CHAPTER 36: LEARNING ANEW

As they dressed and ate breakfast on the balcony, Sam felt the ease between them, but his feeling of comfort vanished when they arrived on the quayside. The sailing boat was small, and dipped wildly as he took Frodo’s hand to step on board. His old joints could not react quickly enough to the tilting surface, and he would have lost his balance and fallen, had it not been for Frodo’s quick reaction. He leant into Frodo’s solid support, his heart racing, and Frodo’s brow drew into a worried frown.

‘Is this all right, Sam?’ he asked. ‘There’s a fair wind, so there won’t be much listing once we are sailing. Bilbo always walks, but I don’t think you are up to that yet.’

‘Stop worrying,’ said Sam, more shortly than he had intended. ‘Just let me sit down, and I’ll be fine.’ He didn’t like the comment about not being up to walking - especially as it was true - but as he sat watching Frodo help prepare the boat to leave, he remembered making similar comment to him in the distant past. Had Frodo felt this resentment towards his body? This frustration that he could not be to Sam all that he wanted to be?

Frodo was hauling on a rope, lifting the yard from which hung the sail. He had abandoned his tunic, and the light shirt he wore strained around his shoulders and back as he worked, clinging to and defining the muscles of his upper arms. Sam swallowed, and not from fear of the small boat; he was torn between feeling the feebleness of his old-age and enjoying an old fantasy in which Frodo was the stronger, and held Sam pinned beneath him, to take him with a fierce cry of possession.

Even the memory of the fantasy added to Sam’s feelings of impotent old age. Time was his body would have responded instantly to his thoughts, and called for swift release - by his own hand, if Rosie was not in the mood for his attentions. At the thought of Rosie, he felt a pang of guilt, but she had always enjoyed it when he had come to her in a fire of passion from thinking about Frodo.

The elf at the stern finished setting the rudder in place and called something to Frodo. Sam caught ”Panthael,” but the rest was a frustrating mystery. He looked at Frodo and asked the question with a raised eyebrow. Frodo slipped under the boom, undid a strap he had just tightened, and came to sit by Sam.

‘He told me to take - ’ Frodo appeared to be searching for a word, but shrugged his failure. ‘I can’t translate the name, but he told me to undo that strap that holds the boom down. He said we won’t need it, and if the boom rides higher, you will be in less danger if it swings suddenly across. I should have thought of that myself.’

‘How do you say “thank you”?’ asked Sam.

‘Hantanyel,’ said Frodo.

Sam looked to where the elf stood waiting while cargo was stowed. ’Hantanyel,’ he called. The elf smiled and bowed.

Sam’s trepidation eased as he found they did indeed sail on an even keel - and when he realised they were being followed by porpoises, he forgot his fear altogether. He watched the sleek forms arcing out of the water, seeming to laugh at him, and he couldn’t help but laugh back.

‘They seem to follow us for no other reason than the fun it gives them,’ said Frodo. Sam looked into Frodo’s face, lit with laughter as much as by his inner glow, and the porpoises were forgotten. Now that he was getting used to the long hair, braided at the sides, Sam realised it suited Frodo, giving him a look part elven, but also part gypsy, especially against the golden sun-given colour of his skin. This was a far cry from the Frodo he had expected; pale, scholarly Frodo had been supplanted by a vibrantly alive Frodo, and when he took Sam’s hand, the roughness and calluses had not been created by holding a pen.

They had spoken of the Shire, but not of Frodo’s years here, and Sam felt the lack as a great hole in his understanding. With time, perhaps, he would come to know all there was to know about this unlooked for transformation.

‘Sam?’

Sam jumped, drawn from his reverie. ‘Eh?’ he said.

‘I said, “Are you thirsty?”’

‘Sorry, I was miles away.’

Frodo laughed. ‘So are you?’

‘What?’

‘Thirsty.’

‘Oh, yes, a little.’ Sam took the proffered water skin and drank. ‘So what’s it like? Where we’re going?’ he asked.

‘You’ll see soon. We’ll be there in good time for supper. If you don’t feel at home, we can explore the island together and find somewhere more to your liking.’

Sam could get no more from Frodo, and he yawned. The intense blue of the sky, and the sun sparkling off the water, were making him sleepy. Frodo slipped an arm around him. ‘Lean on me, Sam,’ he said. ‘Have a sleep, if you wish.’ Sam closed his eyes; the lap-lap of the water and the cries of the seabirds did the rest, and he slept.


When he awoke, the air was cooler and the sun was sinking into low cloud beyond the island. As he shifted, he found a cloak had been wrapped around him, and he lifted his head to meet Frodo’s eyes, disconcerted once again by their change in role. Immediately, the skin around Frodo’s eyes gathered into laughter lines as he smiled and bent his head to kiss Sam on the brow.

The coastline had changed while Sam slept, from tall purple-black cliffs to sand-dunes lining a long expanse of white sand. Beyond the dunes, pine trees stood in dark ranks. ‘Mind your head now,’ Frodo warned, and he left Sam, to work with the Elves. Sam ducked his head as the sail swung over, and the boat turned to run straight towards the white beach where the water reflected the pinks and red-golds of the sky. The Elves shipped the rudder, and Frodo ran lightly forward, to stand poised on the bow, rope in hand. As the boat drove aground, he leapt to the beach, and was joined by one of the Elves. Together they pulled the boat further up the shore, and she listed slightly.

Frodo pulled himself back on board and rummaged in a locker to produce a rope ladder. He helped Sam onto it, but took the quicker way himself, simply leaping down again to land in a low crouch, and springing upright to help Sam step onto the sand. He handed Sam his staff, and then clambered back on board to help the elves stow sails and unload cargo. There was an animated conversation, during which Frodo seemed to be urging something, and then he was at Sam’s side again.

‘They were going to help carry the provisions and your packs, and then leave at once,’ said Frodo. ‘I’ve persuaded them to stay. I hope you don’t mind. It means that there will be some conversation you don’t understand.’

‘No, I don’t mind,’ said Sam. It seemed a small price to pay for all the help the Elves were giving them. He was looking forward to the first glimpse of their home and to seeing Bilbo, but he waited patiently while barrels and baskets were carried to the dune line, to be collected later. Finally, the Elves shouldered Sam’s larger packs, and Frodo slipped his own small pack on his back. Before Sam could protest, he had picked up Sam’s backpack as well.

