Chapter17: HOPE

Sam didn’t follow Frodo straight away, but went to ask Rosie if she could stretch supper for his Gaffer. When he entered the sitting room, a few minutes later, he realised his mistake: Frodo was already asleep in a chair. Sam hesitated, wondering whether to wake him, but decided to let him be. He eased Frodo into a more comfortable position, so that his neck was not cricked at such an awkward angle, and softly kissed his forehead.

Collecting up the tea things, Sam headed back to the kitchen. ‘He’s asleep,’ he told Rosie, as he unloaded the tray.

‘Best wake him then, or he’ll not sleep again tonight,’ advised Rosie, beating batter in a large bowl.

‘No, I think best to leave him. He must have gone out like a lantern in the wind. Seems to me it’s his way of dealing with things that are worriting away at his mind. Can you listen for him waking? I’ll call round my Gaffer’s before I shift the logs.’

‘I’ll get supper cooking, then take my mending basket to sit with him,’ said Rosie, covering the batter with a cloth and dropping the wooden spoon in the sink. She crushed the egg shells and threw them into the compost bucket. ‘Sam, could I have some chickens here? Da can let me have some good layers, and it would be nice to have the eggs handy.’

‘Not running free, they’ll scrap up the garden,’ Sam answered, one hand on the door latch.

‘No, not free. If they can have a run, or somesuch, they wouldn’t do no damage, and the foxes wouldn’t get ’em.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ said Sam. ‘Now I’d better get on, or I won’t get those logs under cover before nightfall.’

With a little help from the Gaffer, Sam finished the work well before sunset. He tipped the last load from his barrow into the woodshed, and together they stacked it neatly.

‘Rosie looks well,’ said the Gaffer, dusting lichen from his hands. ‘How’s Frodo?’

‘So-so. He sleeps a lot, but he’s told old Will Whitfoot that he’ll go to the Free Fair.’

‘Has he now?’ said the Gaffer, looking thoughtful.

‘I can see he don’t really want to,’ added Sam, ‘but seems the Mayor said something that persuaded him.’

‘Well, I can’t say as I’ll be sorry if he’s seen around a bit, as it were. He’s been hid away too long.’

Sam looked at his father quickly. There was something about the way he said this that made Sam think there were words beneath words. Rosie’s voice calling him from the kitchen doorway halted the question that rose to his lips. He turned to answer her, his deep voice startling two pigeons that had landed on the long low roof of the storerooms. The birds clattered up into the air and veered away.

‘Are you nearly ready, Sam?’ Rosie called back. ‘Supper won’t be long, and I could do with some help carving the joint.’

Sam put away his wheelbarrow, and he and the Gaffer headed for the pump to wash their hands. By the time they entered the kitchen, the shadows were lengthening, and Rosie had lit the candles. Sam found he was no longer needed to carve; Frodo was already sharpening the knife on the steel. Doing a good job of it too, Sam noted. Because Frodo struggled with so much now, it was easy to forget that he had managed the smial with very little help in the past, and his hospitality had been legendary. Sam, of course, had known this all along, but watching Frodo do something as normal as carve the joint for supper, he suddenly felt a great sense of loss.

In the past, Frodo, like as not, would have done everything. He would have been off to the market early in the day, stopping in the garden to talk to Sam on the way and coming back whistling. Amidst an apparent muddle in the kitchen, a meal would have taken shape, wafting rich smells into the garden. If Sam was lucky, Frodo (he smiled to himself - Mr. Frodo then of course) would ask him to taste what he was preparing. It was always delicious, and quite different from the food Sam ate at home.

In the evening, Merry and Pippin would appear, sometimes with Fatty and Folco, travel-worn and weary. Frodo would revive them with fine wine and tales. Sam would hear the laughter as he cleared away his tools for the night. If he timed it right, he would call at the back door to take his leave for the day and be offered a glass of beer. Somehow the chaos had always gone, as though it had never been.

Sam suddenly felt tears well up. So much lost. So much of Frodo’s own self torn away by his suffering. In the old days, Sam had never marvelled at the ease with which Frodo went about his daily life, and now here he was, thrilled to see Frodo take the head of the table.

An open bottle of red wine stood breathing in the warmth of the kitchen, but Sam went to the cellar for beer. His Gaffer would be more at ease if he had a pint in his hand. Alone, he took a deep breath and wiped his eyes. Mostly he just took each day as it came, but sometimes a small detail in their lives would leave him aching for his old master. He would not, could not, for his own sake, pin too much hope on the herbalist’s advice, but an image of Frodo restored to his old self shimmered like the mirages he’d heard tell of in Minas Tirith. Maybe it didn’t matter what Will Whitfoot had said to Frodo; maybe the important thing was that his going to the Fair was a step outwards, instead of a further drawing inwards.

He lifted a bottle of beer down and removed the stopper. Tilting it gently he brought the pint pot up to the neck of the bottle, careful not to disturb the sediment. The trick was to pour in one go, yet not tip the bottle too far. The beer had to flow smoothly, with no glugs of air to stir up the yeast and cloud the dark amber liquid. Concentrating on this gave him something else to think about. He left the very last of the beer in the bottle with the dregs.

Back in the kitchen, his father received the pint gratefully and gave a nod of thanks. He turned to Frodo. ‘Your very good health,’ he said. ‘And if you’ll pardon me saying, you look a lot better than last I saw you, a few days back.’

Sam had to agree. Maybe it wasn’t such a fool’s hope to think of Frodo improving day by day. He had improved a lot in the short time since his long sleep, and seemed much calmer. Sam was ready to swear that, had they not been interrupted by their unexpected visitor earlier, Frodo would have asked for more than holding. There had been surprise in the gasp he had given as he fell onto Sam in the bath, but it had also contained a note of need that was music to Sam’s ears.

Supper was a happy meal. The small joint was ideal for three hobbits, but a little small for four, and Rosie had compensated by cooking batter puddings and plenty of vegetables. Sam piled his plate high and poured thick gravy over all; he was hungry. The talk was just general Shire gossip, but Sam enjoyed how his father and Frodo matched each other’s dry wit.


Much later, full from apple pie and thick cream, Frodo and Sam joined forces to prevent Rosie washing up. The Gaffer had gone, with an invitation to make a weekly visit to the Bag End table, which he had accepted with a kiss for Rosie and a shake of Frodo’s hand. Sam was relieved. His father had not said anything, but that was just his way. He let his actions speak, and he had obviously come to terms with Sam’s having a wife and a lover under the same roof. That they behaved as though they were a family had undoubtedly helped.

