CHAPTER 19: CONSEQUENCES

Sam was only away for a few days, but he hated being far from Frodo, and he experienced a brief episode of near panic about him, waking in the night and sweating. It had taken a while for his heart to stop hammering, but he had gradually relaxed, and by the morning, his anxiety had waned to its normal background level. He told himself sternly that Rosie had looked after Frodo before; he could trust Rosie now. She would send for him in haste if all was not well.

He was very fond of both his elder brothers, but found Hal the easiest to live with for any length of time. Hamson managed several tactless remarks about Frodo during Sam’s stay, and Sam was not inclined to confide any of the secrets of his heart to such an unsympathetic audience. As a result, he had to listen to an oft-repeated view: he and Rosie should move out of Bag End and distance themselves from the strangeness of the Master.

In the end his patience snapped, and he rounded on Hamson, telling him to mind his own business. There was a strained atmosphere for a while, but Hamson, for all his faults, was easy-going and quick to apologise.

It was not long before Hamson was managing well with a stick, and would soon be managing even better. Cousin Anson was nearby to help, and Sam prepared to leave. He was loaded with thanks and good fare for the Bag End pantry, but his nieces and nephews tried to prevent his going. The two eldest, Hob and Bell, hugged him tight, while the youngsters, Annie and Rob, clambered over him. Little Celandine wrapped arms and legs tightly around his shin to prevent her wonderful uncle from leaving. Their mother, Poppy, tried to disentangle her offspring, but only the promise of a final story freed Sam from the clinging bodies.

‘You spoil them, Sam,’ said Poppy, laughing. ‘You’ll have to be firmer when you have your own brood.’

‘Maybe,’ answered Sam, ‘but there’s always a place for stories. Now what would you like to hear, you horrors? And mind! You must let me go without fuss when I’m done.’

Giggling, they dragged him to the armchair that had become synonymous with stories since their uncle’s arrival. Hob fetched his pipe for him from his pack, and Celandine climbed onto his lap and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Her looked defied any of her older siblings to shift her. Sam laughed and nestled her close.

‘Tell us about the spider,’ said Rob, leaning over the back of the chair. ‘Tell us about that filthy Shelob thing.’

‘No, it has to be a story for all of you. That’s too frightening for Celandine.’

Celandine pulled her thumb from her mouth and looked at him seriously. ‘I ain’t frighted of spiders,’ she said.

‘Of course you’re not,’ said Sam. ‘But I ain’t telling that one now, so think again, my dears.’

‘Tell us about how you got your scar,’ said Bell, touching her fingers to the white mark on his forehead, ‘and about how Mr. Frodo stabbed the troll.’

‘Yes, tell us that one,’ said Hob. ‘Mr. Frodo were very brave, weren’t he, Uncle?’

Sam choked and blinked back tears. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, he was and he is. The bravest hobbit in all the Shire. And if you should ever travel far away, you’ll find he’s the most famousest. Why, there’s songs sung about Mr. Frodo’s deeds from Rivendell to the White City, and that’s a powerful long way away.’ He realised, suddenly, that if he wanted Frodo to be appreciated, the way to do it was through stories told to youngsters, who would grow up and tell them to their children in turn. It was a happy thought.

Finally, his small audience satisfied, he was allowed to take his leave. He set Bill on the homeward road, relieved to be heading back to Frodo and Rosie, especially Frodo, but Rosie held her place in his heart. Spending time with Hamson’s bairns had had the same effect as his visit to Hal’s in the spring, but now there was the prospect that he would one day have a small hand slipping into his, and a little voice calling him Dada. It worried him not one whit that Mari was pregnant, and Rosie wasn’t. It was early days, and they had not had much opportunity for quickening a babe in the womb. Fate seemed determined to keep them apart. Frodo said he had seen Sam’s children, and that was all the reassurance Sam needed.

He was also fairly sure his first child would be a boy, and his name would be Frodo. Of course, what else would he be called? And this was the key which Sam had needed to unlock the riddle Frodo had unwittingly set him. Iorhael, Meril, Gelir, Cordof, Glorfinniel, Baravorn, ar Eirien. He would take a wager that these were his own children. It all made sense: a daughter named after her mother, Merry and Pippin remembered. He wasn’t sure why Frodo would be naming them in Elvish, but there was no doubt in his mind as to the significance. He looked up at the cloudless sky and smiled. Seven children. Seven! He would teach them all the true worth of Frodo, and Frodo would teach them their letters and the old tales of Elves and Men.

Bill had no more wish to dawdle on the road than Sam, and they made good time back to Hobbiton. Sam didn’t bother to stop on the way, but ate food Poppy had provided, rattling along in the gig behind Bill. Everywhere was green, and the crops in the fields held the promise of a fine harvest. He sang old favourite walking songs of Bilbo’s and waved to farm-workers pulling tares from amongst the wheat and barley. The loud, insistent song of yellowhammers followed him, as he passed from one bird’s territory to the next, and his mind filled in the words that the sound traditionally evoked: little bit o’ bread and no cheeeeese, little bit o’ bread and no cheeeeese. He helped himself to more bread with cheese, and washed the salty tang of the strong Tighfield cheese away with beer.

It was still only afternoon when they arrived in Hobbiton. Sam did all that was necessary for Bill before going to announce his arrival to the two whom he loved. He walked up the path towards the back door, his mind on his welcome home. Even so, his gardener’s eye noted that the weeds were not as bad as he expected after his absence. The Gaffer had obviously been lending a hand. Tall spires of blue delphiniums lined the path, and the garden was alive with the humming of bees. The butterfly-bush was in flower, and the deep purple heads were covered with brightly coloured butterflies, their wings spread wide to the sun. His friend the robin flew to greet him and landed on the path in front of him, fluttering its wings like a fledgling. Sam rummaged into the packs he was carrying and found some crumbs, left from his lunch, to scatter on the ground.

He saw Frodo and Rosie before they saw him. He stopped where he was and felt a surge of love that kept him rooted to the spot and brought tears to his eyes. They sat together on Frodo’s seat. Frodo‘s head was tilted back, his eyes were closed, and he was reciting poetry in Elvish. Sam recognised the tale of Aragorn Elessar and Arwen Undómiel, as told in Rivendell on their return journey. Since it was written by Elves in the house of Elrond, it had an air of sadness running through it: it was all about loss and partings, rather than about the triumphs of Men. Frodo had one arm around Rosie, and she was leaning against him, holding his other hand in her lap. Her eyes were closed as well, and her expression was rapt.

