chapter 
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam, Sam/Boromir
Category:  Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama

Notes:  A couple lines of dialogue in this chapter have been taken from 
J.R.R. Tolkien's "Fellowship of the Ring", "The Ring Goes South."  And 
using book cannon here--guess who really carried Sam down the mountain 
. . . 

As always, a big thank you to Baranduin for beta reading.
 
*****

Chapter 4:  In Peril
 


Sam avoided spending any time alone with Boromir for the next few days, 
but things soon became busy enough that there wasn't time to think about 
his tangled feelings, not for Boromir or Frodo or even Strider.  A few days 
after his heated sparring match, they entered the land of Hollin.  Strider 
stopped the party in the early afternoon and announced they could rest the 
remainder of the day and the night as well.  It didn’t take long for 
everyone to roll out the bedrolls and go to sleep--it had been days since 
they'd stopped for more than four or five hours at a time and a decent 
sleep.  Sam watched everyone resting with a slight tinge of wistfulness--he 
had first watch.  He gave a start as Strider materialized at his side from his 
scouting, folding his long legs to sit next to him.
 

"I'd like to sit with you a moment, if I may."  
 

Sam tried not to stiffen as the Ranger spoke, adjusting his position on the 
broad rock overlooking the camp to accommodate the Man.  His reactions 
were getting a tad silly these days, he knew, but he just couldn't much trust 
the race of Man lately.  All too well he was getting an understanding of 
what Frodo's problem had been.
 

"Something wrong, sir?" Sam asked as Strider tilted his head, listening to 
the dead quiet of the land under the bright cloudless sky.  First warm day 
they'd had, and finally that awful wind had let them alone.
 

The Ranger focused his attention back on Sam, his grey eyes piercing him.  
"I don't know yet.  How are things with you?  Frodo worries that you've 
been upset with him.  You've been more quiet than usual lately.  We could 
use more of your poetry."
 

Sam blushed at the kind gleam in Strider's eyes.  "Ain't the right company 
here for any of my stuff.  One Man and my brethren's one thing, but here 
we have an elven prince, a dwarf, and the son of the man caring for your 
kingdom . . . . never dreamed I'd be traveling in such company, sir.  Fair 
freezes my tongue, if you like."
 

Strider smiled.  "If it is only that, I'm sure you'll get used to everyone in 
time.  I know it has hardly been the atmosphere for singing, but you've 
looked so troubled.  Is everything all right?"
 

Sam shrugged, feeling decided awkward at Strider's insistent questioning.  
He was hardly going to speak plainly to the Man.  A gardener, telling off a 
King that he should have said no to his master's advances?  Ha--if the lads 
at the Green Dragon had heard such a tale, they'd bust their seams 
laughing.  Only Sam didn't much feel like laughing.  Crying, more like.  
He still honored and admired the Ranger.  If his heart weren't caught up in 
the matter, he'd be the first to take Frodo's hand and place it in Aragorn's.
 

He was a sorry fool to be caught between them at all.
 

"I love another, you know.  As much as I care for and admire Frodo, we 
never would have lasted together in any kind of relationship--we're simply 
too different."  The Ranger looked inward.  "or perhaps too alike . . . "  He 
looked troubled a moment, then smiled again.  "At any rate, it was not 
meant to be.  He loves you.  If anyone will get him to Mordor, I know you 
will, and care for him after, whatever happens.  But you must *let* him 
love you.  I don't know what exactly is happening between you.  I only 
know that the two of you seem very unhappy when really should be happy 
to have found love in each other."
 

Sam winced as Strider's leather-enclosed hand gripped his shoulder.  The 
sun might be shining, but he felt no warmth.  Strider continued.  "You 
have to let it go.  You can't cage a wild bird.  Frodo was free, and he 
returned to you.  Accept him for what he is and let go of the past."
 

Sam shook his head--he was past all that; it had no bearing on his current 
dilemma.  How could he blame Frodo his urges when he himself was 
suffering them?  But he certainly wasn't talking to Strider about that.
 

They sat in silence so thick every breath was a roar, every movement a 
loud grating.  Sam swore he could hear his blood flowing through his 
veins, hear the loud creak in his bones.  Strider had earlier said he 
wondered at the lack of birds or other natural noises usually found in these 
parts.  Sam held his breath as he caught sight of something in the distance, 
flying towards them.
 

"What's that, Strider?  It don't look like a cloud," he whispered.
 

The next few minutes became a blur.  Strider pulled him down, hissing at 
him to be quiet, then crows, big black ones, circling and screaming, flew 
past overhead.  Strider woke Gandalf after that, and the company decided 
to move out as soon as it was dark.  Sam gave up the watch to Strider, and 
gratefully took to his bed to be near Frodo should those black swarms 
return.  When he was woken at dark, there was little time to talk to 
anyone; he took rear guard position on the march leading Bill, with 
Legolas walking beside him.  Gandalf, Strider, and Frodo were at the front 
again, the two larger figures guarding Frodo closely like mother geese.
 

For once Sam was glad.  The danger of the mission was suddenly 
startlingly clear, and his heart was pounding.  Through the night they 
hurried towards the line of mountains curving in from the east, then waited 
anxiously through the next day in hiding as flocks of dark shapes 
continued to cross the skies.  Strider announced they would be climbing 
up into the mountains--Sam tried to get a feel for whether this was 
anywhere near that Mount Doom, but only received a bemused look as a 
reward.  He flushed.  Confounded maps didn't serve him a bit in these vast 
lands.
 

When the blizzard on the knees of Caradhras hit, Sam's whole world 
became the struggle to keep Bill moving and make sure Frodo didn't fall, 
but once they stopped and the cold began to send the four hobbits into 
sleep, Sam realized it was Boromir who had saved all of them with his 
insistence on bringing firewood.  As the wind howled and Sam wrapped 
his arm around Frodo to share what little warmth he could, he felt the 
warrior's gaze on him, through the night.  The big man was sharing his 
warmth with Merry and Pippin, but always his gaze strayed to where Sam 
sat sandwiched between good old Bill and his master.  Was it the Ring's 
pull that drew Boromir, or was it . . . . Sam didn't want to complete the 
thought.  It certainly wasn't the time for it.
 

But he had no choice but to confront it the next morning.  Sam watched 
Strider and Boromir cut through the snow with amazing strength and 
diligence and felt his dislike melt further into . . . something.  Something 
else.  The two Men carried Merry and Pippin first, but it wasn't until they 
returned that Sam realized what was about to happen.  Of course Strider 
picked up Frodo to carry on his back.  That left Boromir .  . . and him.
 

"On my back, then, Sam.  Gandalf and Gimli can lead Bill."
 

Sam hesitated, imagining the feel of that strong body beneath him and 
himself in such an awkward position should his body decide to rebel 
against him.  "I'm capable of leading Bill myself.  Just a bit tired, that's all.  
I don't need to be carried, sir," he said in a low voice, watching as Strider 
went first into the path they had carved.  Had Legolas said twice a Man's 
height at one point?  Well, he supposed if they could burrow through, so 
could he.
 

Boromir smiled—not patronizing, but understanding his position, Sam 
felt.  "You're strong; I understand this; but this has nothing to do with that.  
It's purely about your height.  You won't be able to breathe under the 
snow.  Please, trust me.  Let me carry you."
 

He did trust him.  More and more, as Sam saw what he was capable of.  
Yes, certainly there was a point past which that trust might be broken, but 
wasn't there such a point in any person?  He was getting rather close 
himself.  Nodding lest his hesitation appear to be lack of trust, Sam came 
forward as the big Man knelt down, back towards him.  
 

"You'll have to hold tight; I'll be using my arms," Boromir said, and rose 
as Sam grabbed hold of his shoulders and gripped his waist tight with his 
legs, locking his feet in front.  Very awkward this felt, especially with 
Sam's big pack in back, but there was certainly enough to hold onto that he 
was pretty sure he'd not fall off once they hit the drift.  Oh, spare him that 
embarrassment, at least.  That, and one other.
 

Muscles rippled under the surcoat and mail as Boromir began wading 
through the snow, helping one last time to widen the path for Gimli and 
the pony bringing up the rear.  Sam had hoped the mail would provide 
enough bulk to mask the sensations of musculature beneath, but it only 
seemed to make them even more plain to his senses.  This was Boromir's 
third trip; his body was hot with exertion and sweat ran off the side of his 
face in streamlets, dampening the dark blond hair at his nape.  He smelled 
of leather and iron and something more, something no hobbit would ever 
smell of.  Sam couldn't help it; he leaned in close to the back of the 
warrior's neck, breathing in the scent of him.
 

And the movement of muscles!  Sam could feel the power behind each 
thrust as Boromir shoved aside the snow, the power in those legs as he 
drove them forward.  Oh this was no good—these movements were far too 
similar to another activity, something where generally it was Sam doing 
the thrusting, but just once he'd like to have someone else do it for him . . . 
that tore it.  He was getting hard.  Oh, stupid, stupid, fool that he was!  He 
tried to think of something else—Frodo lying wounded in Rivendell.  No 
good.  Frodo miraculously recovered and invited him into that gigantic 
bed of his . . . Lobelia.  Lobelia Sacksville- Baggins.  He held that thought.  
It worked—for a little.  Until his feet slipped a little and brushed against 
something—no, that was in the wrong spot to be Boromir's sword . . . 
 

"Almost there," Boromir grunted, shifting his weight to help Sam climb up 
higher again.  Was that a slight hitch in the Man's breathing?  Had he 
thrust backwards with his legs to get a better feel of Sam pressed up 
against him, or to shove him away?  
 

"Uh-huh," was about all Sam could think to say.  He was too afraid to say 
anything more.  This new trust between them was delicate.  The last thing 
he needed was to find out Boromir didn't have any urgings towards him.  
Or did.  He wasn't sure which was worse.
 

They reached the highest part of the drift, and Sam could hear the high 
voices of Merry and Pippin on the other side, checking on Frodo.  The 
snow towered over their head; Sam could imagine the despair Boromir 
must have felt when they reached this the first time, not knowing how far 
it went this way.  He burrowed his head into the nape of Boromir's neck as 
snow fell down upon them, trying to smother them.  Heat from the 
warrior's body warmed him against the cold snow seeping into his cloak 
and breeches.  He could hear the heart of the warrior pounding as he 
struggled to get them through and imagined lying on top to listen to that 
pounding in the aftermath of lovemaking.
 