Rosie took herself to bed quite early. Sam went to wish her good night, and then returned to smoke a pipe with Frodo in the sitting room. The fire was burning low, but he had lit another in Frodo’s room and didn’t bother to revive this one. He wanted to talk with Frodo about the results of Rosie’s visit to the herbalist, and he wanted the closeness of a shared bed for that.

They knocked out their pipes in the ashes of the fire and walked down the corridor to Frodo’s room in companionable silence. Sam carried a candle, and the light flickered around them. Once in the bedroom, he set the candle on the bedside table and threw more logs on the fire. As the fire blazed up, Frodo leant over and blew out the candle, so that the room was bathed in the flickering glow of firelight. He turned to Sam, half of his face in shadow.

‘Hold me, Sam,’ he whispered.

Sam opened his arms as he stepped towards Frodo, and Frodo needed no further invitation. He leaned against Sam and laid his head on his shoulder with a contented sigh. Sam tightened one arm around Frodo’s waist and wound his free hand into thick locks, pressing Frodo close. Love, yes, but also protection, were implicit in his hold on Frodo. If only he could protect Frodo from all that ailed him, by just holding him tight in his arms.

He buried his head against Frodo’s hair and breathed deeply. The smell of wood smoke clung there. ‘Would you like me to give you a massage?’ he asked. It was the main reason he had made sure the room was warm.

Mmm.’ Frodo made a soft hum into the hollow of Sam’s shoulder.

‘To sleep or to love?’ He himself was tired. It was a long time since dawn, but whatever Frodo wanted, he was not going to say him no.

Frodo raised a hand to the buttons of Sam’s shirt and toyed with the top one.

‘Make me want you, Sam.’ His voice was low and husky, vibrating against the cotton of Sam’s shirt. Sam could feel his breath, warm and heavy with moisture, permeating the cloth. His tiredness vanished as his body thrilled to Frodo’s voice. He fervently wished they hadn’t been interrupted earlier, when Frodo was fresh from sleep and relaxed after the bath. He decided that the best way to coax a response was to take his time.

He bent his head so he could breathe his words into Frodo’s ear. ‘Will you undress me, nîn melethron?’

Frodo lifted his head and cupped Sam’s face with his hand. ‘Yes. Oh, yes. You know that I love to undress you.’ He trailed his fingers over Sam’s lips and down his neck. Sam sighed softly at the touch, so familiar yet so missed, and closed his eyes. The only problem with going slowly was keeping his own body in check. He might be able to hold Frodo without craving this physical loving, but if Frodo desired it, his response was instant and overwhelming.

He kept his eyes closed, feeling light touches. His weskit was hanging open anyway; gentle hands ran over his shoulders, and he felt the rough material dropping from his wrists. Now the hands were back at his shoulders, peeling off braces. As the straps fell, Frodo’s touch was lost. Sam expected deft fingers to work down shirt buttons; instead, it was his breeches that were released to fall
around his ankles, and there was no hiding how much he wanted Frodo.

The fingers at his shirt were trembling slightly, and the trembling was infectious. Sam gave an involuntary shiver as his shirt opened and Frodo’s hands ran lightly up over his belly and chest. ‘Frodo,’ he whispered, ‘Oh, Frodo.’

His shirt dropped away, and Frodo’s palms slid over his shoulders and down his back to press him close. His arms were full of overdressed Frodo, but what he craved was Frodo’s pale skin burning against his. As Frodo moved against Sam’s naked body, the material of his waistcoat rubbed Sam’s nipples, and his corduroy breeches gave friction where it was most appreciated. Sam, eyes still closed, found Frodo’s mouth by instinct. There was the small noise of a log shifting in the grate; apart from that, the only sound was of breath coming with low hums, as their mouths and tongues worked against each other, with each other.

Sam reached down and fumbled for buttons one-handed. The other hand he tangled in Frodo’s hair again, pressing him into the kiss. Frodo moved his body in acquiescence, shifting to allow access to fastenings, rolling his shoulders to shrug off his shirt, pulling back his arm as the cuff caught on his wrist. And all the time, warm mouths melted together.

As Frodo kicked his breeches away, Sam released him and stood back, his chest lifting and falling as though he had been in a race. The firelight cast a mellow warmth over Frodo’s pale skin, deep shadows pooling in hollows, despite his own inner light, giving a mystery to the contours Sam knew so well. He sighed again with pure happiness that could only be bettered if he and Frodo shared mutual release. ‘I love you, Frodo. I love the looking.’

Frodo reached out and took Sam’s hands. ‘I couldn’t ask for a more lovely sight than you naked in the firelight,’ he said, with a catch in his voice. ‘And yet my body still betrays me. Your touch thrills me, but there isn’t much to show for it, is there?’ He looked ruefully down. Sam followed his gaze.

‘No, maybe not, but I don’t love you any less for that, and it does seem more’n I’ve seen for a weary long time.’ He pulled Frodo’s hands to bring Frodo back into his embrace. ‘This is a fine feeling,’ he said. ‘You, warm and wanting in my arms, and thrilling to my touch so’s I can feel you tremble. Unless that’s just you taking cold?’ He raised an eyebrow, and Frodo laughed.

‘Dear Sam, no. I’m not cold, but I’m wishing I were as hot as you. There is such a passion in you, and I’m afraid I can’t match it.’

‘No matter to me. As long as you’re enjoying this.’

‘Mmm. I am that.’

‘Well then, don’t let’s worry about naught else. Give yourself time. I’d almost given up hoping for this much. Don’t fret yourself with what isn’t, and you’ll find things’ll go smoother.’


As he held Frodo close, Sam held debate with himself as to whether now was the time to tell him about Rosie’s intervention. He dismissed the idea; there would be time later. At this moment it would be an unnecessary distraction. It wasn’t expected to be an instant help, the herbalist had been clear about that, apparently.

He kissed the top of Frodo’s head. ‘Let me build up the fire, so’s you don’t go and take a chill while I massage you, and we’ll carry this on in bed,’ he said.

Frodo smiled his appreciation of this and sat cross-legged on the bed, watching Sam tend the fire. His chin rested in his hand, elbow propped on knee. Sam picked up a small bottle of oil from where he had left it warming on the hearth. He stood for a moment just enjoying the looking. Frodo gazed gravely back, and then a small smile, the merest twitch of his lips, called Sam to him. Frodo shifted slightly, obviously expecting Sam to roll him onto his back, but Sam had other ideas. He plumped the pillows against the head board again and sat himself against them, inviting Frodo to join him. Frodo settled carefully between Sam’s legs and leaned back into Sam’s embrace.

