Chapter 2: JOY AND GRIEF

All meals in the Cotton family kitchen were noisy affairs, and this supper was no exception. Frodo sat next to Mr. Cotton, very conscious of the empty seat on his other side. Where was Sam? He had expected him back from Bindbole Wood long before this.

He looked at the animation around him, and felt as though he was looking in on the scene through an invisible pane of glass, as though he were not really there. With a great effort he shared Pippin’s news about the successful ambush of the ruffians who had been terrorising the Great Road around Frogmorton. Mr. Cotton asked some questions, and Frodo answered to the best of his ability - not knowing all the details - then fell silent. It was easiest to slip back into his grey world.

Tom and Jolly were arguing over some farming matter he couldn’t follow the rights of, while Nick and Nibs were full of news from Michel Delving market. The two older brothers seemed able to listen and argue at the same time, and occasionally broke off mid sentence to ask Nibs or Nick for more details of gossip. Woven through it all were requests to pass the butter, or for more food, and Mrs. Cotton’s remonstrations when Nick started to intersperse his narrative with swear words.

Only the Cotton women took any notice of Frodo. Mrs. Cotton treated him with motherly concern, while Rosie kept glancing towards him and frowning. If he caught her eye, she turned away immediately.

The noise level rose as the meal progressed, and Frodo toyed listlessly with his food. A headache had started, tight and insistent behind his eyes, and he felt the urge to escape. Finally, he pushed back his chair and stood up. Heads turned as the Cotton family stopped talking.

‘Thank you, Mrs. Cotton, Rose,’ he said, into the sudden quiet. ‘That was delicious, I’m only sorry I didn’t have more of an appetite. If you’ll excuse me, I need a breath of fresh air.’

‘But Mr. Baggins, you’ve hardly eaten anything!’ protested the farmer’s wife. ‘And there’s a nice bit of pie I’ve got for pudding.’

‘No, really, I couldn’t manage anything else,’ Frodo assured her. He was aware of Rose looking at him with thinly disguised dislike, and wondered what he had done to offend her. Maybe it was no more than not eating the food she had prepared.

Eyes followed him as he left the room, and then the babble of talk broke out again behind him. He put on his thick coat and wrapped his cloak around him. Deciding against using the back door, since it would mean going through the kitchen again, he turned to unbolt the little-used front door. Mrs. Cotton appeared at his side as he worked the bolts back, making him jump.

‘Begging your pardon, Mr. Baggins, but I hope you ain’t going to lie out on the cold ground again,’ she said. ‘It’s much too late in the year for such foolishness. The stars are very pretty an’ all, but I don’t see as there’s any call to go staring at them for hours on end and catching a chill.’

‘Mrs. Cotton,’ said Frodo patiently, ‘I’m afraid that what I do is my own concern. If I wish to lie out and look at the stars, then that is what I shall do.’

‘Whatever Samwise’ll say, I don’t know,’ said Mrs. Cotton, looking worried.

‘Whatever Sam has to say, I am sure he will say it to me, and not to you, Mrs. Cotton,’ said Frodo, wishing the bolt would come free.

Mrs. Cotton sucked on her lip thoughtfully, obviously not finished with worrying about her difficult guest. ‘Well leastways let me get you something to lie on, then,’ she offered. ‘To stop you getting wet as well as cold. It’s the damp as does the most damage.’

Frodo smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Cotton; that would be very kind.’

Her worried frown relaxed as she smiled back. By the time he had the door open, she had returned with a large waxed sheet and an old blanket.

‘I’ll get Nibs to oil those bolts for you, sir,’ she said as she handed the bundle over. ‘We don’t oftenly use that door.’


‘I guessed as much, I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’

‘Bless you, sir. You ain’t no nuisance. But I can see why Samwise do worry about you.’

