Work Text:
*
Samwise Gamgee is a hobbit of simple tastes, but the food in Rivendell is deceptively simple. Quietly so, like all Elves seem to be. Not in an off-putting way, but it does take some getting used to.
Merry and Pippin haven’t so much adapted to their new surroundings as attacked them; racing each other through Rivendell’s endless network of footpaths and delicate bridges. They visit Frodo, of course, and of course they are worried sick about him, but Sam gets the idea that folk like them tend to avoid unpleasantness rather than facing it. They haven’t the stomach for anything quite so real.
So when Sam takes a rare break from keeping vigil over his master it is usually alone. Apart from the stately dinners Lord Elrond hosts most nights, Sam is seldom persuaded to leave Frodo’s side. He inhales hasty meals in the kitchens at odd hours, catching up on sleep in his cavernous quarters only when ushered into them by Mr Gandalf at his sternest.
It’s a warm and windy morning, and the residents of the House of Elrond are outside enjoying the last golden days of autumn. Inside, Sam snacks in a dim corner of the kitchen, eating an Elvish version of beans infused with queer spices - ginger, and a taste like chicken broth but not quite. The Elvish food is deceptive in another way: it takes more eating to feel full, and it takes longer to be hungry again afterward. Even Merry and Pippin have commented on it. And although Sam misses the flavorful buttery breads and cheeses of the Shire, he does find that his cravings for food are less urgent. Which makes him begin to question how much of hobbit culture is hereditary, and how much is an effect of long proud traditions and recipes.
“Master Gamgee?”
He’s told the Elves to call him Sam, and although they always smile and promise to do so, they don’t seem interested in obliging him in practice. He puts down his plate and stumbles out into the hallway to meet a tall and beautiful elf. Sam still hasn’t got used to how beautiful they all are, and he doubts he ever will. “Is it Mr Frodo? Has he taken a bad turn?” It seems all Frodo’s done since they arrived in Rivendell is take one bad turn after another.
“No, Master Gamgee,” the elf smiles. “In fact he is awake.”
Sam mumbles something in response and bolts back to Frodo’s room in a blur of heart-pounding hope and soon finds himself at the threshold without the faintest idea how he’d got there.
“Ah, and here he is now.” Gandalf’s voice, sounding very far away. “Come in, Samwise.”
Sam’s heart begins to race anew, and when he steps around the corner there is Frodo - sitting up! - awake and alert and fair glowing in the afternoon light. Sam rushes across the room to reassure himself that it isn’t some trick of his mind, or else a bit of Elvish magic. He seizes Frodo’s hands and finds them warm and living, and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
Frodo’s face is flushed and smiling - he is no longer a pale sickly shadow of himself. But Sam’s relief is chased by a pang of regret when he realizes he can’t remember the last time he saw Frodo smile. It seems he has been forever consumed with worry, brows knitted and breath always shallow and anxious. Now Frodo’s chest rises and falls with deep full breaths that cause his oversized tunic to slip off his shoulder. The fine silken fabrics Elves seem to favor had looked ridiculous on Sam and Merry and Pippin, who had foregone them for their own clothes. But Frodo wears the draping garment perfectly, looking as enchanted in it as any of the Elves Sam has encountered.
“Hullo, Sam,” Frodo says.
“Your hands are warm again,” Sam says dumbly, squeezing them tighter to double check. “Begging your pardon, sir, but they were so cold, before. We didn’t know if you’d . . . well, you’re awake now, and that’s all that matters.”
“Sam has scarcely left your side,” Gandalf interjects from the corner and Sam startles - he’d nearly forgotten him. The wizard stands up and crosses to the doorway. “And I trust he can look after you awhile. I do have other business to attend to, as much as I would prefer to avoid it.”
“Of course, Mr Gandalf.”
After he’s left it occurs to Sam that there is little practical need to be clasping his master’s hands quite so tightly and he lets them go. But Frodo catches Sam’s hands again and pulls him back in, forcing Sam to sit on the edge of the bed rather closer to Frodo than intended. Frodo, looking starry-eyed and probably under the influence of whatever Elven draughts or spells Elrond had administered, gathers Sam into a warm heavy embrace. Frodo’s head resting with a sigh on Sam’s shoulder for long moments before he withdraws and sits back against the headboard.