‘You missed your vocation, Sam,’ he said, letting his head drop back onto Sam’s shoulder. ‘You should have been an armchair.’

Sam smiled. ‘Comfy, then?’ he asked.

Frodo turned his head to kiss Sam’s cheek. ‘Mmm. Can you massage me like this?’

‘I can try. You’ll be even more comfy if you bend your knees up and let them fall out against mine. Yes, like that.’ He ran his fingers over the exposed inner thighs and then cupped his hands in front of Frodo. ‘Can you reach the bottle,’ he asked, ‘and pour a little into my hands?’ Frodo could and did. Some of the fragrant oil trickled over Sam’s hands and onto Frodo’s body, but it didn’t matter. That’s where it was all destined for anyway.

‘Say if you get cold, nîn meleth,’ said Sam, as he ran his hands freely over Frodo. The oil would have a cooling effect, but it would be easy enough to pull a blanket up over themselves if necessary. He spread the oil, and with only a thin sheen on his hands, started on Frodo’s face. Frodo was good at pretending, but Sam was aware of his lover’s anxiety. He soothed and kneaded, working down from brow and temples to jaw line and neck, and then up again behind Frodo’s ears. Frodo relaxed against his body with a gentle sigh, and his breathing slowed.

‘Sam?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘I’d like to do this for you.’ His words were mumbled, his body slack in Sam’s arms.

‘Another time. I’d like that. Do you still want some loving, or would you rather just sleep now?’ He ran his hands down Frodo’s body, over chest and belly and onto his inner thighs again, one firm, flowing action. His hands stilled, waiting for Frodo’s response.

Frodo turned his head sideways so he was breathing lightly against Sam’s ear. ‘Don’t stop. Help me, please help me.’ The low voice, close and husky, made Sam quiver. Frodo shifted slightly, and Sam gasped, his head dropping forward as his body curled around Frodo; the weight and friction against him were hard to resist. Frodo’s lips and tongue, working down his ear lobe, were not helping either.

‘Frodo,’ he whispered, his breath catching on the beloved name.

Suddenly Frodo was struggling to leave his arms.

‘Eh? What’s the matter?’ asked Sam, confused by the sudden change, and trying to hold the oil-slick body in his arms.

‘I’m being selfish,’ said Frodo, as Sam’s grip tightened on him. ‘Let me go. You need some release. I can’t just sit here while you’re wanting like this.’

Sam pulled him back into his body and held him there. ‘Hush now. You’re talking too much. Just lie quiet. There’s only one way I want to come, and that’s with you, my beautiful Frodo.’

‘But Sam...’ The worry was back in his voice.

‘I know, my love, hush now. That may not be tonight; just enjoy what there is.’

Frodo lay back again, and Sam set about discovering how far he could take Frodo along this well remembered path. It was wonderful to both massage and hold like this, and he could reach almost every sensitive area on Frodo. Frodo responded to the alternating strokes and pressure over his body. His head fell back against Sam’s shoulder again, and his hands clutched the bed covers. His breathing was rapid, ragged with need, as Sam allowed his hands to lightly touch velvet soft skin in passing. Both of them moved with eyes closed, feeling and responding to the messages of body contact and vocal cues, until Sam felt Frodo’s hips move against him, and heard a sob of desperate want.

The teasing was over. As Sam’s palm and fingers circled and stroked, he was not surprised that Frodo was not as erect as he might be. He had no real expectation that Frodo would come to any sort of release, not tonight, not yet. But there was an encouraging return of desire in this surrender to his body’s urges. With his other hand he tried to keep Frodo relaxed, caressing his face, while whispering sweet words in his ear.

‘My Frodo,’ he murmured. ‘I love you.’

He could feel Frodo building towards some climax, his body pushing back against him, his cries urgent. Sam’s own breath was coming fast. He shifted his hand down from Frodo’s face, sliding from the long, graceful neck to his chest, which lifted in hitching breaths. He rubbed over the nipple that pushed up into his path, rolling and pinching the erect nub harder as Frodo moaned. His other hand quickened the pace, and he nuzzled into Frodo’s neck.

‘Sam!’ cried Frodo, and his back arched. ‘Sam!’ His feet were scrabbling for a purchase as he pushed up into Sam’s hands.

‘Frodo... Frodo... Frodo,’ murmured Sam in his ear, his words in unison with the rapidly building pace.

And then suddenly there was only tension as Frodo fought to hold his arousal. Sam slowed the pace and tried to soothe him through it. ‘Frodo... Frodo... gently... Frodo. Don’t try so hard, just let go. Hush, love, just let go.’ But the moment had passed. The softness in his hands, that should have signalled fulfilment and release, was instead telling a tale of frustration and thwarted need. He expected that disappointment might vent itself as tears again, and he would not blame Frodo for that. Instead the tension increased, and Frodo thumped the bed in anger.

Sam took the fist, clenched in vexation, and brought it to his lips. ‘I know it’s not easy, love,’ he said gently, ‘but try and see how much better that was than last time. Was it good? While it lasted? Could I have done more?’

Frodo lay back into his arms, tense and on edge. ‘Oh, Sam. Yes, I mean no. Oh, bugger! I mean: yes it was good while it lasted, and no, you couldn’t have done more.’ He sighed and relaxed. ‘I am blessed in all you do for me, Sam, here in our bed as much as anywhere.’

Sam felt him shiver and hurriedly kicked the blankets and quilt from under his legs, to pull the covers over them both. ‘Not so blessed,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ve let you get cold.’

Frodo lifted his weight from Sam, and they worked their bodies further into the warmth. Sam retained his position, curled around Frodo’s back, and pulled the pillows down flat to lay their heads on. They lay for a while in silence, the darkness growing as the fire burnt low.

‘Sam?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘I’m snug in your arms. What were you wanting to tell me?’

‘Tell, and ask, and just generally talk about, as it were. Rosie’s got something for you.’

Frodo turned his head to try and look at Sam, found he couldn’t, and rolled over to face him.

‘Rose? What sort of thing?’

‘More’n one thing really. She’s been to visit a new herbalist from Bree.’

‘Bree? Bree? When has Rose been to Bree?’

‘Nowhen. From Bree, I said. He does the rounds of the markets. She went to see him today.’

‘And?’ There was puzzlement in Frodo’s voice.

‘And she’s brought back some yellow-star wort for your melancholy.’

‘Melancholy? I don’t suffer from melancholy, I ... oh.’ Sam didn’t answer. He watched Frodo chew his lip in the dim light, and let him think it over. ‘I do, don’t I?’ said Frodo at last. ‘Is that what the greyness is?’

