Each day dawned bright and clear, with an easterly wind that the Elves assured Sam was driving them on their way with all speed. The roll of the open sea beneath the boat gave Sam some discomfort; he suffered a little from the sea-sickness, but found that remaining on deck as much as possible, and eating frequent light snacks, stopped his stomach from trying to rise through his gorge. Within a couple of days, the feeling had passed.
Even then, he preferred to stay on deck, looking forward as the wind whipped his hair about his face. The Elves came and went around him, and gradually he was able to put names to faces. They all showed him a friendly respect, but he could not prevent them calling him “my lord.”
‘Please. “Sam,” or “Samwise,”’ he begged, and sighed as they bowed their heads and obliged him by calling him “my lord Samwise.”
Everywhere were ropes and knots, some intriguing in their unfamiliarity. He enjoyed distracting himself from his doubts and fears, and his impatience for the waiting to be over, by examining them and learning the trick of those he did not know. Even so, the days passed too slowly.
‘What is Tol Eressëa like?’ he asked his companions, as he sat with them over their noonday meal.
‘That we do not know,’ answered one elf, and the others murmured agreement. ‘We have never left Middle-earth before, but there seems to be no place for us there anymore. It is hard to leave the land we love for the unknown, but we believe we will be welcome in Avallónë.’
‘Avallónë?’ asked Sam, hiding his surprise that they should have regrets as well.
‘A great city,’ answered the elf sitting opposite.
Sam looked up at him. ‘Like Minas Tirith?’ It was the only great city he knew.
‘I think that Minas Tirith, Minas Anor that was, is but a shadow and a memory of the fair city of Avallónë,’ the elf answered.
Sam dredged through his limited knowledge of Númenorean history, gleaned from Gandalf during their stay in Minas Tirith. ‘I thought Elendil and his sons never went to the undying lands,’ he said. ‘I thought that they fled to Middle-earth.’
Those around him nodded agreement. ‘That is true, my lord Samwise,’ one said, ‘but we are told that from the Meneltarma it was possible for those with the keenest eyesight to see a city far off in the West, shining on a distant shore: a great harbour and a white tower.’
Sam decided not to ask what the Meneltarma was - somewhere high, most likely. What he wanted to know was when he would see that distant shore, see it grow ever closer. But first there was the matter of silver-glass. ‘When will we see the grey rain-curtain?’ he asked, as casually as he could.
The Elves looked at each other with flickering expressions, and Sam had the thought that their mouths would have dropped open, had they been hobbits. Then one of them laughed. ‘I once heard Mithrandir tell the lord Elrond never to underestimate a halfling,’ he said. ‘I know not when we shall see it, but how does a halfling of the Shire know of the veil?’
‘Well, as to that, this halfling has met many Elves, but it was Frodo - Iorhael - who told me of it.’
The elf nodded. ‘I once heard it said that the lord Iorhael could speak mind to mind with the bearers of the Three,’ he said.
Sam cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘I believe it was so,’ he answered, ‘although he never spoke of it to me, but he saw the grey rain-curtain in a dream. He was always having visions and suchlike.’
‘Tell us of him,’ another said. ‘I mean, if it pleases you to do so,’ he added hastily.
Sam sat back on his pile of cushions, leaning against the planking of the wall as he drank deeply from his goblet. ‘You don’t know me very well, do you?’ he said dryly as he set the goblet down again. By the time the meal was ended, and the bell rung to signal the change of watch, he reckoned the Elves were in no doubt as to whether talking about Frodo pleased him or not.
Despite the friendship the Elves showed him, he still felt small and alone. He generally sought the solitude of his bed at an early hour and slept fitfully. Lying in bed, it was Rosie whom he missed now, having lain so many years at her side. If anything, his anxiety about the future increased as each day passed without a sight of journey’s end. Would Frodo be there? How changed would he be? Was he expecting the Sam he’d left behind all those years ago?
Finally, something within his old breast rebelled, and called him all the Gaffer’s hard names, from ninnyhammer to daft bugger.
‘So, what it comes down to, Samwise Gardner, is that you ain’t trusting Frodo,’ came the inner voice, sharp and critical.
‘It isn’t that! It’s just I’m old and all, and I don’t know what he will be...’
‘And ain’t you going to love him whatever, then?’
‘That doesn’t need answering!’ replied Sam crossly.
‘Oh, so it’s Frodo as won’t be loving you whatever, is that it? He told you he’d love you now and forever. He told you when he left, “Trust me.” That’s what he said, and seems to me that ain’t happening!’
The voice was a voice from the past, and Sam could even put a name to his sharpest critic: Samwise Gamgee.
In his mind, Sam brought up the memory of Frodo on their last morning alone together. He stood before Sam, tall and too thin by half, his skin pale in the morning sun. Slowly, he lifted a hand to Sam’s face, and smooth fingers slid gently over Sam’s skin. He looked young, so young, to Sam’s old mind, but his smile was timeless. He touched Sam’s lips, brushing his fingertips across their surface, and then pressing lightly against them. ‘Trust me,’ he whispered.
Sam sighed, and the tension eased from him. ‘Yes, my love,’ he whispered back to the dark. ‘I’ll trust you. I always have.’
‘I suppose what I want is for us both to be as we were,’ he thought. ‘It wasn’t time enough we had, and now all I’m good for is sitting in the sun and smoking a pipe, and remembering how things used to be.’
He rolled over and pulled the covers over his shoulder, and wished either of his loves was there to hold in his arms.