They broke through.  Sam nearly leapt off Boromir's back in his haste to 
get himself under control before Frodo saw anything, before he realized 
how close he was to throwing himself at Boromir's feet and begging . . . 
Sam fell face first into the snow.  That should look like an accident, he 
thought, but it had its purpose.  The icy cold did fast work to kill his 
desire.  Positive nothing would show now, he rose and laughed as the 
others dusted him off, assuring them that he was just fine; nothing bruised 
but his poor ego.
 

And his heart, as he saw Boromir turn away.  Really, he should say 
something to the Man, try to explain.  
 

He should talk to Frodo.
 

Tomorrow.
 



Title: "In Evasion" (5/?) 
Story:  "Loyalty" 
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men 
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com ) 
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam, Sam/Boromir 
Category:  Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama
Summary:  In the mines of Moria Sam feels torn between love and lust.
 
 
Notes:  Again, following book canon this chapter.  It wasn't Pippin or 
Merry who threw that rock into the pool.
 
*****
 
The next twenty-four hours were a nightmare.
 
Exhausted after the march down Caradhras, Sam had thought they'd at 
least get a night of rest before embarking on those awful-sounding mines 
of Moria, but the wolves certainly had other plans.  It was the first attack 
Sam had witnessed since Weathertop, and to his mind more brutal, for he 
saw just what his companions were capable of in a stitch.  He only 
commented on Gandalf's fancy fire trick--it was too horrifying to dwell on 
the way Legolas' arrows had pierced the lead wolf's throat, sending blood 
spraying, or the gore as Boromir cut the legs out from underneath another 
one.  Once again the warrior was something to be feared, not trusted.  
Practicing with swords was one thing.  Seeing what they did to living flesh 
was quite another.
 
No time to recover from that horror before he was faced with the next 
one:  losing Bill.  Bill--his one link to things as they had been back before 
they left the Shire--his one friend who would never judge him, never leave 
him, simply giving him everything, every day.  He really *would* have 
followed them into the mines, Sam was sure of it, but that tentacled beast--
that had been too much.  
 
And Sam felt partially responsible for its appearance.  He'd balked when 
Gandalf asked him to unpack Bill, as he shouldn't for a hobbit of his 
stature, and in a fit of tears threw the packs on the ground for others to 
sort.  Boromir had come to his aid, distressed by his display of emotion.  
When Sam saw the anguish and anger in the Man's eyes, it had stopped his 
tears, and when during Gandalf's trouble with the door Boromir had 
suggested hanging onto Bill, Sam had smiled in gratitude.  Boromir gave 
him a look . . . a look of understanding.  Not pity or judgment, not like 
those first days out of Rivendell.  Sympathy.  Understanding.  Sam's heart 
had pounded in  . . . something.  Gratitude?  Friendship?  Some emotion 
he could not name.
 
Certainly it was a far cry from when they had first met.
 
But Gandalf would have none of it--Bill was going; that was that.  And as 
Sam made a teary farewell to his friend, he saw Boromir's face twist in 
frustration, rage, which he masked as impatience.  
 
Boromir threw a rock into the pond.
 
*****
 
Oh Mr. Frodo, I so nearly lost you, Sam thought, still holding tight to his 
master's hand as they walked the dark uneven stairs of the mines.  He 
wasn't leaving Mr. Frodo's side again, not 'til they were somewhere 
undeniably safe, which didn't look to be happening any time soon by the 
looks of things.
 
No one else had moved when that ghastly tentacle had taken hold of 
Frodo; they had all stared in shock as Sam cleaved at it with his small 
sword, dragging Mr. Frodo away towards the entrance of the mines.  Then 
suddenly everyone was rushing forward with him, and a dozen tentacles 
were tearing up roots of trees, and rock was falling, and they were inside 
and running to avoid having the whole mountain fall on top of them.  
Once the sounds echoed away in the complete blackness, once they all 
called out that they were unhurt, all Sam could do was berate himself for 
being so stupid, for wasting a single moment of his time with Frodo 
worrying about past actions or shallow lusts, when really all that mattered 
was him, his love, his dear, dear master.  
 
In the darkness as everyone recovered from the shock, Sam pressed 
against Frodo and wrapped his arms around him, kissing him hard, 
desperately, proving to himself that they really had in fact survived.  He 
was probably a bit muddled by the lack of sleep at that point; no matter.  
He hadn't cared who had been watching by the meager light of Gandalf's 
staff, what they thought.  Just to have Frodo safe in his arms, feel his lips 
and the silken heat of his mouth, the tremble in his limbs . . . how many 
minutes they spent that way, lost in the depths of each other with their 
limbs entangled and their mouths tasting each other, he didn't recollect.  
All too soon, Gandalf's hand gently nudged them as he told them they 
must move on.
 
*****
 
It was now the second "day" of their progress through Moria.  Coming to 
the end of it, actually, according to Gandalf, though with the perpetual 
darkness Sam wouldn't have known what the time was if he had a rooster 
on his shoulder.  Couldn't go by his stomach, neither--they were low on 
food now, so it was always hungry.  But at least Gandalf allowed them 
another swallow of the elven cordial "to strengthen their spirits" and 
encouraged them with the thought they were halfway through.  
 
Frodo picked a corner as private as was possible in the abandoned 
chamber they'd chosen for their rest stop, behind a stone table where the 
light from Gandalf's staff did not reach.  It was Sam this time who drew 
Frodo down into the bedroll, his hands roaming over the slender hobbit's 
shoulders, down his back, over his firm buttocks and around front to 
gently squeeze his way up the insides of Frodo's thighs, possessing him 
with a firm hand even as he brought his head close to taste Frodo's lips.
 
Oh, it had been too long.  That was his problem; that was why he 
hungered so.  Hadn't been able to barely touch Frodo since that night of 
Boromir's watch, and that was a hard thing to bear.  No wonder he was 
having such trouble around the Gondorian, Sam told himself as he 
kneaded and rubbed Frodo's hard member, swallowing his master's moans 
as he urgently lapped at his sweet mouth.
  
Frodo's hands tore at the buttons on Sam's breeches, his breath catching in 
that lovely throat as he moved his lips to plant hot kisses along the strong 
line of Sam's jaw and bucked his hips up to meet Sam's hand.  Sam bit 
back a growl as Frodo grated his teeth along the edge of his ear.  He 
needed to taste more of Frodo, much, much more.
 
Sam drew back a little to unfasten Frodo's breeches, wistful that he daren't 
try removing any more clothing than that--he wouldn't remove the mithril 
coat for nothing where orcs might take a shot at them, so he'd have to 
leave those luscious nipples alone this time.  He'd make it up to them next 
time.  
 
Once Frodo's breeches were down, Sam dipped down his head to first 
nibble up the sensitive insides of his white thighs, making Frodo clamp a 
hand over his mouth to hold back a moan, his head thrown back.  
Frantically he motioned for Sam to change his position; Sam did so, 
burrowing into the blanket with his feet sticking out awkwardly (to his 
mind) out past Frodo's head.  Awkwardness was forgotten as Frodo 
immediately took him into his mouth; lest he lose himself immediately 
and climax too soon, Sam set to pleasing his master, running his tongue 
around the head of his beautiful cock and lapping up the precum--ah, the 
taste made him almost dizzy with want.  Beautiful Mr. Frodo, loving him.  
He would endeavor to be more worthy.
 
Frodo was picking up the pace, drawing him deep into his throat, and Sam 
fought to keep control for just a moment longer, sucking first the head 
then as much of the shaft as he could, trying to savor the moment, prolong 
his master's pleasure.  Frodo thrust up and he gagged a little, pulling back, 
but it wouldn't have mattered; Sam had to stop for a second as suddenly he 
fell over the edge and his seed burst from him in pounding wave after 
wave of pleasure.  He bit his cheek to keep from screaming, slowly 
pumping Frodo's member until the waves subsided and he could return his 
attention to his master's needs.
 
Sam didn't hold back now, but sucked hard and deep on his master, using 
one hand to pump him while the other cupped his balls and massaged the 
ridge of pleasure behind them.  Licking one finger, he slipped it inside to 
better massage the spot, and was gratified when Frodo buried his face 
against his legs, clutching at him.  His cock began to pulse, then Sam was 
drinking down the essence of him, lovingly keeping him in his mouth until 
all the tremors passed.  He crawled back around to lay next to Frodo, 
kissing his eyelids, his hair, his cheek.  "Love you, master, I'll always love 
you," he murmured, running a hand down Frodo's back in slow steady 
circles.  Frodo burrowed his head against his shoulder, sighing 
contentedly, one arm thrown carelessly across his broad chest.  They lay 
together a few moments, just resting.
 
"Best put ourselves back together, Sam; I have second watch," Frodo 
murmured, rising up a little to pull up his breeches.  His eyes were large 
black pools in the near darkness, watching Sam, his fine brows drawn 
together in--what was that, concern?
 
Sam forced himself to ask though he wasn't sure he wanted to know.  
"Sir?  Is anything the matter?"
 
Frodo smiled; one of his sad, sweet smiles, and brushed back the curls 
from Sam's face, rubbing one thumb lightly over his brow.  "No, Sam, I 
don't think so.  I just want you to know . . . " he paused, looking deep into 
Sam's eyes until he was certain every secret wish and dream he'd ever had 
was plucked out of him, "I want you to know I truly love you.  No matter 
what happens, no matter what you do."
 
A chill crept over Sam's heart.  What did that mean?  
 
"I . . . yes, sir," he stammered, blushing, glad the darkness hid the fact his 
ears must near be glowing now.  "I really have forgiven you, you should 
know.  I love you so much it hurts."
 
Frodo bent down and kissed him very gently on the lips, his eyelashes 
fluttering against Sam's cheek with a trace of moisture Sam wasn't sure if 
it was tears or sweat from their lovemaking.  Then he turned over and 
curled up in his blankets to sleep.  
 
Sam slept a little apart from him--Frodo hated when a watch woke the 
both of them when it only need waken one, so when one of them had a 
later watch they slept in separate rolls--easier too on the person waking 
them not to be embarrassed by entangled limbs and such.  They made sure 
those times they were fully dressed, too.
 