‘From what Pip’s told me of your Took relations, I’d say yes,’ said Sam, pleased he didn’t have to argue the point.

Frodo swallowed. ‘You mean, it’s not just the effect of... of the Ring?’ Sam felt the clammy dampness on Frodo’s skin as mention of the Ring had its reaction in cold sweat.

‘I don’t pretend to understand, nîn meleth. I don’t think melancholy is the whole answer, but it sounds as though it runs in the family, don’t it now? So it’s worth trying. It was Pip as suggested the herbalist to her in the first place.’

‘Oh.’ Frodo was silent for a while, digesting this. He brought his hand up to touch Sam’s face. ‘You said “more than one thing.”’

‘That’s a bit more puzzling,’ said Sam, awkwardly. ‘Seems you told her of your problem in loving me, and she asked the herbalist about that.’

Frodo was suddenly very still in his arms, his face unreadable, but his body tense.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Sam, kissing Frodo gently. ‘I believe he’ll be discreet, and if anyone has their reputation mired by this, it’ll likely be me. She told him as how it was me having the problem.’

Frodo looked at him with concern. ‘Sam! I seem to cause you nothing but trouble.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Sam’s mouth twitched in amusement at the remembrance of Rosie’s embarrassment. ‘Mind you, she had the decency to blush when she told me.’ He lifted a stray lock of hair away from Frodo’s face and ran his fingers down his jaw. Most of the oil had soaked into the skin, leaving it soft beneath his hand. The sweet smell clung to them both and contained the memory of past loving. He cupped Frodo’s chin and held his gaze. ‘She said she upset you; she was upset about that, herself. She said it came about by her asking you if you ever wanted a family. I hate myself for never thinking you might want children.’

Frodo chewed on his lip again. ‘That’s not quite what she asked, but I suppose the result was the same. It made me think about being childless, and about what having a child might mean. It was painful, no doubt about that. It was the thinking of my being gone, and nothing to show I ever walked the Shire, I suppose.’

Sam shifted to wrap his arms around Frodo and draw him closer. ‘That’s why I wanted you snug against me. Can you forgive me for being so selfish?’

Frodo’s eyes opened wide. ‘Selfish! You? Selfish? Now who is being daft? How can I forgive you for something you have never been?’

Sam snorted his disagreement. ‘I spent all that time worriting away about a family, and it never once crossed my stupid mind that you might regret not having that chance. It never occurred to me as how you might like me to have a family, because you maybe couldn’t.’

Frodo opened his mouth and then shut it again. He frowned. ‘I don’t think that’s the case, Sam,’ he said at last. ‘I never thought of it like that, anyway. I just love the idea of you with a family. You’re the sort of hobbit who should have a babe in his arms. You’ll make a wonderful father.’

‘And you wouldn’t, I suppose? I ain’t so young that I don’t remember you with Pippin, when he was a babe.’

‘Pippin? I couldn’t wait to hand him back to Eglantine; he vomited down my best silk waistcoat, as I recall.’

Sam smiled. ‘Aye, he did. I remember. But when he was a little bigger, he trailed you everywhere, and you’d carry him and tell him stories. I was very jealous, not being very old myself then. I think I’ve always loved you, did you know?’

‘Oh, Sam. I wish we’d found each other without having to go away, but then maybe the finding would never have happened. I’m so thankful that I trusted what your song was telling me, and found the courage to reach out to you in Ithilien.’

‘And even then you were worriting yourself about me having a family, and it never crossed my mind that the same might apply to you.’

‘But it didn’t, Sam. Truthfully. You used to talk about it, so it was only natural that I should picture you with a family. Whereas I never saw that for myself.’

‘Until now?’

Frodo rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling without answering. Sam raised himself to look at his face more closely. There were no tears, but he would swear they were not far away.

‘Frodo?’

Frodo turned his gaze from the ceiling and looked directly into Sam’s eyes. ‘Leave it, Sam!’ he cried. ‘Please leave it! It’s too much. I can’t even love you properly.’ Sam could see he was shaking, and felt a physical pain tighten in his chest at having caused Frodo distress.

He leant down to kiss Frodo, gentle pressure of lips on lips. An apology and an acquiescence. He had no wish to push Frodo into misery over this, so if Frodo didn’t want to talk about it, then neither did Sam.

‘Rosie asked me if she could invite her family here for lunch next week, along o’ the Gaffer,’ he said. He already knew what Frodo would say.

Frodo drew Sam down to lie in his arms and kissed him back. He tucked unruly hair behind Sam’s ear, and smiled his relief at the change in subject. ‘This is Rose’s home, Sam. She can ask whom she likes. I’ll be very pleased for the Cottons to come.’

‘I told her so,’ said Sam, with a sleepy smile back. His long day was taking its toll. ‘But she wanted you to say it. She doesn’t want to push company on you if all you want is to stay quiet.’

‘I’ll tell her myself, then. I can always make myself scarce in my study if she wants to ask her friends round, or if she invites a whole gaggle of mothers and babies into the best parlour.’

‘Good,’ said Sam, and gave up trying to keep his eyes open. He sighed and was asleep before he took his next breath.



It was nearly two weeks before Rosie’s family were able to accept an invitation. The Gaffer joined them, and the meal was enjoyed by all. Frodo seemed generally more outgoing than in the recent past, although Sam wasn’t sure how much was due to a natural improvement, and how much could be attributed to the herbalist’s therapy. Frodo had even gone out and about with him on a couple of occasions.

The first of these had been to collect rent from Sandyman, and had taken place the day after the mayor’s visit, so maybe the medicine wasn’t responsible. Frodo had surprised Sam by suggesting they have a drink at the Ivy Bush after they left the Mill. Sam had beamed at Frodo, delighted at this show of sociability, but it pained him to see the openly curious stares Frodo had been met with. There had been a lot of whispering and craning to see him, and Sam couldn’t in all honesty say that Frodo had found it other than a trial.

However, that was far from the case in his own home, entertaining hobbits whom he obviously considered friends. Mother Cotton seemed to have been won over by her daughter’s happy face, by the considerate respect Frodo showed Rosie, and by Sam’s open affection towards his wife. She resumed her former motherly attitude to Frodo, and complimented Rosie on managing to get some weight on him.

‘Though you’re still far too thin, begging your pardon,’ she said to Frodo, ‘but I can see my Rosie’s care is having some effect.’

‘And how are you, Mrs. Cotton?’ asked Frodo. To Sam’s ear, there was a note of concern in Frodo’s voice, and he looked at his mother-in-law quickly. Frodo was very perceptive, and Mother Cotton had seemed rather preoccupied since her arrival.

