Chapter 3: GLORY AND SPLENDOUR

When Sam entered the kitchen, he was glad to find no one there. Mrs. Cotton and Rosie must have finished clearing up some time ago, and everything was spotless. Copper pots and pans were hung back in their place, and the long table had been scrubbed clean.

Normally, Sam found the Cotton kitchen a comfortable place, warm with memories of huge chaotic gatherings made up of Cotton children and friends. Mrs. Cotton’s baking was an irresistible draw to young, growing hobbits who had been out playing by the Bywater Pool. But it was more than that; for years she had mothered him, fussed over him, and filled a need that the Gaffer, for all his care, couldn’t meet.

Now it was with leaden feet that Sam trailed slowly over to the range and placed the large kettle onto the hot plate. He checked the fire, but it had been recently replenished, and more wood was stacked ready for the morning. Sam felt a pang of guilt; he should, at the very least, have helped draw water from the well and bring in more firewood.

The range was not that hot, and the kettle would take a while to boil. While he waited, he found a stone hot water bottle and set it ready, then sat down at the table with his head in his hands.

‘I’ll make sure I do more to help tomorrow,’ he thought. A headache had started hammering behind his eyes, and a chaotic tangle of thoughts churned in his mind. Memories of flirting with Rosie in this kitchen rose unbidden. He had thought he loved her, he still did love her in a way, but the journey there and back again had opened his eyes to a greater love.

And what of his greater love?

When had everything changed, he wondered. For a while the sun had shone, in glory and splendour. When had the black clouds appeared to darken his world? Listening for the hiss of the kettle he wandered in his mind, down the long miles between his joyous discovery of Frodo’s love in Ithilien, all the way to this quiet kitchen where he now sat. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to gather his thoughts through the thumping in his head.


In Ithilien and Minas Tirith they had loved and laughed. Frodo was changed, yes. Quieter, and content to sit and listen to the chatter of Pippin and the careful thoughts of Merry. Sam had been the one who could most often bring the laughter to Frodo’s lips with some dry comment, but Frodo watched the younger hobbits and smiled, sitting in the sun in their courtyard, high in the city. He had occasionally joined in the conversations and banter, but had seemed more content to listen. Sam smiled to himself; he too had been rather quiet, with a tendency to fall asleep in the sun. Merry and Pippin had commented on it, but he hadn’t risen to their bait, just smiled a slow languid smile at the thought of why he was so tired. As they had pointed out, it wasn’t from lack of going to bed.

Thinking back, Sam smiled again. It was the passion of their love that he remembered, and he clung to the memory it. Pippin was right, he and Frodo had a love that transcended their physical relationship, but he needed time to grieve the passing of something that had given them so much joy.


He entered their room whistling quietly to himself. After the brightness of the courtyard the room was dark and cool, heavy shutters closed against the hot June sun. One small unshuttered window facing the mountains let in a little light, but it took his eyes a while to adjust. As he pushed the door to behind him, he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye. Before he knew what was happening, he was slammed against the door and pinned there by pressure of body, and twining limbs, and hot mouth on his.

‘Where have you been, Sam?’ Frodo murmured in his ear, his voice a low rumble of desire, which made Sam fervently wish he’d not stopped to talk to Legolas about the state of the gardens in the city. Still, he wasn’t going to let Frodo have it all his own way. He heaved himself away from the door, twisted quickly, and then it was Frodo who was at his mercy. Sam increased the pressure of his body against Frodo’s, and nipped his ear tip with his teeth.

‘Wherever I’ve been, I’m back now,’ he growled. ‘I thought you were taking a nap.’ He could feel that Frodo was naked under his light tunic, and his breath quickened. His chest felt tight, and a fire of need flared into being in his belly. He gently nibbled his way down the ear, at the same time running his hand up Frodo’s neck to lift the hair away from the ear lobe so he could softly suck and bite on it unhindered.

‘A nap is only waiting for something to happen in bed,’ Frodo answered huskily, wrapping one leg around the back of Sam’s calf, and rubbing up and down.