Sam stayed silent, listening as the tale reached its sad end, anticipating the final parting that was to come between Arwen and her kin. Frodo’s lashes cast shadows on his face, and a tear sparkled there, like a drop of dew in the early morning sun. As he finished, he lowered his head, opened his eyes and smiled at Sam as though he had expected to see him standing there. The smile matched the sadness of the poem, and the tear trailed slowly down his face to the corner of his mouth.

Rosie stirred. ‘That sounded lovely, Frodo,’ she murmured. She lifted her head and opened her eyes, and gave a glad cry as she saw Sam. Leaping to her feet, she rushed into his arms, hugging and kissing him.

‘Sam! Sam! Oh, you’re back,’ she cried, and buried her head against his shoulder. He held her close and looked over the top of her curls, to Frodo. His lover was standing more slowly. Sam wasn’t sure why he was holding back, unless it was to give Rosie a chance to greet him first.

He held out an arm. ‘Frodo?’

Then Frodo was pressed close as well, and warm lips, with a hint of salt, were on his.


They quickly slipped back into the routines of their lives, and Sam was disappointed that Frodo showed no sustained interest in exchanges beyond Bag End. It seemed he was happy to have achieved his goal, and politely refused all invitations to join in hobbit society.

Despite Frodo’s obvious reluctance to have any real contact with those outside his immediate circle of family and friends, Sam was much easier in his mind about him. He was as quiet as ever, as willing to slip into the background, but his quietness no longer reminded Sam of the sudden ominous quiet before a storm. Sam was by no means convinced the quietness represented peace - resignation, more like - but this was better by far than Frodo’s former tightly reigned fear that he might be overwhelmed by the horror of Mordor at any moment in his life.

Although Frodo returned to his reclusive habits, walks became a regular activity he shared with Sam. He always chose unfrequented byways and little-trod footpaths, but inevitably there were times when they passed another hobbit walking or riding by. Frodo exchanged social pleasantries of the ‘good day to you, lovely weather we’re having’ variety and kept walking. Once they met Shirriff Smallburrow, out and about on official business, with his feather at a jaunty angle in his cap. Frodo walked ahead, after a brief greeting, and stood looking out over the view. He swung his staff, waiting while Sam chatted to Robin.

At home, Sam was also quick to see that the relationship between Frodo and Rosie had shifted. He had not realised that Frodo had maintained an air of formality towards Rosie, until it was gone. His only worry, based on past experience, was that this might reflect illness in his absence. It was after Frodo’s illness in March that Rosie had changed; what had now caused Frodo to become more openly affectionate towards Rosie? He seemed almost solicitous. Sam was delighted, but he wanted reassurance that Frodo was not hiding another illness from him.

It was on their first walk after Sam’s return that Sam found the opportunity to speak to Frodo about this. They were walking along a little-frequented path, dividing beech wood from wheat field, where the ears of corn were turning to gold and bowing over as they ripened. Sam picked an ear and rubbed it between his palms to remove the flakey outer covering. He opened his fingers and blew gently to send the chaff flying away, leaving the grains of wheat in his palm. They shared the sweet and starchy kernels. They were good to eat like this, although not ripe enough, or dry enough, for harvesting.

‘Were you ill while I was away?’ asked Sam, as Frodo picked wheat from his hand, ‘or was Rosie?’

‘No, my love,’ answered Frodo, looking at him quickly, ‘neither of us. Why?’

‘You just seem different. I wondered, that’s all.’

‘I had a bad dream one night, and disturbed Rosie. She had to come and wake me. I frightened her.’

‘What was it about? Can you tell me?’ asked Sam.

Frodo dropped his hand to his side and turned to look out across the neat fields. ‘I dreamt you were dead, Sam.’ He shivered, despite the heat of the day that had their shirts clinging to their damp skin.

Sam cast away the last of the wheat grains and slipped his arm around Frodo. There was no one in sight, but they normally didn’t take the risk of being seen.

‘Oh, Frodo.’

‘I frightened Rosie,’ said Frodo again, looking down at the ground. ‘She thought I might really be seeing your death. She had trouble waking me enough to get any sense out of me, and find it was just a dream. We ended up needing each other’s comfort.’

Sam looked at the green beech boles and the spreading canopy above. ‘I think it would be cooler to walk under the trees for a while,’ he said. Frodo glanced up at this apparent change in subject, and then his mouth curved in a slow smile. Together they pushed through the cow parsley that grew tall along the wood edge. The flat heads of hazy white flowers left tiny petals dusted on their breeches. A jay flew up with a harsh screech, and somewhere out of sight there was the frenetic clatter of wood pigeons’ wings.

They went deep enough into the wood that they would not be seen by a casual passer-by on the footpath. Sam ran his hand up one of the smooth trunks. ‘I think beech are my favourite trees,’ he said. ‘The closest we have to Elvish in the Shire, barring our mallorn.’

Frodo came and stood next to him, looking up at the spreading branches cutting the sunlight into bright slivers. The shadows dappled over his face. ‘Soft shadows in woodland,’ he murmured, and sighed.

Sam drew him close and leaned him against the bole, pressing body to body along their length. Frodo’s lips parted, and Sam ran his tongue lightly over them. He lifted his hand to Frodo’s face, cupping his jaw as they kissed, feeling the flow of the movement through his palm, as well as through his lips. He closed his eyes to better enjoy the sensation, and felt fingers slide into his hair and press him closer, asking for deeper. He gave deeper, and they slipped into that state of oneness that Sam treasured. Love seemed to become a tangible thing that wrapped around them and held them close. As they parted, Sam was reminded of the flow of time in Lorien. They might have been leaning there, against that tree, for minutes or hours. It was only by looking up at the sun that he could tell, but he had no wish to do that. Not yet. Not when he could be looking into Frodo’s eyes.

‘I’m alive, Frodo,’ he whispered.

‘I know, Sam.’

They kissed again, quickly, lightly, and pushed away from the tree. Although the moment carried the memory of another beech tree in moonlight, neither had any need or wish to do more. Sam turned Frodo round and brushed green lichen from his shirt, but it left a light stain where the linen was damp from sweat.

They slipped back into Bag End through the kissing gate, stopping for a kiss which tasted of the wild raspberries they had found in the wood. Their feet were dusty rather than muddy, but they halted by the pump to wash. The water was refreshing, and they pulled their shirts off and scooped water over their chests to wash away sweat. Laughing, they entered the kitchen, damp and refreshed, ready for a drink before lunch.

Their laughter was short-lived. There was a faint smell of burning, a slight smokiness in the air, and Rosie was standing in the middle of the kitchen in tears. Sam was at her side in an instant. He put his arm round her waist.

‘Rosie! What’s the matter?’ he cried.

‘I’m all right, Sam,’ Rosie hiccuped. ‘I’m just being foolish, only nothing’s going right today and now I’ve ruined the lunch, and broken a plate, and I can’t get my apron unknotted, and... and... I can’t get the drawer open, and... nothing’s going right.’