In the morning, he woke to a feeling of change, although he couldn’t pin it down. The movement of the boat was smoother, maybe, with less of the familiar rise and dip. He rose stiffly, knowing his back would ease when he had been moving around a little, and climbed on deck. There was a sweet smell overlying the tang of the sea breeze, and he inhaled deeply, stretching and easing his body as he did so. The Elves greeted him with wide smiles and bowed him forward. Sam walked slowly towards the elegant prow that curled up before him, feeling the rising sun warm upon his back. There was a dreamlike quality about the morning, and he was not really surprised when he saw a veil of mist far ahead, gleaming gold in the low sunlight.
He gripped the edge of the boat tightly and stood staring ahead, all his body’s needs forgotten until an elf touched his shoulder. ‘Come, my lord Samwise,’ he said. ‘Come and break fast. It is farther away than you might think. It is likely that we will take all day to reach it.’
Sam nodded, but had trouble tearing his eyes away. He left his lookout only long enough to wash and fetch food to eat while gazing ahead. He sat willing the boat forward.
Somehow, the day passed, although Sam could not remember afterwards who had spoken to him, or what had been said. The Elves gathered around him, as eager as he was to reach journey’s end, but it was evening before they approached the veil. Sam looked up at the sails hanging idly behind him, but it seemed to make no difference to their progress. They glided forward into the mist, and Sam turned his face into the light rain; soon they were all beaded with water droplets. Darkness gathered, but no one moved; they stood together, breathing in the sweet scent, and suddenly there was a song filling the air around them. Like lark song, Sam thought, as it poured down upon them, swept about them, and came foaming up from the water beneath the bow. It seemed to him as though he were wrapped inside of it, inside a song, and that it spoke to him of love and a deep yearning.
The night went by, but Sam had no thought of leaving his vantage point, and suddenly the song built around him into a triumphal paean. The sun rose behind to reflect back in a silver pearly sheen, sparkling like dew on a bright morning, shimmering through his tears of pure joy. ‘Oh!’ he cried, overwhelmed by the fact that he, Samwise Gamgee, humble hobbit of the Shire, was permitted to be there. ‘Frodo!’
He breathed the beloved name as the mist lifted from before his eyes, and he saw the distant land. He could not see the details - the white shore or the green hills - but here indeed was Frodo’s vision. Almost, he expected another song to burst into knowledge within, but there, all was silent.
The wind picked up from the south, and the sails flapped aimlessly. The Elves, who had been staring out as eagerly as Sam, jumped to quieten them and bring the boat on course towards the distant shore. The boat was heeling slightly now, and the sails were pulled in, ropes jammed into cleats to hold them fast as elf called to elf. Sam looked at the Elves in concern, not liking the way the edge he was gripping dipped towards the water. The Elves just laughed, seeming to exhilarate in the mad rush of the water beneath the keel.
Still far away, Sam could see a small brown sail, racing up the coast before the wind, to disappear as it reached a white tower shining out from the line of land. Avallónë, he guessed, and he longed to have been on that craft, to have arrived already. The shores, gleaming white at the base of dark purple cliffs, were clear to see now, and beyond, the green hills rose to wooded slopes that gave way to cloud-wreathed mountain, but Sam only had eyes for the white tower calling him home.
Their course swung back and forth amidst flurries of activity, the white tower appearing now on this side, now on the other, but slowly, so slowly, coming closer. Gradually, Sam could see the rest of the city, climbing up from the coast in dazzling white. As the light faded, the main sail was furled, and they moved slowly into the harbour. Sam ignored the activity behind him, and his eyes scanned the stone quayside. Only two figures stood there waiting, shining with a light that dispelled the evening shades and dazzled his eyes. Tall they seemed, great lords, revealed in all their glory. The words from Frodo’s letter were engraved in Sam’s mind, and he had no need to pull it from its accustomed place next to his heart.
And if you come, and I am not there to greet you? Will you believe that I have failed in my love for you? Or will you know that if love alone could have kept me drawing breath then I would have been there at your coming, to welcome you with words of love and hold you to me with joy?
Sam bowed his head. ‘He is dead, then,’ he thought. It explained the silence in his heart.
‘Mithrandir! That is surely Mithrandir,’ said the elf at his side, and at that Sam raised his head and tried to look through the tears that blurred his eyes. Yes, Gandalf would be the one to tell him.
‘Who is with him?’ came murmured questions, and the answer given back was no answer.
‘A great Elf lord, surely. Glorfindel, maybe. That is a great honour!’
‘Honour?’ thought Sam wearily. He had no wish for honour. His mind was plunging into the blackness of grief, and his loss of both Frodo and Rosie was threatening to overwhelm him. His comfort was knowing that he would not be long to follow; he had said so long ago, and knew it to be true. His tears blurred his vision, and he wished the waiting figures would veil the light that shone about them.
He did not know how he came to be upon the quayside, standing before those who awaited their arrival, but the land dipped and swayed to disorientate him further, and he was bereft of all speech. He stared at Gandalf in misery; all the light was coming from the elf at the great wizard’s side, and Sam could not look at him.
‘Melme cuilenyo, órenya linde an le cene.’
He was aware that the elf spoke, but in Quenya, he guessed, which was all one to him. Unintelligible words, for all they sounded sweet and gave him a feeling of love offered, but the final straw for Sam. He had lost all whom he loved, and he was in a foreign land. His blood roared in his ears and he swayed. Hands reached to support him, and as he fell into darkness, he felt himself lifted in strong arms, and then all knowledge faded.
He woke in the night, and stiffened as he felt the warmth and pressure of Frodo against his back, felt an arm wrapped around his chest to hold him close. A light breath brushed his cheek, and Sam sighed in the peaceful knowledge his love was there. It was a dream, but of all dreams the best, and he slept again in the remembered embrace. Later, it seemed to him that a voice whispered words he could not understand, and a hand gently brushed his hair back from his brow. When he awoke again, his hand flew to his cheek. A kiss! There had been a kiss. He sensed the emptiness of the bed behind him. Frodo was not there; it had been a dream, only a dream.