Frodo gave her a tight smile and slipped out into the cool night air. He took a deep breath and felt some of the tension drain from him, but Mrs. Cotton had touched a raw nerve. Sam worried about him, and he worried about Sam worrying about him, and now - now he had caused Sam real pain. He had been hoping that Sam would be back for supper, expecting it really, and without Sam by his side, he had felt lost and empty. He wanted to apologise for that morning: apologise for letting Sam go without answering his kiss, without saying good-bye. He sighed and wrapped his cloak close, huddling in on himself. It all came down to worry. He tried to hide how bad he was feeling from Sam, so as not to worry him, and ended up hurting him and making him worry more. In turn, he had spent the day worrying about Sam.

It had been a relief when the irrepressible Pippin had appeared to lift some of his gloom, and he could share a little of his anxiety, albeit only of the “Sam works too hard” variety. Not the “I’ve hurt him, Pippin” variety, nor the “My body won’t let me make love to him” variety, nor - for this last was locked deep - “Saruman was right, Pippin. I will not have long life, and what will happen to Sam if I die?” variety.

“I’ll look him up in Hobbiton,” Pippin had laughed, “and make sure he’s not working too hard, and send him back to you smelling of beer.” Which was most likely the reason that Sam was not yet back.

Frodo walked a little way down the slope, away from lights and away from trees, so he could get a good view of the night sky. A hazy band of stars stretched across the heavens in breathtaking beauty, and around and about it were set the familiar constellations that had followed him over the long miles. Red Borgil glowed low in the sky, and Menelvagor the hunter was rising over the horizon. Large, and seemingly very close, the Sickle hung above him, pointing the way to the Traveller’s star. The slow wheel of the Sickle around the fixed Traveller’s star was the best timekeeper at night, when the moon was absent.

He spread the sheet and lay back to try and lose himself in the majesty of it all, but his thoughts would not let him. While journeying to Mordor he had rarely allowed himself to imagine returning to the Shire, and when he did it was always a returning to his previous life. He became again the old Frodo Baggins, who did not know about treacherous Rings or perilous journey - or failure. A simple hobbit of the Shire, enjoying simple pleasures: the company of friends, a glass of wine, a long ramble through the countryside with a story by the fireside after. The Shire was always as he had left it, and he was always unscathed. By the time he reached Cirith Ungol, he never imagined returning at all.

Now here he was, but he wasn’t sure who ‘he’ was anymore. Last night had been spent in restlessness and doubt. By the time the grey light of dawn was in the sky, he had reached a state where he wished he had died on the slopes of Mount Doom, and he had given way to tears of self pity and self-loathing. Hearing Sam stir beside him, he had buried his face - and his tears - from view, curling in on himself in his pain. After Sam had gone, he had given way to a storm of grief, but as that abated, he had felt calmer. By the time the sun had risen enough to give a warmer light, he was back in control, and happier memories were jostling for his attention, all of them involving Sam.

There was no doubt in his mind that the time around dawn was the worst for him; a wraith-like world, cold and monochrome. Looking at the stars he tried to make sense of his feelings. The wish that he had died had been a fleeting one, and did not recur now. If he had died then Sam would be dead as well, and the idea of Sam being dead was a twist of pain deep inside. Logic whispered it would not matter if he were dead as well, but somehow it did matter.

He had come to love Sam, deeply and passionately, in a way that was still a wonder to him. The Ring had tried to take that love, tried to twist it and pollute it. It offered him Sam for the taking, against his will if necessary, and met dogged resistance as love held out against It. Sam was Frodo’s weapon against the Ring, and once It had grasped that fact It had tried to make him kill Sam. Twice It had broken through his fragile resistance and made him say things to Sam that he would rather forget. He realised now, he had been in such a debilitated state that the chances of his killing Sam had been small anyway. Most likely the Ring was hoping to provoke Sam to kill him in self defence and take the Ring from him. Love had held out again, and Sam had stood true. Love seemed to be the one emotion the Ring did not understand.

He did not love the Ring. Gandalf did not fully understand when he said Gollum loved and hated It. Frodo could empathise with Gollum’s terrible need. He desired it; It had fed off him, and the loss of It was a loss of himself. If It had not been unmade, he too would have been crawling through the wilderness looking for his precious, his own self.