Despite that, Sam did waken a while later.  He had no idea how much 
later--Frodo was asleep in his blanket, and the faint light from Gandalf's 
staff glowed on unwaveringly.  A certain pressing need was calling, so he 
rose to take care of it in one of the side tunnels, wincing as the sound of it 
echoed off the walls--he wondered how much Frodo and his noises had 
been discernable for the rest of the party.  Returning, he glanced over at 
Merry's pallet and saw Pippin was curled up on Merry's chest like a little 
wee one . . . . hmmmm.  He had to wonder how Merry's resolve was 
holding up.  He looked all right--exhausted, really.  Poor fellow.  Sam 
knew how it was caring for one you loved and not able to touch them the 
way you truly wished.
 
A low rumbling clearing of the throat startled Sam.  Boromir was on 
watch, and watching him, the strands of his fair hair falling into his eyes as 
he gazed upon the hobbit with an intense expression only too familiar to 
Sam.  He should get back to Frodo--if Boromir was on watch that meant 
Frodo had already had his turn and soon it would be time for everyone to 
wake and get moving again.  But he saw Boromir raise one hand slightly, 
gesturing to a spot next to him on the floor by the doorway of the 
chamber.  Gandalf's staff was propped in a torch holder next to him, 
throwing its light in a bright circle around him in a way that outlined harsh 
planes of light and shadows on his face.  Sam shivered.  He really ought to 
be going back to Frodo.  But he found himself instead coming to sit down 
next to Boromir.
 
Sam sat in silence a moment, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up 
with expectation, warning, and yes, he could not deny it--interest.  He 
glanced over at Boromir's hands resting on the cold stone floor--the 
warrior had removed his gloves, and Sam was caught looking at the 
squared fingers lightly callused from wielding a weapon, yet not 
weathered and toughened like Aragorn's--fleshier, younger, softer.  Sam 
swallowed and licked his lips, imagining those hands on him, such big 
hands . . . he jumped when Boromir finally spoke.
 
"I think we need to talk.  I wanted to apologize--for Caradhras . . . I did 
mean for you to ever know."  Boromir's voice was a low throaty whisper.  
It was all Sam could do not to shudder in want.
 
Was he talking about what Sam thought?  "I should be the one 
apologizing, sir.  If I made you at all uncomfortable . . ."   Boromir had 
felt it when he was hard against him; that had to be it.  If it wasn't, well, 
they hadn't said anything that would make things difficult between them 
yet.  Perhaps Boromir simply thought it had been his fault Sam fell off at 
the end of the trail.
 
Boromir chuckled, leaning back.  In the stillness of the chamber Sam 
could hear the creak of leather, the soft chink of his chain mail.  "I admit 
I'm a little jealous of you and Frodo.  One of my captains and I . . . we 
were very close on a time . . . but nothing next to what I see between the 
two of you.  You're very lucky."
 
Hmm, Sam's first guess had been right.  But what was this--why tell him 
all of this--why reveal he'd been in similar relationships before?  Sam's 
brows drew together in sudden suspicion.
 
Boromir saw it.  "What is it?  Why do you look at me like that?"
 
Sam immediately dropped his gaze--he was no good at hiding things, 
seemingly.  He shook his head, trying to think of an answer, something 
that would damage the fragile new friendship between them.  Again, he 
looked at Boromir's hand.  Exhaling a frustrated breath, he lightly patted it 
and muttered, "It's nothing."
 
Boromir flinched, drawing his hand away.  "You're right not to trust me, 
you know.   My first loyalty is not to your master, but to Gondor and 
Gondor's allies.  I have been content to follow Aragorn's lead, but I will 
have my say in time over where our final path should lead.  I still say it is 
folly to go to Mordor."
 
"I'm not following you, sir--why tell me?  You're thinkin' I should be more 
wary of you?  So that I am better able to . . . to . . ." Sam couldn't say it; 
couldn't say, 'so I'll be better able to control my desire for you.'  That 
would make it too real, too present.  Truth to say the Man had never 
looked more desirable; his barriers were down, his face earnest and open.  
A haunted shadow filled his eyes, reminding Sam suddenly of the haunted 
look that plagued his master now and again when his hand crept up to 
fondle the Ring on its chain.
 
Boromir leaned forward, until they were eye to eye, until Sam could feel 
the faint touch of his breath on his cheek, his gaze burning, lips parted.  
"Of all the Fellowship I believe you and I are most alike--we are servants, 
willing to fight to defend, and plain men of common sense.  I like you--
liked you from the first when you stood up to take your place next to your 
master to face the quest, not caring what you were facing.  If 
circumstances were different, I would . . ." he licked his lips, and Sam 
swallowed, imagining himself leaning forward just a little to bring their 
lips together, feel the tickle of that beard on his cheek.  He was panting.  
Sam swallowed again, trying to control his urges.  
 
Boromir drew back, and it was obvious--his breathing had also 
quickened.  "You sound like an excellent lover.  Best get back to your 
master.  My watch should be nearly up now."
 
If he didn't hear a dismissal in those words, he weren't no servant.  The 
warrior was letting him go, despite the fact that all he had to do to break 
Sam's will was raise his hand to cup the back of Sam's head and draw him 
forward, open his mouth . . . would they have been able to stop with just a 
kiss, he wondered?  Could he have kept his loyalty intact having tasted 
this race of Man?  He didn't know.  Didn't want to know, neither.
 
Like Boromir said, best get back to Frodo.  Concentrate on his needs, try 
to sleep a little, try to relax.  Try to forget.
 
But forgetting would not come easy knowing his longing was shared.




Title: "In  Defeat" (6/8)
Story:  "Loyalty"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam, Sam/Boromir
Category:  Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama

Summary:  In Lothlorien emotion defeats all.
 

Notes:  A touch of movie cannon in this chapter--I just loved Boromir's 
lines to Aragorn and his torment.
 


*****

The first of the Fellowship was dead.
 

Sam had known it could happen; had accepted it might be his fate if he 
chose to accompany Frodo on this mission.  But he had never, not in his 
darkest musings, imagined it could take one as powerful and wondrous a 
figure as Gandalf.  Like a grandfather, like a wise old uncle--no, that was 
all wrong.  There weren't words to describe what Gandalf had been to him, 
had been to everyone, he felt.
 

At first he couldn’t' seem to stop crying--he cried until he couldn't see, 
though the gash in his forehead didn't help matters too much on that, 
blindly running along at Mr. Frodo's side towards the forests of 
Lothlorien.  When he saw his master's injuries, that stopped the tears; 
instead he felt guilty.  He hadn't been there when he was most needed.  If 
Bilbo hadn't made that gift back in Rivendell . . . Sam shuddered.  In the 
heat of battle, he had fought bravely maybe, but not wisely.  Next time 
he'd stay closer to Frodo and if some orc chief tried to skewer Frodo, he'd 
cut off the orc's hand.
 

When they reached the fair woods, the grief and the darkness seemed to 
recede a bit; the elves still held a bit of wonder for Sam, though he just 
about fell over when they asked poor Mr. Frodo and himself to climb up 
into that flet thing.  Luckily he'd been so tired at that point he could have 
slept on the back of one of those flying eagles from Bilbo's tales.  While it 
was flying. No straps or nothing.  He was that tired.
 

Then the blindfolds, and that awful rope to walk across, and Cerin 
Amroth--well now if that didn't put one out of grief and right into singing, 
nothing could, and that was a fact.  And the elven 'city' of Caras Galadhon 
with those big mallorn trees . . . if he could grow a tree like that he'd call 
himself a gardener.  Truly.  But the Lady Galadriel, and the images she put 
in his head--how ever did she know all of that?  Fair to say he'd gone 
redder than beets, make no mistake.  If the others should guess what she 
offered him--he'd yammered about finding a hole and a garden, but he 
couldn't say 'with Frodo', for on the tail of that image had come the other, 
the one about Boromir.  Oh, he didn’t' know if he could face the Lady of 
the Golden Woods again after that.
 

He knew he was not the only one affected.  What she had offered Frodo, 
he would not say.  Why?  Because he did not want to lay bad luck on the 
wish by naming it, or because Sam had not been a part of his visions?  
And Merry--oh, but Sam knew just looking at him what the Lady had 
offered him.  It was in his eyes every time he looked at Pippin when he 
thought no one was looking.
 

Aragorn?  Ah, but that weren't no hard thing to guess.  Sam remembered 
Bilbo's tale of Arwen Undomiel, but that was hardly a trial, for Aragorn 
was on just the path he needed to be to gain her hand.  Legolas and Gimli-
-he couldn't say.  Didn't know enough aboutt their races, their desires.  And 
Boromir, who looked more haunted than any of them.  Sam was afraid to 
think what he had been offered.  He feared it was something much worse 
than the rest of them.
 

They milled about in the pavilion the elves had set up for their stay at the 
roots of a great mallorn, and Sam saw Aragorn walk over to where 
Boromir sat alone, looking torn and miserable.  From where Sam sat on a 
blanket spread out on the grass next to Frodo, he couldn't hear all that was 
said, especially as Boromir and Aragorn had their backs to the rest of the 
party, but he didn’t' need to hear all the words.  Boromir's will was 
breaking.
 

"Our people lose hope . . ." This was too raw; Sam didn't want to hear any 
more.  He didn’t' know what Boromir had felt about Gandalf or if this was 
because of the "questioning" at the hand of Galadriel, but he had never 
seen the warrior close to tears, so very weak and vulnerable.  He had an 
urge to --what?  Go over and comfort the big Man?  (and that of course 
brought up the accompanying question of "how"--an arm casually flung 
around Boromir's shoulder, a quick nuzzle, an embrace, a kiss . . . . ) Best 
he stay here.  Aragorn had matters well in hand, as always.
 

Sam was bone tired, but still too wound up to sleep.  Merry sat with 
Pippin, quietly rocking the younger hobbit and comforting him--of all the 
Fellowship Sam thought Pip was taking Gandalf's loss the hardest.  
Between hiccupping sobs, Pippin was confessing to Merry every 
transgression he'd ever made or thought of making having anything to do 
with Gandalf, as if somehow he were at fault for their losing him.  
Strangely enough, Gimli was helping Merry in his own gruff sort of way, 
sitting a little off from them, listening and nodding, quietly refuting all 
Pippin's claims to blame.  Legolas was off walking, grieving in the still, 
reflective way that Sam supposed was normal for elves.
 