‘Well, now. I’m fine,’ she answered. ‘But sadly, I can’t say the same for my sister.’

‘Aunt Rose!’ cried Rosie.

‘Aye, a message came from Oatbarton just this afternoon. She’s took poorly. Jolly’s going to run me over first thing in the morning. She’s not so bad that they’re afeared for her, but your cousins are young enough to need some looking after.’

‘Oh, Ma! Give them all my love. I’ve got some chicken broth you can take, and some cakes for the young ones.’ Rosie looked at Mari and then at Sam, an anxious frown on her face. Sam knew what she was thinking. Mari, already pregnant and suffering from the morning sickness, would be out of her depth trying to run things in the large and busy farmhouse with only Jena’s help. He nodded his assent and was rewarded with a smile. Under the tablecloth his hand was squeezed in thanks. ‘Mari, if you like, I’ll come and stop up at the farm and help you,’ said Rosie.

Mari’s face light up with relief. ‘Oh, Rosie, that is kind of you, but what about Sam and Mr. Frodo?’

‘Sam and Frodo will be fine, Marigold,’ said Frodo, firmly. Sam smiled. Frodo had asked Mari to call him Frodo on three occasions, to his knowledge, but old habits died hard, and didn’t he know that feeling.

‘I know how much there is to do at South Farm,’ added Frodo. ‘I think Rose finds Bag End very undemanding at the moment, but I have no doubt that will change in the future.’ Rosie blushed, and Sam laughed.

‘I think my fair Rose is a little put out that you’re ahead of her, Mari, dear,’ he said. As he stood up to help Rosie clear plates away from the table, he leant close to his wife and whispered, ‘Maybe I need some of that herbalist’s weeds.’ Rosie snorted, and only managed to keep from laughing out loud with great difficulty. Frodo’s mouth quirked, and he smoothed his hand over his face, emerging with an attentive expression for the Gaffer. The Gaffer was telling him that the new asparagus bed Sam had planted couldn’t be cropped much the following year.

‘Now, the best way to eat asparagus,’ the Gaffer added, ‘is to have water boiling all ready, and cook it straight from the cutting. The market stuff ain’t near as good; asparagus is something that don’t keep well.’

Sam hurried from the room before he caught Frodo’s eye. He had explained this to Frodo years ago, and that is how Frodo always cooked it, from garden to pan in minutes. In addition, he was certain that Frodo’s quickly hidden amusement was from overhearing what he’d said to Rosie. He would swear no one else had heard.

In the kitchen, he and Rosie piled the dirty plates in the sink.

‘You don’t mind, do you, Sam?’ asked Rosie, putting her arm around his waist. ‘You’ll be all right? I’ll come back as and when I can, and cook some meals for you.’

‘Mind? You are a silly wench. We’ll manage. It’s turn and turn about, isn’t it?’ He kissed the top of her head as she cuddled against him. She tilted her head up so she could kiss him back.

‘If Frodo’s not well, I’ll be straight back, Sam,’ she said, ‘Mind that.’ She let him go, and reached for a thick cloth in order to take a large gooseberry and elderflower crumble out of the oven. Juice was bubbling up around the edge of the golden topping. ‘And I’ll go to market early tomorrow, and make sure you’re well stocked, and don’t need for much,’ she added.

‘Thank you, lass,’ said Sam, and realised he was going to miss his busy wife.



It was late the next afternoon before Rosie was satisfied that she was leaving Sam and Frodo well provided for. Sam backed Bill into the shafts of the gig he had bought for Rosie’s use, and led the pony up to the gate. It was another beautiful day, and the sun was still high in the sky. It was less than two weeks until the longest day of the year, but it was more usual for Forelithe to be relatively cool and wet. A transition to summer, startling in its suddenness, didn’t usually occur until the last week of the month. This year, however, it was as though summer had started as early as Astron, with wonderful sunshine and delicious rain in due times (mostly at night) and in perfect measure. To Sam it seemed as though there was something more, a richness of growth and a gleam of beauty beyond anything he had ever known. He stood smelling the sweet scent of the hawthorn blossom on the air and rubbing Bill’s soft muzzle with his knuckle.

‘Don’t you go giving Rosie any cheek, my lad,’ he said. Bill shook his head and snorted. ‘No, it’s all right. I know you wouldn’t really,’ said Sam, glad there was no one around to hear the conversation. When Rosie appeared, carrying a small travelling bag, he kissed her and handed her into the gig.

‘If you don’t get a chance to pop back, I’ll come and see you at the farm,’ he promised, passing her the reins. ‘Take care, and give Mari a kiss from me.’ He watched her out of sight and then turned back to the smial. In the kitchen a savoury smell welcomed him; Rosie had left them supper cooking.

Frodo was sitting in his armchair in the corner, his eyes not quite focused, his eyelids drooping. Sam realised he must have foregone his usual afternoon nap, and slipped an arm round him to pull him to his feet.

‘You need to be in bed, and I’ll come wake you when supper’s ready,’ he said. He’d noticed that when Frodo got too tired, he seemed to lose the will to make these simple choices. A little grumbling and coaxing were needed to get him moving. He was at his best when he was rested.

Frodo lightly touched Sam’s face with his fingers. Sam turned his head to kiss the fingertips, and Frodo’s head fell forward onto Sam’s shoulder. The weight in his arms increased.

‘This ain’t the place to go to sleep, Frodo,’ said Sam gently. He guided Frodo down the hallway to his room. The undressing was quick and efficient. ‘Practice makes perfect,’ thought Sam. He drew a night-shirt over Frodo’s head and smiled at him, but Frodo slumped in his arms. Sam reached down past him and managed to pull back the bedclothes one-handed. He lowered Frodo onto the bed, laid him back and lifted his legs up. He made sure the star-gem was unencumbered by the night-shirt, and tucked the bedclothes over the sleeping form. He stood for a moment looking down at Frodo. It seemed to him as though the light welling from within was clearer than usual, showing even in daylight. He shook his head and sighed, following his own train of thought back to Ithilien.

‘I love him,’ he murmured, wiping his eyes. ‘I love him, whether or no.’


Back in the kitchen he put two large potatoes to bake, and then did a few tasks that Rosie had requested “if there’s time.” He kept an ear tuned for the soft sounds of Frodo stirring, but all was quiet within the smial. The kitchen door was wide open, and he could hear bees humming in the foxglove flowers just outside. He made a tour of the garden and picked a posy of annual flowers, love-in-the-mist and campanula, verbena and some early sweet peas. Sweet peas were Frodo’s delight, and it would not be long before the smial was full of their scent. Sam smiled to himself; it was a happy coincidence that the more he cut the flower stalks from this favourite, the more it would produce, and he had planted in profusion.