But he had found himself again, against all probability and hope, he had found himself in Sam. Sam, whom he loved. Sam, who had kept him from the wraith world. Sam, who loved him and had held him safe through Mordor. Sam, who was dearer to him than his own life or happiness. Sam, who loved him despite knowing the very worst of his failure. Sam, whose love and devotion he did not deserve. He had reached out to Sam, and Sam had taken him in his arms and loved him. Right up until their recent departure from Rivendell, it seemed as though Sam could keep him safe and whole - but crossing the Bruinen, Frodo had found just how deep the wounds were.

Frodo shifted a little to ease his body into a more comfortable position, and out of the corner of his eye saw a trail of light. He turned his head in time to see a star shooting across the velvet blackness of the sky. Two more followed, but they could not deflect his thoughts from the memories that beset him.

He remembered they had been chatting and carefree as they approached the Ford. He had not even registered the fact that it was the anniversary of his wounding by the Morgul knife. He had listened to Sam, Merry and Pippin eagerly discussing what they would do when they got back to the Shire, and suddenly he had been hit with wave after wave of icy, cold pain, spreading out from his shoulder. His companions had faded away, and he had been unable to ride forward for some time, seeing again the Nazgûl grouped on the far side of the Ford. The pain had eased but not gone as day turned anew, and when they rode past Weathertop, it had flared again in an icy burning that was like an assault on his mind. He remembered being unaware of anything else except the pain and the fear. Awareness had returned as the pain and fear ebbed, but from that point onward the world around him had not seemed real. He had been tempted to cry out and ask them to go back, back to Rivendell where he had felt safe, but he knew Sam was anxious about his father, and the new fear rose in him that going back might not stop the pain.

The fear came again now, and even contemplating the beauty of the night sky could not hold it at bay. What if he went back, and the horror was still with him? He preferred to think of Rivendell as a sanctuary inviolate, rather than return there and find the change in himself irrevocable. Imagining it was somewhere he could go, he found, was preferable to finding it was somewhere he could not stay. He bit his lip. The coldness seeping up from the ground was matched by the coldness in his arm. He shifted his body again, still trying to get comfortable.

Where else could he go? The offer of a refuge over the sea was not to be thought of yet. That was to admit he had lost the Shire forever. If he took that path, there would be no return, and he had been given no assurance that he would be healed.

And if he went overseas, or stayed and died as Saruman had foretold, what of Sam? What would happen to Sam? He started shaking at the thought and drew the blanket close about himself. If Sam, his beautiful Sam, was safe and whole in the Shire, Frodo could bear anything, face anything. But Sam had already admitted, thinking Frodo past all danger, that he had intended to take his own life when he believed Frodo dead in a high, cold pass far away. Would Sam live, if he, Frodo, were to die?

It was obvious to Frodo that Sam thought he was brooding over Saruman’s words. He heard them again in his mind like a death knell. “Do not expect me to wish you health and long life. You will have neither. But that is not my doing. I merely foretell.”

Saruman was full of deceit and malice, as Sam was always quick to remind him, and Frodo would have been comforted by this had he not already known that his health was gone. This was beyond doubt. A greyness had stolen over him as they travelled back to the Shire, like fog rolling in on the Barrow Downs, that made it difficult for him to respond to Sam’s loving advances. The return to the Shire, which he thought he had saved, was a bitter blow that had almost crushed him under a new weight of guilt. He should have come straight back, he shouldn’t have sold Bag End to Lotho; he had tried to save Saruman and Grima and they both died on his doorstep. He had failed in this, just as he had failed to save Gollum, and his greatest failure he refused to even think about.

Now his world had this strange unrealness to it, and his wound pained him at all times, a dull ache across his shoulder and down his arm. His impotent body was his enemy, and he hesitated to touch Sam, knowing that he could not respond to any desire he might arouse. Everything he did was an effort, and little brought him pleasure. Only Sam could make his world brighter - but Frodo lay out under the stars and worried that if Sam fully understood his need, he would never leave his side.