And Frodo . . . Frodo was silent.  Closed up tight, but Sam knew as sure as 
he was shouting the words that Frodo felt he, not Pippin, was wholly to 
blame.  So pale and drawn he looked, with circles under eyes that looked 
almost frighteningly huge, filled with misery and despair.  Sam moved to 
embrace him, but Frodo pushed him back.  
 

"Sam, why, oh why did I ever agree to go through Moria?"  He whispered.  
 

Sam took his hand--at least his master would let him have that, and rubbed 
at it energetically.  "Gandalf said we mustn't go south, and you followed 
his advice.  It's not your fault, sir, you must see that."
 

Frodo shook his head fiercely, and drew back his hand.  "But it *is* my 
fault, Sam, don't you see?  I shouldn't have brought all of you out here.  
Especially not Pippin," he said the last in a barely audible whisper, 
looking over to where Pippin had stopped talking and was finally falling 
asleep, still tightly held in Merry's arms.  Merry looked over at them, his 
face drawn, exhausted.
 

Sam hurt at not being allowed to touch Mr. Frodo, but he understood.  
He'd felt that kind of self loathing before.  But weeds take his garden if he 
was going to let Frodo feel that way.  "It's not your fault the Ring got 
made, sir, and it's not your fault we insisted on coming.  Above all, I'd say 
Gandalf would agree with me on this one.  You've got a job to do, and 
we're here to make sure you live to do it.  That's our job, and don't you go 
holding grudges against us for taking it.  Gandalf wouldn't want that."  
That was about as much as he could get out, before his own throat began 
to close up on him and choke off the words.  But he saw it wasn't enough.  
Frodo had closed up tight, and he wasn't letting no one in.
 

Boromir got up and walked off, and Aragorn sat watching, his face grey 
and sad.  Suddenly Frodo was rising to his feet.  Sam looked up at him and 
inwardly groaned--on his face was an expression similar to the one he'd 
had in Rivendell--the night he and Aragorn . . . Frodo looked down at him 
and gripped his shoulder.  
 

"I need to talk to him, Sam.  Just talk.  Nothing else."  He crossed over to 
Aragorn and whispered something to him, and Aragorn nodded and stood.  
The two of them began walking down one of the paths--a different one 
from the one Boromir had taken.
 

Sam felt his face burning, the anger and jealousy eating him up inside.  It 
wasn't that he didn't trust Frodo.  He did.  It was stupid, but the reason was 
purely selfish--he wanted to be the one who had everything Frodo needed, 
who could give him strength when he faltered.  Perhaps he was not as wise 
as Aragorn, perhaps he didn't have the quiet self assurance, but he wished 
he did, if that was what Frodo needed.  And suddenly he wanted to hurt 
Frodo; do something terrible and spiteful, and that wasn't like him at all--
oh, he was all mixed up in the head.  He needed some air, a chance to 
think.
 

"I'm going for a walk," he announced to Merry and Gimli.  Merry yawned 
and nodded; he looked about ready to drop off.  Gimli too; he was leaning 
back into a tree root, his arms folded over his beard, his eyelids drooping.  
Sam stood and donned his cloak.  Then he set out on the path Boromir had 
taken, thinking perhaps as both of them were depressed they could maybe 
have a talk of their own while Aragorn was helping Frodo.  Just talk, he 
reminded himself.  Nothing more.
 

But why not more?  He suddenly thought to himself as he walked, hardly 
seeing the elf tended beds of ferns and wildflowers, the slim stems of 
newly planted saplings coaxed to grow in wondrous fanciful shapes.  
Frodo had sated his lust.  Why not him?   He wasn't all that Frodo needed; 
tonight showed that plainly.  No, what was he thinking--he couldn't.  
Shouldn't.  But wanted to, desperately.
 

Suddenly before he had a chance to prepare himself mentally, there was 
Boromir, sitting on a small stone bench off in a little glade hemmed round 
with bushy young fir trees and a tall bare aspen whose golden leaves 
covered the ground in a soft carpet.  The Man looked startled to be 
disturbed; his gloves and cloak were off, one glove strewn half across the 
glade while the cloak lay in a puddle at his feet.  He looked like he had 
been crying.
 

Whatever thoughts Sam had been contemplating flew straight out of his 
head; he only saw a friend in pain and came forward to wrap his arms 
around Boromir's shoulders and squeeze him hard.
 

At first Boromir drew back, but Sam looked up into his face, aware of 
tears gathering at the corners of his own eyes, and whatever Boromir saw 
there seemed to comfort him; he cracked a bitter smile and wrapped his 
own arms around Sam, closing his eyes, bowing his head, and breathing in 
hard heaving sobs.  Sam found he was breathing hard too--he didn't want 
to cry more, but his body seemed to have other thoughts on that.  He tried 
talking, but only one topic seemed to want to come out of his mouth.  
"Frodo's gone to Aragorn again," he said in a half-choked whisper.
 

"Again?"  Boromir bent down to look at him in confusion, and Sam 
realized he didn't know, had never guessed the full story.  He struggled to 
compose himself, scrubbing angrily at his eyes and drawing back to glare 
at the ground.  
 

"It's nothing--should be nothing, leastways--it was just the one time, and 
they've both apologized for it, but I can't seem to forgive and forget.  And 
I so want to . . ." Sam beat his fist into his thigh, so tired of the damn 
thing, so awfully tired and sick of heart.  He was aware of Boromir's 
presence beside him, the heat of his body, and suddenly he knew.  It was 
the only way to get past this; maybe it would break him and Frodo both, 
but they were breaking anyways, whether or not he kept his loyalty.  He 
was just so tired of holding back.
 

Before Boromir could pull away, before Sam could let himself think about 
his actions, he reached up and hooked one hand behind Boromir's neck 
and drew his face down, rising up on the bench to claim his mouth in a 
bruising kiss.  Perhaps Boromir would shove him away; perhaps he would 
hit him--that would serve him right.  He almost wanted it, wanted pain, 
and humiliation.  He weren't no good having these feelings anyway.  Had 
never been good enough for Frodo and now this just proved it.
 

Instead, Boromir groaned and leaned closer, grabbing the curls at the back 
of Sam's head in a crushing grip that felt strangely comforting, somehow, 
and very arousing.  Sam had always been so careful with Frodo--because 
of his wound, because he was a gentlehobbit, because he was so delicate 
and thin and beautiful.  It was nice to be rough, primal, to know he was 
not going to hurt the Man if he used all his strength.
 

He moaned as Boromir pushed his tongue past the barrier of lips and teeth, 
sucking hungrily at him, as desperate for contact seemingly as Sam was.  
Now Sam's hands were scrabbling at Boromir's shoulder, gathering up the 
leather surcoat in his fingers, scraping against the cold metal of the chain 
mail underneath.  Boromir's soft prickly beard scraping against his cheek 
was making him crazy; Sam was practically climbing into the Man's lap to 
press closer and closer.
 

Sam's hands slid down Boromir's chest downwards, to the belt securing 
his scabbard and horn, lightly tugging at it questioningly.  Boromir broke 
off the kiss and his gaze was hot enough to sear flesh.  Sam flushed but 
held his gaze, challenging.  Boromir licked his lips and swallowed.
 

"We shouldn't," he said in a low voice.
 

"Too late," Sam retorted.  With a boldness he did not feel, still half 
wanting to goad the warrior into knocking him senseless, Sam ran his 
hand down the inside of one hard muscled thigh, down to the knee and 
slowly back up again.  Hurt me, Sam thought at him.  Hit me or bed me.  
One or the other.
 

Boromir's eyes were half-closed, filled with lust.  "It has been *too* long," 
he whispered, his legs falling open as Sam brushed his hand up against the 
hard core of him.  Huge, Sam's mind registered as he ran his hand up and 
down the length of him.  Briefly he wondered if he was taking on too 
much.
 

Then there wasn't time for thought, as Boromir unclasped his belt, setting 
down his sword and horn, removing his surcoat and overtunic and 
shrugging the mail shirt off to fall in a dull ringing thud on the ground.  
Now he wore only a soft woolen tunic, leggings, and boots.  With a growl, 
he threw off the tunic and fumbled to pull Sam's shirt off of him.
 

Sam quickly slid off his braces and unfastened the top two buttons to help 
with the shirt's removal; his heart was pounding and he felt almost 
lightheaded.  The ache in his groin had become a throbbing need, but he 
told it to wait, for he had something else in mind.  He drank in the sight of 
Boromir's bare torso, muscled, lightly furred, and paler than he would 
have guess by Boromir's weathered face.  Soft pink nipples on hard 
muscle--he licked and nibbled each, running his hands over the heated 
skin, drawing another growl and another crushing grasp at his hair, which 
sent hot shivers down his body, pain and pleasure mixed.
 

He did not linger long at Boromir's chest but moved steadily down, 
working together with Boromir to unlace his leggings and expose him to 
view.  Lords of Mercy, he was big.  Sam had seen ponies--well, best not to 
think about that.  He did his best to get his mouth around him--he wouldn't 
be able to go deep, but he knew enough what to do with his hands and 
tongue.  Soon enough, the Gondorian was sighing with pleasure and 
slowly thrusting up with his hips.
 

When he feared the Man was growing close, Sam stopped.  Boromir 
groaned, staring down at him with glazed eyes, his luscious mouth half 
open.  Sam had to climb up to kiss that mouth again, before asking, "Will 
you be on top with me?  You know--the stallion?"
 

Boromir groaned, clutching at Sam's hips where they pressed into him, 
and shook his head weakly.  "I'll hurt you," he gasped, but Sam knew he 
had pushed him far enough; he wouldn't refuse now.  This was something 
he hadn't yet allowed Frodo to do to him--in Rivendell he had not been 
ready, and since then there had not been the opportunity.  He didn't know 
why he wanted it now, except he needed to be taken.  And oh yes, the pain 
would be welcome.  He hoped he was split in two.
 

So he kissed Boromir, lightly pinching his nipples, rubbing his thigh 
against the Man's crotch, whispering, "Please, please, Boromir.  Help me."  
With a shudder, Boromir nodded and slowly pushed Sam to the earth on 
his hands and knees, unfastening Sam's breeches and snaking in one large 
hand to grasp his hard member, pulling at it in long sweet strokes.
 