Sam laughed. He lifted Frodo to allow him to wrap both legs around his body, and then pressed him hard up against the door again, running his hand slowly up under the tunic, loving the way Frodo quivered at his light touch. The tightness of Frodo’s thighs around him, the way their bodies pressed together, and the feel of warm skin beneath his hand, made him feel light-headed. He realised he was trembling as well. In the dim light, Frodo was a faint glow in his arms, head thrown back, lips parted. The long line of neck invited Sam to bend his head and nuzzle his face into the honey-scented warmth with little cries of delight. He ran his tongue up over the smooth creamy skin; a pulsing, fast and strong, matched his own rapid heartbeat and was echoed in his deep throbbing need. Slowly, he rubbed his body back and forth between Frodo’s encircling legs, and Frodo made a small whimpering sound.

Sam raised his head, ‘Mmm, you taste... like...,’ he murmured breathlessly, but Frodo’s mouth closed over his before he could decide what the taste was like, and their tongues slid over each other in a joyful meeting. He was aware that Frodo was trying to pull his shirt out from the back of his breeches, struggling to reach below Sam’s clothes to run his hands over bare flesh. Frodo tried to curse, with his mouth still locked over Sam’s, and the unintelligible expletives and tangle of tongues set them both laughing.

‘You’re wearing far too much, my love,’ Frodo said, unwrapping his legs and sliding to the ground, (and wasn’t that a lovely feeling). ‘Let me help you take something off.’

They left a trail of clothes strewn between the door and the bed, kissing and caressing as they went, until they were naked in each other’s arms, and the soft, welcoming bed seemed the only sensible place to be.

They wrestled briefly, and then Frodo was lying on his back. Sam straddled his body, griping with his knees, and leant over him, his mouth lifting into a smile. His hands were locked around Frodo’s wrists, pinning his arms above his head, and both of them were breathing heavily from the exertion and excitement. Frodo’s hair was spread in disarray over the pillow, his face flushed, and his mouth part open as he panted. It was a beautiful sight, and Sam’s smile faded as he gazed down at him, overwhelmed by the power of the love he felt. He was filled to overflowing with happiness, and knew it would take only the smallest thing to make tears flow. He looked into Frodo’s eyes and was drawn, unresisting, into their dark depths.

‘I love you,’ whispered Frodo, his breath catching, and Sam’s vision blurred. He released Frodo’s wrists and collapsed down on him, burying his head into the hollow of Frodo’s neck. Frodo’s arms wrapped tightly around him, and his fingers twined into Sam’s hair, cradling him close.

‘Sam? What is it, dear one?’

‘It’s naught but so much love I don’t hardly know what to do with myself,’ Sam answered, lifting his head to look at Frodo again. Frodo raised a hand to Sam’s cheek and gently wiped a tear away with his thumb. He drew him down to settle him in his arms again, and kissed him on the forehead.

‘Come here, my love,’ he murmured. ‘There’s no hurry.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Frodo stroked his hands slowly down Sam’s back. ‘Hush, love. That’s not something you ever have to say to me.’

Sam lifted his face to kiss Frodo, and Frodo bent to meet him. It was slow and quiet, a comfort kiss, but it didn’t stop there. Gradually, the pace quickened, and the kiss waxed into urgent, mutual need. Sam eased himself into a more convenient position. He rocked his body against Frodo’s, pressing and rubbing, and the rhythm of their mouths and bodies flowed into one harmonious whole. Frodo made a deep humming noise in his throat, his hands urging Sam to move faster, harder against him. As Sam responded, Frodo suddenly gripped him tightly over the hips.

‘Stop. Stop! I’m too... I can’t... not yet.’

Sam eased himself away. Frodo’s chest was heaving, and he was quivering in a way that made Sam’s own breath catch in his throat. He ran his hands in wide circles over the lean chest, and lightly brushed his fingers over the nipples. Frodo tensed beneath him and arched his back, silently begging for more, and Sam leant forward, drawn by dark smudge of aureola against pale, translucent skin. His tongue circled first one way, then the other - teasing and tantalising - before his mouth closed over the whole area to suckle.