He shifted his body yet again and rubbed his aching shoulder. He was resolved to do all in his power to avoid chaining Sam to an invalid. His hand moved to his breast, and his fingers closed around the star-gem. It gave him some ease and showed him the way out of his tangled thoughts: he could take comfort in a vision that kept recurring.

The visions had started recently, and seemed to confirm Saruman’s assertion that he would not have long life. He saw the story go on, but his part in it appeared to have ended. He had left the Shire, in death or Westward with the Elves, he knew not which. The most frequent vision was of a line of children, arranged in order of height and dressed in the finest of clothes. The two youngest were giggling and nudging each other, while the oldest - a beautiful golden-haired, slender hobbit-maid - leant forward and shushed them. In the vision, a voice was introducing them by name, and the voice was Sam’s.

The memory of this vision brought tears to Frodo’s eyes so that the stars shimmered as he gazed up, but they were tears of hope, not sadness. If only he could believe that Sam might have this future, because he had no doubt the children were Sam’s. Three were named for himself, Merry and Pippin, while at the end of the line was a small chubby Hamfast and, out of sight, Daisy. Surely these last two were named for Sam’s father and oldest sister. Moreover, Frodo’s namesake was the very picture of Sam in his teens. Frodo called up the image of them from his vision, and smiled as he whispered their names to the stars.

His reverie was interrupted by a shout, and he rose into a sitting position as Sam skidded to a halt beside him. Frodo smiled in delight; it was uncanny what a difference Sam’s just being there made to how he felt.

‘What are you doing?’ gasped Sam, looking relieved to find that Frodo could sit up, and wasn’t in some swoon or fit.

‘Looking at the stars, Sam. Aren’t they beautiful?’

‘Well, I was looking at the stars too, begging your pardon, but I wasn’t lying out on cold wet grass to do it. What are you thinking of! You’ll catch your death of cold and break my heart,’ Sam grumbled.

‘Sam, love, stop fussing. Look, I’ve got my thick overcoat on and a waxed sheet to lie on, and a blanket wrapped around me as well. Mrs. Cotton gave them to me.’ He reached a hand out to Sam. ‘Come and join me.’

Still grumbling, Sam lowered himself to the ground next to Frodo. Frodo could guess what he was thinking: the best way to find out if he were getting cold and damp was to share in the madness. He lay back again, hands behind his head, and resumed his quiet scrutiny of the heavens, but now with a lightness in his heart. Sam was with him.

Sam remained seated, but did not look up at the stars, instead he drew on his pipe and looked down on Frodo, just visible in the starlight. He could see the glitter of his eyes, and a faint glow from his skin, but for the rest Frodo was little more than a dark silhouette. As he watched, the face gradually became clearer until every well loved feature was there, plain for him to see. At first it was such a small change that he thought his eyes must be adjusting to the starlight, but as the light continued to increase, he looked up to the east; the full moon was rising over the horizon, full and golden.

Slowly Frodo turned his head to look straight at Sam. ‘Where have you been, my love?’ he asked. ‘I missed you at supper. I thought you would be back long before.’

‘Touch me, oh please touch me,’ Sam thought. He knew he would have to reach out and caress Frodo soon, but he made himself wait, hoping that Frodo would reach out to him. He wanted to say, ‘Do you love me? What is wrong between us? Is it my fault? Tell me so I can make it right.’

‘There was a lot to do up at Bag End and New Row,’ he said, careful to keep his voice steady. He felt weary and drained after his hard day’s work, and longed for Frodo to take him in his arms and pull him down into a long lingering kiss. ‘Pippin came over and helped me up at Bindbole Wood. He says I should talk to you.’

Frodo looked at Sam and smiled. ‘I’m glad Pippin found you,’ he said.

At that smile, Sam could hold back no longer. He reached out to caress Frodo’s cheek, and leaned forward to kiss him on the forehead and on the lips, lightly and gently. He asked for nothing with the kiss, wanting only to express his love. Frodo drew him down to lie in his arms, tucking the blanket around them both, and kissed him in return. Sam sighed with pleasure.