A golden light was flooding into the room, and by its soft glow Sam looked into his own face smiling down from the wall. So, this had been Frodo’s room; they had had the kindness to bring him here. He pushed back the light covers, and swung his legs from the bed to rise more stiffly than usual and hobble around the room. He tried to feel Frodo’s presence, but there was nothing. The light drew him through part-opened shutters, and he leant on a balcony rail, looking down a dim valley, towards the grey sea.
In his misery, it took him a moment to realise what was wrong. Everywhere was muted in the chill light that heralded the imminent rise of the sun; all the glow of gold was behind him, casting his shadow on the balustrade.
He whirled round, and there was the source of the light, sitting cross-legged with his back against a pillar. Dazed and dazzled, it took Sam a moment to realise that the figure was small - far smaller than an elf - and that the bare feet, pulled in against his knees, were richly furred. Sam stood mesmerised. This was not Frodo. This could not be Frodo.
Even as Sam denied it, he knew that this could be no one else. The elf-like hobbit was clad only in linen trousers gathered at his ankles, and the light that had been as silver as the moon in Sam’s memory, now glowed as golden as the sun. As Sam watched, hardly daring to move in case this vision vanished, the light faded a little, as though it were veiled. Slowly, Sam knelt on the balcony, ignoring the protest from his knees. His heart was beating wildly, and there was a tightness in his chest which made it hard to breathe. He stared, his mind full of wonder.
Frodo! And yet, not Frodo. Frodo had never looked so solid and whole, so glowing with health, and at the same time, so unhobbit-like. Long hair, lightened by the sun, was tied carelessly back at the nape of his neck to fall forward over one shoulder. His face was no longer thin, but neither had it filled into hobbit-like roundness, and as Sam’s gaze travelled down, the relaxed body was lean, but well-muscled. A silver chain hung around the gracefully poised neck, and the pendant it carried rose and fell to a slow rhythm, sparkling in the light spilling around it. Slowly, Sam took in the jagged scar on the shoulder and the line of whiplash winding around the body; the whiteness of both was startling against the sun-darkened skin. Callused hands were resting lightly in his lap, right cupped in left, and there could be no doubting the lack of the third finger. This was Frodo.
In wonder, Sam’s inspection returned to take in each feature of the face before him, and now he did begin to see his love more clearly: the arch of brow, the line of lip, the cleft chin, the soft lashes laid over high cheekbones. Even as he made his intense inspection, the lips curled into a well-remembered smile, and the lashes slowly lifted. Sam was looking into eyes that had no weariness or pain, eyes that shimmered and sparkled like sunrise on the Water, eyes that were Sam’s whole world.
‘Frodo?’ he whispered. ‘Oh, Frodo! I thought I’d lost you!’
Frodo lifted a hand to caress Sam’s face. ‘Melme cuilenyo, nál vanya,’ he said softly.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Sam helplessly. It was not just the words. How could Frodo be there before him, and yet the song not have reawakened in his heart? Frodo’s brows drew together in a worried frown, and he pushed up onto his feet in one swift movement. He held out his hands to Sam, and pulled him up and into his arms.
‘Oh, Sam. Oh, my Sam.’
The murmured words had a strong elvish intonation, but it was his name, clear to hear. Sam could not hold back his tears; he bowed his head against the solid shoulder and gave himself up into the strong arms that held him, too overwhelmed to speak. The voice slipped into the unknown Quenya phrases, but this time Sam let the words wash over him, just feeling the love they conveyed as a living warmth that enveloped his whole being. He closed his eyes, and a kiss was laid gently on his cheek. Suddenly he knew it had been no dream in the night: Frodo had been with him. The words faltered into silence, and Sam opened his eyes.
‘I’m doing it again, aren’t I, Sam?’ said Frodo, his voice hesitant, as though he were searching for the words. ‘You wouldn’t believe the hard things Gandalf had to say to me last night when I greeted you in the language of this land. Believe me, I didn’t even know I was doing it. You arrived in great weariness and grief, and I came to you as a stranger.’
Sam lifted his head, distressed that he had failed to recognise Frodo, that he was still struggling to do so. ‘Oh, Frodo, I’m sorry...’
Frodo’s fingers rested on Sam’s lips. ‘Hush, dear heart. I should apologise to you. I was too excited to think what I was doing, and your believing I was not there was my fault, not yours. Oh, Sam! I thought I was going to lose you through my own carelessness!’
Sam realised that not all the trembling was his own. The body so closely pressed against his was trembling as well. They stood in silence, but Sam was trying to understand, trying to feel Frodo in his heart. His head was telling him he was in the arms of his beloved, but his heart...
He pulled back to look into those eyes that spoke to him the clearest. ‘Can you feel me as you used to?’ he asked. ‘Do you feel me as a song?’
Frodo shook his head. ‘The song died when I left, Sam. I thought it might rise in a great anthem of joy as you passed the veil, but it has not.’
‘I never knew, Frodo. I never knew it was the same for me, until you were gone. You were a song inside me, and then all was silent... is still silent.’
Frodo smiled and reached to tuck Sam’s hair behind his ear. ‘I know, but it means nothing. Maybe it will come as we learn each other afresh, but I love you, whether or no.’ He stepped back and took Sam’s hands in his again. ‘Dear Sam, I ask no more than that you are here with me. Your presence speaks to me of your love, as surely as any song, and I am full of joy.’