When he returned to the dim coolness of the kitchen, the smell from the oven told him the potatoes were done. Rosie always said that food talked to her when it was cooking, and Sam agreed. He tested the largest potato with a sharp knife; it was cooked but would take no harm from staying a little longer in the heat. He found a small vase, arranged the flowers for the table, and went to wake Frodo.

After supper, they sat together in the garden, smoking their pipes. The sky was clear of cloud, and it would stay light long into the evening. They sat on Frodo’s seat in companionable silence. Frodo had drawn his legs up onto the bench and sat sideways, leaning against Sam, one arm wrapped round his knees. Sam enjoyed the warmth and pressure of Frodo’s body against his. He slipped his arm around Frodo’s waist, and drew contentedly on his pipe. The heat had gone out of the day, and there was more moisture in the warm air to carry the fragrance of the honeysuckle to them. The sweet smell mingled with pipe-weed smoke, and over these the scent of Frodo was restful in its familiarity.

‘This is an evening for walking,’ said Frodo quietly, as the sun sank lower. ‘There will be plenty of moonlight later, if the sky stays clear.’ The moon, just past full, had already risen, a pale white ghost in the blue sky.

Sam stifled the delighted exclamation that rose within him, and instead gave the statement the consideration it deserved. ‘I don’t think it’ll cloud yet awhiles,’ he said, tilting his head back to look at the sky. ‘Maybe by the morning. Where would you like to walk?’

‘Into Tookland, and then cut along the edge of the valley to pick up the boundary path to the Three Farthings Stone,’ said Frodo. ‘Not too far, but far enough. I’m feeling restless. Some exercise would do me good.’

‘Best go soon, then,’ said Sam. ‘That’s three or more hours’ walk.’

Frodo swung his legs to the ground and pushed himself up. ‘Best go now,’ he said. ‘Before I start thinking it’ll be too much trouble, and change my mind.’

‘Just let me get a few things together,’ said Sam, standing as well and knocking his pipe out. He wasn’t going to risk getting miles from Bag End and having Frodo too tired to continue. He didn’t want Frodo to think he was turning the walk into a major expedition, but carrying a couple of blankets, a small pan, water and some marching rations, would allow for a change in plans if circumstances dictated it. In less than ten minutes he rejoined Frodo, and handed him his elven cloak and a staff.

Frodo raised an eyebrow when he saw Sam’s pack, but forbore to comment. He threw the cloak around his shoulders, clasped the brooch fastening, and took the staff from Sam. Together they slipped round the side of the smial and down the west side of the Hill, away from Hobbiton.

At the edge of the garden there was no need to jump the hedge anymore; Sharkey’s men had grubbed it out, for no apparent reason. Sam’s replacement planting had taken account of this frequently-used private exit route from the Bag End garden, and he had introduced a gate. Since livestock frequently grazed the meadows beyond, he had made it a kissing-gate through which only one hobbit could pass at a time. There was no chance of their being seen here, and their elven cloaks gave added protection. Sam slipped round the end of the gate first, pushing it back towards Frodo to allow himself room. They leaned together over the top bar and showed the sheep why it was called a kissing-gate. The sheep ignored them.

Down the Hill, they climbed over a five bar gate into the narrow lane beyond and turned westwards. After a short distance, Frodo lead them southwards from the lane, and they followed a greenway, bordered with hedge and coppice. To Sam the journey was heavy with unspoken significance. This was the route they had taken nearly two years ago, not knowing how soon they would be beset with dangers. Frodo had not walked this way since their return. Sam couldn’t help thinking that it was another encouraging sign, couldn’t help hoping that this narrow lane was part of a hard way leading, with time, to a place where Frodo could be himself again.

The plank bridge over the Water was little used, and Sam checked it for stability and wedged it more firmly into the bank before they crossed. A small splash upstream drew their eyes, and they saw a V-shaped bow wave and a small dark shape in the water. It was a water vole. They watched its small compact body swim below them, nosing amongst the tightly closed water lilies. A smell of mint rose from the bank, and they stood breathing the clean, sharp scent. The light was failing more quickly here, shut out by the alders lining the bank. They pushed through the cone-laden branches which were overgrowing the path, and the evening lightened again as they emerged into more fields. The moon was gaining colour as the sun took her leave, and it was easy to pick their way along the trodden path towards the Great Road.

The kewick of a hunting tawny owl was so close they jumped. As they looked at each other sheepishly, they heard another tawny give a soft triple call: hoooo-hoo-hoooo, away to the east.

Once they crossed the Great Road, and were in Tookland, they were walking amongst sheep again. In the moonlight, the world was muted, but they could see that the ewes and lambs were marked with different colours.

‘Red,’ said Frodo, watching the rump of a ewe as she bounced away in a flurry of cloven feet, followed by her two lambs. The hobbits had surprised her as they came over a rise in the ground. She stopped to glare at them for her fright, and the lambs immediately rushed to butt her udder. Their tails made erratic circles as they took the reassurance of their mother’s milk.

‘Aren’t the Cotton sheep marked with red?’ Frodo added, as Sam made no comment.

‘Oh, I see what you mean. Yes, these are Cotton sheep.’

‘I didn’t know the Cottons had grazing rights in Tookland; it’s a long way for them to have just wandered.’

‘As I understand it, it’s all to do with Tom Cotton’s grandfather, as married my great, great aunt Rose,’ said Sam, as happy as any hobbit to explain the niceties of a family tree. ‘Half Took, he was, being the love-child of one o’ Gerontius’ younger brothers. I can’t remember which one now, but the grazing rights were part of the settlement.’

They bent south-eastwards until they climbed the first slopes of the Green Hills, and then turned eastwards along the ridge. They had been walking with no contact between themselves, although there were none to see them; this was no stroll, and holding hands would have encumbered the easy roll and swing of the long-distance walker. Now they stopped to draw breath and look back to the lights of Hobbiton and Bywater, twinkling in the valley. Standing behind Frodo, Sam took him in his arms, and Frodo leant back into the embrace.

‘I thought I’d never see this sight again,’ said Frodo quietly. ‘I love this view at night; it’s very comforting to think of all those hobbits safe in their homes.’ He tilted his head against Sam’s shoulder and stared up at the stars; Sam followed his gaze. ‘And that’s another sight I love,’ Frodo added. ‘They are so eternal, and we are so insignificant.’ He turned his head and kissed Sam’s cheek.