Sam and Frodo exchanged looks. It hardly warranted the sobs and tears, although lunch being ruined was a blow.

‘Rosie,’ said Sam gently, ‘this isn’t like you. Is it that time of the month?’

Rosie looked at Frodo and started crying even harder. Sam thought maybe she was embarrassed to have such things spoken of in front of him.

Frodo disappeared into the cellar and came back with a bottle of wine. He wrestled with the drawer where the corkscrew lived, and found it would indeed only open a couple of inches. Sam looked to see if he needed any help, but Frodo slid his hand in and dislodged whatever had been causing the problem. It turned out to be the whisk. He rummaged for the corkscrew, opened the wine and poured Rosie a glass. Sam sat her down at the table, and Frodo put the glass into her hand.

Sam crossed to the stove and grimaced as he lifted the saucepan lid. That was going to take some cleaning. Frodo lifted an eyebrow in query, and Sam shook his head. It was no real problem, though, and Sam was puzzled by Rosie’s reaction. Either it was that time of the month, or Rosie was sickening for something.

Frodo was already heading for the pantry, so Sam took a knife and went to cut a lettuce. He picked up a basket as he passed his potting shed, and came back with not only the lettuce, but some strawberries as well. Frodo had set out bread, butter and cheese, some cold ham and a jar of Rosie’s pickles. He looked at the strawberries, disappeared into the pantry again, and came out with a jug of cream.

Rosie stood to help, but Sam was already breaking the green heart of the salad into cold water, and there was nothing left for her to do.

‘See?’ said Frodo, as though he were carrying on an earlier conversation. ‘All sorted. At least, it will be, if you would just turn around for a moment.’ He worked the knot of her apron strings loose, and Sam put the lettuce on the table.

‘I’ll just get us clean shirts,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll eat.’ He was enjoying the sight of Frodo wandering around in just his breeches, but Rosie might not appreciate them sitting down so casually.

Rosie was rather quiet through lunch, and when Frodo went to lie down for an afternoon sleep, she announced she was going to have one as well. This put Sam in a quandary, but Frodo laid a hand on his shoulder.

‘Go with Rosie, Sam. She doesn’t seem herself. Go and make sure she’s all right.’

Sam nodded gratefully. ‘Don’t go laying down in your clothes, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll look in on you later.’

It became apparent, over the next few weeks, that whatever was the matter with Rosie, it wasn’t the time of the month. She remained very fragile, liable to weep over anything, and she tired easily. Frodo sympathised with her tiredness, but Sam could see Frodo was as worried about this change in Rosie as he was. Much as Sam enjoyed seeing Frodo take on chores that Rosie would normally have done, he wished he knew what was wrong with his wife. Her appetite was not of the best, either.

Frodo and Sam discussed calling in the healer, but Rosie’s response was that her mother did all the physicking in the Cotton family, and that, anyway, she was fine. Coming into the kitchen the next day, Frodo was not convinced. Rosie was cleaning the windows and did not hear his entry. He was about to speak when she sighed and lowered her hand. Her whole body drooped like a poorly-cared-for flower, starved of water.

‘Rosie?’ he said softly, trying not to surprise her. She jumped anyway.

‘Oh, Frodo! You startled me,’ she said.

He took her hand. ‘What is wrong, Rosie?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. At least, I was just cleaning the window and came over a little weak,’ she answered.

‘Oh, Rosie! Sit down. I’ll make you a drink.’

‘No need for that, Frodo,’ she protested. ‘That ain’t going to get the windows finished. I’ll be all right in a minute. I’m fine if I don’t go rushing it.’

‘Rosie,’ said Frodo firmly, ‘sit down!’ He took the rag from her as she did so, ignoring her further protests, and finished cleaning the panes. He suspected that she would have done a more thorough job, but the view into the garden was clear enough for him. He could just see a glimpse of Sam working, deadheading roses to keep them flowering. Nearer to view, the new chickens were pecking over a pile of weeds and clover leaves in their pen. He turned away and made Rosie a cup of tea, insisting she remain where she was.

‘Unless you want to go and lie down,’ he added.

‘Honestly, Frodo. I’m fine.’

He looked at her doubtfully, then poured a mug of tea for Sam and took it to him in the garden.

‘Rosie’s had another bout of weakness,’ he said, as Sam took the mug from him with a smile of thanks. ‘This is happening too frequently, Sam. If she won’t see the healer, I think we should ask Lily Cotton to come over and look at her.’

‘I was thinking of sending a message back to Mother Cotton when the milk’s delivered,’ answered Sam, draining the mug and pushing sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. ‘If Rosie was iller, I’d go up myself.’

‘I don’t think you need do that, but sending a message is a good idea. Do you want more tea? There’s more in the pot.’

‘Aye, I do. I’ll come up and get it myself, and see what Rosie’s up to.’

Rosie was already feeling better, and had started preparing supper when they returned to the smial. The kitchen was uncomfortably hot, and Frodo suspected this might have contributed to Rosie’s strange turn. He joined Sam in chivvying her from the room, and they took over the cooking.

After supper, the three of them strolled through the garden, balmy now as the sun sank towards the horizon. As the sun set and the twilight deepened, bats flittered back and forth overhead, following erratic paths but never colliding. They could hear a cricket somewhere, repetitious, but as much a part of the atmosphere of summer evenings as the scent of honeysuckle, roses and night-scented stocks. As they walked, Sam slipped his arm round Rosie’s waist.

‘Are you feeling better, lass?’ he asked. She smiled at him and nodded her head several times.

‘That’s good,’ said Sam, ‘but I’m going to ask your Ma to come and pay us a visit, and see what’s to do with you. Frodo’s right. This is happening far too often. We’re both worriting about you.’

Frodo did not at first realise Rosie had stopped. He’d walked on a few paces before he noticed. He turned and looked back to where she was leaning against Sam, nestling in against his side. She looked up at Sam, and then smiled at Frodo.

‘There’s nothing wrong with me, and everything right,’ she said quietly, and held out a hand to Frodo. He had realised what was coming moments before - had, indeed, wondered whether the signs Rosie was showing were a harbinger of new life - and he was shaking as he took the proffered hand. Sam, bless him, was looking at Rosie in puzzlement, and Frodo was glad to have a few moments to compose his features. The turmoil of his feelings shocked him. He was overjoyed at the prospect of Elanor’s birth, he was devastated by the implication that this would allow him to separate himself from Sam, and looming over these conflicting feelings, guilt was threatening to engulf him completely.

As his hand closed around Rosie’s, she drew him close and tucked her arm around him as well. She turned her head to kiss first Sam and then Frodo, before turning to Sam again.