Frodo’s fingers wound tightly into his hair, and Sam reached up, blindly, to stroke Frodo’s face. He gave a soft moan of pleasure as Frodo took his hand and drew a finger slowly into his mouth. Sam felt as though he’d been at his old Gaffer’s home-brew: light headed and mildly inebriated. It was the scent of Frodo, the feel of him, the loving and being loved. It was the sheer want that filled his mind and body.

Frodo was trying to draw Sam back into his embrace, wordlessly demanding more contact again, but Sam had other ideas. The more potent the brew, he reasoned, the slower it should be sipped. He’d learnt that lesson first time he’d drunk the Gaffer’s Winter Warmer. It slipped down the throat a treat after a cold day’s work, but first time he’d tried it, he’d downed two pints of the dark, sweet liquid quickly, and been nigh on unconscious for the whole evening. The hangover had lasted best part of two days. While he didn’t expect to be suffering from a hangover after this, it seemed to him that a little sipping was in order. He wasn’t going to hold out much longer otherwise, and neither was Frodo; not the way he was bucking and moaning. The longer they took, the better it was, and that was a marvel he’d never considered before. He had already found by practice, how to bring Frodo almost to the edge, and then ease back, leaving him gasping and crying for more, until he came so hard all he could do was cling to Sam, as though he would never find his way back to the here and now without this anchor.

Ignoring Frodo’s soft mew of disappointment, Sam moved away. He reached for the massage oil and stretched further for a towel. Frodo smiled at him in delight. Sam’s massages had come a long way since Ithilien. The only drawback - from Frodo’s point of view - was Sam’s insistence that he work unhindered by Frodo’s wandering hands. It had taken some time for Sam to convince Frodo that doing this service for him gave Sam intense pleasure as well, but finally he had got his own stubborn way.

Now, Frodo caught Sam’s arm as he nearly overbalanced, and pulled him back. He ran his hands over the bunched muscles of Sam’s arms, and sighed as Sam looked at him pointedly.

‘It’s all right, Sam,‘ he said. ‘I’ll be good.’

‘I know you will be, my love; none better,’ replied Sam, happy in the knowledge the best was yet to come. Frodo laughed and made himself comfortable. He allowed one hand to slide down between Sam’s legs, to briefly squeeze and caress, before letting his arms fall to his sides.

Kneeling between Frodo’s legs, Sam leant forward to dry the sweat from his body, rubbing over his chest and belly and down between his legs. He had the foresight to leave the towel within easy reach; there was no doubt at all, it would be needed later. He warmed the oil, and ran his slicked hands all the way down the outside of Frodo’s body, continuing smoothly down his legs to his feet. Avoiding the hair, curling neatly over the top of each foot, he ran his hands from ankle to sole. He paused here to massage along the instep of each foot in turn, his thumbs following each other as they pressed and circled in the thick protective skin. He was working first to relax, to bring Frodo back from the brink of his aroused state, so that he could enjoy the stimulation that Sam planned. Frodo’s eyes closed, and his breathing slowed. His hands, which had been clenched tight, uncurled and lay soft and open at his side. His knees rolled outwards as Sam worked up over his belly, and Sam had to remind himself to keep up the gentle sweep and pressure of his hands, not to just stall and gaze at his beloved in delight.

He smiled as he ran his hands down again, and then slowly up the insides of Frodo’s legs, waiting for the hitch in Frodo’s breathing as he reached the inner thighs and lingered there. Frodo exhaled softly; there was the smallest lift of his hips, and an obvious stirring of desire in response to Sam’s light touch.

“There’s no hurry” Frodo had said, and Sam took him at his word, massaging, caressing, rubbing and pressing just there, so that Frodo’s body arched under his hands. This no longer had any pretence of massage, and his own desire, mounting with Frodo’s, flooded him with an urgent need for more. Frodo stretched out and took Sam in hand, stroking rhythmically, his fingers slick with oil. Sam could not have prevented the thrust of his hips into the encircling hand if he had wanted to.