Sam clears his throat, but cannot find anything to say, tongue-tied and lightheaded.
Frodo smiles obliviously. “It is marvelous to see you, Sam. I had such unhappy dreams.”
“Mr Bilbo’s here. He’ll be overjoyed to see you up and about. Your cousins as well, of course.”
“And exactly how much trouble have they got into since we arrived?”
“Oh, that’s not my place to say . . . “
Frodo laughs and his liveliness keeps shocking Sam - he seems more vibrant than he ever has. “What is Rivendell like, Sam? Is it everything you imagined it to be?”
“It’s beautiful and all - like a dream, even - but it wouldn’t have been very proper to enjoy it too much while you were . . . ”
“Oh, I shouldn’t have begrudged you that.” Frodo lays a reassuring hand on Sam’s forearm as though this sort of physicality between them is usual. “You shall have to show me around later. But first, some food would be lovely. Does Lord Elrond’s table pass muster?”
“It’s different. Not bad, but not the taste of home we’ve been sorely missing. I’ve half a mind to sneak into the kitchen and cook up something more homelike. I’m afraid it’s a few hours until dinner - these Elves have some strange customs and no mistake. But in the meantime . . . ” Sam leaves the warmth of the bed to ring a little bell on the table where Gandalf had been sitting.
After a moment an elf with keen gray eyes appears in the doorway. “Awake at last,” she says. “Gilthoniel periannath beria.”
“Hullo, Miss Tiramel. Mr Frodo here has worked up a powerful appetite, as you can imagine. Could you bring up something to tide him over until dinner?”
“Certainly,” she says, then turns to Frodo. “Master Baggins, you are truly blessed to have such a devoted melethron as Master Gamgee. He has attended you day and night during your long illness.”
Frodo’s expression shifts to one of . . . amusement? Wariness? One side of his mouth quirks up. “Indeed I am blessed,” he says.
Tiramel only smiles placidly and disappears out into the hallway.
Sam frowns. “What did she say?”
Frodo shrugs, reaching for nonchalance but he retains a certain Tookish mischief about the eyes. “Oh, she assumed we were lovers. Now, Sam, you must tell me about Rivendell. Have you met Lord Elrond himself? And what about Bilbo? I do hope he has been faring well, so far from home . . . “
Sam’s face feels hot. Lovers. “Rosie Cotton’d have a thing or two to say if she heard that kind of talk.”
Frodo glances at him, then away. “I wasn’t aware you were still sweet on Rose. I remember you running around with her and her brothers when you were younger, but . . . “ Frodo shrugs again, less convincingly casual now. “Well, never mind. I suppose I just haven’t been paying enough attention, eh? That’s rather a pattern with me, isn’t it?”
“Not at all, Mr Frodo,” Sam rushes to reply. Although Frodo does have a tendency to have his head in the clouds more than other hobbits. “It’s true we played at courting when we were tweens, but nothing more than that. Well, nothing official-like.” He can’t read Frodo’s expression and adds: “I just mean to say that I shouldn’t like to think of the Elves gossiping about you, after all you’ve been through.”
“When we return to the Shire, though, you mean to pursue her. Rose.”
“Aye, I might at that. Probably.” Sam tries very hard not to squirm. “It just makes sense, is all. At least, both our families think it does . . . ”
“Well I envy you that, Sam. The lasses my family expect me to court are seldom impressed by my modest hobbit hole in the middle of farm country.”
“But sir, Bag End is - ”
“Not Brandy Hall. Or the Great Smials. And the social scene in Hobbiton is not nearly full enough of feasts and festivals and endless dreamed-up reasons for parties that my relatives seem so fond of. On the other hand, lasses of humbler origins find me much too preoccupied with useless things like books and stories.”
“When was the last time you courted someone?” Sam asks, curiosity overruling any embarrassment. He can’t remember Frodo ever going with a lass.
Frodo smiles to himself. “Oh, nobody for many years. It became rather too much of an effort, contorting myself to fit someone else’s expectations.”