‘There’s Eärendil,’ said Sam, ‘the evening star. I never told you how I looked on him in the shadow-lands of Mordor and took hope. It wasn’t hope for us, mind, but it came to me that even if we failed utterly, and all came to ruin, there was still high beauty forever beyond the reach of Sauron.’ He sighed. ‘Sounds silly, don’t it?’

Frodo turned in Sam’s arms and hugged him close. ‘Oh, no, Sam. That’s not silly at all. We tend to think we’re all important: Hobbits, Elves, Men, Dwarves. But we’re only a tiny part of the great song of the heavens. Even so, I am glad our land has been saved from that great evil. You are a wise hobbit, and without you all would be darkness.’

Sam cupped his hand around Frodo’s chin and gazed into his eyes, frowning. ‘You still don’t see it, do you?’ he said, sadly. ‘You still don’t see what you did.’ A tear rolled down his cheek. It was bad enough that the inhabitants of the Shire didn’t appreciate Frodo, but so much worse that Frodo didn’t feel any honour inside himself. He watched the pain grow in Frodo’s eyes and released him, so Frodo could look away, and sighed when he did.

‘Oh, my love,’ said Sam, as Frodo’s arms tightened around him, and his head rested on Sam’s shoulder, ‘I’d give anything to free you from your memories.’ He looked up at the stars, blinking back his tears, and returned Frodo’s embrace.

They stood unmoving in each other’s arms; there was not even a breeze to stir their hair. Their elven cloaks merged with the deep twilight of the summer night, and the glow from Frodo was hidden, his face buried against Sam. They were silent, trapped in their pain.

Suddenly, in a nearby copse, a nightingale began its song. Amongst the repetitive clicks and whirrs were clear throbbing notes that seemed to vibrate deep within them and pulse with the stars. Frodo lifted his head, and then turned again so he was once more leaning back in Sam’s arms. Together they gazed at the dark blue above, shading down to turquoise on the horizon; only the brightest stars showed against the background of moonlight. All the time, the nightingale’s song shifted back and forth between its different airs, lifting them out of themselves. Sam felt Frodo relax in his arms, and realised his own shoulders were hunched and tense. He let the tension go and sighed again, but this time in relief, not in helplessness.

‘No one else could have stood by the fire and let that thing fall to its destruction,’ he said to the night sky. ‘And most would have given in to its vile voice long before. Never think you did nothing because you fell at the final step. Don’t matter how hard you try, you ain’t never going to reach those stars, nor sing like that nightingale. There were none as could have done what you tried to do; it was impossible. Can you not forgive yourself?’

‘Dear Sam,’ said Frodo quietly, and laid his cheek against Sam’s. Sam felt the dampness of warm tears on Frodo’s cool skin. He knew that this answer, which was no answer, was all that he would get. But he also knew in his heart that Frodo had let go a little, allowed the tight knot that held him captive to loosen ever so slightly. Sometimes all that was needed, to disentangle a seemingly impossible knot, was a little loosening. He kissed the tear-wet face.

‘I love you, Frodo.’

‘I love you, Sam. You are my most fullwise of friends, and my dearest.’

The beauty of the night sky, and the nightingale song, kept them rooted to the hillside. Sam shifted a little, but only to move his feet further apart and so give more solid support to Frodo. Gradually the lights in the valley winked out until only a few remained. They stirred together, drew their cloaks closer, and started for home.


When Sam woke the next morning, he reached out blindly for Frodo’s warmth and found he was alone. He opened his eyes in surprise and got up hurriedly. He looked in the study first, but the room was untouched. As he entered the kitchen, Frodo turned from the stove and smiled a greeting, his whole face lightening as though the sun had emerged from behind a cloud.

The kettle was already making a faint humming noise; Frodo must have been up for a while. Sam blinked. ‘You’re up,’ he said, feeling rather stupid, even as he said it.

‘I was going to bring you some breakfast in bed,’ said Frodo, ‘but looks as though you’ve spoilt my surprise. I didn’t really imagine I could get it all ready before you woke, but it was worth a try.’

Sam hadn’t moved from the doorway. He suddenly realised his mouth was open, and shut it hurriedly. Frodo sighed. ‘I really haven’t done much these last months, have I?’ he said.

‘Oh, Frodo! I didn’t mean it like that. I missed you in bed, truth be told.’ He swallowed. Frodo’s night-shirt was carelessly buttoned, skewed to almost, but not quite, reveal a dark areola, and his hair was dishevelled from sleep. The effect on Sam kept him rooted in the doorway, wordless with want, breathless with longing. He was suddenly aware of his own pulse, thumping painfully, and the heat sweeping up his body and over his face. His lips were throbbing, and that wasn’t all. His hastily pulled on night-shirt was doing nothing to disguise a growing erection. He cleared his throat and gazed at Frodo helplessly.

Frodo held his gaze. ‘Maybe tea isn’t what you’re wanting,’ he said softly and without looking away, reached to move the kettle from the hot plate. The morning sun caught his hair, bringing out a myriad of colours, as he stepped towards Sam.

‘Take no notice, Frodo,’ said Sam hoarsely. ‘Your Sam’s no more’n a fool where you’re concerned. I’ll go take a cold bath. I don’t want you to feel...’

‘...that I have to, Sam?’ whispered Frodo, taking Sam’s hand and guiding it to himself. ‘But I want you to feel me.’ He rubbed Sam’s hand up and down and let go. Sam took over, stroking and kneading, feeling an answering lift and swell under the cotton gown. His eyes stayed fixed on Frodo’s, and as he watched, the pupils retreat to the merest rim of colour. There were only the black depths calling to him.

He pressed in, trapping his roving hand between them, and Frodo made the smallest cry that sent Sam’s breath into a ragged gasp. ‘Frodo,’ he murmured, and closed his mouth over the full lips. His questing tongue met answering pressure, moist and warm and... and... demanding. He slid his free hand slowly down Frodo’s back as far as he could reach, and then hitched the night-shirt, little by little, until it was rucked up in his hand, and he could work his way under the hem.

He ran his palm over bare skin, feeling a tingle that was almost a crackle. If they had been in a darkened room, he would swear there would have been sparks on the air. Frodo moaned into the kiss, as Sam’s hand stroked up his back and then down again to press Frodo hard against himself. They were both trembling.

Frodo pushed back, sliding his hands round Sam to help keep the friction where it was most wanted. They moved in familiar rhythms, hips and sure hands working in unison with questing tongues and quickening breaths.

‘Oh, Sam!’ cried Frodo, and his head fell back, exposing the creamy skin of his neck.