There was only one thing more he wanted: to feel Frodo around him, to be one with him. More oil, and he allowed his fingers to probe and explore.

‘May I, my love?’

‘Now, Sam... please... now ...’ Frodo begged.

‘Come here, then,’ Sam said hoarsely, his voice a whisper of desire. The bed creaked as they shifted position. Sam gathered Frodo to him, cradling him as Frodo pressed back against him, sweat and oil mingling. Despite his urgency Sam went gently, until movement eased, and he allowed himself to let go and - oh, sweet Eru - thrust as his body was urging. Each thrust met with a sobbing cry of his name.

‘Sam...’

‘Sam... ‘

‘SAM!’

He reached around Frodo’s body to stroke once... twice... and then there was a pulsing beneath his hand. Frodo’s body slammed back to meet him, and it was hard to know who was making the most noise, hard to know anything except a great blaze of love, as they came together in glory and splendour.


Sam found himself shaking at the memory. Was this how the Elves remembered? Every sense reliving the experience in perfect clarity? He felt hot and flushed, and he was hard within his breeches. He would have to give himself some relief later. It was a memory to treasure, but he was no nearer answering his question. When had the glory and splendour been lost? At Rivendell they had lain out under the night sky, and Sam had felt they were part of a great dance as the stars wheeled above. They had made love in harmony, sensing each other’s needs and desires, and it had seemed like perfection to Sam. He remembered wondering if such happiness could continue day after day, for ever. Now he knew the sad truth. No, it couldn’t.

And he had found his answer: it was after Rivendell everything had changed. Almost as soon as they crossed the Bruinen, in fact, and were finally heading home. Frodo had become more and more withdrawn, and after they passed Weathertop, he had stopped reaching out to Sam. He had still responded to Sam’s caresses as they lay under shared blankets, but Sam realised now, Frodo had not made a single move to touch or tease unprompted by himself after that. It had not struck Sam at the time. A shared camp offered few chances of any real intimacy. At Bree their lovemaking had been muted. Sam had told himself that Frodo was just tired, and all would be well once he was home and rested. Then they had reached Hobbiton to find devastation beyond their blackest nightmares, and Saruman’s death had defiled the very doorstep of Bag End...

No! He wasn’t ready to face that yet. He didn’t want to even start thinking about whether Saruman had been ill wishing Frodo, or truly foretelling. He looked wearily at the kettle. It was humming, but there was no sign it was about to boil. Grateful that the kitchen was empty and quiet, he propped his elbow on the table again and lowered his cheek back onto his palm. He rubbed his temple with his fingertips and thought back to happier memories. Rivendell.


He stood looking over the balcony outside their room and watched the waters leaping and churning, always changing, as they cascaded down the valley to the river below. The noise was a continual backdrop to life in Rivendell. He heard no sound of Frodo’s return from visiting Bilbo, but suddenly warm arms were wrapped around his waist, and Frodo’s voice whispered in his ear, low and husky.

‘I’m back, dear one.’

Sam leant back against him. It was amazing how that voice - almost a purr in his ear - could take him from woolgathering to overwhelming desire in a heartbeat. He rubbed his body back and forth, and was rewarded by a soft hum of pleasure that produced an answering response in him, even before Frodo’s hands drifted down to caress him.

‘Mmm, I can tell you’re pleased to see me,’ Frodo said, his mouth still breathing warmth over Sam’s ear, and he rubbed his hand lightly over the bulge in Sam’s breeches. He laughed softly as Sam rocked from side to side under his touch, and then groaned at the effect the friction was having on his own body. Still tantalising Sam, Frodo raised his other hand to Sam’s hair. He lifted the brown locks to kiss under Sam’s ear and nibble his way down to the hollow at the base of the neck.

Despite the warmth of the evening, Sam trembled. ‘Mmmm...’ he murmured in appreciation, and then a soft ‘aaahh...’ as Frodo took a mouthful of his neck, at the same time squeezing hard through his breeches. Sam’s body slammed back against Frodo.