Sam smiled back, but he was troubled. In the movement to tame his hair, he had seen another glimpse of his Frodo; it was like viewing a puzzle that you had to look at in just the right way for your mind to see what was before you. Not only that - the love of Frodo Baggins of Bag End had seemed more than he’d ever had any right to, and now this being of Elven light seemed far removed from the world of Samwise Gamgee.
Frodo watched Sam quietly and released his hands to stand close again. Fingers trailed down Sam’s jaw, their roughness jarring with both his memories and the beauty before him, and then Frodo brought the tips to his own lips to be kissed and to carry the kiss back to Sam. It was a poignant reminder of their parting, and Sam swallowed, trying to keep his tears at bay.
‘Oh, Frodo,’ he whispered, feeling weary and sad.
‘Sam, my love, melme cuilenyo, do not worry,’ said Frodo quietly. His face was grave now, but his eyes held Sam’s. ‘You are tired and weary from loss, and I ask nothing more of you than your being with me. We will rest here a little; when you feel well enough to travel on, I will take you home.’
‘This is not home, then?’ asked Sam, reassured by Frodo’s expressions of love and his acceptance of Sam’s inability to swap memory for reality.
‘This is my house in Avallónë, but it feels more like home with you in my arms.’ His smile was back, and Sam would have liked to just fill his world with the welcoming warmth of it, but Frodo guided him back into the bedroom. ‘Let me show you round here,’ he said, ‘and then we can have something to eat. You must be hungry. Afterwards, we could go to the baths. I know how welcome that was when I first arrived.’
Sam nodded and glanced down at the night-shirt he was wearing. If Frodo had been the one to put him to bed, he must have already seen how age had dealt with his body, and Sam was silent and pensive as Frodo showed him around. They sat in the kitchen, where food was set out ready, and Sam kept trying to steal glances at Frodo, but each time he found Frodo’s eyes on him. He lowered his gaze at Frodo’s smile, but he was beginning to feel a warm glow inside. Frodo’s hand slipped over his, and Sam looked up again to meet his quiet regard.
‘You look so well, me dear,’ he said. ‘I wish Merry and Pippin could see you. All these years we’ve hoped and wished that you might have found health -’
‘Oh, Sam, tell me about them. There is so much I want to ask you!’
It was a good place to start, lacking the sadness of talking about Rosie, or even Elanor. Sam felt easier for sitting over food and drink, and now he relaxed further as he spoke of the lives of two who meant so much to both of them. Frodo interrupted continually, until Sam found the questions and answers flowed naturally. He still found the lilting speech and rather formal phrasing difficult to meld in his mind with the Frodo he had known, and Frodo’s appearance was mostly no help at all. There was also a tendency, when Frodo became excited, for him to fall back into Quenya. When that happened, Sam just sat and gazed at him in delight, enjoying his animation and the sound of the unknown words.
He laughed when Frodo pulled up short, looking embarrassed. ‘Aye, you were doing it again,’ he said. ‘You’d best start from the beginning, because I can’t make head nor tail of it.’
Later, in the baths, his newfound ease deserted him again as he reluctantly undressed in front of Frodo. Frodo stood naked in front of him and lifted his chin. ‘Will you tell me what the matter is, Sam?’ he asked.
‘Nothing,’ said Sam hastily, averting his eyes, not wanting to see the contrast between them.
‘Tell me, Sam,’ Frodo said softly.
Sam bit his lip and looked at Frodo again. He was an old hobbit, overawed by the grace and beauty before him, but he found his voice, helped by the gentleness of Frodo’s touch and the concern in his face. ‘What do you see?’ he asked bluntly.
Frodo let go of Sam’s chin to take both his hands. ‘I see my beloved Sam,’ he said simply, and Sam bowed his head. ‘Sam,’ said Frodo, so gently that Sam felt like weeping at his own inability to see Frodo clearly, ‘be patient and you will find me.’
He let go of Sam to reach up and pull his hair loose. Sam watched as he shook his head and the hair fell in thick unruliness over his shoulders, falling in waves around his neck and down over his chest to hide the Witch-king’s wound. For a moment, it reminded Sam of Elanor, but his eye was drawn to the way the strands fell to part conceal dark nipples, and from there his gaze shifted to other hair, curling from navel down to thickening shadow. There was no contrast of white skin, and Sam swallowed at the implication that Frodo was often naked. He had a fleeting wish to hold what he saw there, to see if Frodo’s desire would rise to meet him, but he knew he would be raising expectations that he could not satisfy.
With no trace of self-consciousness under Sam’s scrutiny, Frodo ran his fingers through the hair at his temples, tilting his head back and lifting the hair away from his face. ‘I need to wash my hair and get it braided,’ he said, and Sam was glad the talk was turned to practical things. Frodo smiled at him. ‘I came in a hurry, and even so I was not long before you in arriving in Avallónë. What about you? Would you like me to wash the salt out of your hair? I would love to do that for you. Bilbo always enjoys my washing his hair for him.’
‘Bilbo!’ exclaimed Sam. ‘But he must be nearly two hundred years old!’ Somehow, he had never imagined that Bilbo would still be alive.
Frodo laughed and steered Sam towards the water. ‘Well, yes. I suppose he must be that old, although we don’t keep a tally of our years. I think the sooner you meet him, the better.’ He guided Sam to sit below him on the steps. ‘Lean back, my love.’
Rather stiffly, Sam did as he was bid and felt the strength of the body holding him. It seemed all wrong somehow, like a reflection in a distorting mirror at the Free Fair. He had been the strong one, and now he was cradled and caressed as fingers skilfully massaged his scalp. The warm water lapped around him, and he closed his eyes.