Walking across the loose sand, and even more so, climbing the dunes, Sam was glad of his staff. It was hard going, and his joints protested at the shifting surface.

‘It will get easier once we get among the trees,’ Frodo reassured him, giving him his free arm, and Sam wished he was better able to mask the difficulty he was having.

They walked through the trees in the gathering twilight, and came out above a natural dell. Lanterns lined the way down into it, and Sam could glimpse a thatched roof below, and what appeared to be a garden bordered with walls and fences. It was hard to see details, his night vision had got worse as he got older, but there was no doubt that two figures were dodging and weaving below, calling to each other in consternation. Among the cries came the bleating of a goat.

From the short staccato words Frodo uttered, it was clear that it was possible to swear in Quenya. He dropped Sam’s pack and raced down the steep path. The Elves from the boat simply sat down on the hillside beside Sam and - as far as Sam could judge - called out words of advice. It was so like any similar animal incursion into a Shire garden that Sam burst out laughing; he eased himself down, to sit with his new acquaintances and watch the fun.

Lanterns were hung throughout the garden, seeming to float below them, and three figures could be clearly seen as silhouettes running to and fro in front of the lights as they tried to cut off and corner the miscreant. It was not until the pursuers came together in victory, that Sam realised Frodo was not the only hobbit in the chase.

‘Bilbo?’ he thought. ‘Surely that’s not Bilbo!’ If it was, his turn of speed had been remarkable. Last time Sam had seen the old hobbit - he smiled to himself - older hobbit, Bilbo had been hardly able to walk unaided.

The next moment Frodo was running back up the slope, he hardly seemed out of breath at all. ‘Lobelia!’ he said shortly.

Sam choked. ‘Lobelia?’

‘You wait until she fixes you with her eye and refuses to budge,’ said Frodo with feeling. ‘Goodness only knows how much damage she’s done to the garden. We’ll have to wait until star-closing to find out.’

Sam looked at the worry on Frodo’s face and stopped laughing. ‘If she’s done a lot of damage, I’ll help set it to rights,’ he said, but a new and unwelcome thought came to him. Who looked after the garden for Frodo? Whoever it was, would he want Sam’s help?

Frodo seemed to have no thoughts along these lines. His frown cleared. ‘Your help will be most welcome, Sam,’ he said. As they walked down the slope, Sam wasn’t so sure of this. It was good to think that he might have some small part to play, but he was doubtful that Frodo’s gardener would view his help as anything but interference.

The lanterns spread welcoming light over neat paths as they entered the garden, but everywhere outside the circles of light was pooled in dark shadow; Sam could get no idea of what it was like. There was no doubt that the garden was extensive, and as they walked between plants that overspilled the path, Sam’s pace slowed further - from tiredness and the pain in his back and hip. He brushed past fragrant leaves and unfamiliar night-scented flowers. A moth, larger than any he had ever seen, flew into his face, and made him jump.

The path led them beneath a pergola - hung with sweet-scented flowers where more moths fluttered - and emerged into a courtyard. Here, there were enough lanterns to turn night into day, and more light spilt from the open room facing Sam. He was aware of Frodo hovering anxiously at his shoulder, and he looked around. The hillside curved around them, here steep and rocky, and the rooms bounding the courtyard on two sides seemed to grow from it. Plants spilled and cascaded everywhere, from the low growing thyme, comforting in its familiarity, that spread between the pale grey paving stones, to unknown climbers that fell over the roof edges and almost obscured the cliff face.

Sam turned his attention to the rooms, and his spirits, which had risen at the restful beauty of this garden in miniature, sank again as he realised the dimensions were disappointingly elvish. The next moment, Bilbo was dancing around him, driving all thoughts of the size of the house from his mind.

‘Sam! Sam!’ cried Bilbo. ‘This is wonderful! So brave of you to make the journey alone. Come in! Come in!’ He took Sam’s arm. ‘Come in, lad!’

Sam looked at Bilbo in amazement. There was no doubting this was Bilbo; he didn’t look so different from when Sam had last seen him, but that was all Sam could say. This Bilbo was as bright and alert as the remembered Master of Bag End, back in Sam’s early years under the tutelage of his Gaffer. He turned to Frodo, and his confusion must have shown, because Frodo laughed and took his arm. ‘Come in, Sam,’ he said. ‘Welcome home.’

With a Baggins on either arm, Sam entered and gasped; there were pictures of Elanor everywhere, beautiful in their detail. For a moment, he noticed nothing else, but movement caught his eye, and he turned his head to see a tall elf stepping towards them. The elf dropped onto one knee, holding his arms wide, and Frodo flew into his welcoming embrace to bury his face against his shoulder. The elf smiled at Sam over Frodo’s head, and spoke gently, but the words were for the hobbit in his arms, and he followed them with a kiss. Frodo lifted his face to return the kiss; they smiled at each other, and then Frodo broke free to take Sam’s hand and draw him forward.

‘This is Ninquelótë, Sam, a dear friend; a healer and a gardener.’

The elf remained kneeling, and laying his hand over his heart, he bowed. ‘Herunya Panthael,’ he said. ‘Samwise.’

Sam bowed back, but he felt as though he stood in a high place from which he might fall at any moment. There was no doubt that Frodo loved, and was loved by, this smiling elf - and here, surely was the answer to who kept the gardens for Frodo. Sam felt supplanted, and his old demon, jealousy, stirred within. He was the one who cared for Frodo - or he had been. As he straightened, he swayed, and Frodo’s arm was there to support him in an instant.

‘Come and sit down, Sam,’ he said. ‘No, not there. Up these steps and you can sit in comfort.’

Sam allowed himself to be guided, and felt a little better as he found himself seated between Bilbo and Frodo, with the three Elves sitting together below them. Bilbo tried to get Sam talking, but - preoccupied and worn out by all the new experiences - Sam’s answers were short. He ate the food Frodo set in front of him, and listened to the Quenya flow around him, until his eyes started to close, and he stifled a yawn.

Fingers stroked Sam’s cheek, and he opened his eyes to Frodo’s gentle gaze. His demon retreated in the face of the love that he saw there.

‘Sam, my dear Sam. You are tired,’ said Frodo. ‘Let me show you around, and then take you to bed.’

Sam nodded and rose stiffly to his feet. His eyes had been so repeatedly drawn to the portraits of Elanor that he had not noticed the round door at the back of the room. He was amazed to find himself in a proper hobbit hole.