‘I’m expecting a babe, Sam.’

Sam’s face was comical to behold. He stared at Rosie as though his ears had deceived him, and then slowly his face softened into a look of amazed delight. With a cry of joy, he hugged them both close and covered Rosie’s face with kisses. Frodo tried to suppress all his feelings of loss and guilt, and just allow the joy he truly felt to show, but he was overwhelmed. Tears came before he could prevent them, and he was glad his face was hidden from Sam.

It was Rosie who disentangled herself from Sam, to put both her arms around Frodo and hold him close. He stopped his mental struggling and wept, bowing his head over her curls. Sam’s arm came around him, and he turned blindly into Sam’s embrace. His guilt increased. How could he have done this? And how could he now be making Sam feel guilty, believing Frodo’s grief was derived from the fact of Sam’s fatherhood? He could feel Sam’s confusion. Sam had felt only joy, and now he was as torn as Frodo was, because Frodo was hurting and crying in his arms. Frodo made a huge effort and dragged his delight to the surface. He could not know for certain, but he believed Rosie was carrying his daughter. Oh, Elbereth! His daughter!

He raised his head to meet Sam’s eyes, and smiled through his tears. He was rewarded by Sam’s expression turning to relief at the realisation that Frodo was all right. Frodo was not alone in his tears, at any rate. Rosie was both crying and laughing as well.

‘Oh, glory and splendour,’ whispered Sam. ‘Oh, my loves.’

Frodo disentangled himself and gave Rosie into Sam’s arms. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ he said quietly. He had to say it, even though Sam would not understand.

‘Sorry? Nîn meleth, whatever for? You’re welcome to Rosie’s hugs any time. And as for crying, well, we all seem to be doing that.’ He kissed Rosie tenderly and hugged her tight, then drew back looking worried.

‘It’s all right, Sam,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘I won’t break, and you won’t hurt the babe.’

Sam looked at her proudly and placed a hand on her belly. ‘It’s hard to believe,’ he said. ‘You don’t feel no different. How can you tell?’

She leant her head on his shoulder. ‘Well, I ain’t had no show this last month, but I think I knew afore that, even.’

‘And you’re sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes, Sam, I’m fine. I’ve been spared the sickness so far,’ Rosie leaned over to touch wood, ‘but I just feel a bit peculiar when I do things. It won’t last. Leastwise, it don’t usually, so don’t neither of you go worriting over me.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Sam, but rather spoilt the effect by insisting Rosie come back to the smial and sit down, while he ran round getting her a cushion and a drink. She refused any wine, saying she felt light-headed anyway, but accepted some elderflower cordial. Sam poured wine for himself and Frodo, and they drank a toast to Rosie and the babe. Frodo made no mention of the likely gender of the child. In his mind he really could not be certain. It was in his mind that all the doubt and confusion raged. In his heart he knew that Rosie carried his lovely Elanor, and in his heart he was singing.

Later, Sam was torn again, as Rosie retired early to bed, but Frodo was firm.

‘Go with Rosie, Sam,’ he said, kissing him goodnight. ‘I’m going to work in the study. I don’t feel at all sleepy, so I might as well get some writing done.’

‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes, Sam. I’m sure.’

It was easy to say, but alone in the study with the remnants of the wine for company, his dragons emerged to torment him. Grief and guilt, and other shadowy dragons lurking deeper. He reached for the wine to drown them out, and as the level in the bottle went down, the dragons were unleashed. The Ring-memory was there, ready to torment him, and the persuasive voice whispered that his corruption by the Ring would pass to his daughter. The Ring-sickness would be her inheritance, and she would be marred by his need to possess this thing. Like a blighted apple, all would be fair on the outside, but at her core the rot would fester.

He upended the bottle over his glass, but only a few drops splashed out. Getting up, a little unsteadily, he went in search of more. The first bottle that came to hand was Tom Cotton’s apple brandy.



Sam was not sure what woke him in the predawn darkness. Rosie was sleeping quietly by his side, and he smiled as he remembered their quiet conversation as they settled to sleep. His hand had been resting on her belly again, trying to grasp the fact there was a new life growing there.

’I love you, lass.’

‘Oh, Sam! I love you so much. Do you think the babe will be a boy? I’d love a boy.’

‘I do, lass. And not just wishful thinking, neither. I’m happy with either, but I’m remembering Frodo waking from one of his visions. It’s my belief that’s what he was seeing.’

‘Sam, if the baby is a boy, can we name him Frodo?’

‘No other name for him, as I can see,’ answered Sam, and he kissed her.

‘Sam?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Will you think me foolish if I says: seems to me this child is yours and Frodo’s? I knows I used to joke about feeling like I were married to the both of you, but does seem to me like you’re two halves of a whole. Without Frodo’s blessing, I wouldn’t be here with you, neither.’

‘That ain’t foolishness, lass. Leastways, if it is, then I’m guilty of it as well.’

He sighed. He was looking forward to relaying this conversation to Frodo. Seemed like he was wide awake, so he might as well look in on Frodo, maybe slip into his bed to be there when he awoke. He eased himself away from Rosie, and fumbled for a candle and his tinderbox in the dark. He did not strike the flint until he was in the corridor. The spark caught, and the flame of the candle flickered and steadied. As he pushed open Frodo’s door, he held the candle back; he did not want to wake Frodo with the light.

The next moment he was in the room, heedless of noise or light. There was no one to disturb. The bed had not been slept in.

He hurried to the study. The door was shut, and there was no circle of light around the frame. Had Frodo fallen asleep over his writing? Sam looked around. There was no light seeping around any of the doors that he could see. He turned the handle of the study door and held his candle up as he entered.

Frodo was part slumped on the floor, part draped across the seat of the armchair. Sam dropped to his knees beside him, and hurriedly set the candle in a safe place. He lifted and turned Frodo into his arms, and the smell of alcohol nearly knocked him over. There was an empty wine bottle on the desk, and a depleted bottle of apple brandy on the hearth. Sam felt like crying.

He could see Frodo in his mind, lying in bed, arm flung across his face, near to tears and refusing to talk about wanting children. This was all Sam’s fault. He had vowed that he would not marry Rosie if it meant hurting Frodo, and here was Frodo, hurting. How else could he explain Frodo’s wish for oblivion in drink? His first instinct the previous day had been that Frodo was in pain. He should have listened, and not allowed Frodo to charm him with smiles and reassuring words.

One thing was sure. There was no going back now. He held Frodo close and felt too wretched to even cry. Frodo’s hand was cold in his; he was wasting time when Frodo should be in bed. As he lifted Frodo up, Frodo put an arm around him.

‘Sham,’ he slurred. ‘I love you, Sham, didju know?’