‘Talk to me, Sam,’ Frodo whispered in his ear.

‘I’m afraid you’ll think I’m not grateful for all you’ve given me,’ answered Sam.

‘Sam, I’m worried about you. I’m worried I’ve hurt you. Talk to me.’

Sam nestled in against Frodo and was silent for a while. ‘I didn’t understand, Frodo, when I went this morning,’ he said, at last. ‘Had I upset you? Why wouldn’t you look at me? Why didn’t you want me to touch you? If you’d rather I slept in the other room, tell me.’

‘Oh, Sam.’

‘Have I upset you?’

‘No, Sam. It’s not you at all.’

‘Then what is it? Please, Frodo - I’ve been worriting all day.’

‘I’m sorry, dear Sam. I... it was me... I didn’t want you to know.’

Sam stroked Frodo’s face. ‘Know what?’ he asked gently.

Frodo took a deep breath, and his voice shook. ‘I didn’t want you to know how near to despair I was.’

‘Frodo,’ whispered Sam, ‘Oh, Frodo. My love. Please tell me.’

‘It was nothing really, a bad night and a cold dawn, with too many memories stalking me.’ Frodo closed his eyes, his lashes casting long shadows in the moonlight, but to Sam it seemed as though there were other shadows there, the shadows of fear and pain. He kissed each eyelid in turn. ‘Tell me,’ he murmured again.

‘I was wondering if it would not have been better to have died on the slopes of Mount Doom,’ said Frodo, with no inflection in his voice.

Sam made a choking noise, and felt Frodo’s arms tighten around him. He couldn’t move, could hardly breath, for the cold chill that wrapped around his heart.

‘It’s all right, Sam. Don’t worry. It was only for a moment. After you’d gone, I started thinking of all we’ve shared together since. I can remember every joy you’ve given me, even if I can’t feel it now.’

‘Don’t worry! How can you say don’t worry?’ gasped Sam with difficulty. ‘I worry about you all the time.’

‘I know you do, Sam,’ said Frodo. He sounded sad. Sam lifted his head to look at his face and saw tears glistening there in the moonlight. He reached up to gently wipe them away.

‘Tell me what to do, Frodo,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m so torn in two, I can’t even think straight. I want to be with you every minute, but I want to give you back your home, and that won’t happen by just wishing it done. I want to protect you, but I don’t know what I’m trying to protect you from. I want to care for you, but I don’t know if you want me to. I don’t even know if you want me - in your arms, in your bed.’ Sam swallowed. ‘In your home,’ he added quietly, and held his breath.

Frodo’s eyes flew open. ‘Oh, Sam,’ he whispered, ‘I had no idea you doubted... I’ve just been assuming things. Let me put it plainly to you. Be with me Sam, live at Bag End with me. Everything that I have is yours. I love you. ’

Sam laid his cheek back against Frodo’s breast and took a great shuddering breath. Relief flooded through him.

Frodo brushed the hair back from Sam’s face, running his fingers deep into the curly brown hair and pressing Sam to him. ‘I’m sorry that things are as they are, Sam. I’m sorry that I cannot love you with my body. It is nothing you have done or not done.’

‘What is it, Frodo? asked Sam, his voice muffled. ‘Can you tell me?’ There was a long silence, unbroken by any night time sounds. Sam lifted himself up and found Frodo was staring at the stars. He gently laid his hand against Frodo’s face, feeling the smoothness under his rough palm. He turned Frodo’s head until he could look into Frodo’s eyes, and fear tightened around his heart. Frodo’s expression was empty. ‘Stay with me, Master,’ he whispered. Frodo blinked and sighed.

‘I don’t know if I can explain, Sam,’ he said, after a moment.

‘Can you try?’ asked Sam, leaning forward to kiss Frodo. He raised his head again to hold Frodo’s gaze with his own, willing Frodo to stay with him and not retreat into his misery.