‘It’s not very big,’ said Frodo in response to his delighted exclamation. ‘But there’s only the three of us, and the weather is so good that we spend much of our time out of doors.’

Sam realised that Frodo was looking at him anxiously. ‘It’s wonderful,’ he said in a hushed voice as he wandered around the well-lit smial. The walls were panelled in a reddish hue - cherry maybe, if cherry grew on the island - and the grey flags were covered with bright rugs. There was a sitting room, with deep easy chairs and a hearth filled with pine cones; a library with book-filled shelves and a study area covered in a familiar profusion of papers; and two bedrooms.

Frodo opened the door on the larger one and turned to Sam, his hand still on the handle. ‘I’m afraid it never occurred to me that you might like your own room, Sam,’ he said. His brow was drawn into a worried frown, and his light was muted. ‘If you would like -’

Sam quietened Frodo, placing his fingers on his lips. He took Frodo’s hand and held his gaze. ‘This is perfect,’ he said, and was rewarded by Frodo’s frown transforming into a delighted smile.

Frodo snuffed the candles, but his own glow was bright and golden as he undressed in front of Sam; the light blurred the edges of his body, giving him a translucent look and softening his lean strength. Sam watched entranced, and then Frodo was standing naked before him. He touched Sam’s face, just a feather light caress, and his hand rested over the buttons of Sam’s shirt. ‘May I, Sam?’ he asked, and his light dimmed again, only to flare out into greater brilliance as Sam nodded. ‘Thank you,’ Frodo whispered.

’Maybe I don’t need any song to know how he’s feeling,’ thought Sam, but misery engulfed him as he felt Frodo’s fingers trembling at their task. It seemed to him as though he had nothing to offer.

Frodo paused in the act of slipping a button undone, and then completed the action to let Sam’s shirt fall open. His hands, warm and roughened, slid around Sam’s waist and drew him close. He searched Sam’s eyes. ‘I don’t want more than you can give, Sam,’ he said. ‘Does that sound familiar? Your love for me never lessened when I could not find the fire within. I’m happy you’re here in my arms.’ He laughed and his arms tightened. ‘Oh, Sam! Happy doesn’t begin to describe how I feel. You don’t have to do anything else, just be here.’

Sam returned Frodo’s embrace, feeling a great surge of joy, and knew there was a simple truth he could offer. ‘I love you, Frodo,’ he said softly, and had to close his eyes at the brightness of the light before him.

‘My Sam,’ murmured Frodo. As Sam’s trousers slid to the floor, Frodo’s hands ran over his hips, warm and rough on his naked skin. They settled over Sam’s lower back, and Sam was able to open his eyes again as the glow through his lids died away. ‘You’re in pain,’ said Frodo.

‘It’s nothing much,’ said Sam. ‘Just a dull throb, as long as I don’t try and do too much.’

Frodo reached over to pull back the bedcovers, and Sam thankfully sank into the soft comfort of the mattress. His back was hurting more than he cared to admit. ‘Roll over,’ said Frodo, and knelt over him, stretching to reach shelves recessed into the wall above the bed. His shaft brushed against Sam’s body, and Sam started, recognising the small cut-glass bottle Frodo held.

‘Sam,’ whispered Frodo as he warmed the oil in his hands. ‘I know, my love. I remember. Trust me.’

Sam relaxed, and under the probing and kneading, the pain lessened. As he drifted into sleep, he felt Frodo settle against him and pull light covers over them. He moved without thought, so that Frodo could wrap himself around him, moulding to his back. He laid a hand over the fingers that were splayed across his chest, and slept.


In the morning, he woke alone. A lamp had been left burning in a wall niche, and he realised there were no windows in the room. He had no idea of the time. He sat up and looked around, feeling a light movement of air against his skin that spoke of ventilation shafts. The bed was a generous size, but the room was large and the furniture did not crowd it. A deep armchair stood to one side, and there was a rug, soft and thick under foot. The walls curved in proper hobbit fashion, and were finished in the same wood as the rest of the smial; in the lamplight the panels gave back a rich glow. Within the curve of the walls were recessed two pairs of upright doors, and Sam pulled them open to find wardrobes. One was full of shirts, tunics and trousers of the sort Frodo wore; in the other hung the clothes that Sam had brought from the Shire, and a few of Elven make, such as he had worn in Avallónë. He hesitated, but decided to follow the old Shire adage, “When in Buckland, do as the Brandybucks do.” His Brandybuck dressed in Elvish garb, and there was no doubting that they were comfortable clothes for the hot weather he had been met with so far.

His exploration of the room brought him back to the bed, and to the chests of drawers that stood either side. The first drawer he pulled out obviously held Frodo’s belongings, and he fingered the cool surface of the star-gem. Its presence away from Frodo spoke volumes. He hastily closed the drawer, not wishing to pry, and checked the other chest. Here, he found his letter from Frodo had been laid, but otherwise it was empty.

As he straightened, a corner of paper under the bed caught his eye; he knelt, supporting his weight on the bed, and pulled it out. There was a whole pile of pictures, and he laid them on the cover for a closer look. As he shifted them apart, he swallowed, and tears came to his eyes.

He had no idea that Frodo could draw like this until he had seen the pictures of Elanor, and here also, there was no doubting that Frodo was the artist. Sam was looking at a younger version of himself in a variety of poses, but mostly naked. Where clothes were present, they were not there to conceal. His reactions churned between delight that Frodo had obviously spent so much time thinking of him, and dismay at how graphically they portrayed the needs and desires of the artist; needs Sam felt poorly placed to meet. He found he couldn’t look away, but instead stared in fascination. Here he was partially clothed, his breeches gone, his shirt falling open; one hand was spread across muscular chest, fingertips brushing dark areola, the other hand wrapped around his erect shaft with thumb teasing across the swollen tip. His eyes were dark and inviting.

Sam shifted it aside; in the next his eyes were closed, his head tilted back, neck muscles taut and corded. His hair was in disarray, clinging in tendrils over sweat dampened face, and one hand clutched the sheet, pulling it into ridges. The muscles of his thighs strained, lifting his hips to thrust up into his other hand. The prominence of his knuckles showed that he was clasping tightly now as he dragged against the loose skin exposing the darkly shaded tip. The drawing conveyed great tension, but the face was slack, and the moment of release could not be far off.