Sam rocked back against him with the pleasure, pulling down his breeches 
with one hand as he held his weight with the other.  Frodo hated this 
position, but it was perfect for Sam's needs--on his hands and knees, 
facing away, a thing to be taken, bruised, scarred.
 

He shivered as he heard Boromir spit into his palm a few times, then he 
felt hard long fingers smoothing wetness over his hole, gently pushing 
forward--he forced himself to relax.  He couldn't help remembering how it 
had been with Frodo, the first time, Frodo's soft refined voice guiding him 
as he entered his love so carefully, as if he might break . . . one finger, all 
the way in--could that really be just one finger?  Yes, for certain, because 
here came another to join it--oh stars, he really *was* going to break 
apart--had he done this to Frodo?
 

Sam bit his lip to keep from crying out, telling himself over and over to 
just relax, be invaded, but he couldn’t' help digging his fingers into the 
soft moist earth as Boromir stretched him and added a third--he 
whimpered, shuddering, and Boromir's fingers stilled.
 

"I should stop."  Boromir withdrew his hand, lightly rubbing Sam's back 
with the other.  Against his leg, Sam could feel his thick member, pulsing 
with need.
 

"Boromir, *do it*," he ordered, and about fell over realizing he was 
ordering the Son of Gondor as an equal, a superior even.  Had he really 
just said that?  What was wrong with him?
 

But Boromir obeyed, with a hot kiss and a nip to his shoulder, one arm 
wrapped almost protectively around Sam's waist as he positioned his cock 
at the entrance.  Sam blew out a breath, preparing himself--he had 
softened a little during the preparation, but he was rapidly filling again 
with the thought of what he was about to do.
 

Boromir shoved forward and Sam gasped--the pain was too much to even 
cry out.  Boromir gently nuzzled his neck, sucking on the tips of his ears, 
and he relaxed somewhat, allowing another inch in before the pain made 
him clench again.
 

"Oh, so tight, dear Sam, so good.  Hold on, now, just a little--you will 
enjoy this, I promise.  Relax for me.  Trust me," Boromir whispered, 
rubbing him up and down his sides, resting a forehead damp with sweat on 
Sam's shoulder.  Still he held him close with the one arm, while the other 
moved steadily down to softly knead his balls and stroke him--oh, that 
wonderful big soft hand . .. Sam let his head fall back, raising his bottom a 
little, and Boromir sank home with a moan.
 

The pain was receding--now there was only incredible fullness and 
something else--his body squirmed, searching for something, then as 
Boromir half withdrew and sank in again, a delicious warmth spread 
through Sam's body, and he trembled.
 

"There, yes," Boromir mumbled, and began to move, gentle at first, but 
soon losing control to move harder and faster, eventually slamming into 
Sam, gripping his waist with both hands and breathing in hard gasps.  
 

Sam was close--oh it *hurt*; Boromir really was a bit large, but it felt so 
good as well.  He concentrated on making sure Boromir hit that spot, that 
place deep inside that made his cock twitch and his belly cry out for more.  
"Please," he groaned, then Boromir's hand was on him again and he was 
coming, sucking in great gulps of air as he released his seed onto the 
ground.  He heard Boromir choke back a cry, then the Man shuddered and 
came, his thumbs digging in so tight to Sam's hip he knew for sure they'd 
leave bruises.
 

They collapsed together on the soft bed of leaves and their cloaks, 
breathing heavily, neither speaking, arms wrapped around each other.  
Sam fought with himself, trying to hold back the thoughts, to cling to the 
afterglow, but he soon realized it was impossible.  He heard muffled 
voices, somewhere nearby, and sat up, going cold all over.  He looked to 
Boromir, but Boromir wasn't looking at him.  The Man's face had returned 
to that haunted look, the look of despair.
 

"What have I done?"  Sam whispered.  He didn't mean for Boromir to 
hear, but Boromir frowned and looked at him accusingly.  Sam felt a hot 
tear slip from his eye and splash on Boromir's bare chest.  "I don't mean I 
regret--not with you--but . . ."  He looked off where the voices had come 
from, and now it was painfully clear.  That was Frodo's voice, and 
Aragorn's with him.  "What will I do?"  He asked Boromir, his hands 
beginning to shake.
 

"Talk to him.  If he loves you, he will understand."
 

Sam gave a bitter laugh.  "And if he doesn't?"
 

Boromir sat up and moved away, reaching for his cloak to clean himself 
off with.  "You could always come stay with me.  Come to Minas Tirith--
perhaps help convince your master to choose that path as well--"
 

Sam leapt to his feet, eyes flashing.  "You mean you wanted me only as a 
way to get at--" he gestured wildly in Frodo's direction, "--at *it*?  The 
Ring?"
 

Boromir looked stricken.  "Nay, Sam, nay!  But . . ."  The haunted look 
stole over his features once more.  He closed his eyes.  "If you stay with 
your master, don't trust me.  I will do my best to stay loyal to the 
Fellowship, but . . . don’t trust me, Sam.  Keep your wariness."
 

"Sam?" Frodo's high clear voice was growing nearer, and with a frantic 
sense of doom, Sam struggled to don his clothing, noting in horror the 
clear marks on his sides, the lingering smell of sex.  Oh dig him a hole and 
bury him!  Why did he have to be so stupid?
 

Boromir dressed more slowly, watching him.  "You may have regrets, but 
I do not.  I am glad to have known you, Sam.  I hope you find happiness."
 

Sam pulled on his shirt and dusted the dirt from his breeches as Frodo 
came into view.  Hot tears were sliding down his cheeks--oh what a mess 
he was, what a mess he had made of things--why ever would Frodo take 
him back now, after what he had done?
 

Happiness seemed very far away.




Title: "In  Renewal" (7/8)
Story:  "Loyalty"
Series:  Of Hobbits and Men
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com )
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing:  Frodo/Sam, Sam/Boromir
Category:  Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama

Summary:  In Lothlorien emotion defeats all.  Then it makes them 
stronger.

*****
 

"Sam!  What is--" Frodo's words trailed off as his eyes took in Sam's 
bedraggled state and the figure of Boromir standing--Sam would have 
laughed if not for the circumstances--protectively over him, slowly 
fastening his belt with his sword and horn.  Aragorn, following behind 
Frodo, was brought up short with the sight.  His mouth fell partway open, 
and his eyes narrowed.  
 

"Boromir . . ." Aragorn began, his hand on his blade.
 

"No sir--not his fault," Sam managed to get out, shaking all over.  He was 
going to be ill.  He longed to just run, hide, but he couldn't, not with the 
vision of Frodo's stricken face before him.  Best face up to it now and take 
the blow as he deserved.
 

He swallowed and tried but no words would come.  "I--I--" Oh maybe it 
*would* be better to run, not have to look on those soul-piercing eyes of 
his master, his love.  "--so sorry!"  He whimpered, then mercifully the 
vision of Frodo's eyes were washed away with tears, until Sam couldn't 
see anything.  He staggered, bent nearly double with grief.
 

Boromir and Frodo both moved at the same time to steady him; he backed 
away from both, holding out his hands.  "No, please," he told them.  He 
didn't deserve any kindness, any concern.
 

He couldn't do it--couldn't face all three of them, the shock and the scorn 
they must feel and the terrible pain he so remembered feeling himself.  
"I'm sorry," he said again, and blindly brushed past them to hurry back 
towards the pavilion and his bedroll.  He'd get his stuff, find somewhere 
else to sleep.  In the morning, he would . . . what?  Try to talk to Frodo, 
tell him he was sorry?  Avoid him?  Beg him?  Sam's head swam until it 
hurt, until he could see no future ahead.  Fear gripped him; he turned a 
corner and halted, rubbing his face on his sleeve.  Would he leave Frodo to 
complete the quest alone?
 
 
 
No.  Of course not.
 

He continued walking, stubbing his toes on roots and rocks without a care, 
the vision of the mallorn tree ahead swimming in his vision.  What then?  
Would Frodo even *let* him near enough to be his protector now?
 

There was a little hill to descend with small stone steps; Sam stumbled as 
he came to the bottom of them and fell into a heap.  He grabbed his 
bruised toes and just sat, unable to find the energy to get up again, 
dissolving into helpless sobs.  He heard Frodo come up behind him, but 
refused to open his eyes to look.  Instead he curled into himself, wishing 
he could die, be struck down like a tree in a lightning storm.  He 
shuddered when Frodo put one hand tentatively on his shoulder.
 

"I failed you.  I strayed," Sam said in a quavering voice, fighting not to 
lean back against that hand, rub his cheek against it to feel its coolness.  
Frodo's hands were almost always cold since his wounding.  But no--right 
now it was warm.  Sam flinched as it gently caressed his cheek, wiping 
away the tears.  His cheeks were hot, raw.  He didn't know if he had any 
tears left to shed.
 

Frodo's voice struck to the very core of him.  "Oh Sam.  Those should 
have been my words to you.  I never knew just how much this would hurt 
you.  I'm so sorry--" his voice broke on the last words and he sat down 
behind Sam and buried his face into Sam's back, enfolding Sam in his 
slender arms.  Sam could feel his master's tears hot against his neck, damp 
on his shirt.  He found his own tears were far from dried up as he began to 
weep anew.  He had made Frodo cry.
 

"Sir, please--no.  You can't lay blame on yourself for this one.  I did it, and 
what's more, I meant to.  I don't deserve no tears--not your tears, beloved.  
No, you're entirely within your rights to beat me senseless.  Or have 
Strider do it.  I wouldn't stop him, neither."  Sam leaned forward to stand, 
to get away from tenderness that was crushing his chest and slicing up his 
innards, but Frodo held on to him with sudden surprising strength.
 

Frodo's voice was a mere wisp at the back of Sam's neck, sending shivers 
down his spine.  "Did you just call me 'beloved'?"
 

Sam frowned.  "I did, sir."  It had come out as simple as a breath of air.  
He'd hardly noticed it.
 

A pale hand pulled Sam's chin around until he was looking into luminous 
pools of turquoise blue, shimmering with unshed tears.  A look of wonder 
was on Frodo's face.  "You've never called me that before.  I'm always 'sir'.  
Beloved Sam."
 

Sam drew in a sharp breath.  Oh yes.  The word did indeed have a 
powerful effect, he was seeing that now.  The air seemed to hum with it.  
"I love you.  Always will love you."
 

Frodo swallowed, pain flashing over his features.  "And Boromir?"
 