‘Not here not here not here!’ he gasped.

There was a soft sucking sound as Frodo’s lips parted company with Sam’s skin. ‘Perhaps you’re right, Sam,’ he said, and Sam wondered how a voice could caress him almost as much as the pair of hands that had now joined forces to rub his nipples erect through his shirt. What he wanted was for Frodo to slip his hand inside his breeches and bring him to orgasm right there, but it really was too public.

With a great effort, and a sigh of regret, he turned and slid his hand round the back of Frodo’s neck to bring him closer for a kiss. Their eyes met and time seemed to slow around the moment. He couldn’t say who moved first, but suddenly the spell was broken and their lips came together. Frodo’s tongue searched deep into Sam’s mouth, moist and demanding. They pressed their hips hard against each other, moving slowly, rubbing back and forth. The rhythm of their kiss matched the changing pace of their bodies, until Frodo as suddenly withdrew and nipped Sam’s lower lip with his teeth. Sam’s mouth tried to follow and prevent his escape.

‘I thought you said: “not here,” Sam,’ Frodo laughed. He gave Sam’s backside a squeeze and moved away, trailing one hand behind him for Sam to catch and hold.

They almost fell through the door to their room, and Sam kicked it shut in passing. He drew Frodo to him, and cupped his face in his hands to continue kissing him, losing himself in the taste and feel of Frodo. With eyes closed he felt Frodo’s hands on his shirt, unbuttoning it and roughly pulling it from his breeches. No finesse, no slow teasing, just an urgent wish on Frodo’s part to feel Sam naked beneath his hands that would brook no more delay.

Sam’s fingers moved with practised ease to do the same, reaching for buttons with haste. With pauses to run their hands over each other, caressing and teasing, they shed their clothes without once stopping kissing. Frodo was making a low humming noise each time he breathed out, a little hmm...mmm which made Sam quiver. Frodo’s shirt had fallen from his shoulders, but was held at crooked elbows as he worked at Sam’s clothes. Sam pulled the shirt free impatiently and undid the last button on his lover’s breeches; he let them drop to the floor to be kicked away by Frodo. Cotton drawers swiftly followed, and Sam stroked up the exposed skin, so velvety soft over hard, eager flesh. He ran his fingers over the swollen tip and spread the bead of moisture he found there, round and over and round. Frodo thrust up against him and released Sam’s mouth with a soft ‘aaahh’ of appreciation, his head dropping onto Sam’s shoulder.

‘Bed,’ he panted, and pulled Sam to it. It was large enough for a whole smial of hobbits.

They hit the bed so hard they bounced, and Frodo pushed Sam onto his back, trailing kisses down his chest. A little diversion was needed to each invitingly erect nipple in turn, licking and nipping, and then Frodo was moving downwards as his hands simultaneously stroked lightly up the inside of Sam’s thighs. Mouth and hands met and...

‘Frodo,’ Sam gasped, winding his fingers in Frodo’s hair and tugging to get his attention.

Frodo looked up, eyebrows lifting in surprise. ‘No?’ he asked.

‘Of course not “No”!’ Sam panted, lifting his head to see Frodo better, ‘but I can’t reach you like that.’

‘Mmmm, I see your problem,’ said Frodo, and he moved round to correct the unwelcome separation. Sam rolled on his side and drew Frodo to him, stroking and caressing with lips and tongue, but Frodo pushed him back, gently but firmly. He straddled over Sam, supporting himself on knees and one elbow to continue where Sam had interrupted him. Sam saw the advantage of this immediately, and while his tongue and lips returned to their sweet task, he ran his hands freely over Frodo. He found he could reach all his most sensitive places, which had the - oh! - delightful result of making his lover rock back and forth over him.