Sam can’t imagine why somebody would want Frodo to change. The way Sam sees it, his master embodies the best of both worlds - the sophistication of a gentlehobbit and a farmer’s appreciation for simple living. But he can understand Frodo’s predicament. Oh, Rosie Cotton had always enjoyed Mr Bilbo’s stories, but she hadn’t been much interested in hearing the other tales Sam had discovered after rainy days spent holed up in Bag End’s library. It just wasn’t practical to waste time reading about Elves and Dwarves and far off places. And so Sam just avoided speaking of such things altogether with her, the Cotton boys, his Gaffer, practically everyone except for Bilbo and Frodo. How strange, then, that he seems to have stumbled into the middle of a tale himself.
“Is there nobody else you would want, Sam? Other than Rosie, I mean. Surely there are plentiful candidates who would have you.” Frodo’s gaze travels over Sam in a manner that can only be described as appraising. “I believe Pippin has a couple of eligible sisters . . . ”
“I - begging your pardon,” Sam says. “Firstly, there are few other unwed lasses in Hobbiton. And secondly, I doubt any of Mr Pippin’s sisters would have me.”
“And why not? You’re a fine-looking enough lad, Sam, and Pervinca in particular is a lovely lass. Surely you noticed her at Bilbo’s farewell party . . . “
“No! I just meant - “
But Frodo is laughing. “I’m sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t tease you. Too much time with my cousins has taken its toll, perhaps.”
“Well that’s a fact,” Sam mutters.
It’s then that Tiramel returns with a basket of warm bannocks and a cucumbery drink. Frodo tucks in immediately. She smiles knowingly at them and says something in Elvish before departing.
After Frodo has supped he leaves the sickroom at last to reunite with Merry and Pippin - Merry squeezing Frodo more fiercely than Sam would like given his condition - and the four of them stroll through showers of falling leaves in search of Bilbo. Frodo’s cousins bombard him with stories, talking over each other competitively and often failing to get to the point but Frodo seems not to mind, content to enjoy their company and breathe in the competing floral scents of Rivendell. They find Mr Bilbo sitting on a bench near the fountain, and after a flurry of excited greetings Sam convinces Merry and Pippin to give Frodo some alone time with his uncle. Sam promises to return to take Frodo to dinner. He knows well how involved Mr Bilbo gets in conversation and how bad the both of them are about keeping track of time.
The spread that night at Elrond Halfelven’s table is fine indeed, but Bilbo insists upon eating in his room. Seemingly the charm of such extravagant affairs has worn off during Bilbo’s stay in Rivendell, but Sam can scarcely imagine ever tiring of it. The meal is accompanied by tranquil harpists and soft-spoken Elvish all around. The hobbits have a little corner of the large table to themselves, and Merry and Pippin spend most of the evening giving Frodo the inside scoop about Rivendell’s cellars, the best fishing spots, and second hand gossip about Strider and Elrond’s daughter. Frodo nods attentively while they talk, practiced in the patience needed to contend with his cousins. He eats heartily, coming back for seconds and thirds of an exotically spiced soup and humming happily to himself. Sam is unspeakably relieved.
Merry and Pippin wander off after the meal has concluded - they have grown weary of the leisurely period of storytelling that follows the evening meal in the Hall of Fire. Sam is no expert in Elvish lore, but he recognizes enough bits here and there to stay interested in their stories. Most nights, the melodious cadence of words is mesmerizing enough on its own.
A dark haired elf in blue robes is reciting a poem about Elwë Singollo and Melian, his queen. So struck was he by her beauty upon their first meeting that they stood together silent and motionless for years in the wood. The elf is describing the hidden realm they created together when Frodo makes a sleepy sound beside Sam and leans into his shoulder. Sam stiffens automatically, but Frodo seems to anticipate this - he adjusts his head to get more comfortable and resettles with his thigh flush against Sam’s and his breath ghosting over Sam’s collarbone. Is he daring Sam to react? Is he merely exhausted and still recuperating from his illness? Frodo sighs deeply and Sam’s breathing begins to slow to match him.
“Oi, Frodo!” somebody hisses from behind them.
Frodo doesn’t bother to move. “Yes, what is it, Pippin?” he asks quietly.
Pippin doesn’t answer, gesturing frenetically for them to follow. Frodo does, and Sam reluctantly leaves the warmth and magic of the Hall of Fire behind to meet the other hobbits outside.
Merry awaits them in the patchy moonlight on a balcony. The trees and coneflowers bordering the balcony are a riot of reds and golds in daylight, but have cooled in the dark to secret blues and silvers.