‘Yes, love. I know. I love you.’

‘I’m going, Sham.’

Sam settled Frodo into some semblance of upright. ‘The only place you’re going is bed,’ he said.

‘Sham?’

‘Yes, love.’

‘Forgive me, Sham.’

‘Oh, Frodo. I think it’s you as should be forgiving me.’

He steered Frodo to the bathroom first, and helped him aim for the chamberpot. ‘I don’ need a pee,’ insisted Frodo, in flat contradiction of what his body was doing.

‘That’s all right. We’ll just stand here for a bit,’ said Sam, soothingly. Afterwards, he coaxed Frodo to drink some water. He knew what a raging thirst the apple brandy gave, if drunk to excess.

In Frodo’s room, Sam gave up trying to undress him, and sat him on the bed. Frodo obligingly fell backwards and made no difficulty about having his breeches pulled off. Sam hoisted him up the bed, so he could pull the covers over him. That caused objections, clear in their intent, even if not very clear in enunciation. Frodo wanted Sam with him in bed. Sam kissed him, disentangled himself from Frodo’s arms and pulled up the chair. He was worried that Frodo would be sick and, in his befuddled state, choke. It would be easier to react if he was sitting watching him. He left the bedroom door open as a sign to Rosie, and sat down to keep vigil.

Once he was seated, his misery increased. He had been concentrating on caring for Frodo, but now his mind was free to speculate on what had prompted such an uncharacteristic excess. There was no doubt in his mind that it was tied to Rosie’s announcement, but everything Frodo had ever said on the matter had led Sam to believe that Frodo wanted him to have a family. Sam watched and waited, and blamed himself.



Frodo woke in the early afternoon, feeling as dreadful as he knew he deserved. The sharp pain in his head was insistent, and discouraged him from even trying to open his eyes. His mouth felt dry and all his joints were aching. What had possessed him?

’My dear hobbit. That is a very good question. Will you talk to me, now?’

‘Now? You say that as though I would not talk to you before.’

‘Dear Frodo. You would not listen to me last night, would not accept my help. I don’t believe you were even aware I was there. You were determined to wallow in your grief.’

‘Wallow!’

Frodo groaned. His head was not up to being berated by a wizard. He felt a cool cloth laid across his brow. Thankfully, it covered his eyes and shut out all the light piercing through his lids.

’Yes, Frodo, wallow. Do you really believe that your child will be affected by your possession of the Ring?’

Frodo flinched, and his right hand clutched the star-gem. His free hand was taken between Sam’s garden-roughened palms.

’No... At least... No. No, I don’t.’

‘I didn’t think so. So why wallow in such misery? Because you believe you do not deserve such happiness? Because you blame yourself? You have acted out of your love for Sam. That is as clear as this summer’s day. So why cause him this pain, now? What’s done is done. Will you accept the road you have chosen? Or will you sink in self-pity? Which will harm Sam the most, do you think?’

’Frodo?’

Frodo wrapped his fingers around Sam’s hand, and Sam shifted slightly within Frodo’s grasp until they could interlock fingers.

’Frodo?’

‘Sam.’ It was a sad croak in his ears. Gandalf was right; he was wallowing, and he could feel Sam’s pain. The loss was in the future; would he let it mar what he had now? Something larger was at work, with its own sense of timing and balance. He had chosen this path, but he also believed it was meant to happen. And that, as Gandalf was fond of saying, was an encouraging thought. He let go of the star-gem to pull the cool cloth from his forehead and opened his eyes, just enough to allow himself some vision. The light made him wince. Sam’s face gradually coalesced into almost-focus, and the pain he had caused was visible as well as audible. He wished Gandalf’s rebuke had been less gentle; he did not merit such consideration after his inexcusable behaviour.

He tried to marshal his thoughts into a coherent sentence, and found he could not. He would have to wait until his brain stopped feeling as though it was too tight a fit for the inside of his skull. Still, there was something he could say in the meantime.

He raised his free hand to touch the blurred face. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ he whispered, finding his voice sounded more tolerable if he spoke softly. ‘It’s not what you think. This is my fault, not yours.’

‘Oh, my love! I can’t believe that,’ Sam exclaimed quietly.

‘It’s true. And you’ll make me feel better if you do believe it. I’m not up to arguing with you, at the moment. I’m very happy about the babe. Just let me get over this abominable hangover, and then I’ll dance for joy, if that’s what it will take to convince you.’

The mention of his hangover seemed to divert Sam. ‘There’s hot water heating for you to take a bath, and Rosie’s made you some soup. She’s got some willow bark infusing for you, but she says it’s best to eat something first.’

Frodo groaned. ‘Stop it, Sam,’ he cried, with a brusqueness he had not intended. He winced as his voice reverberated in his head, and winced again at Sam’s hurt expression.

He put his hand over his face. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ he said again. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I can’t bear you treating me as though I deserve any consideration. I don’t. I’m just a drunken sot.’

His hand was removed by Sam, and a kiss was pressed on his forehead.

‘You are in a bad way,’ said Sam, and Frodo was relieved to see his lips twitch into a smile. ‘Even if it was true, do you really think that would make me care for you any the less? Now, will you try sitting up and seeing if you can stomach some soup?’

Sam helped Frodo to sit up and tucked a couple of pillows behind him. ‘Have a sip of water,’ he said, passing Frodo a glass. ‘I’ll just be getting you some of Rosie’s broth.’

After Sam had been gone only a minute or two, there was a patter of feet, and Rosie ran into the room. Here was someone else he had given pain to. She dropped into Sam’s chair and also took his hand. Her brows were pulled together in a worried frown, and she was biting her lip.

‘It’s all right, Rosie,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve made you think I’ve any regrets.’

‘Oh, Frodo. I thought you maybe wished we hadn’t... that the babe weren’t...’

‘No, Rosie. I told you I wanted this child, and I do. It was worrying about the child, and the thought of leaving Sam, and...’ He bowed his head and couldn’t go on.

There was a rustle of skirts, and the mattress dipped as Rosie sat on the edge of the bed. She hugged him tight and laid her head on his shoulder. Her hair smelt of the linden water she used when ironing; it was a scent that had met him at every turn since her arrival. His shirts, handkerchiefs and bed linen all carried the sweet smell, but he never got tired of it. He laid the flat of his hand over Rosie’s belly and sighed, feeling happiness compete with his hangover.

‘Sam’s right,’ he said after a moment. ‘It is hard to believe.’

‘I’ll be swelling soon enough, and then you’ll be able to feel him, kicking away.’

‘Kicking?’

‘Oh, yes. Just little flutters to start with, so’s you’re not sure you felt right, but before long there ain’t no doubt. And hiccups. All babes are rare ones for the hiccups.’