It was as though the world dropped away. Sam could no longer hear the waterfall or the sounds of birdsong, and even Frodo’s low moaning faded into oblivion. With eyes closed, the only sensations he was aware of were the movements of his lover, around him... over him... within him, and his body’s response; every contact between them amplified until it was almost unbearable in its intensity. Release was close, so close, and suddenly with a last thrust he was there and it was as though the whole world was in that moment. He wanted it to go on for ever as his body bucked and quivered under that clever tongue.

As Sam lay still, drifting back to the here and now, sound rushed back in, and he became aware that Frodo was close to his own release. Frodo was a noisy lover, and Sam could track his arousal by that alone. Now his movements were urgent and hard against Sam. Together they rolled sideways. Sam could feel Frodo’s fingers tightening and releasing on him in an urgent rhythm, and with hand and tongue he brought Frodo toppling over the edge. He tasted salty sweetness spurting and pulsing within his mouth, as Frodo thrust within his encircling hand, vocal as ever.

Gradually, the cries diminished, and Sam swallowed the last drops of milky fluid. He loved to take Frodo into himself like this, to be taken. It was as though they were one, their bodies merging and mingling. They lay quiet against each other, drifting on the back of their satiety as breathing slowed and pulses quietened. Frodo moved round to lie in Sam’s arms; they smiled and kissed and slept.

As Sam drifted up from sleep, he felt Frodo brush the hair back from his eyes and caress his cheek.


He leant his face into the touch. ‘Frodo, oh! Frodo,’ he murmured.

‘Sam? Sam!’

But it wasn’t Frodo’s voice. His head jerked up as his eyes flew open. He was disorientated, lost in his memory. The room was hot and steamy, and Rose was crouched down next to him, her hand on his cheek.

‘Are you all right, Sam?’

‘Yes,’ he mumbled. ‘Yes! I must have... fallen asleep.’ He looked guiltily at the kettle, but it had been moved from the hot plate. A cloud of steam hung above it, and the back door had been opened.

‘You were moaning,’ said Rose, standing up and looking at him thoughtfully.

‘I must have been dreaming,’ Sam replied quickly, but he knew it was a lie.

‘You said “Frodo.” I’ve never heard you call Mr. Baggins that. He’s always “Mr. Frodo”, or “Sir.”’

Sam shrugged, he didn’t trust himself to speak. Rosie hesitated, and then pulled up a chair and sat down next to him.

‘Can I ask you something, Sam?’ she said quickly, frowning and biting her lip. Sam looked down at his hands, and then back at Rosie. He was pained to see tears brimming in her eyes. He didn’t think he was going to enjoy this, but he nodded anyway, and gently took her hand in his.

‘Sam, what... what is Mr. Baggins to you?’

He looked into her eyes and saw pain and hurt. ‘Everything, Rosie. Just everything,’ he answered hoarsely.

‘Do you lie with him? Sleep with him? - Oh! I can’t believe I’m asking this, Sam!’ she cried, snatching her hand away from his. Sam dropped his eyes to avoid having to look at such misery, and found he couldn’t answer - but his lack of denial was answer enough it seemed. Rosie jumped to her feet and burst into tears. Before Sam could stop her, she ran from the room, and the door slammed shut behind her.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to stop her anyway. He didn’t feel in any state to discuss the matter further, to apologise, to comfort her. His headache, absent or unnoticed during his vivid remembering, had returned tenfold.

‘If only I’d known,’ he thought. Known what? That it would be the last time? Sam couldn’t let himself believe that. It allowed for no hope of better things to come. It was not so much that he couldn’t live without the joyful coupling, but it was a marker of Frodo’s wellbeing. And right now, Frodo did not seem well at all. He wished with all his heart they had never left Rivendell, but there was no doubt the Shire needed them. He stood up to see how much water was left in the kettle, but he never got that far. The door burst open, and Jolly strode in looking like thunder and slamming the door behind him.

‘I don’t know what you said to Rosie,’ said her twin, through gritted teeth, ‘but this is for you!’ Sam was too tired and slow to duck, and Jolly’s fist slammed into his cheek. Pain burst across Sam’s face, and he staggered backwards. The last thing he heard was the door slamming again.