Sam pushed the picture away with trembling hands, and bowed his head. Sometimes they had masturbated for each other like this, but had he ever been so well muscled? So erect? If this had ever been the reality, it made a cruel contrast to the timeworn body that Frodo had held in his arms the last three nights. In any case - fantasy or real memory - the drawings spoke of a hobbit with needs that were unfulfilled, now and in the past.

Sam blinked back more tears, both at the thought of Frodo in a lonely bed all these years, and at the thought of his own body’s treachery. He hastily gathered up the pictures and pushed them back under the bed.


In the kitchen, food was set out on the table, and Bilbo was cooking fish over a peat fire. He looked up as Sam entered.

‘Ah, good morning, young Sam,’ he said, and Sam winced. Bilbo set the pan aside. ‘What’s the matter, Sam?’ he asked. ‘Frodo was singing earlier, but you don’t look so happy.’

Sam looked at Bilbo and marvelled at how he managed to look so young in his old body. ‘I feel like the oldest here,’ he said rather shortly. ‘Being called “young Sam” seems... well...’ He tailed off.

‘Oh, Sam! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it as some cruel joke. It’s just how you’ve always been to me, and in years you’re a mere whippersnapper next to me. You must allow me a little crowing over my age. The Elves aren’t impressed, you see, and the Shire will never know.’ He handed Sam a glass of a thick juice, unfamiliar in taste and smell. ‘Are you worrying that Frodo finds you old?’ he asked, pulling out the bench from the table for Sam to sit. ‘Because he is still older than you, and I can assure you that he is very clear seeing. He sees you Sam, and I was glad to get him out of the kitchen this morning; prancing around like a young colt, he was.’

Sam took the proffered seat at the table with a sigh and bowed his head; a young colt was not a helpful image. Bilbo came and sat next to him; he spread two oatcakes with honey, and handed one to Sam. ‘Our own honey,’ he said. ‘Eat it, and then go and find Frodo. He’s out in the garden somewhere; he was anxious to see what damage Lobelia has done. Tell him breakfast is ready, and while you’re looking for him, use that noddle of yours, Samwise Gamgee.’ He got up, dusted some crumbs from his trousers, and went back to the fish.

Sam licked a drop of honey from his fingers; it had been stored in the comb, and the sweetness had a waxy flavour. He wandered out into the courtyard, and it was even more delightful in the morning sun. The smell of the thyme rose around him, and everywhere bees were at work. Already, with the sun barely above the pine trees, it was a warm day. A watering can, foreign in its shape, even while obvious in its function, stood by a water barrel, and Sam automatically checked the moisture in the containers. His questing fingers met moist soil, and he slowly walked out into the garden, touching and smelling unfamiliar plants. The white flowers of the plants flowing down over the pergola were now covered in bright yellow butterflies, and he was watching a pair of them dance before him as he emerged into bright sunlight again. Gradually his focus widened to the scene before him, and he stopped short at the beauty revealed.

Height, form and colour were combined with natural features and contours to make this a garden that filled Sam’s heart with joy. There was no doubt that the elf he’d met last night knew what he was doing. What was his name? Sam couldn’t remember. A few flowers were familiar, although most were unknown; despite this, the garden managed to speak to Sam of the Shire, so that the sharpness of his memories brought tears to his eyes to tinge his feelings with sadness. He realised that he could spend weeks just learning what was before his eyes, and tall archways, through surrounding walls, made it clear he was not seeing the whole. He found a kitchen garden with trampled herbs and plants, but there was nothing a little pruning wouldn’t put to rights. Some of the damaged vegetables, although unknown to him, could obviously be salvaged if they were harvested soon.

He walked along well maintained irrigation channels, getting a feel for what was in season, and he noticed yellowing leaves of strawberry plants well past their fruiting; it was good to know their time would come again in due season. He could see no sign of raspberries, but wasn’t surprised; it was unlikely that frosts, so essential to that crop, would be a worry in this warm land. As he looked around, his fingers itched to be at work, repairing the damage that Lobelia had done, but he would not risk offence to Frodo’s gardener, and in any case, he was supposed to be telling Frodo that breakfast was ready.

The noise of running water led him to a spring-fed stream, with water-loving ferns and mosses clustering along its length in various shades of green. It added to the peace and tranquility of the garden, and he followed it until he spied the Elvish gardener working in the distance. A wide hat covered his head, and even bending over a spade, he had the elegance and fluidity of movement that all Elves somehow achieved. The figure straightened to push back his hat and wipe his brow, and Sam wondered how Elves could manage to look so straight with no trace of rigid stiffness.

There was no sign of Frodo, so Sam headed for the gardener. If he just said Frodo’s name as a question, then the elf might be able to point him in the right direction.

It was not until he approached the busy figure that the perspective changed. What he had taken to be tall plants were in fact only hobbit height, and with a jolt he realised the figure was only a little taller than himself. Frodo turned at Sam’s approach with a wide smile of welcome, leaving the spade standing in the dark soil.

‘Sam!’

‘Frodo, I...’ Sam fell silent. The morning sun lit Frodo with such a glow that he just had to reach out and gently touch his face. Their eyes met, and Frodo’s hands slid around Sam’s waist to draw him close.

‘Oh, Sam,’ Frodo murmured. He tucked Sam’s hair back, his fingers lingering against Sam’s ear, and lightly kissed him on the lips. ‘Good morning, my love. Did you sleep well?’

Sam closed his eyes. Once again that familiar action had allowed him to see Frodo clearly, although he seemed taller than in Sam’s memories, but maybe that was because he himself was so bent with age. The thought of Frodo’s drawings came to taunt him afresh. He didn’t answer, just laid his head on Frodo’s shoulder, and tried to contain his tears. He wished he could have come to Frodo in the vigour of his younger years, but that was to wish his children away, and he could not do that.

‘My brave Sam,’ said Frodo quietly, one hand sliding to tangle in Sam’s hair and hold him pressed close. ‘This is so hard for you. I don’t know how to make it easier, except to say it will get easier. You must miss Rosie so much.’

Sam felt a pang of guilt at that. Everything had been so new, so strange, that he had thought of Rosie only once or twice since his arrival here. Since his arrival home. He lifted his head to look into Frodo’s eyes; he could at least give him this small pleasure. ‘I feel as though I’m home,’ he said.

‘Oh, Sam!’ It was the merest whisper. Sam had only a glimpse of eyes shining with delight, and then he was crushed in a fierce embrace. He wheezed as the air was expelled from his chest, and Frodo hastily let him go.