Frodo was aware of Sam slipping into sleep. The song was not there, but he was aware of Sam in other ways. Almost, he felt the touch of Sam’s thoughts, and his fëa was reassuringly strong. It was his fëa, his spirit, that Frodo saw when he looked at Sam, not his body, which was no more than the outer clothes for the inner light. The baths were deserted apart from them, and Frodo sat in peaceful contemplation of Sam and all that this hobbit in his arms meant to him. He longed for their old intimacy, but he was resolved not to hurry Sam, and if it never came, he would love him still, and be glad to have him by his side. He looked up as an attendant appeared above him.
‘Herunya Iorhael, my heart sings for you,’ the elf said, smiling. ‘Will you permit me the honour of washing your hair?’
Frodo smiled back. His heart was singing as well. ‘Thank you, yes.’ He settled Sam comfortably in his arms and tilted his own head back to keep the water from Sam’s face. ‘It’s very quiet here today,’ he said as the elf worked.
‘Mithrandir suggested that it would be best.’
‘Ah!’
‘Was he right?’
‘Yes. Yes, he was.’ He would thank Gandalf later; it was what Sam needed.
‘He also advised against any feast of welcome yet. He said there would be time for that.’
‘That is wise. My love is weary, and I am not as he remembers me. I was foolish when I first greeted him. Had there been time, I should have cut my hair in the fashion of my people, and put on my old clothes.’
The elf laughed, and Frodo opened his eyes to look up at him. ‘I am sorry, my lord,’ the elf said. ‘It is just that I doubt your old clothes would fit you now.’
‘Perhaps not. In any case, I still would have been too full of happiness to realise I was greeting him in an unknown tongue. My poor love. Mithrandir warned me not to shine out so brightly, but there was nothing I could do about it. All Ninquelótë's teachings came to nothing; I could not find a place of calm, there was only the fierceness of my joy.’
‘He is a small child of Iluvatar, and reminds me a little of you when you first arrived,’ said the elf.
‘Do you think so? That is encouraging,’ said Frodo, feeling confirmed in his view that Sam just needed time.
‘There is not the same feeling of veiled power, but he comes here weary from grief.’
Frodo raised an eyebrow at the “veiled power,” but nodded at the elf’s final words. ‘I think he must find healing for the grief of his losses, before he can find joy in his life here,’ he said, musing aloud.
‘Yes, as I said, he reminds me of you.’ The elf towelled Frodo’s hair and combed it through, while Frodo looked down, studying Sam. The face was sculpted by age, but no less beautiful for that. He leant down and kissed Sam’s brow, and winced as his action snagged his hair in the elf’s comb. He sat patiently while it was neatly braided. ‘Maybe I should have it cut,’ he said suddenly.
‘You are who you are, my lord,’ said the attendant. ‘I do not think that will be necessary, unless you wish it for your own sake.’
Freed from the careful hands, Frodo leant down to kiss Sam again and stroke his face. ‘Sam,’ he said gently, then louder as there was no response. Sam jerked in his arms, and Frodo held him close. ‘It’s all right, Sam. I’m sorry if I startled you. We’re in the baths.’
Sam rubbed his face, and ran his hands through his hair. ‘That feels better,’ he said. ‘I must have dropped off.’
‘There’s soap here if you would like to wash, or... or if you would enjoy... I could...’ He halted at Sam’s doubtful face, and silently cursed himself for not being able to hold to his own resolve and let Sam take his time. He smiled and silently handed Sam the soap.
Clean and fresh after bathing, they walked slowly back through the streets of Avallónë, Frodo letting Sam set the pace. He took Sam’s elbow to guide him through the narrow ways, and felt his own happiness wash over him in a warm wave. ‘Have you any idea how I have longed to just walk by your side?’ he asked. ‘To just know you are here? I found it very strange when I first arrived, if that is any comfort.’
Sam looked at him, and then dropped his eyes to the flagged way they trod. ‘A little,’ he said. He seemed to have lost all the ease they had gained earlier while talking of Merry and Pippin. ‘I can’t quite grasp that I’m really here, that I’m really with you.’
‘You are really here, Sam. If you feel well enough tomorrow, we can travel on. Otherwise, we’ll stay here as long as you need.’ Sam just nodded; he looked tired. Frodo steered him into their house. ‘Come and eat some lunch now, then you can rest. Bilbo was tired all the time when we first arrived.’
Sam spoke little, and Frodo didn’t press him for further news from the Shire. When Sam went to rest, Frodo sat out in the courtyard. After a while spent musing, he got up and set to work on the climbing plants, tying back the new growth. The whole area was a mass of colour, and the bees added their lazy hum.
Frodo was conscious of Sam even before his love appeared to stand in the doorway, but he carried on with quiet deliberation as though he were unaware of Sam’s presence. It seemed best to let Sam stare at him without the embarrassment of being observed. After a while, as the silence stretched his resolve, he reached for a long-growing shoot, knowing it would be difficult to both hold and secure in place. He found he was holding his breath, but let it out with a soft sigh as Sam’s hands closed over his.
‘Here, let me help you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Frodo. He finished securing the plant, rubbed his face and smiled happily at Sam. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Sam looked round approvingly. ‘This is well laid out. It reminds me of the courtyards in Minas Tirith.’
‘Come and sit under the vines, and I’ll get us something to drink,’ said Frodo. He fetched out lime cordial, and they sat together in the dappled shade. Frodo smiled at Sam again, and this time his gaze was held and his smile returned.
‘You have dirt on your face,’ said Sam suddenly. He hunted through his clothes, then just licked his finger to rub it over Frodo’s cheek.
Frodo tilted his head to aid Sam and closed his eyes with a soft sigh of pleasure; he wished he had spread the dirt around more if this was the result, and he searched in his mind for a way to keep Sam at ease. ‘Tell me of your family,’ he said, without opening his eyes. ‘I always imagined you with a large family. Was I right?’