Sam came back in the middle of this conversation and smiled at them. Frodo, looking over the top of Rosie’s head, could see the smile light up Sam’s eyes and smooth out the lines of anxiety. He smiled back, his hand still resting on Rosie’s belly.

‘She seems right knowledgeable, don’t she,’ said Sam. ‘For someone as ain’t done this before.’

Frodo laughed, and then wished he hadn’t, given his fragile state. ‘I don’t doubt she knows what she’s talking about,’ he replied.

‘Not just about that, neither,’ said Sam. ‘Have something to eat, and then you can have some willow bark. Up to you, then: you can either sleep it off some more, or take a bath to freshen up.’

Frodo decided he had been a nuisance enough. ‘I’ll have a bath,’ he said, knowing Sam would keep the water hot for him if he slept again, and that would involve more work.

Rosie stood up and smoothed down her apron. ‘I’ll be getting on,’ she said, and bent down to kiss Frodo. ‘What is it Pippin calls you?’

‘A foolish old hobbit,’ he answered promptly.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Rosie, and smiled at him. ‘But he loves you for it.’ She gave Sam a hug in passing, and they could hear her voice, raised in song, grow fainter as she shut the kitchen door behind her.


Over the next few days, Sam kept a close watch on Frodo, but he really did seem happy about Rosie’s pregnancy, and Sam’s fears and self-recriminations faded away. Frodo had been evasive when Sam asked him what had driven him to drink himself into such a state; all he would say was that it involved the Ring. Sam held him close and didn’t press him.

Rosie was often tired in the weeks that followed, and her breasts were sore. For a while she did not want Sam’s attentions, and it was the glorious times Sam spent with Frodo which allowed him to quietly hold his wife, with no need for more. He smiled to himself at this reversal in their roles.

All things now went well, with hope always of becoming still better, and Sam remembered the wonder of that summer of 1420 for the rest of his life.

Towards the end of Wedmath, Rosie asked Sam to take her to South Farm for a visit. She wanted some womanly company, especially Mari’s, and she also wanted to help her father with his farm tallies. When Sam left her there, she was happily exchanging pregnancy lore with his sister.

Sam took the opportunity of taking a longer walk with Frodo, and they spent a night out beneath the stars, curled together under the one blanket. They returned to the smial in the midday heat and sluiced each other with cold water from the pump.

Frodo threw his sweaty shirt down, his braces dangling at his hips, and Sam tipped a bucket of water over his head. Frodo gasped and threw his head back, droplets of water flying out in the sunlight in a glitter of tiny rainbows. He smoothed the water from his face, and pushed his hair out of his eyes, sending rivulets of water down his back and chest. The water darkened the blue cotton of his breeches and made them cling to his body. He returned the favour, pouring water over Sam, and Sam shook like a dog. They dripped their way into the cool of the kitchen for a welcome drink.

‘Have a rest,’ said Sam, ‘and I’ll get some lunch together.’ But Frodo had other ideas, and they prepared their meal together.

They took a rug and cushions into the garden, and went in search of some shade in which to eat. Part way down the west side of the Hill there was a natural hollow, and Sam had planted carefully to make a secluded retreat. It was cool and shady, but the day was hot enough that they made no move to replace their discarded shirts. They sat close, twined together like new lovers, helping each other to the food. They feasted on cold meat, potatoes, crisp salad, and a mix of tiny tomatoes and goat’s cheese, with basil leaves sprinkled over. There was bread, baked the day before and freshened up in the oven, to mop up the salad oil at the end.

Frodo laughed as the lettuce he was feeding Sam dripped oil down his chin. He licked the trail back to Sam’s mouth, and Sam hastily swallowed the food. His tongue met Frodo’s, and they kissed. Frodo sighed as they parted and laid his head against Sam’s.

‘I’m happy. You do know that, don’t you, Sam?’ he said. ‘Whatever is to come, I am happy now.’

‘I’m starting to believe it,’ answered Sam, putting his other arm around Frodo, to hug him close. If anyone had asked him what he wanted most in the world, he would have said: “For Frodo to be happy.” Sam had thought himself full of joy when Rosie announced she was pregnant, but this was something more: his whole body was singing with Frodo’s happiness.

Within his arms, he felt Frodo stifle a yawn. He might be happy, but he still needed to rest during the day, and the heat and food were having their effect.

‘Finish eating, and then have a sleep here,’ he said, disentangling himself from Frodo’s solid warmth. ‘The shade won’t go, so there’s no risk of you burning.’ They finished their food, and Sam arranged the cushions to make a bed for Frodo. He watched as Frodo’s eyes closed and his body relaxed into sleep. Sam smiled to himself. It was pleasant to just sit and gaze at his sleeping love, but there was plenty he could be doing in the garden and still be within hearing distance. As happy as Frodo seemed, Sam didn’t like to be far away.

Sam checked on Frodo at regular intervals, and each time his love was sleeping peacefully. Finally he cleared away his tools and headed back to the hollow. If Frodo was still asleep, Sam had every intention of waking him, but there was no need. He found Frodo lying on his front, propped up on his elbows, reading. He was so engrossed in his book that he was unaware of Sam’s return. Sam stood for a moment, watching him.

He was delighted that Frodo had lost the gauntness that had so worried him in the spring. He was still lean, but it was no longer possible to count every rib from a distance. There was no inner glow visible in this bright summer light, and Sam let his breath out slowly at the thought of touching that creamy skin. His lips tingled and this whole body throbbed in response to his growing desire. ‘Oh, Eru,’ he thought. ‘I love him.’

Quietly, he released his breeches, and with a swift, smooth action, slipped them off, along with his cotton drawers. He left them unheeded where they fell, and knelt to straddle Frodo’s hips. He spread his hands over the warm back, sliding them up over Frodo’s shoulders, and leant forward to bite lightly at Frodo’s neck.

Frodo gasped at the first touch, and then hummed with pleasure. He turned beneath Sam, brushing against Sam’s erection as Sam knelt up to give Frodo room to roll over. Sam settled back across his hips again, and ran his hands over Frodo’s chest. Frodo’s gaze flicked down and then back to Sam’s eyes, and his smile widened. He put his hands behind his head, arching his body slightly, and Sam met him with answering pressure.

‘Oh, hello, Sam,’ he said, nonchalantly. ‘Were you wanting something? Only I’m rather busy this afternoon.’

Sam made a show of considering this, while watching Frodo’s nipples tighten and rise in response to the lazy circling of his thumbs over the dark areolae. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he answered at last. ‘I think I have everything I could want, right here. And,’ he added, increasing pressure over Frodo’s breeches and rocking forward to make it more interesting, ’I don’t think you’re going anywhere, so you’d best be busy with me, I reckon.’