“Hullo, lads!” Merry says. “So good of you to join us. Pippin and I have been doing a bit of exploring . . . ”
“To say the least,” Sam mutters, and is rewarded with a little smirk from Frodo.
“ . . . and we believe we have discovered something of greater value than a dragon’s gold.”
“It’s not pipeweed,” Pippin warns.
Frodo rolls his eyes. “All right then, Merry, let’s have it.”
Merry holds a finger up. “Ah ah, Frodo. Some things are better seen for oneself. Now, if you would please follow me?”
Merry leads them through the empty pathways of Rivendell, through choruses of cicadas and gusts of cool air over the river. Statues watch over them, and the first crisp leaves crunch softly underfoot. At last they arrive in a tucked away cellar where Merry pauses to light a candle off a wall sconce before venturing deeper within. The sweet smell of dirt and damp fills Sam’s nostrils.
Merry jogs out ahead of them, stops, turns around and gestures expansively. “Ta-da!” He hands the candle to Pippin who rushes around to light the sconces in the cellar, revealing endless rows of enormous wine barrels. “Like Pippin said, it isn’t pipeweed, but it’ll do in a pinch.”
Sam frowns. “You don’t mean to drink it, Mr Merry?”
“In any case, we haven’t any glasses to drink it out of,” Frodo points out. He begins to wander around the cellar, trailing lazy fingers along the stacked barrels and inspecting their labels.
“Haven’t we, cousin?” Pippin says. He produces two glasses that are close to hobbit sized but are clearly not intended for wine - some kind of bowl for sauces, perhaps.
Sam raises his voice a little more. “We really oughtn’t drink any. It belongs to our hosts, after all.”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport, Sam,” Pippin says. “There is plenty of wine for everyone, and the Elves shan’t miss it. But even if they do, they have the rest of eternity to replenish their stock.”
“Ah!” Frodo exclaims from around a wall of barrels. “I may be mistaken, but I’m sure some of this is from Mirkwood.”
Pippin snaps to attention. “From the Elves in Bilbo’s stories? Well, we must sample a bit of that!”
Merry laughs. “I don’t know, Pip. Those Elves couldn’t hold their liquor, if you remember.”
“Of course not,” Pippin scoffs. “They aren’t hobbits.”
Over the next few minutes Pippin squabbles with everyone else over wine selection. Sometimes Pippin’s frivolity can try Sam’s patience, however innocuous, but he is mightily headstrong when he wants to be and Sam eventually gives up on protesting. Glasses are poured - one of the Mirkwood wine and one of a woody sweet red - which the hobbits share between them. The alcohol goes to Sam’s head almost immediately despite the hearty meal he’d just eaten.
After the glasses are drained Merry springs back into action. He hands one to Frodo with a grin. “I think you’ll like this one.”
Frodo throws him a skeptical look but takes the glass and drinks it anyway. His eyebrows climb. “Oh, my. There is something . . . intriguing about it. Sam, you should try it.” Frodo passes Sam the wineglass. In the dim light Frodo’s stained mouth is in stark contrast to his candle-luminous skin.
It takes Sam a moment to tear his gaze away from the strangeness of Frodo’s shadows and sample the wine himself. It blooms on his tongue slowly, something warm and invasive about it. He can’t describe the taste - neither fruit nor spice nor bitterness. It tastes like eerie elvishness, like vast ancient worlds.
Frodo watches him with lips parted very slightly. His eyes look black in the shadows. “What do you think, Sam?”
“Yes,” Sam says, not understanding himself.
“We’d like to have a go too if you don’t mind, Sam,” Pippin says. Sam hands the glass over numbly and Pippin snatches it up. Sam doesn’t know what he does after that, but he can hear Merry talking and Pippin laughing in response. Sam’s world feels shrunken down.
Sam tells Frodo: “I feel . . . very peculiar.”
Frodo’s eyes widen comically. “Yes!” He swats Sam’s arm for emphasis. “I supposed it was because I have been ill, but that wine has made me feel most unusual.”
Sam’s heavy head drops to look at Frodo’s hand where it rests lazily on Sam’s forearm. He looks back up to Frodo and finds him trying to stifle a smile and failing, then laughing musically. Sam can’t remember hearing him laugh like that since Crickhollow.