Sam took the hint. His mouth closed over the salt-tinged warmth and made a loving feast, sucking and biting to mark Frodo as his own love. He felt the pulse beneath his lips and tongue quicken, and took his cue from the welcome roughness of Frodo’s fingers, kneading and pressing into his rump. He didn’t hold back, and was rewarded with a hardening against his belly.

Sam released Frodo’s skin and ran his tongue over the blotched mark and up the pulsing furrow of his lover’s neck. He nibbled and sucked more gently at an inviting ear lobe.

Frodo dropped his head forward onto Sam’s shoulder again, and his body stilled. His breathing had a catch in it, and his voice was uneven when he spoke.

‘Oh, Sam. This is... so good, so good, but it’ll be gone... and there will just be the want, aching inside.’

Sam listened to the need in Frodo’s voice. Anxiety swirled like an undercurrent below the surface, waiting for a chance to pull Frodo back into impotence. It occurred to Sam that if he couldn’t ease the fear of failure, or at least distract Frodo from it, then failure was assured. He set his own needs aside; Frodo was what mattered here. If he suggested they retire to the comfort of their bed, Frodo would have more time to build up a head full of worry and convince himself that his impotence was inescapable.

Eyes closed, savouring all the sensations that spoke so eloquently of Frodo’s present arousal, Sam manoeuvred Frodo until he could feel the edge of the door with his heel. He hooked his foot around it to kick it shut and then turned to push Frodo roughly against the smooth circle of wood. His mouth came down hard on Frodo’s, and his body pressed close, moving rhythmically. Their movements against each other intensified, faster and more urgent. The low hums that Frodo made through the kiss, frantic in their rapidity, sent Sam’s memory reeling into the past. The remembrance of past passion was enough to push him to the very edge. This was not what he wanted, although unavoidable if he continued as he was doing. He let go of Frodo, and stood away. They were both panting.

Frodo tried to draw Sam back. ‘Don’t stop,’ he pleaded. ‘Oh, don’t stop.’

‘Not... stopping,’ Sam managed to say. He raised a shaking hand to run his fingers into Frodo’s hair. ‘Not stopping, love, just need to do this... different.’ He dropped both hands to ruck Frodo’s night-shirt up to his waist. For a moment he gazed at the view revealed; Frodo erect and yearning for his touch was a beautiful sight. Then he slid to his knees to take Frodo deep into his mouth. Frodo cried out and tried to buck his hips, but Sam held him pinned hard against the door.

Fingers wound into Sam’s hair and tightened, as he pulled his lips back again. Probing and circling over the velvet-soft tip, he was rewarded with a hint of salty sweetness. He bent his head, down and up again, at the same time suckling roughly with his tongue. It was a beautiful sensation, but his only desire was that he might bring Frodo to that point of no return. Frodo’s inarticulate cries made counterpoint to his own unspoken thoughts: ‘Let go, my love, let go.’

He himself let go of Frodo’s hips with one hand and wrapped his palm around the hot, eager shaft to build the rhythm faster. Frodo was gripping his hair painfully hard now, and his breath was coming in panting gasps, mixed with low moans. Sam responded, moving his hand faster, and Frodo’s cries matched the pace Sam set. So close. ‘Let go, my love. Let go.’

Suddenly Frodo’s fingers were slack in Sam’s hair, and Sam was aware of the intensity of his stillness. Hardly daring to breathe, he wrapped his tongue around Frodo to suckle. There was the faintest of flutterings beneath his fingers, and the moan he heard was his own.

There was an eternity of waiting in that moment, and then Frodo bucked forward with a sharp cry. The fluttering turned to a great pulsing of release in Sam’s mouth. Slowly, Frodo slid down the door, shaking and crying. Sam stayed with him, bending low, milking him to the last, a fierce joy surging through him.

‘Sam. Oh, Sam,’ Frodo sobbed. Sam knelt up, shaking as well. Frodo was sitting against the door, his face streaked with tears. He raised a hand tentatively to Sam’s face. Sam turned to kiss his palm, and his vision blurred. He reached blindly for Frodo, to pull him close. Together they rocked back and forth in each other’s arms, just needing to hold one another, and weep with the intensity of emotion.

‘Oh, Sam, Sam. I love you.’

‘Frodo. I love you, Frodo,’ murmured Sam, then more urgently, ‘Frodo!’ The rocking of their bodies together, with his shaft between them, was making it difficult to think. Frodo tugged at Sam’s night-shirt, failed to free it from under Sam’s knees, and laid hand on him through the material. He rubbed the soft cotton over the sensitive tip, and Sam slumped forward with a cry. It was all that he needed to release his pent-up desire. His joy found outlet in waves of release that submerged his reason and blotted out sight and sound.

The waves rolled over him and he found himself in Frodo’s arms still. He was clutching him fiercely. He uncurled his hands and eased himself round to sit next to Frodo, panting. They leaned against one another, wet and sticky from sweat and from Sam’s effusion, which had soaked into both their night-shirts. Frodo cupped Sam’s chin with his hand, and they kissed, slowly and gently this time.

‘Well, good morning, Sam,’ said Frodo with a catch in his breath as they separated. ‘Have you got any plans for today?’

‘None to speak of,’ said Sam, and they smiled at each other. ‘You?’

‘Oh, yes. I have plans, Sam. And they all involve you. Will you come to bed and let me try some of them out?’

‘Not before you’ve had something to eat and drink, me dear. I’m guessing these plans might take up the whole morning, at the very least, and I don’t want you getting weak with hunger part way through.’ Sam stood up, using Frodo’s shoulder as a support, and held out his hand. He pulled Frodo up and into his arms again. Frodo laid his head on Sam’s shoulder and sighed in happiness.



Late in the morning Merry and Pippin strolled up through the Bag End garden and found the back door open. The kitchen showed signs of a hastily eaten breakfast for two, but no attempt had been made to wash up, or even tidy the plates into the sink. It was a familiar sight to the two bachelors, but not one they were used to seeing here. Merry looked out the back door, to where two night-shirts hung limp and wet on the line.

‘I don’t think Rosie can be here,’ he said, thoughtfully. The door into the corridor was also open, and nothing could be heard of Frodo or Sam, either. Pippin went to the door.

‘Hello!’ he called. Silence. He shrugged. ‘Let’s have a beer and see if they appear,’ he said. He was just turning away from the corridor when they both heard a cry followed by a loud wail. They looked at each other.

‘Oh, well, that answers that question,’ said Merry, smirking. ’I suggest we take our beer in the garden, and later we can see what there is in the pantry for lunch. Sounds like they’re working up an appetite. You’re right by the way.’

Pippin raised his eyebrow.

‘He does sound like an orc with an arrow in it,’ said Merry. They snorted with laughter and went to sit in the sun.