The answer had him jerking upright, with his eyes and mouth open. ‘Thirteen!’ he exclaimed in delight.
‘Well, strictly speaking, twelve,’ said Sam, turning his glass so the sunlight filtering through the leaves made the green liquid sparkle, ‘but I always counted Elanor.’
Frodo nodded. ‘Of course, but... thirteen! That’s wonderful! Oh, I know I once told Rosie she’d have enough children to rival The Old Took, but... but I hadn’t seen them all, it was just a guess.’
‘Aye, well, I’d take your guesses over others’ knowledge any day,’ said Sam, his lips quirking. ‘You were spot on with them down to Daisy, and then there was Primrose, Bilbo, Ruby, Robin and Tolman - Tom, we call him, as you might expect. All bar Tom are married, and we’ve a fine gaggle of grandchildren.’
‘We?’
‘Elanor has six children,’ said Sam gently.
Frodo turned his face to look up into the cool green vine leaves above, their tendrils reaching out to curl around supports that criss-crossed to form the shady arbour. He blinked back his tears, and the next moment he swallowed as Sam took his hand and held it in his lap.
‘Six,’ Sam repeated, rubbing his thumb over the back of Frodo’s hand in a gesture of comfort that nearly undid Frodo’s efforts to control his tears. ‘And the eldest, Elfstan, is the very image of you.’
Frodo lowered his gaze to meet Sam’s gentle brown eyes. ‘Oh, Sam,’ he whispered, voicing a worry that had never left him, ‘is she happy?’
‘She said to give you her love, and to tell you that she didn’t think it was possible to have had a happier life; she said to tell you she often thinks about you, and that you are her dada.’
Frodo bowed his face into his free hand, treasuring both Elanor’s words and Sam’s touch as they sat in silence.
‘She married Fastred,’ said Sam, after a while.
Frodo felt the news like a surge of warmth that spread across his chest and through his whole body. He looked up. ‘Fastred? Pippin’s first? The babe I held?’
‘The very same,’ said Sam, and he shifted to hold Frodo’s hand between both his own, turning towards him on the bench they shared. ‘A fine hobbit, as you might expect; all Pippin’s children are. Warden of the Westmarch, he is, and they live at Undertowers, below the Tower Hills.’
‘Warden of the...?’
‘Westmarch. Gifted to the Shire by the King. They’re known as the Fairbairns, on account of neither of them having a family name, strictly speaking, and your grandchildren being such a fair sight. But your Elanor’s the fairest of them all. Such a beautiful lass.’
‘I wish I could have seen them,’ whispered Frodo, knowing that was like wishing for the moon. If he’d been able to stay in the Shire, unstained in mind and undamaged in body, then Elanor would never have been born; none of Sam’s children would ever have been born. It was like imagining ripples contracting inwards, until there were just two old hobbits who had lived out their lives together, passing away with none to come after.
Sam kissed the hand he held, and Frodo ached to feel those lips on his. He took a deep breath to steady himself. He wasn’t ready to talk more about Elanor, and so he steered the conversation back to grandchildren.
‘There’s a lot of love binding Pippin’s children and ours,’ said Sam, in answer to his questions. ‘My Rosie-lass married Beregond - you might remember him as a babe. They live down at the Grange, now, and Goldilocks married Faramir.’
Frodo thought about this. ‘Pippin’s heir?’
‘Yes, and Ruby married Hildimir.’
Frodo wondered if Sam were deliberately making him think hard about this, helping him through his difficulty in talking of Elanor. He ran through their earlier conversation. Faramir, Bergil, Hildimir and Barard. ‘Pippin and Diamond’s third son?’ he said.
Sam nodded. ‘Then, of course, there’s some as married into the Brandybuck’s line. My Daisy married Théodoc - he’s Merry’s eldest, if you remember - and Robin married Éowyn.’
‘And Merry’s other son? Estel?’
‘Married one of Pippin’s daughters, Emerald.’
‘And they all have children?’
‘Excepting Tom and Barard, but that’s because they’ve only got eyes for each other.’
Frodo smiled at Sam again. ‘I’ve only got eyes for you,’ he thought. ‘So how many grandchildren are there?’ he asked.
‘Fifty-two.’
Frodo gaped at him. ‘Fifty...?’
‘...two, but that includes your six, and you don’t want to start asking how many Pippin has. I couldn’t tell you without a deal of thought, anyway.’
‘And Merry?’
‘Fourteen, but, of course, they all double up as mine or Pippin’s.’
To start with, Frodo had it all straight in his mind, but as the day wore on, he threw up his hands in a sign of defeat, lost in the sea of names.
‘It’s no good, Sam,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to draw it all out for me. You’ll have no one to contradict you, anyway.’ Sam laughed at that, but then looked down as the silence that followed stretched into awkwardness. The timely arrival of Gandalf relieved the difficulty, and Frodo took comfort that his hand was still clasped between Sam’s.
Gandalf was full of questions as well, and the evening was so warm that they brought food and wine out into the courtyard, and the talk flowed better with the wine to help. Sam told them of Aragorn’s visit, and his own journey with Rosie and Elanor to Minas Tirith.
‘And the Star of the Dúnedain?’ asked Gandalf. ‘Did you bring it with you?’
‘No,’ said Sam, quietly. ‘I left it for Frodo - my son that is, not Elanor’s lad.’
‘And Frodo is mayor?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam, and he seemed to be drawing in on himself, his face pinched in pain. ‘Though he couldn’t get to the Free Fair this year, on account... because... my Rosie...’ He lowered his head, and Frodo slipped an arm around him.