"I don't love him" Sam hurried to say.  "Don't know why I went to him--I 
wanted him to hurt me.  Don't make no sense, does it?"  Sam was cold 
now; he'd left his cloak back with Boromir and the night was deep around 
them now, dew beginning to gather in the grass between the stones of the 
path.  His knees stung--must have scraped them in his fall--or other 
activities.
 

Frodo somehow sensed how cold he felt, and leaned close to share his 
warmth.  Such a slight thing, Mr. Frodo was--how could he so quietly 
exude such strength?  Sam could suddenly imagine something which he 
never would have been able to even a few hours ago.  Fall back into 
Frodo's embrace and for once let Frodo be the protector.  Surrender 
himself to Frodo's strength.
 

Tentatively, stiffly at first, Sam did so--let himself fall back into Frodo's 
embrace and rest his head on Frodo's chest.  He began to relax, let all his 
weight be supported by his beloved, let himself for once be taken care 
*of*.  Tension seemed to flow out of him and he nearly felt ready to fall 
asleep, exhaustion making his limbs heavy, relaxation making his eyes 
close . . . 
 

A whisper of a kiss was planted on his brow.  "Now we are equals," Frodo 
murmured, rocking him.
 

Sam looked up at him.  "What do you mean?"  Frodo's face looked very 
old suddenly, very wise--more elven than ever.  Yet a terrible sadness lay 
on his brow that Sam wished he could lift away, and replace with the 
carefree look he had worn in the Shire.  
 

Frodo gave a bitter smile and kissed the side of his face.  "You never 
surrendered fully.  You were the servant, but you always had control, in 
your humble way."  He blinked away tears.  "Still, I wish we had talked 
about this rather than--" his eyes drifted up the path, back where they had 
come from.
 

"I meant to, sir," Sam said, straightening and pulling away.  "I knew I had 
a problem in Moria, but then things got so hectic, and then--" the image of 
Gandalf washed over him, still fresh with grief, and he sank back into 
Frodo's arms.  "Oh Frodo, I--I still can't believe he's *gone*!"
 

Frodo choked on a sob and clung to him, and they both wept, holding tight 
to each other.  Above them on the path they could hear Boromir's heavy 
tread and Strider's lighter one, coming towards them.  Frodo stood, 
helping Sam to stand as well, gently brushing him off.  He took Sam's 
hand in both of his and calmly stood waiting while the Men came into 
view and began descending the stone steps, Strider leading, his face 
troubled.  Boromir paused upon seeing Frodo and Sam glanced over at his 
master's face.  So that was the face of jealousy.  And quiet, controlled 
anger.  Sam shivered and tried to pull away, but Frodo held his hand tight, 
almost painfully so.  Meekly, he submitted.
 

Boromir began to say something, but at the ice in Frodo's gaze, blushed 
and looked away.  Frodo spoke first.  "I understand we are all under a lot 
of emotional toil today with our loss.  Grief can make one do things they 
normally . . . wouldn't.  So I'm willing to overlook it.  Once."
 

Strider shifted his weight and looked uncomfortable; Boromir looked up 
suddenly, fire blazing in his eyes.  Before he could make a retort, 
however, Frodo turned and began pulling Sam to follow, moving in a swift 
but stately march back to the pavilion.  Sam was almost afraid to look at 
Frodo's face, but when he raised his head long enough to peek, Frodo was 
looking at him in concern, not anger.  He slowed their pace as they drew 
within sight of their camp.  "It won't happen again, will it?"  Frodo asked 
in just a bare whisper, releasing Sam's hand.
 

"No.  Never," Sam said, and knew he meant it.  He felt fragile and raw, 
like a newborn kitten.  Frodo was going to give him a second chance, it 
seemed.
 

Frodo crossed to their bedrolls but instead of dropping down on them, he 
began to gather them up in his arms.  "Get our things, Sam.  We're going 
to sleep on the other side of this tree."  He glanced over to where Merry, 
Pip and Gimli were sleeping, then back to Sam.  "Will you let me make 
love to you?"
 

Sam about dropped his pack.  "Now?"  Before he'd bathed, while he still 
had the essence of another . . . but surely Frodo wouldn't want him like 
that--wouldn't want to taint himself with the signs of unfaithfulness.  
 

"If you choose me, then I'm going to claim you.  I want to erase all of 
this."  Never had Frodo sounded so dead serious about a thing.  It seemed 
Sam was going to get his punishment after all, but stars!  What a 
punishment.  He nodded dumbly.
 

"Yes.  I choose you.  Frodo," he said, his mouth feeling odd without the 
'Mr.' to go along with his master's name, but somehow he knew now was 
not the time to use that title.  
 

Very quietly, they gathered up their things, and Sam noted that Frodo 
waited until Strider and Boromir returned before setting out, nodding to 
Strider and announcing, "We're going to sleep on the other side.  We'll 
return at daybreak.  Good evening."  He paused for a moment then added, 
"Aragorn, thank you for the talk.  It helped."  Sam couldn’t miss the 
heated look Boromir sent his way as they departed, nor Aragorn's almost 
unconscious stance in front of the Gondorian, warning him back.  Sam 
was surprised his legs had the strength to carry him to the other side of the 
massive tree, around hollows created by the roots large enough to stable 
ponies in, as the events of the evening slowly sank in and made him 
tremble with delayed exhaustion.  They chose one such hollow clear on 
the other side and Frodo carefully arranged their blankets over a bed of 
moss and tiny wildflowers.  He looked to Sam with expectation.
 

Sam left the two packs within easy reach, and walked forward into Frodo's 
arms.  
 

Frodo enveloped him in a fierce hug, pressing his face into Sam's neck and 
tasting him, softly breathing him in as he lapped slowly up from 
collarbone to ear, gently nibbling.  Thoughts of exhaustion fled--yes, Sam 
wanted this, gentle and sweet, a calm after the storm.  He felt his body 
responding and simply gave in, rubbing at Frodo's back through the fabric 
of cloak and weskit and mailshirt--almost as many layers as . . . no.  He 
wouldn't let his mind compare, wouldn't ever think of that again.  Frodo.  
There was only Frodo.  Now and forever.
 

He needed skin--smooth satiny skin.  Almost frantically he began unlacing 
and unbuttoning, working down through the layers as Frodo did the same 
with him, until they were both naked and falling back into the blankets, 
limbs entangled, trying desperately to become one flesh, seemingly.  
Frodo's mouth left his neck and traveled to his mouth to claim it deeply, 
hungrily, the pressure against his bruised lips a sweet misery, Frodo's 
hands holding him tight on his hips over the tender areas there too, as if he 
meant to mark him in his own way.  Sam began to make his accustomed 
path down Frodo's back to cup his buttocks and run his thumbs up the 
insides of his thighs, but Frodo caught his hands and forced them up over 
his head, flat against the blankets.  Frodo shook his head.
 

"Lie still," he ordered, again in that deadly calm voice which stilled Sam's 
heart.  Sam moaned, painfully aroused, trembling in mixed fear and 
anticipation.  Frodo released his hands and obediently he kept them in 
place as Frodo began to lightly trace his skin with his fingertips, down his 
arms, over his chest, up his thighs, across his belly, just light enough to 
tantalize, irritate.  Sam moaned louder, trying not to squirm, as Frodo 
inspected him with ruthless care, noting every sign upon his body, every 
humiliation.
 

Frodo leaned down, nuzzling his neck, sucking on the muscle of his 
shoulder.  Sam felt his tension dissolving, melting into hot pleasure, 
sending pulses through him.  Then suddenly Frodo bit down.  Hard.  
 

Sam cried out and bucked his hips, nearly throwing Frodo off, but he 
managed to keep his hands locked in place above his head.  He whimpered 
as Frodo kissed the abused spot, making amends.  Punishment, yes.  He'd 
deserved that.  Now he was truly marked.
 

Frodo lifted up on his arms a moment, looking down at him with 
satisfaction, lust.  "You like that?  You want me to be rough, to hurt you a 
little?  Shall I mark you a little more, Sam, so you know who you belong 
to?"
 

Sam could only nod, then groan in pleasure as Frodo scraped his teeth in a 
path from his shoulder to his nipple to again bite hard, hard enough to 
bruise around the nipple before gently sucking on it to soothe away the 
pain.  Sam's breath was coming out in soft pants, oh he was enjoying this 
far too much, bless him!  Whatever was wrong with him, anyway?  No 
decent hobbit enjoyed being hurt.  But if it made Frodo happy, if it made 
things right between them . . . he moaned as Frodo moved down to the 
insides of his knees and nibbled gently on them, working his way up.  
How far was this punishment going to go, he wondered.  He was in a state 
as he'd never been in before.
 

Frodo bit him once more, on the top of his thigh, but it was a much more 
tender bite, purely to mark, not to hurt, then Frodo was digging into his 
pack for the chamomile oil, not having touched the area that most needed 
attention.  Oh yes, punishment.  He longed to pull Frodo down beneath 
him, bury himself in that slender body, but no, he would be good.  He'd 
prove he was Frodo's once and for all.  The thought made him shiver with 
delight.
 

Frodo hovered above him on all fours, his hard cock just brushing Sam's 
stomach, spreading moisture there, his eyes burning into Sam with 
something wild and wicked . . . and pleading.  "Do you want me?  Do you 
need me, Sam?"
 

Sam couldn't hold back his arms at such a question--he ran his calloused 
thumbs over Frodo's nipples, making them taut, then up his collarbone to 
his neck, ruffling his hair, "Oh yes, mm--Frodo.  Flowers can't need sun 
more'n I need you.  Beloved . . . beloved master . . ."  He lost track of 
anything beyond that, as Frodo thrust against them, sliding their cocks 
against each other in dizzying sensation that was sending Sam to the brink.  
He closed his eyes, shuddering, but quickly Frodo moved away, leaving 
only air to touch his skin.  He groaned, ready to spit curses.  Enough 
punishment already.
 

Suddenly Frodo's fingers were in him, spreading the oil.  He hissed in 
pain, writhing as his master readied him, massaging flesh that was already 
sore and inflamed.  "I'm sorry, Sam, I really am, but I *do* need to do this.  
I hope you'll forgive me," Frodo said in a voice tightened by pain of an 
altogether other sort.  Yes, he had hurt him.  It was not time for the end of 
punishment yet.  
 