‘Let me show you the garden, Sam,’ he said. He looked as though he were having trouble standing still, as though he wanted to dance and sing.

Sam felt glad to be able to give such pleasure with just a few words, but he belatedly remembered the message he carried. ‘Bilbo said to tell you breakfast was ready,’ he wheezed, getting his breath back.

‘Later, then,’ said Frodo, and they turned to start back towards the smial.

‘The elf last night, he’s your gardener, isn’t he?’ said Sam, suddenly.

‘Ninquelótë? No! That is, in Avallónë he does me the honour of keeping my plants tended. But here? No.’ He grinned at Sam, and there was a mischievousness not seen since - maybe not since Sam was a teen. Well, two could play that game. Sam assumed an air of indifference, but as they walked on in silence, he desperately wanted to know who his rival was.

Frodo touched his arm, and when Sam turned to him, his face was thoughtful. ‘Let me show you one part of the garden before we go in,’ he said. They retraced their steps, and passing a wall hung with cordons of fruit, they walked through an archway. A fenced meadow, shorn of its grass, spread before them. Sam looked at Frodo in surprise. With all the wonders of the garden behind them, this seemed a strange place to bring him.

‘We cut hay here,’ said Frodo, ‘but only until it’s cultivated. I left this for you, although you’ll have to spend some time learning about the native plants before you decide what to do with it.’ He looked at Sam doubtfully. ‘Only if you want to, of course. I didn’t want you to feel the garden was just mine.’

Sam stared at him, understanding suddenly dawning. Instinct had told him that the distant figure he had seen earlier was the one who had brought the garden to life, coaxing and nurturing it to fruition. ‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re the gardener!’

Frodo’s smile was back. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. He raised a hand to rub his nose, and Sam laughed. He caught Frodo’s other hand, feeling the roughened surface and hard calluses of skin well used to manual labour. ‘Elanor does that,’ he said. ‘I never saw her do that without thinking of you.’

‘Oh, Sam! Tell me about her.’

‘We’d best eat breakfast first,’ said Sam. ‘It was a while ago now that Bilbo gave me the message.’

‘After breakfast, then,’ said Frodo as they walked back side by side. Sam still held Frodo’s hand, and without thought, they linked fingers.

When they entered the kitchen, they found the fish had been given to Ninquelótë. Bilbo looked up from cooking more, rather red in the face from the heat, and he nodded in apparent satisfaction as his gaze travelled from Sam’s face, down to their linked hands, and back up again.

Frodo greeted the elf warmly, and released Sam’s hand to pour milk into two mugs. He handed one to Sam, and Sam took a sip. It tasted unmistakably of goat. ‘Lobelia?’ he asked.

‘Amongst others,’ said Frodo. ‘She gives the best milk; it’s her only redeeming feature.’ He asked Ninquelótë a question, and a discussion ensued. Bilbo looked from them to Sam, and handed Sam his breakfast.

‘Don’t mind them,’ said Bilbo. ‘Ninquelótë's just saying he’ll not stop long before he returns to Avallónë. You have him to thank for how well Frodo is, you know.’ Sam felt a childish sense of relief at the thought of the elf’s leaving soon, and blushed as he realised the elf was watching him, but Ninquelótë just smiled his wide smile.

‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ said Frodo. ‘Ninquelótë doesn’t speak Westron, but he said he looks forward to the honour of speaking with you. He says he intends to take lessons from those in Avallónë who have returned from Middle-earth.’

Sam felt mean for his uncharitable thoughts about Frodo’s friend, especially in view of Bilbo’s comments. He would ask Frodo to try teaching him Quenya, although he was an old dog for such new tricks. In his embarrassment, his gaze shifted to the portraits of Elanor, and the pictures drew his thoughts to his family. He wondered how they fared; Frodo-lad and Tom gave him the most worry, but all of them were no doubt feeling the loss of both parents.

Frodo draped an arm around his shoulder. ‘Did I get a good likeness?’ he asked.

‘She’s just as I remember her,’ said Sam softly.

‘Tell me about her,’ said Frodo, and he slipped onto the bench next to Sam. Bilbo set breakfast before him, and then joined them with his own. Sam needed no second invitation. As Ninquelótë sat quietly watching them, he told them of her childhood, her tomboyish teens, her long-standing love for Fastred, and her wedding.

Their food was long finished, and Sam pushed his empty plate away. ‘Your papers came in useful,’ he said to Frodo. ‘We had official protest; probably that Sandyman - he was always a thorn in our sides until the day he died.’ Frodo raised an eyebrow.

‘A deputation of Shire worthies came wanting to see the Thain and me,’ explained Sam. ‘The Thain was Pippin, of course,’ he added. ‘They wanted assurance the marriage was legal.’

‘But why would they doubt it?’ asked Bilbo.

‘Well, you see, there were always rumours that Pip was her father; even before Frodo left with you that was the case, and they never really went away.’

‘Why didn’t they send the Mayor?’ said Frodo, and then laughed. ‘Oh, of course! You were the Mayor.’

Sam nodded. ‘So with Rosie’s and Elanor’s agreement, I showed them the papers you left.’

‘Poor Rosie,’ said Frodo. ‘Did it cause her trouble?’

‘There was a smattering of gossip,’ answered Sam, ‘but we just went on as usual, and there weren’t many as wanted to make much of it, truth be told.’

Bilbo laughed. ‘And of course you were Master of Bag End,’ he said. ‘And that makes a deal of gossip flow off your back, as I found out.’

‘Rosie was respected in her own right,’ said Sam, a little stiffly.

‘I’m sorry, Sam. I never meant to imply she was only respected because she was the Mayor’s wife and Mistress of Bag End.’

‘Good,’ said Sam shortly. ‘Because my Rosie was well-loved. She helped all the poorer hobbits, one way or another.’

‘Rosie was a very special lass,’ said Frodo, and for a while he and Sam swapped memories of her. As the talk turned again to Sam’s family, and from there back to Elanor, Sam looked round.

‘Where’s the rest of my packs and such?’ he asked, and Bilbo pointed to the back of the room, where the other Elves had laid them. For the first time, Sam realised that they must have left before he rose that morning, and he had not thanked them for their help. He rummaged through two packs before he found what he was looking for. He drew out a book-shaped package, and handed it to Frodo.