Frodo freed one hand from behind his head and reached up to hook it around Sam’s neck and draw him down into a kiss. Sam’s erect shaft brushed against Frodo’s belly again as they shifted position, and Frodo’s other hand was there in the merest heartbeat, caressing and stroking. Sam moaned into the kiss, hungry mouth meeting hungry mouth, tongues working together. It was rough and demanding. Frodo was making a low growling noise in his throat, and combined with what Frodo’s hand was doing to him, Sam was close to losing control. He sat back, while his mind still had any say in the matter.

‘Not... so... fast,’ he panted. Frodo folded his hands behind his head again, going from urgent movement to calm stillness in a moment.

‘So what have you being doing this afternoon, Sam?’ he asked, as though they had merely been exchanging inconsequential niceties since Sam joined him. Sam didn’t answer immediately. He flipped the buttons on Frodo’s breeches and slipped his hand inside the flap. The assumed look of polite interest faded from Frodo’s face. His eyes slowly closed, and his neck arched as his head tilted back, exposing the throb of his pulse. He made a sound that sounded to Sam like ‘gngh.’

‘Let’s see,’ said Sam, loving the view, his hand busy all the while. ‘I trimmed the grass round the paths, and clipped the hedges. I did a bit of hoeing, but there ain’t that many weeds at the moment. Too dry. I did some deadheading and took some cuttings.’ He withdrew his hand, and Frodo opened his eyes. A raised eyebrow asked Sam why, in the name of the Valar, he had stopped.

‘Would you like me to continue?’ asked Sam, innocently.

‘And if I say “Yes”, you’ll tell me you watered the window boxes and turned the compost,’ said Frodo, laughing, ‘and you’ll think of a myriad of other things to tease me with, whether you did them or not.’

‘As if I would!’ said Sam, his lips twitching. Damn, he really does read my mind. ‘So would you like me to continue?’

‘Yes, Sam. I would very much like you to continue.’

‘Well, then, how did you know? I did water the window boxes, but I didn’t give a thought to the compost. I raked over the gravel on the path...’ He stopped. Frodo was writhing beneath him, and the result was... interesting. He trapped Frodo’s wrists, to pin him down more effectively, and measured his length along Frodo’s body. For a moment, he gazed into Frodo’s eyes, aching with longing, and then their lips met again. He released Frodo’s wrists, to cradle his head, and Frodo’s arms folded around him.

The rough urgency of before was gone; the tempo was gentler, their joining full of tenderness. It spoke of what they could give, not what they could take. As they parted, and looked into each other’s eyes again, there was no laughter, just a deep need to express - by look, or touch or inadequate words - how much they loved each other. Frodo traced Sam’s features with his fingertips, and the uneven sensation between left and right added poignancy to the moment.

‘I love you, my master,’ Sam whispered, and he kissed Frodo’s forehead.

‘Master?’

‘Always. Always my master. You hold my heart.’ He eased himself away; Frodo’s breeches had become an inconvenience to be rid of. Frodo raised himself on his elbows to watch, as Sam drew the breeches off him and returned to kneel between his legs.

‘Then you are my master, Samwise.’ They smiled at each other, at the unintentional play on words.

‘I’ll agree I’m your Master Samwise,’ said Sam. ‘No more.’ He bent down. His hand wrapped around Frodo’s shaft, lifting the swollen tip to his lips, so he could nibble and lick. Frodo went still beneath him, and Sam twisted his head to look at Frodo’s face, even as he swirled his tongue around the willing, tumid captive.

Frodo’s features had gone slack, his lips full, his face flushed. His breath was deep and uneven. Sam knew how it would go. The uneven breath would turn to a rising crescendo of cries, the stillness would be supplanted by arching body and urgent thrusts. Fingers would fiercely tangle in his hair, and suddenly all would go still again. Frodo would hang, poised for the wave to break in a wild rush, and then with a cry he would thrust again as he was tumbled and submerged by the flood of release.

Just the thought of Frodo’s seed pulsing into him quickened Sam’s breath and made him moan. He closed his eyes, and his world contracted to the feel of Frodo beneath his lips and tongue. The only way to better this was for Frodo to truly penetrate Sam, for Sam to tighten around him as the deep thrusts rocked his body, and for Frodo to find the angle that shattered Sam’s conscious thoughts and found outlet in his voice. In that place, there were only feelings, almost unbearable in their intensity, and then relief as he climaxed into Frodo’s waiting hand.

Frodo’s voice, as uneven as his breathing, broke into Sam’s memories. ‘Not so fast, Sam,’ he gasped. Sam smiled at the echo of his earlier plea. He was enjoying himself, but if Frodo wanted to go slowly, then so did he. Frodo’s hands hooked beneath his shoulders, and pulled him to cover his body. They both eased their positions, to find the most comfortable fit, and Sam pushed himself up, propped by his elbows, and slowly rocked his hips against Frodo’s. He always worried about letting Frodo’s slender body take all his weight. Shifting his balance to one arm, he stroked the hair back from Frodo’s flushed cheeks and smiled into his eyes.

‘What would you like, nîn melethron?’ he murmured. ‘Always remembering your Sam’s naught but a fool, and ain’t brought no oil.’

Frodo’s smile widened again, and his hands slid all the way down Sam’s back to press and squeeze. His eyes gave the merest flicker in the direction of the luncheon debris, and Sam laughed outright.

‘All right, I really am naught but a fool,’ he said. At full stretch, he could just reach the tray to hook it into closer reach, and then the oil was in his hand. He raised an eyebrow; he knew which way he wanted - had just been fantasising about that very thing - but it was what Frodo wanted that mattered most to Sam. It wasn’t as though the alternative was in any way unwelcome.

Frodo reached for the small flask, his own face making query back to Sam.

‘Yes, oh, yes,’ breathed Sam, and covered Frodo’s mouth with his, trembling with anticipation. For the moment, Frodo showed no sign of moving from his recumbent position, and the dance was so well known to them, in all its variations, that Sam did not need words or hands to guide him. He straddled Frodo again, the only difference being that he turned about, and settled back to his exploration of Frodo’s erection. Frodo gave a deep hum of pleasure, which mingled a moment later with Sam’s. Frodo was giving Sam the same attention as he was receiving: lips, tongue and gentle teeth, all busy.

Their movements mirrored each other’s, until their breath was ragged again. Just as Sam thought he could bear the wait no longer, Frodo slid oil-slick fingers where Sam longed to feel them, probing and exploring. His back arched as he rocked into Frodo’s touch, offering him entry, his whole body wordlessly crying out for more. A cry escaped him as the oil was spread, and one finger, then a second, gently penetrated, sweeping back and forth, stretching and relaxing the delicate tissue. Combined with Frodo’s busy tongue, it was enough to push him to the edge.