Time passes in dizziness. Eventually Sam is handed a fresh glass of yet another wine by somebody. This one is crisp and floral and wakes Sam up a bit. He offers the glass to Frodo, and Frodo’s fingers stutter over Sam’s before cupping the glass and taking it. Frodo drinks but continues watching Sam like he’s just discovered he exists and it occurs to Sam that Frodo never paid him much mind back home. Of course he was a fair and exceptionally hospitable employer, but he didn’t meet Sam’s eye all the time. The smile that Frodo used to have for Sam was tolerant, though kind. That has changed since Frodo awakened, and Sam is continually mesmerized by it. Frodo seems amused by Sam gawking at him and flashes that intimate new smile for him now.
“I say, Frodo, are you listening?” Merry or Pippin is clamoring.
“Hm?” Frodo turns unsteadily to face them.
“I said,” Merry repeats patiently, “do you remember the gala at Brandy Hall after the harvest?”
“The corn festival?” Sam asks.
“Corn!” Pippin says. “Who gives a toss about corn? We were talking about the wine gala, Frodo.”
Frodo chuckles. “More of a drunken frolic around Brandy Hall in practice, as I remember.”
Merry grins at this. “And what’s wrong with that? All that fine Southfarthing wine is meant to be drunk! I’m surprised you haven’t a similar tradition in Hobbiton. The dancing is terrific fun, particularly when one can position oneself to dance with the prettier lasses.”
“The dancing is rather fun,” Frodo admits. “Provided Merry doesn’t stomp on your toes.”
“That sounds like a challenge,” Merry says. He pulls Frodo to his feet with surprising ease, although Frodo does immediately sway to the side. Merry stays him with a hand at Frodo’s hip and Frodo grabs onto Merry’s shoulder for support. They argue good-naturedly while attempting dance moves with much too much laughing to execute any of them properly. Pippin eggs them on, happily criticizing their technique from the sidelines.
Frodo is less than graceful in his wine-addled state, but Sam finds it hopelessly charming. Frodo always danced skillfully at birthday parties or Lithes along the Water, but right now he feels more real and unguarded as he stumbles into Merry and laughs about it afterward.
“Poor Frodo,” Merry laments, spinning him around. “However do you manage to attract so many lasses if you dance this terribly?”
Frodo snorts. “You fail to realize that my allure is primarily financial.”
“Oh, pish tosh, dear cousin. Your unreasonably pretty face makes its case fairly well without the aid of an overflowing purse.”
Frodo opens his mouth to respond but stops when he catches Sam’s eye. His lips form a sly half-grin instead and Sam feels instantly exposed. He extricates himself from Merry and reaches out to Sam. Sam’s head swims as he clambers to his feet but Frodo sweeps in to steady him - very warm, very close.
“Well then, Sam,” Frodo murmurs. “Since Merry isn’t up to the task, I fear you must teach me how better to attract the lasses. Apparently my skills are sorely lacking.”
“As I heard it,” Sam replies, surprised by his own boldness as he continues, “you’re tempting them well enough just the way you are.”
“Hm.” Frodo guides one of Sam's arms up over his head and repositions the other across Frodo's chest. "Take my hands," Frodo instructs, spinning them around when Sam complies. They struggle to step in sync and spend many uncoordinated spins laughing and bumping into each other.
Frodo squeezes Sam’s hands tight and stops their rotation. Sam’s vision blurs a little, and when Frodo comes back into focus he is saying, "Now it's a kick, I think. Left foot first, then the other?"
“Right foot first!” Pippin calls.
“So says a hobbit with two left feet!” Frodo retorts.
Sam capitalizes on Frodo’s distraction to reverse them, twisting Frodo’s arms around until their positions are mirrored. Frodo’s face registers surprise, then delight, and then they begin to spin again in the opposite direction. Frodo sneaks himself closer with every rotation, and by the end of it they are nearly nose to nose.
*
Sam spends the next morning helping in the kitchen. The Elves who work in the kitchen aren’t servants - in fact Elves don’t seem to have servants at all. Rather they contribute their skills where most appropriate, with the best singers singing and the best cooks cooking. Even Lord Elrond isn’t a leader in the way the Mayor of Hobbiton or the Thain are; his superior knowledge and wisdom is respected the most, and so community decisions are left to him. It’s all very complicated and elegant, and it would never work in the Shire.