‘Elanor said it was for both of us,’ he said, sliding back to occupy his place next to Frodo again. He glanced up as Ninquelótë came to stand behind them, resting a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. Frodo carefully unwrapped the gift to reveal a book of sorts, tied together with ribbon rather than bound; he turned the first pages, and then bowed his head. He pushed it toward Sam, and Sam found he had to blink back his own tears. Here were portraits of Elanor and Fastred, of Elfstan, Primula, young Frodo, Astred, Mirabella and Rosemary. Whoever the artist had been, he rivalled the old portrait painter at the Free Fair, and the likenesses were remarkable. That alone would have been a wonderful gift, but each of them had written something to go with their portrait. Rosemary had written to Sam, the page blotched with tears, while Elanor had written the most; several pages of neat flowing script, addressed to both of them; in appearance, the writing was not unlike Frodo’s.

Frodo rubbed his hand over his face and leant close to Sam so they could read Elanor’s letter together. As they read, Sam became aware that Frodo’s light had dimmed; he looked at Frodo in concern and laid his arm around Frodo’s shoulders to hold him tight. Frodo was very still: even his breathing had slowed. Elanor’s letter had suffused Sam with a great joy as she expressed her love for both of them and wished them happiness together; he had no idea why all the light had drained from Frodo. Without the light, the translucency that Sam had noticed before was more marked; almost it seemed as though Frodo were no longer there, no longer in the strong frame pressed in against Sam’s side.

Sam looked up to see if Bilbo or the elf were concerned, but he and Frodo were alone.

‘Frodo?’ he said quietly, and kissed the bowed head.

Frodo sighed, and touched his fingers to the kisses that ended Elanor’s letter. He raised his face to Sam’s. ‘That’s beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘I always hoped she’d think of me.’ His hand groped for the chain around his neck, and they both looked down as he drew out the fine locket. It looked to Sam like a flower - a tiny elanor - surrounded by six rounded leaves. He looked closer and suddenly realised it was not leaves, but three heart-shapes within the circle of the locket. Frodo opened it, and Sam swallowed at the unmistakable sight of a lock of Elanor’s hair.

‘I can’t tell you how upset I was at the thought of you not having that remembrance of Elanor,’ he said. ‘Rosie was wiser than me.’

Frodo did not appear to be listening. ‘I always hoped she’d think of me sometimes,’ he said. ‘But I never thought she would love me as her father. I never thought she would understand so well.’

‘Elanor is your daughter, me dear,’ said Sam. ‘Pippin and Merry and me, we often talked about how like you she is.’ He started to relax; the lack of light did not seem to indicate great depths of misery, as he had first feared. Obviously he had some learning to do before he could read this sign aright.

‘I think I’ll leave reading the rest until later,’ said Frodo, pushing the book towards Sam, but Sam folded the pages closed.

‘I’ll wait, as well,’ he said. ‘Will you show me the garden now?’

Frodo’s answering smile filled Sam with a warm glow, but he was still worried by the lack of light. He realised, with a jolt, that the loss brought a memory of Frodo’s collapse and near death, long ago, while the translucency was unsettling, as though Frodo might fade away before his eyes.

The arm that linked with his was reassuringly solid, though, as they walked slowly round the garden at Sam’s pace. He didn’t want to mention it, but the sharp ache in his lower back and leg had returned, and the pain was setting his teeth on edge. He distracted himself with the wonders around him, and was secretly delighted when he saw one omission in the planting.

‘There’s no sweet-peas,’ he said.

Frodo shook his head. ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘I asked Ninquelótë about them, but it seems they don’t grow here.’ Sam smiled at him and put his hand into the inner pocket of his tunic to pull out a soft leather pouch.

‘For you,’ he said, ‘although I can’t promise the result in foreign soil.’

Frodo looked at him with his mouth open, and Sam’s smile turned into a laugh at the sight. He unfastened the drawstring, and tipped a few of the hard round seeds onto Frodo’s palm.

‘Oh, Sam,’ breathed Frodo. ‘I’m sure we can get them to grow.’ He carefully returned the seeds to the pouch, and his smile was the sweetest thing Sam thought he had ever seen. Frodo gazed into Sam’s eyes for a long moment, in which Sam thought, ‘Kiss me, please kiss me,’ and then Frodo drew him close. A light kiss was the merest caress on his mouth, and Frodo’s eyes asked him the question. Sam answered by leaning forward, trying to recapture that fleeting touch, his lips parting to Frodo’s.

It was slow and gentle, an affirmation of devotion, and nothing was demanded. Sam closed his eyes, and his awareness of Frodo was heightened: the feel of his callused fingers curling at Sam’s nape; the smell of him - more familiar now, although overlaid with the distinctive smell of goat; the taste of him; the moist warmth of his mouth. They both sighed deeply as they parted, and opened their eyes to smile at each other, remembering how they used to sigh together in the past. Even in the bright light of the day, it was obvious to Sam that Frodo’s glow was back.

They wandered hand in hand to the spring, and Frodo cupped his hands to lift a little cold water to Sam’s lips. ‘I found another spring, out the back of the smial,’ he said. ‘I’d thought to make pens for the goats there, but I had to abandon that idea. Let’s have some lunch now, and later I’ll show you what we use it for.’ The mischievous grin was back. Another secret.

‘You’re as bad as Gandalf,’ said Sam, and Frodo laughed.


Even in the shade of the kitchen, and with no cooking fire, it was getting too hot for comfort. Sam eyed the wine - set out with goat’s cheese, olives and tomatoes - with suspicion. ‘I’ll be good for nothing but sleep if I drink that,’ he said. ‘What with the heat an’ all.’

‘Then drink it,’ said Bilbo. ‘We all sleep through the heat of the day. It’s the only sensible thing to do.’

The red wine was rich and fruity, and did indeed make Sam feel sleepy. It was also very strong, and he staggered on his way into the bedroom. Frodo was there at his side to support him. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ he said. ‘I should have warned you. Our wine is rather robust.’ He undressed Sam, and guided him to the bed.

‘No windows,’ said Sam.

‘It stays cooler,’ explained Frodo as he pulled off his own clothes. ‘We don’t use the smial much except to sleep, and sometimes to sit in the evening. We spend most of our time outside, so I didn’t see the need to make any windows.’ He climbed alongside Sam, and Sam had to admit it was cool in the depths of the hill.

‘Are you telling me you delved this?’ he asked as Frodo moulded to his back.

‘Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, I did.’ Frodo brushed the hair back behind Sam’s ear, and lifted himself on one elbow to kiss Sam’s temple. ‘I had some help, but it was mostly my work.’