Sam forced himself to relax.  "Yes," he said, telling Frodo it was all right; 
there was nothing to forgive.  "Oh yesss," he sighed, as Frodo's hand 
inadvertently brushed his painfully hard cock.
 

Relaxing with Frodo was easier, despite his ravaged entrance, once he set 
his mind to it--all he had to do was open his eyes and lay back, watching 
the intent look on Frodo's face and the incredible sight of his pale flesh by 
the moonlight and elven lights dangling from branches high above, 
making him seem to glow with passion, need.  Frodo's long slender 
member was creating a little puddle of precum on his thigh, and the sight 
made Sam's throat ache to taste of him.  Tomorrow, he vowed.  In the 
morning.
 

Before he even realized it, Frodo was up to three, and the pain was less, 
not more.  Nodding, satisfied, Frodo wasted no more time but crawled 
forward to press into him, slowly, gently, kissing his hair, his eyes, his 
cheeks, whispering, "Let me in, Sam, let me in," in a litany, and Sam did; 
it was so easy.  There was no pain at all.  Frodo shuddered and gasped as 
he sank all the way in, then experimented with Sam's readiness, pulling 
out just a little then back in, then a little more out, and in, and when Sam 
did not tighten in pain but rather wrapped his arms around his master, 
urging him on, he began to move further out, and deeper in, rocking into 
Sam and groaning with each thrust, his small hands clenching into Sam's 
bottom.  More marks, Sam thought with triumph, and wrapped his legs 
around Frodo to urge him to plunge even harder, faster--oh, that burning, 
pain/pleasure was back, and that sweet spot too, and he was fast losing it--
 

"Frodo--mine!"  Sam shouted as he came, and afterwards he wasn't quite 
clear on why he'd shouted that, but it somehow seemed appropriate.  He 
was Frodo's and Frodo was his, and nothing was ever going to tear them 
apart again.  Lost in the pleasure, though, he only knew that they'd found 
oneness, that completion that had come with their first kiss, and when 
Frodo screamed out his name and came inside, he wept; this time tears of 
joy.
 

After they'd recovered a few minutes, Frodo kissed him and felt around for 
a handkerchief to wipe his tears.  "Your poor cheeks must be burning by 
now, dear Sam!"
 

"Which ones?" Sam asked, then laughed as he realized he was being 
stupid again.  Frodo giggled and rested on top of him with his head on 
Sam's chest, his dark curls tickling Sam's nose.  
 

"We'll have to ask the elves for a nice hot bath for you in the morning," 
Frodo said, then yawned hugely.  Sam reached over for a blanket to pull 
over them both.
 

"Yes, sir.  That ought to do nicely for me.  I've thought of something I'd 
like to ask for in the morning too, from you."  Now that he was claimed 
again, he let his hands glide down Frodo's back to cup his wonderful 
round bottom, rubbing the satin skin.  Frodo all but purred.
 

"Hmm, maybe I prefer to be on top," Frodo mumbled.
 

Sam chuckled.  "Oh that we can take turns, I'm thinking.  No, I just want a 
drink of something in the morning.  Something 'masterful', if you take my 
meaning."
 

Sam could feel Frodo smiling against his chest.  "Mmm.  I like the sound 
of that."
 

"I love you, beloved master."
 

"I love you too, Sam."




Title: "In Remembrance" (8/8) 
Story: Loyalty 
Series: Of Hobbits and Men 
Author: Diamond (juweldom@yahoo.com ) 
Rating: PG 
Pairing: Frodo/Sam, Sam/Boromir 
Category: Angst, hurt/comfort, Drama 
 
Summary: In Ithilien Sam hears news of Boromir's death. 
 
Notes: A few lines of dialogue in this chapter are taken from *The Lord of 
the Ring: The Two Towers*, chapter "The Window on the West."- 
-J. R. R. Tolkien. And of course since the  movie's not out yet this is 
wholly based on the book. Can't wait to see what Peter does with this 
scene in December! 
 
And thanks for the suggestions, Baranduin--hope you like my little 
additions. 
 
*****
 
Notes:  A few lines of dialogue in this chapter are taken from *The Lord 
of the Ring:  The Two Towers*, chapter "The Window on the West."--J. 
R. R. Tolkien.  And of course since the movie's not out yet this is wholly 
based on the book.  Can't wait to see what Peter does with this scene in 
December!
*****
 
Sam found his worst mistake in laying with Boromir was not the finding 
forgiveness with Frodo.  It was in the rift he created inside the Gondorian 
Man.  
 
It became apparent immediately, by the next morning. After Sam's (and 
Frodo's) bath, they returned to the pavilion and some very curious looks 
from Merry and Pippin.  Boromir was working on his chainmail, brooding, 
but when Sam tried to go speak to him, Frodo held him back, quietly 
shaking his head.  Sam could only throw him looks the rest of the day, but 
Boromir seemed intent on ignoring him.  In fact Boromir only spoke to the 
Fellowship in short clipped sentences and only when necessary.
 
Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas began to eye him with faint suspicion, 
though Merry and Pip were still easy with him, trying to get him to smile, 
to join the others at mealtime.  Merry seemed to note something different 
between Sam and Frodo right away; he flashed them a look which showed 
how happy he was for them.  He himself, however, seemed somewhat sad 
and distant.  Pip was still very upset about losing Gandalf, still blaming 
himself somewhat, and Sam found himself trying to help Merry to get 
Pippin to accept the loss, the pain.
 
One evening while he and Frodo were walking the paths, delighting in the 
elven gardens and comparing them (and makin' plans to add) to Bag End, 
they stumbled upon Merry and Pip in one of the little sitting areas.  The 
two looked rather guilty and flushed.  Sam thought that just maybe they 
had been in the middle of kissing; Pip's little red lips in particular looked 
swollen.  Frodo had to hide a smile behind his hand, but his bright eyes 
gave away his glee.  Sam had to admit he took a gander to see if any 
buttons were hastily done (or altogether missed) on their weskits, but they 
looked all in order.  Apparently they hadn't reached that stage yet; by their 
postures he was thinking they didn't look like lovers yet.
 
"Mm, did we interrupt anything?"  Frodo said, and Sam grinned as Merry 
turned a new shade of rose.  
 
Pip pressed his lips together as if considering just how to answer that 
question, when Merry gave him a little kick in the shin, eyeing him 
sternly.  Pip grinned and shrugged.  Merry tried to look proper.  "No, of 
course not."
 
Frodo nodded, rocking on his heels. "Oh well, then, carry on."  They 
walked on, but soon Merry and Pip joined them; Sam was sad to say that 
they must have ruined whatever *had* been going on between the two.  
Merry being nervous again, no doubt.
 
It was only a few days after that they had to say their farewells to the Lady 
of the Wood and the fair trees of Lorien.  During their time in the elven 
woods, Sam and Frodo had made love almost every night, almost in a 
fever, but once they began traveling again it was back to tiny gropings in 
the dark, and Frodo seemed to avoid even that.  That blasted Ring.  It was 
making trouble again, no mistake, and Sam could sense it putting its 
feelers out, like a snake flicks it tongue, trying to find its Master.  
 
Boromir would not speak to him.  He knew that was trouble; it couldn't 
bode well, and it meant he had torn up the Fellowship, curse it all.  He 
tried to apologize, but apparently now it was too late.  The companions 
paddled, they floated along down the ominous swirling river, they slept 
when they could, but it was broken.  Sam and Boromir's friendship had 
been lost in Lothlorien.
 
It was days out of Lorien that Sam got a moment to talk to Boromir alone.
 
"I've been meaning to tell you--"  Sam began.
 
"Don't.  I don't want to hear your apologies.  You made your decision.  It 
wasn't much of a surprise, believe me."  Sam winced at Boromir's manner, 
at the way he refused to look him in the eye now.  Hand wringing seemed 
a bit overdramatic for Sam, but he couldn't help but try one last time.
 
"I'll never forget it.  If me and Frodo weren't--well then perhaps we--"
 
Boromir flashed him a look of pure malice.  "Don't!  I don't want to speak 
of this again!"
 
So he didn't, and watched instead the looks Boromir threw Frodo; the 
jealousy, and envy too, stars yes.
 
After that, what with the looks and all, he got suspicious of the Man 
again.  Especially as they neared the final turn, where they'd either make 
for Minas Tirith or Mordor and there weren't no two ways about it.  And 
suddenly Frodo's coldness made complete sense.  He was afraid; afraid for 
himself, afraid for what they saw was happening to the Fellowship, afraid 
for Sam now that their love was so strong.  He was closing up tight again, 
and Sam knew.  He was going to try something foolish soon, like setting 
out alone.  After all they had been through, after all his efforts to prove his 
devotion, this hurt the most, but he understood it plain enough.  Frodo had 
got into his head the notion that the whole reason behind Sam's straying 
was the Ring; that somehow the Ring was controlling everything--he said 
things to that effect, though in a roundabout fashion.  Cursed stupid 
notion.  But he wasn't letting Sam in close enough to alter his opinion.  It 
was enough to make one cry.
 
So he watched, and he waited, and sure enough, it all blew apart, all at the 
same time.  Boromir went mad, Frodo went running, and Sam only barely 
made it to join Frodo by his side or die trying.  
 
He didn't realize how bad it all had blown apart, though, until they met 
Boromir's brother in Ithilien.  Faramir.  It was like he was a perfect blend 
of both Strider's quiet wisdom and goodness together with Boromir's 
fierce sense of pride and honor, with a good heapin' of justice to boot.
 
Sam felt something for him immediately--something like Boromir, but 
despite his fierce questioning and his stony manner, Sam felt more trust.  
Less desire; he had not Boromir's imposing build, the animal strength that 
had tormented Sam so much.  Frodo, he noted, felt something too--for if 
he had something akin to Strider's wisdom, wouldn't it stand to reason 
Frodo would be drawn to it?  But Frodo was worse now, his dear love.  
Sam doubted he had the strength or stamina to pursue anything, even if 
he'd been so inclined.  Which he wasn't, Sam knew.  Ringlust had slowly 
replaced any needs of the body.  At night he slept in Sam's arms, and that 
was the greatest contact they generally had now.  Slinker/Stinker tended to 
kill Sam's appetite as well.  Little wretch was going to try to kill one or the 
both o' them some time, or he weren't no Gamgee.
 