Sam takes a lunch tray to Frodo’s room directly - after last night’s drinking, his master had slept in, still in his clothes and snoring lightly when Sam had brought him breakfast that morning. When Sam arrives at Frodo’s door now he can see it sitting untouched on the table. Frodo stands at the window, gazing out at the yellowing trees.
Sam knocks on the doorframe and Frodo turns around to offer him a wan smile. “Hullo, Sam,” he says. All of yesterday’s cheer has faded from him.
Sam sets down the lunch tray. “What’s the matter, sir?”
“Oh, it’s nothing to fret over, really,” Frodo says unconvincingly. “It’s just that Bilbo seems to have aged all at once, and in more than just appearance. I saw him this morning, you see, and I know - oh, thank you Sam.” Frodo pauses to take an apple off the lunch tray, then tosses it between his hands instead of eating it. “I know Gandalf explained that the Ring had kept him young, but it is rather different to see the effects for oneself. Bilbo was always full of energy, and he spoiled me awfully with all that sensational talk of adventuring. Indeed all of my cousins were horribly jealous that I got to live with him . . . “ Frodo pauses, then shakes his head. “Well. I’m glad to be able to see him again, anyway.”
“ ‘ Course it’s a shock to see Mr Bilbo changed the way he has. My gaffer was already long in the tooth by the time I came along, so I never knew him to be what you might call spry. But there are still moments that catch me off guard. He’ll misremember things, or remind me to do something twice without realizing it.”
“I didn’t know that,” Frodo says softly.
Sam shuffles his feet. “Well, it’s not the sort of thing brought up in respectable conversation, sir.”
“ ‘Respectable’, indeed,” Frodo snorts, then adds more seriously: “I suppose there are more topics we have avoided in the past than I had realized.”
Sam squirms under the weight of his scrutiny. Frodo has always affected Sam, whether he knows it or not. Sam had lived for Bilbo’s stories when he was little, along with all the other children in Hobbiton. When he got older and Bilbo taught him his letters Sam began perusing Bag End’s library to read those stories for himself. Disappearing into the fantastic lives of others for hours while his gaffer worked in the gardens. Frodo had a habit of popping into the library midmorning to read as well, and there they coexisted comfortably in silence. Frodo snuck Sam biscuits from the kitchen, and he’d correct whatever unfamiliar word Sam sounded out for him without looking up from his own book. Frodo had been older, but not yet old enough to be grouped in with the dull adults that Sam knew, and thus Sam idolized him.
By adolescence Sam’s ideas about Frodo had morphed into suspicions as he tried on the opinions of the rest of Hobbiton. A bit odd of those Bagginses to read quite so much, and socialize quite so little, wasn’t it? It felt good to be in agreement with pretty lasses like Rosie Cotton and her brothers who Sam could idolize much more safely. Sam could achieve the same goals as the Cotton boys, after all, but poetry and adventuring (however fascinating) were pursuits best left to hobbits with better breeding. And best not left to hobbits at all.
By the time Sam had taken over Bag End’s gardens from the Gaffer, his perception of Frodo had once again changed. The balance of power between them had leveled with maturity, and Sam was able to see Frodo as a tangible hobbit, even a friend, and not merely an idea of a person. But then Mr Bilbo had left, and the next day Sam had found Frodo in the library red-eyed and puffy-faced, surrounded by piles of unopened birthday gifts. He’d hugged Frodo without even thinking about it, and when Frodo clutched him tightly and sighed with relief against him Sam had realized exactly how alone Frodo was. There were more dinners together after that, and more sunsets spent on the Hill smoking afterwards. Frodo’s smiles began to make Sam’s chest tighten and Sam knew that something had changed again.
In the present Frodo is staring out the window again and has yet to bite into his apple. Sam clears his throat. “You ought to finish your lunch, sir. And afterward I’ll take you somewhere I think might cheer you up.”
After Frodo has supped Sam brings him to the library. It is of course impressive, stretching along several of the hallways and chambers with at least four entrances that Sam has found. Enormous windows face a rocky cliffside that is burnished red in the mornings. For the most part the library is dark, however, lit only by skylights and the candles that the Elves carry with them from shelf to shelf, as if the secrets contained by books need to sleep until they are needed again.