Sam turned his head to look at him in wonder. ‘You... you’re... amazing,’ he slurred, and felt drunk enough to ask about the pictures. ‘I didn’t know you could draw like that, neither.’

‘You mean Elanor?’

‘No, I don’t mean that, Frodo Baggins,’ said Sam, suddenly wanting to see Frodo aroused. ‘I mean those under your bed.’

Frodo stared down at him. ‘I didn’t intend for you to see those yet. I didn’t want you to think that I -’

‘But you do, don’t you,’ said Sam, cutting across him, and he was aware, even as he spoke, that it was the wine talking.

Frodo looked at him. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘But I know what it’s like for you. I do remember, Sam. You never asked anything of me.’

‘But when you knew I had the need, you helped me find relief,’ said Sam stubbornly.

Frodo bowed his head. ‘I don’t want you to think that you have to, Sam.’

‘And I don’t want you to feel you can’t ask,’ said Sam, suddenly very serious; he turned awkwardly onto his back, to look up at Frodo. ‘Do you know what I’d like to see?’ He reached to cup Frodo’s jaw with his hand, and stroked his thumb over the high cheekbone. Frodo shook his head, and his teeth worried at his lower lip. ‘I’d like to see what you do with those fine drawings,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t tell me you just look at them, for I’ll not believe it, though it’s my belief I never looked that good.’

Frodo just stared at him, and Sam shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. ‘Or you can tell me I’m a drunken old fool,’ he added, ‘and that I should just go to sleep.’

‘Oh, Sam,’ said Frodo hoarsely, and Sam could see the strong pulse pounding in his neck. ‘I didn’t expect... not yet.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t have got me drunk on your fine wine,’ said Sam.

‘I’ll wait until you’re sober, then, and learn your true mind,’ said Frodo carefully.

Sam sat up. ‘Then you’re a daft bugger, Frodo,’ he said, not caring to admit that the room was actually swaying around him. ‘Anyway, all I’m asking is to watch you. You can wait for me to sober up for more’n that, and don’t tell me you don’t find the idea appealing, because your body is telling me a different story.’ It was not just the rapid beat of the pulse that gave Frodo away; his arousal was plain to feel.

Frodo shut his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them and smiled, Sam just gazed at him, trying to decide how such a simple thing as a smile could pierce him to the heart and leave him almost shaking with longing. ‘Please, Frodo,’ he begged.

Frodo didn’t answer, or not in words. He slid his legs off the bed, and there was a rustle of paper. When he straightened, Sam laughed; he had been sure that Frodo would choose one with him part clothed. ‘You always did like unwrapping presents, as much as what was inside,’ he said.

‘It’s the unwrapping that means I can savour what’s to come,’ said Frodo seriously. ‘It’s what’s inside that is the real attraction.’ His eyes were dark, and with a shock, Sam realised that Frodo desired him, not some younger Sam from years back. ‘It’s you I love, Sam,’ said Frodo, echoing Sam’s thoughts. ‘Not some memory.’

‘You talk too much,’ said Sam, shifting awkwardly up the bed and pulling up pillows, to sit and watch more easily. He wasn’t at all sure why he wanted this so badly. Maybe he just wanted to see that calm Elvish air shattered; maybe he needed to know the need was there. He watched as Frodo settled before him on the large bed. He wasn’t sitting cross-legged - one leg was bent up, the other rolled outwards - but Sam was reminded of the first time he had seen Frodo on the balcony in Avallónë. His breathing was deep and even, and his lids were closed over the dark depths of his eyes. As Sam watched, Frodo blindly reached out a hand towards him.

‘Hold me, Sam,’ he whispered. ‘Hold me. I need you. I love you.’

Sam took the outstretched hand, wishing he could move more easily to kneel up and take Frodo in his arms. Their fingers interlaced. ‘I’m here,’ he answered, his voice shaking. ‘Oh, my love, I’m here.’ Frodo appeared to be almost asleep, his head bowed, but Sam could feel the trembling in the hand he held, and a sense of great power held in check.

They sat for long minutes unmoving, and Sam was beginning to wonder if this was some Elvish form of self-gratification, when with a low moan, Frodo stirred. He slid his free hand slowly down over his chest and belly, to caress his inner thighs, and cradle his swollen shaft. He raised his head, slowly opening his eyes, and Sam felt the intensity of his gaze like a jolt through his body. There was nothing safe about this, and suddenly Frodo was scrabbling forward, his light intense, oblivious of the drawing. The low growling noise he was making set Sam’s whole body tingling. The next moment he was kneeling over Sam, one hand gripping the carved wooden board behind Sam’s head for support. Sam looked up at him, and reached out to run his hands over Frodo’s shoulders and down over his flanks, trying to soothe some of the wildness from him. He might as well have been trying to hold a summer storm, with lightning flickering across the sky.

Sam was trembling now as well; he felt possessed by Frodo’s gaze as the raw emotion communicated itself to him. His body might not feel the rise, but he wanted this, wanted this need, wanted to respond to this feral Frodo of his dreams.

Frodo’s other hand closed around himself, dragging back the loose skin as he drove up into his encircling fingers with powerful thrusts, crying out in words unknown to Sam. Sam’s hands moved on, to slide down Frodo’s back, to cup and hold the taut rounded muscles, to move with Frodo as he rocked above him. This was... this was good. Oh, this was so good. Frodo’s breath came in ragged gasps, and suddenly the light in the room dimmed as he stilled, panting, beneath Sam’s hands; his head hung down, his eyes unfocused now, and so many memories were in that moment that Sam felt tears rise to his eyes.

‘Come, my love,’ he whispered, ‘Come for your Sam.’

Frodo jerked once, and then again, and the sudden flare of light blinded Sam. He shut his eyes, but even through his closed lids, the brightness was intense. He heard Frodo cry out in release, felt the spasm of the body beneath his hands and the wet warmth over his body, and then Frodo collapsed against his shoulder.

Gradually the light dimmed, and Sam opened his eyes.

Frodo’s whole body was flushed, his breathing heavy. His eyes were still closed, and he was trembling. Sam felt the tension still present in him, and guessed an apology was not far off. He kissed the sweat-damp brow and ran his hands in wide sweeps over the heated back. ‘I reckon you needed that, me dear,’ he said quietly, blinking back his tears. ‘That was a sight to see, and no mistake.’

‘Oh, Sam,’ murmured Frodo, relaxing against Sam’s body. ‘I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to...’