Faramir was a mite hard on Frodo at first; he interrogated him with sharp 
questions, veiled threats, making it sound like Frodo was up to no good.  
Then he mentioned Boromir's death.  Sam thought his legs would go out 
from under him; it had been so long since he'd had a decent sleep, and the 
shock of the news near tore his heart out.  Boromir . . . dead?  Oh stars, 
was he in any way to blame?
 
Before he had a chance to let it sink in, to feel the full force of the news, 
Faramir said something that sent his blood boiling.  He suggested maybe 
Mr. Frodo was responsible.  "Treachery not the least."
 
"He had no right to talk of you so!"  Sam blurt out, with more words to put 
this Captain Faramir in his place, making accusations of something he 
knew absolutely nothin' about--not the first thing!
 
Even though he could be right.  Sam's intimacy, Frodo's jealousy, both of 
their brusque manner to him after Lothlorien, and of course Boromir's 
desire that Sam had suspected all along, and afterwards found confirmed 
by Frodo--Boromir's lust for the Ring.  What had happened after Frodo 
escaped him?  By the sound of things, they'd been attacked by orcs.  Frodo 
echoed his fears--what of the others?  Especially Merry and Pippin; Sam 
had a hard time thinking of Strider being in danger, of dying, the way he 
swung his sword, the way he always thought before acting.
 
'Course, he hadn't thought Gandalf would die either.
 
When he'd spoken up, Faramir had called him stupid, if not in so many 
words; that he ought to sit down, be quiet, let his wise master speak.  And 
Sam remembered his station; he had begun to forget with Strider's 
generous treatment of him, Boromir's friendship.  He sat down hard, 
depressed, frightened, and most of all lost.  Boromir was dead.  The truth 
was a dreadful storm in his brain, in his heart.
 
"Boromir was my brother."
 
A new shock, more feelings to churn about inside, more now than he 
could name.  Sam looked at Faramir as Frodo described Boromir, thankful 
now he didn't have to talk, for his voice would be shakin' worse than his 
old Gaffer's hands.  He saw the resemblance.  Sensed the kinship.  Now he 
was afraid for Frodo, for himself; another Boromir, stars no, what if this 
one tried to take the Ring as well?  With the men surrounding them, he'd 
have an easy time of it too.  Sam watched Frodo and saw the same fear in 
him.  He'd have to be vigilant, Sam would.  No letting Frodo out of his 
sight until they were off and away.
 
Faramir described how he had found Boromir in the boat, and the broken 
horn, that horn . . . Sam remembered its sound as he and Frodo left the 
Company . . . he no longer could hold back the tears.  He bowed his head 
and wept, but nobody saw him, for they were still questioning his master.  
Through his tears, Sam could see Frodo; he looked shaken and worried, 
but still in control of himself.  He glanced over to check on Sam, and 
threw him a quick look of sympathy.  Sam knew he wouldn’t cry, not in 
front of a potential enemy, not in front of strangers anyhow.  He'd keep it 
close inside, true Baggins-style.  But that didn't mean he didn't feel it.  
Even if only for Sam's sake.
 
At the end of the questioning Faramir decided they must come with him.  
Sam listened to what he said to Frodo once out of the hearing of his men; 
this was when he began to see something of Strider's manner in him.  But 
he still wasn't sure of him, and it seemed Gollum was still about as well.  
So, exhausted as he was, and in grief, and afraid, when they reached the 
sanctuary, he refused to sleep.
 
He wanted to talk to Faramir.  Alone.
 
Frodo dropped off to sleep quickly, and Sam watched Faramir's men move 
around the caves, but he didn't see the captain.  Boromir's brother.  
Boromir dead.  Had he played a role--if he hadn't gone to see him, if they 
hadn't . . . it was intolerable.  He knew he had caused harm when Frodo 
told him of the change that came over Boromir when he tried to take the 
Ring, but to know he died soon after, that same day . . . pierced by many 
arrows.  Defending--had to be.  Defending who?  Merry and Pip; could be 
no other; Strider and the others didn't need much defending.  But if 
Boromir was dead, what had happened to the rest of them . . . 
 
He was crying again, curse it.  What must he look like to the Men here?  
He just wanted to be away.  Get back to the task, deal with the pain later.  
But first, he wanted to see what this Faramir was made of.  See what he 
knew of his brother.
 
So when Faramir passed by on some errand, Sam cleared his throat and 
tried to dry his tears.  "Sir, if you have a moment . . ."
 
Faramir paused; his eyes widened.  "Do you . . ." he shook his head in 
disbelief.  "Do you mourn?"
 
Sam nodded, keeping his voice low so that he didn't wake Frodo.  "That I 
do, sir.  My master spoke truth when he said there was sorrow between 
Boromir and himself.  But my dealings with your brother were a fair sight 
deeper.  I would count him a close friend.  There were some 
misunderstandings between us in Lothlorien, but I'd still say I was close to 
him."
 
Faramir said nothing, but looked closely at him, trying to see deep down 
inside, Sam reckoned.  Did he know of his brother's more private matters?  
Could he somehow guess just how close Boromir got to Sam?  Sam 
blushed--curse but he never seemed able to control that.  And flushed 
deeper when Faramir nodded, noting it.
 
When Faramir spoke, it was a bare whisper.  "Samwise, did you say your 
name was?  If you are saying he found . . . comfort with you, then I say I 
am glad.  You seem a loyal and caring kind.  I am sorry if I was harsh with 
either you or your master."
 
Sam nodded.  Should he say anything more?  Without Frodo there to 
watch his words, as careful as they were being, he didn’t' dare to say what 
he really wanted to.
 
That Faramir, though, he was a sharp one.  "Do you blame yourself for his 
death?"
 
Careful there, Sam told himself, for he heard an edge of something dark in 
Faramir's voice.  Could be grief, could be suspicion, but could also be that 
darkness that had ultimately taken Boromir; no way to tell at this point.  
 
"I--well, no, sir.  Wish I knew more about how he died, I do.  But there 
were words left unspoken between us, and I'm afraid I didn't set things 
right as I should have.  I do very much regret it now."
 
Faramir continued to study him, until Sam felt quite like the mouse under 
the cat's scrutiny.  Then he smiled, and patted Sam's shoulder.  Sam sighed 
and drooped a little, as tension he hadn't realized he was holding spilled 
out.  His eyes threatened to close; he stuck his knuckles in them to ward 
off sleep.
 
"Get some rest.  Food will prepared shortly, and you and your master can 
eat."  Faramir rose, smiling down at him, and Sam was suddenly struck 
with a memory of Boromir doing the same, somewhere near Hollin, just 
before the fencing training.  He sighed.
 
"Meaning no disrespect to you, sir, but I can't sleep just yet.  You haven't 
said what you'll be doing with my master and me, so I'll just sit tight here, 
and look for that food.  Thank you for stopping to chat with me.  It means 
a great deal."  Faramir nodded again, and left, and Sam continued to sit, 
once again wishing he and Frodo were far away.
 
It was strange but he never would have found out just what Faramir was 
made of, if Sam hadn't made the terrible error of blurting out about the 
Ring.  It was the lack of sleep, the food, Frodo's growing ease with the 
man, Sam's earlier conversation, and the fact it was ever present in his 
mind.  He'd been telling Faramir about some of the lighter moments in the 
journey, how Boromir had saved them on Caradhras, the fencing practice 
(including how he nearly nipped Pippin's hand and was tackled by the 
small hobbit in a fit of laughter and flying limbs) and his bravery against 
the wolves and in Moria.
 
Frodo fell silent, and Faramir began speaking of elves, and of Galadriel, 
and the next thing Sam knew his tongue was running off with him, that in 
Lorien he realized what Boromir really wanted.  The Enemy's Ring.   
Upon saying that, the blood first fled his face then came rushing back, and 
there was a moment where he and Frodo leapt up and feared Faramir 
would try to take it right then and there.  But then Faramir laughed.  And 
showed just how different from Boromir he was.  It set to ease, suddenly, 
the fears and the guilt Sam had been holding up inside.  If Faramir had 
gone with them, things might have gone differently, even had Sam had the 
same attraction, made the same actions.  Boromir's death could not be 
blamed solely on him.  He might not have helped the situation, but it no 
longer appeared he was the straw that broke the pony's back.
 
Sam was dismayed when Frodo collapsed with fatigue once the danger 
was past; he followed Faramir as the Man carried his master to a bed and 
called for a second bed to be brought for Sam.  After checking on Frodo to 
be sure he was well and merely in deep sleep, Sam kissed him once, 
briefly on the lips.  Then he bowed to Faramir.  He congratulated the Man 
for taking the chance, and showing his worth.  Faramir didn't know who 
Strider was, so he compared him to the next closest one he did know of--
Gandalf.  Faramir said goodnight and moved to leave, but paused at the 
look of worry on Sam's face.  
 
"Is there anything else?"  He asked.
 
Sam shook his head, trying to get comfortable in the man-sized cot.  "I'm 
just still worrying about our kinsmen, Merry and Pippin.  I fear they may 
be dead, for if your brother died, how could the others have survived?"
 
Faramir frowned, rubbing his short beard, his grey eyes turned inward.  "I 
said that I thought he died well, that there was a beauty and a peace in him 
I never saw in life.  He must have succeeded in defending something; 
something precious to him.  If he held you, or your kind in his heart, it 
would stand to reason that they lived, and escaped."
 
Sam didn't know what to say; again he saw the expression in Boromir's 
face just after they had lain together, the moment of serenity before the 
darkness came again.  "I hope so, sir.  I hope you get to meet Strider and 
the rest of my company.  You'd like them, I'd wager.  And they'd like you-
-especially Merry and Pip; Boromir was likee a big brother to them.  Good 
night, sir.  And thanks for everything."
 
"Good night, Samwise.  I'm glad to have spoken with you."  Faramir 
turned and left, and Sam felt sleep creeping in on the edges of his eyes.  
He gave a huge yawn.
 
"Merry and Pip, Merry and Pip . . . I just hope they found a better road 
than Frodo and me."  He lay down, and felt the grief settling, fading into a 
dull ache that at least could be tolerated, could be borne.  He'd tell Frodo 
in the morning what Faramir had said.  Hopefully it would lighten his 
master's heart, his burden.  There was still such a long way to go.
 
With that thought, he fell asleep.
 
*****
 
End of Loyalty
 
Next Tale:  "Wisdom"     (Merry's tale)