‘Nothing seems real to me, Sam,’ said Frodo, at last. ‘It’s as though all the colours have gone from the Shire. Not truly, I still see the grass is green, the sky is blue, but I look and everything is flat. Nothing has any depth. Does that make any sense? It’s as though I look at it all from a great distance. People talk to me, and it’s as though they are talking to someone else, far away or maybe long ago. I feel wrapped in soft cotton, and I must fight against it every time I move. It even floats in my mind, like the downy fluff of wych elm. Everything is such an effort. When you speak to me, when you hold me in your arms, it is as though the fog clears a little, and the sun shines, but there is no stirring within me.’ He kissed his fingers and reached up to press them against Sam’s lips. ‘Can you believe that I love you more than myself? That you are everything to me? Can you forgive me? You are a part of me - I am yours.’

Sam collapsed down next to Frodo, and buried his face in the folds of Frodo’s coat. For the third time that day, he broke down. Frodo soothed him, stroking his hair and murmuring words of love while Sam sobbed against him. Joy and grief battled within Sam as he fought for control - joy that Frodo was expressing his love and casting the nagging inner voice out to melt in the darkness, but grief at the depth of his lover’s melancholy. ‘Forgive you?’ he managed at last. ‘There’s nothing to forgive! I was worried I’d offended you or hurt you somehow. It’s me as should be asking your forgiveness, for ever thinking you maybe regretted loving me, now we’re back in the Shire.’

‘Regret loving you, Sam? Never!’ Frodo looked shocked. ‘If I can’t give you everything we’ve grown used to over the past months, it’s not through any fault of yours. I love you more than my own life, can you accept me as I am?’

‘You are my love, there is no other,’ said Sam simply. ‘If you hadn’t given me your heart, I’d still be loving you from afar. And I’d still be grieving over how much you’ve lost.’ Joy and grief were still battling together. Joy because it was none of his doing, and grief because Frodo was struggling to return to his normal life in the Shire. He wanted to fight every inch of the way for Frodo’s health and happiness, but there was nothing to fight. He remembered his conversation with Pippin and sighed. He would rather face Shelob or a tower full of orcs than this feeling of helplessness. All he could do was get Frodo home to Bag End as quickly as possible, and surround him with love. He would not ask for more than Frodo could give, although that was a grief in its own right. Losing their joyous union was going to take him time to become reconciled to, but the Gamgees were nothing if not stoical, and Sam was determined he would win this battle with his body’s demands. It was harder for knowing what the heights were like, but he wasn’t about to trade those memories for anything.

Frodo shivered, and Sam was jerked back to the here and now. Caring for Frodo was part of who he was. It looked as though he would be able to care for him to his heart’s content at Bag End, but right now he was allowing him to lie out on the cold ground. He levered himself up, and pulled Frodo to his feet. Standing in the light of the full moon, in clear view of the house, they did no more than clasp each other’s arms.

‘Come back in, my love, and I’ll bring you a hot water bottle,’ said Sam, and he yawned.

‘You’ve had a hard day,’ Frodo protested. ‘There’s no need; I’m not that cold. I want to hear what you’ve been doing.’

Sam slid his hands down Frodo’s forearms to feel his hands. They were icy cold. ‘Hmph,’ he grumbled. ‘Don’t argue with me, Frodo Baggins.’ He regretfully let go of the cold hands, and together they climbed back up the slope, picking their way easily in the bright moonlight. They came to deep shadow cast by a group of holly trees, and Sam drew Frodo to him. He wrapped his cloak around them both and kissed him. To his delight Frodo responded, cool lips and warm tongue under his.

‘I’ll not be long,’ Sam said, ‘and then I’ll come and warm you in the best way I know how, and not want for anything but to hold you close.’ It was a lie - he wanted so much more - but if he told it to himself often enough, he might come to accept it; or so he hoped. Now, at least, he understood it was part of Frodo’s quest-sickness, and not a reflection of Frodo’s feelings for him. His misery was still present, but now it was focused on Frodo’s suffering, which he did not understand.

Grief and joy - but grief had won, and he wanted some time alone to give in to it, before he joined Frodo for the night.