‘No need to tell us now, Sam,’ he said gently, and kissed Sam on the cheek. ‘When you’re ready, I’d dearly like to hear about your sweet Rose.’
‘She sent you her love,’ whispered Sam. He took Frodo’s free hand, and they linked fingers as silence enveloped them once more. Gandalf sat quietly waiting, and after a while Sam stirred. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, ‘but I could do with a pipe.’
Frodo looked up from his contemplation of their linked hands and of a hobbit-lass from long ago, and caught a gleam in Gandalf’s eye. He suspected he looked just as eager. ‘You have weed, Sam?’ he asked.
‘Ruby and Hildimir gave me a supply of their finest Southern Star. Better than Old Toby, it is.’
Frodo sighed. ‘That would be perfect, Sam. To sit and smoke a pipe with you. I’ve no idea where mine is, though.’
‘Then good friends must share at a pinch,’ said Sam. He looked at the wizard. ‘Gandalf?’
Gandalf searched his robes, and a moment later both Frodo and Sam laughed as he pulled out a familiar pipe.
Sam stood slowly and winced as he did so. Frodo reluctantly let go of his hand and watched with concern as Sam hobbled for a few steps before his gait became easier; he disappeared into the house, and Frodo turned to look up at Gandalf.
‘So,’ said the wizard, regarding him from beneath his jutting brows, ‘how do things go?’
Frodo slipped back into Quenya and felt more himself for doing so. ‘He still finds me strange.’
‘But you aren’t worried by this.’
‘You see clearly, Gandalf. I have waited... it seems that I have waited sixty years, and I can wait longer. I believe it will get easier as his heart heals. Maybe as his body eases, he will not feel so awkward.’
Gandalf nodded his agreement. ‘When do you plan to travel onwards?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow, I hope, but that is up to Sam.’
‘I think you are wise to go soon. I think he will feel more at home there.’
‘Yes, I hope so. I have thought of it as a home for us for so long, but I must accept that he may not wish to live there.’
‘My dear Iorhael, it does no harm to realise Sam is not your shadow, but I do not think he has come all this way to live apart from you.’
‘You misunderstand me,’ said Frodo. ‘If Sam wishes to live somewhere else, then we will live somewhere else. There is no “apart” about it.’
‘That is good. I am glad you are aware that you might have to follow him for a change. How do you find him?’
Frodo smiled. ‘He is Sam, my Sam, but he feels a little lost, I think. He has looked after me, one way and another, for so much of our time together, that he is finding it hard to accept that now I am giving him my care. In a way, I think we have grown more equal in our experiences, although I think it will take Sam time to see it. He has become Master of Bag End, and I... I have become a gardener.’
Gandalf stared at him. ‘Remind me never to underestimate a halfling,’ he said. ‘Especially such a halfling as you, Iorhael. When did you realise this?’
‘I spent all last night in wakefulness, and finally rose to meditate and calm my spirit. I saw it was so. I also saw that we could not have achieved this together. We had to be apart. I was using Sam as a prop, and Sam’s care for me...’ He looked up at Gandalf, chewing his lip.
‘Go on, my child.’
‘Sam’s care for me would have hampered my recovery. I would not have reached out to the world around me. My dependence on Sam would have defined his life. In our separation, we have been able to find ourselves.’
Gandalf closed his eyes and sighed. He nodded, but the next moment they both spoke together.
‘Sam is here.’
Sam appeared almost immediately in the doorway, carrying his pipe and a pouch of weed. They smoked peaceably together as the sun set and the bats flitted back and forth over the courtyard. Darkness gathered around them, but Frodo’s light was soft, and their shadows remained unchanged.
‘I’ve missed this,’ said Sam suddenly. ‘Sitting with you at the end of a day, and smoking a pipe.’ He handed Frodo the richly-carved pipe, and their fingers met and brushed together as they smiled at each other.
Later, as they retired to sleep, Frodo touched Sam’s elbow. ‘Tell me what you would like, Sam,’ he said. ‘I can sleep here with you, or go to Bilbo’s room.’
Sam turned to look full at him. ‘When I woke last night, I thought I was dreaming,’ he said. ‘But I knew it was you holding me. Somehow, I knew.’
Frodo waited in hope, holding Sam’s gaze. It seemed to be an answer, but he wanted no mistakes.
‘I’d like you near like that,’ said Sam softly.
Frodo felt like shouting for joy, but listened to his own breathing, keeping it slow and even. It would not help Sam if he showed his feelings in a great blaze of light. ‘I’ve missed you in my arms, Sam,’ he said. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
He wanted to watch Sam undress, but contented himself with glances as he unfolded the shutters and spoke quietly of their journey to come. He left the lamps burning while he slipped off his own clothes, turning away slightly so that Sam could watch him, if he wished, without feeling he was being watched in turn. He snuffed the wicks, leaving the scent of candle smoke hanging in the room, and slid in beside Sam. His own inner light suffused the room with a soft glow. Curling around Sam’s back, his body conforming to the well-loved contours, he cradled Sam against his chest.
‘Frodo?’
‘Mmm?’
‘I’m really here, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, Sam. You’re really here, and I love you.’
‘I love you, Frodo.’
They lay in a silence that had no trace of awkwardness to it, and Frodo wondered if not being able to see him was helping Sam feel that this was really his love who held him close. He knew Sam was not asleep, feeling an aura of grief about him, and he was not surprised when Sam suddenly started shaking in his arms. Frodo turned Sam to face him, and his fingers tangled into Sam’s hair as he held him pressed close.
‘Tell me, Sam,’ he murmured. ‘Tell me about your lovely Rosie.’