He raised his head. ‘Frodo, please, Frodo,’ he begged. He expected Frodo to ease out from under him, to cover him as he knelt on all fours, moulding himself to his back and taking him with a swift thrust. His whole body was throbbing with the need to feel Frodo move within him.

‘Sam.’

‘Please, Frodo.’

‘Sam.’ Frodo was trying to guide him with his hands. Turn around? It was not what Sam wanted, but that was beside the point. He turned around, kneeling to straddle Frodo’s body just as he had at the beginning. His chest was heaving, and he was on fire with want.

Frodo reached for his own swollen shaft and stroked oil over himself. His face was flushed, his expression intent. A bead of milky fluid leaked from Sam at the sight, and Frodo reached with his free hand to spread it around the tip, stroking both of them together.

‘Frodo,’ whispered Sam. His body was responding to Frodo’s touch, but also to the memory of Frodo thrusting into him. His hunger was for Frodo to penetrate him now.

Frodo’s hand slipped behind him, urging him to kneel up, guiding him onto his waiting shaft, held in readiness for him.

‘I love you, Sam,’ he said, as he let Sam take over, and the catch in his words made Sam quiver. Frodo shifted his hand to Sam’s hip, encouraging him downwards, as though Sam needed any encouragement.

With a fierce joy, he took Frodo into himself, feeling the pain that was all pleasure, as he stretched around the swollen tip. He reached back, supporting himself with a hand on Frodo’s thigh, and paused a moment, letting his body adjust. He bore down, and they cried out in unison. Frodo arched up beneath him, but the weight of Sam’s trembling body held his hips firm. All the control was in Sam’s movement, and he chose deep and slow, never taking his gaze from the dark depths of Frodo’s eyes.

He wasn’t trembling now, he was shaking, and when he felt Frodo’s fingers close around his waiting erection, he drove down hard again. The thigh beneath his grip was rigid as Frodo tried to thrust against him. Frodo’s breath was coming in mewing gasps, and the rhythm of his hand on Sam faltered. Through a haze, Sam saw his love’s face slacken, and felt him still beneath him. He bore down again, and Frodo cried out: an inarticulate outlet for his feelings.

Sam rode the crest for as long as he was able, trying to keep his own release in check. Sometimes they came together, and that was good, but Sam loved to watch Frodo’s face as he came, loved to feel the pulsing within or without. He tightened around Frodo, and Frodo moved beneath him.

Their shifting bodies found the perfect angle, and it was Sam who could hold back no longer. With a cry, his body and neck arched back as the kaleidoscope of sensations swirled into one vortex that engulfed him. He was swept along and submerged in the fierce rush as he shed his seed over Frodo.

As the turbulence gradually released him into calmer waters, he became aware that Frodo’s hand on his shaft was still working with him, giving him the most out of the moment, while within his sated body, Frodo was still all rigid need. Sam’s head dropped forward. He was unable, for the moment, to give Frodo any help. He was trembling all over, his breath still coming in panting gasps, his eyes still closed, but he could feel the pent-up energy beneath him.

With a huge effort, he let go of where he had been, and opened his eyes to look at his lover. Frodo’s lips were parted, his breathing ragged and shallow. He was looking at Sam, but not as though he were really seeing him. Sam thought he had never seen a more beautiful sight than Frodo’s face at that moment, flushed and unfocused. Frodo’s free hand was clutching at Sam’s thigh in a frantic rhythm, as he wordlessly implored Sam to bring him to release.

‘Frodo,’ Sam murmured, moving against sweat and oil. ‘Frodo... Frodo... Frodo.’ Each loving recitation of the name was accompanied by his body’s rhythmic movement. Frodo responded with a rising crescendo of cries, his arching body held firm by Sam.

The stillness, when it came, was startling in its suddenness. Frodo’s arms fell to his sides and his hands lay cupped and open as though in deep relaxation, his panting was the merest flutter of his chest. His eyes slowly closed as his head tilted back, and his body appeared non-responsive. Sam knew better: he carried the rhythm until Frodo cried out and jerked beneath him, and Sam took all he had to offer, reliving his own climax in Frodo’s.

As the pulsating within abated, Frodo fell back, taking deep gulps of air. He opened his eyes, and slowly raised a trembling hand to Sam’s face. He didn’t speak or smile; he just stared at Sam.

With regret, Sam felt the shaft within him dwindle to become small and flaccid, and slip away from him. Frodo’s fingertips were slowly tracing the fullness of his lips, and he took Frodo’s hand in his to press a kiss against the palm. He trailed his tongue and lower lip across the surface, tasting sweat and oil and his own seed.

Always mindful of his love’s comfort, he hooked Frodo’s breeches with his foot, as being the nearest cloth, and leant forward to wipe the sweat from Frodo’s face before drying Frodo’s belly. Frodo sighed and blinked.

‘Welcome back,’ said Sam gently. ‘That was very good.’ He lay down next to Frodo and pulled him into his arms. They kissed briefly, their breath not settled enough for more, and rested forehead to forehead. Their hands made lazy exploration of each other’s overheated bodies.

‘Meleth anim,’ murmured Frodo. ‘That is a very bad habit you have.’

Sam squeezed his hip. ‘And what habit is that?’ he asked, his lips quirking into a smile.

‘A tendency to understatement.’

Sam raised his head to press gentle kisses on Frodo’s forehead, and on each eyelid in turn. Frodo’s lips sought his, and the kiss that followed was full of tenderness and love. They nestled down into each other’s arms, blissfully sated, but the air around them was cooling as the shade deepened with the westering of the sun.

Sam sighed. ‘I think we ought to get back to the smial,’ he said, feeling goose bumps rising on Frodo’s arms. He pushed himself up before Frodo could protest, and passed his soiled breeches over. ‘Just until we get back indoors,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’ll set some water to heat for a wash while I get supper ready.’


Later they lay tangled together in bed, drowsy from their bath.

‘Sam?’

‘Mmmm?’

‘I want you and Rosie to have this room.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘I’m serious, Sam. The dressing room was a nursery long ago. Almost one hundred and thirty years ago, actually.’

‘But Frodo...’

‘No buts, Sam. I don’t need that space, and Bilbo would be delighted to think the old nursery was in use again.’

Secretly, Sam thought Bilbo would only be delighted if the nursery was needed for a Baggins’ babe, but he wasn’t going to raise that spectre again. He looked at the proposition from all angles, and decided that Frodo was right. The adjoining room would make a wonderful nursery, and Frodo would not suffer for the exchange.

He laid his head on Frodo’s shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbled, and Frodo’s arms tightened around him. Together, they drifted into sleep.