‘You didn’t mean for me to see you, is that it?’ said Sam.

‘I didn’t mean to make you feel... you couldn’t... as though you...’

‘Get your breath back,’ said Sam drily, ‘and your wits gathered, and then you can tell me that I’m old and impotent.’ He stilled a motion of protest from Frodo. ‘And I’ll tell you this,’ he added, ‘suddenly I don’t feel so old, if that’s the effect I have on you.’

Frodo opened his eyes, and laid his hand on Sam’s chest; the smell of his seed was warm on the air. ‘Oh, Sam, I’ve missed you.’ There was a catch in his voice, as though he, too, were close to tears.

‘Hush, me dear - me dearest. I’m here. Your Sam’s here. I’d say “lay down with me,” but I think you’re going to have to help me move.’

Frodo smiled at him, and levered away to aid him. As they lay together, he fumbled for his shirt to rub over Sam’s belly, but sagged down, one leg heavy over Sam’s thighs. Sam lifted his head to look, and was not surprised to see that Frodo was asleep. He traced his fingers over Frodo’s face, memories crowding in on him. Since his arrival, he kept thinking that he had found Frodo, and he kept finding he was wrong. Here, here! was his Frodo, who needed him. He smiled at the face, graven in Elvish beauty, and felt as though he were truly home.


He woke with a headache, wondering if he had dreamt what had passed, but there was no mistaking the distinctive smell in the room. Frodo’s arm was flung across his chest, and Sam ran his hand over the shoulder and upper arm, feeling the strength contained there. Frodo stirred and lifted his head to study Sam’s face, and a frown gathered his brows together.

‘I’m thinking you’re going to start apologising again,’ said Sam. ‘But I’d rather you just kissed me, anyway you’ve a mind to.’ Frodo’s look of worry cleared, and he gently kissed Sam’s forehead. Sam knew how the pattern would go, and he closed his eyes for Frodo to kiss each lid in turn. He tilted his chin and parted his lips, and Frodo’s mouth closed over his, moving with the familiar slow rhythm of times past that spoke of desires fulfilled. It was a loving “thank you”. Sam opened his eyes as Frodo withdrew, and realised he’d only postponed the apology.

‘I’m sorry, Sam. That was - wonderful, but it wasn’t what I meant to happen.’

Sam made an impatient gesture, dismissing the apology. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you meant to keep pretending, and hiding things from your Sam, like you always used to when you hid your pain and illness. But I’m old and crotchety, and I like things plain and open.’ He laid his palm against Frodo’s face and smiled at him. ‘I’ll tell you straight, me dear, I’m looking forward to seeing you lose control like that again.’

Instead of smiling back, Frodo’s face gathered into a frown once more at the mention of losing control. ‘There’s something you should know, Sam,’ he said. ‘And the longer I put it off, the harder it will be to find the right moment to say it. I couldn’t tell you before - I could hardly even admit it to myself - but when I had the Ring, I was tempted to rape you.’

‘But you didn’t,’ said Sam, horrified not by the admission, but that Frodo seemed to think he had to make confession of it; as though he could be held accountable for what the Ring did to him, instead of being proud of himself for resisting the foul thing for so long. A new, unwelcome thought came to him. ‘You can’t possibly think what happened just now was against my will!’

Frodo smiled at Sam and kissed him. ‘No, Sam. I didn’t mean that, I didn’t think that, although I don’t believe it was quite what either of us were expecting. And don’t look so worried, I don’t mean it still bothers me, I just...’ he hesitated, and Sam waited patiently, not wanting to interrupt Frodo's train of thought. ‘I mean, control was - important. Always, I was trying to control the Ring, or at least, trying to stop it from controlling me.’ He settled down next to Sam again. ‘I don’t think it was a coincidence that my body was unable to make love to you when the Ring-sickness was upon me. I think, deep down, I was so sickened by the thoughts the Ring had shown me - hurting you, abusing you - that I couldn’t even allow my body to love you.’

‘You know your trouble?’ said Sam gently, relieved by Frodo’s reassurance that the memory no longer caused him pain, and Frodo shook his head. Sam reached to curl his fingers at the nape of Frodo’s neck and draw him into a kiss, a great surge of happiness welling up inside at his being there with Frodo. ‘You think too much,’ he murmured.

Frodo stroked Sam’s face, his hand coming to rest cradling Sam’s jaw, while he appeared to be considering this. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he said gravely after a while. ‘And yes, I do know you’re teasing me, Sam, but I’ve seen a lot of things clearly since I came here. Gandalf, Elrond, and especially Ninquelótë, have given me the space to think, and heal myself.’

‘And I can’t tell you how good it is to see you so well, me dear,’ said Sam, turning his head within the cradle of Frodo’s hand to kiss his palm - but that took him away from the warmth of Frodo’s eyes, and he turned back. ‘I just can’t tell you,’ he repeated. ‘There aren’t the words glad enough, that’s the truth of it. Is there any point me saying there’s no blame to you for what thoughts that Ring might of given you.’

‘I do know that, Sam. I do know that now.’

Sam nodded and covered Frodo’s hand with his. ‘So why the need to tell me?‘ he asked gently.

‘Because in the end, it is the only thing that I kept from you, in my sickness. Bringing it forth helped me to heal, and now, being healed, I can tell you,’ said Frodo simply. ‘I’m sorry I kept so much from you, Sam. I’m sorry I couldn’t find the courage to tell you I was sailing West.’

‘Well, the Elves gave me the grace of my memory staying sharp and clear,’ said Sam. ‘So you can’t fool me. Your courage was never in doubt. You were ill; so ill as made me weep to think of it, all these years without you - not knowing if you were healed, you understand.’ He smoothed his hand down over Frodo’s forearm, feeling the hard strength of muscle and tendon, so different from the bird-like fragility of the past. ‘You said it yourself, just now: you kept it from me in your sickness.’

‘And now you’re the one keeping things from me,’ said Frodo, his thumb tracing over Sam’s lips. ‘I can’t tell you how sad it makes me that you’re in pain.’ He sat up and stretched over Sam for the oil again. ‘Roll over, and I’ll see if I can ease it for you.’

As Sam lay beneath the working hands that caressed as much as probed, he felt the pain lessen. Frodo was murmuring to him in Quenya as he worked, and Sam caught phrases he was beginning to recognise.

‘Melinyel,’ he murmured back. ‘Melinyel, Iorhael.’