Sam broke down then, and for a while just cried in Frodo’s arms. Frodo let him, murmuring his own memories of Rosie, until Sam’s tears quietened and he added his own voice. Frodo lay still and listened, until Sam’s loss was made real to him in his simple words, and they joined their tears together.
‘She always treasured your mother’s jewellery,’ said Sam, as his flow of grief lessened. ‘She gave them to Elanor at the end.’
‘It seemed such an inadequate present,’ said Frodo, wiping the tears away from Sam’s face with the light sheet that covered them.
‘Aye, well, we always agreed the best treasure you left us was Elanor.’
‘I’ve often wondered if I did the right thing.’
‘You did the right thing,’ said Sam with conviction, taking the edge of the sheet to wipe Frodo’s face in turn. ‘Elanorellë was always special to us.’
‘Is that what you call her?’
‘Elanorellë? Yes, or “bright eyes.” She has eyes like yours.’
Frodo sighed. ‘I wish I could have seen her,’ he said.
Sam raised his head. ‘And she wished she could see you. She loved you - loves you - dearly.’
‘Thank you, Sam. You give me more than the comfort of your presence. Sleep now. We have a long journey tomorrow, if you feel able.’
They settled together, and when Frodo woke in the early hours, he found Sam had rolled over to press his back against him again. He himself was hard, and yearning for Sam’s hand on him. He slid out of the bed, careful not to disturb Sam, and slipped down to the courtyard, discarding his night-shirt on the way. In the glimmer of his own light, night-opening flowers appeared as a white that was almost blue, and moths were hovering over their heavy fragrance. It was late enough in the mild changing seasons that there was a chill to be felt against his nakedness, but it was no more than a welcome relief from the heat that burnt within. He leant back against one of the posts supporting the vine-hung lattice, and stretched his arms above his head, arching his back into the throb of his desire. Above him, the stars glowed as brilliant points of light in the dark velvet-black sky.
Frodo closed his eyes to them and sighed, conjuring the memory of Sam in his arms earlier that day as the warm water of the bath lapped about them. ‘Oh, Sam,’ he murmured, lowering his arms to slowly run his hands down over his body, as taut and as needful of release as a drawn bowstring.
There were changes in his Sam, but none that made him think of him any differently, and holding him was pure joy. In his mind, it had seemed enough, but his body was begging leave to argue the point. One hand left its light roaming over belly and thigh to seek the root of his need, to stroke upwards, drawing a moan from his throat. Slowly he built the pace, resisting the urge for a swift conclusion; slowly, almost lazily, his hand travelled back and forth until his breathing was ragged with want, and he could no longer hold back the thrust of his hips against his hand, could no longer move with slow deliberation. A few swift strokes, and he let himself go, dropping inwards to a place where there was only the flood of sensations. His light dimmed; even through closed lids, he knew that his light had dimmed as he hung on the brink of release.
His other hand, slick with saliva and the first drops of his fluid, smoothed over the swollen tip. ‘Sam,’ he moaned, ‘oh, Sam!’ And he was there with a blaze of light that flared out, as unstoppable as the rush and surge of his emotions and the wet warmth that overspilled his hand.
He was shaking as he opened his eyes. The rapid rise and fall of his chest gradually settled as his breathing calmed, and he relaxed back against the post to stare up once more at the stars. He wanted to compose himself before returning to lie with Sam, wanted to protect Sam from this fierce need that had brought him from his bed in the middle of the night. All Sam wanted was his gentle touch, his enfolding arms, his light kisses; Frodo sensed this, and his only wish was to give Sam his love without demanding anything in return. He rubbed his nose ruefully, thinking of times past when Sam had done the same for him. There was time and enough to hope that things would change.
When Sam awoke, he felt Frodo moulded to his back, one arm wrapped around him. Here was where he could find the Frodo of his memories, in the warm breath over his ear, and the slow rise and fall of the chest pressed close. He breathed deeply, and caught a lingering fragrance of Frodo’s seed. Carefully, Sam eased himself free, until he could turn to push himself up on one elbow and gaze on Frodo’s face. Raising his free hand, he traced the features that were so well-known, and yet unknown in their new setting of peace.
As he watched, the stillness of repose gathered into a smile, and the golden light, that had only been faintly present, leapt up as though a fire had been kindled. Sam’s fingers trailed over Frodo’s cheek and down over his jaw, so different - such a welcome difference - from the former gaunt angles. Eyes still closed, Frodo turned his head to kiss the exploring fingertips.
‘Mmm. Good morning, melme cuilenyo.’
‘What does that mean, Frodo?’
‘Love of my life. You are the love of my life.’
Frodo’s voice was soft and sleepy, and Sam was transported to another time, another place, when he had often drawn Frodo into wakefulness with his love. He bent down and touched his lips to Frodo’s in the lightest of kisses, and Frodo’s eyes flew open. Sam smiled down at him. ‘Say something else,’ he said. ‘In Quenya.’
Frodo sat up at that, all trace of sleepiness gone. Now he was leaning over Sam, holding his gaze with shining eyes. ‘An ilye elen menelesse, nál vanya; melinyel,’ he murmured. ‘Órenya linde an le cene.’
The lilting words seemed to flow over Sam, a caress of music, and he sighed. ‘That sounds beautiful,’ he said.
‘You are beautiful.’
‘And you’re a mad Baggins.’
Frodo laughed, and his delight was clear to see. ‘And you’re a stubborn Gamgee,’ he said, ‘who refuses to believe the simple truth.’ He slid his legs from the bed and stood up. ‘Now wait here, and I’ll bring you some breakfast, and then you can decide if you feel like travelling on today.’
‘I can decide that now. I want to go home. I want you to take me home.’