Elrond’s library contains more than tomes of Elvish lore, although there is plenty of that. There are books in Westron and the other strange tongues of Men and even a collection of histories by a dwarf-lord. Most of those are in Dwarvish, however, and Sam can’t make much sense of them. At least with the Elvish writing he can guess at vowels.
“I’m liable to get lost in here,” Frodo says, head tilted back to look up at the high shadowed ceiling. His hair falls away from his face and his throat is left exposed.
“Mae govannen,” says a dark-haired elf. He seems to be the only other one in the library. “I am Lindir. I have heard much about you, Frodo Baggins. Please allow me to welcome you again to the House of Elrond. I shall be studying if you or your beloved should need anything.” He smiles and disappears between the shelves.
“My, the Elves really are quite formal, aren’t they?” Frodo says. He lights the candle he had taken from the library’s entrance off of a sconce. “And they do seem rather confused about our relationship. Does that bother you?” He stays turned away, preventing Sam from reading his expression.
“They don’t mean no harm by it,” Sam says neutrally.
Frodo passes by too quickly for Sam to see his reaction.
They wander through the shelves, Frodo plucking up books and leafing through them before progressing to the next. Sam wonders what he’s looking for but says nothing. Eventually Frodo’s meandering brings them to a dark little corner with many shelves of Second Age poetry. Some of the books seem new, but others are old and weathered and boast timeworn yellow pages. Frodo sets his candle down and extracts one of the old books carefully.
“It’s a bit hard to make out,” Frodo says, squinting at the vine-like strings of Elvish on the page.
Sam takes the candle and holds it up between them, partially behind Frodo and partially beside him in order to keep the light close to the book.
“Thank you, Sam, but it’s more than the lighting; I’m afraid I’m unfamiliar with most of the higher Elvish tongues.”
Sam takes the book from him, holding it up to compare the title with the other books. It’s something like ‘beast’ or ‘monster’ and he soon finds a similar collection of Elvish swirls on a newer book. He hands it to Frodo, who opens it to find a Westron translation on every opposite page and mumbles his thanks.
“Can you see well enough, Sam?” Frodo becomes quickly absorbed in the poem, lips moving soundlessly as he reads it to himself. His eyes are bright and captivated.
Sam watches him and answers, “I can see well enough.”
The name Beren rings a bell for Sam, but it isn’t until the text mentions Lúthien that he’s able to place it. The tome Frodo had selected seems to deal with the lovers’ first meeting, and the lengths to which they went to be together. It all seems rather bleaker than Sam had remembered it.
“He marries the elf princess in the end, though, doesn’t he?” Sam asks.
“Yes,” Frodo says. “King Thingol was a hard one to please, evidently.”
“But he’s the one from the story last night. He married someone well above his own station, didn’t he?”
Frodo chuckles. “I suppose that’s right. It would seem even Elves aren’t immune to hypocrisy.” He closes the book and turns to face Sam. Extremely close, and golden with candlelight. He takes the candle back with a deliberate brush of his fingertips across Sam’s knuckles. “Shall we do some more exploring?”
*
The next morning Bilbo commandeers an unused veranda for breakfast. He had conspired with the Elves to make a proper hobbit breakfast, and indeed the imitation is a fine one, if a bit irrepressibly Elvish. Pippin wolfs down sausages too quickly to even notice they aren’t made from meat, and Merry hoards one of everything onto his plate as though the food will vanish. Frodo closes his eyes in contentment with the first bite of fried egg and mm’s in such a way that Sam is glad the others are preoccupied with eating. Gandalf has joined the hobbits, and he graciously shares some of his pipeweed after the meal.
Merry and Pippin plead with Frodo to join them on some dubious jaunt or other but Frodo is quick to decline: “I should like to stay sober for at least the rest of the morning, thank you very much.” And so his cousins give up and go off on their own.
“Do you have other plans for today, sir?”
Frodo shakes his head. “No I haven’t. Why, Sam?”
“After such a lovely breakfast, I had a notion we might try fishing in the Bruinen, today.” Sam had finally learned the river’s name in the library before Frodo had awakened. He’d examined all sorts of maps about where they had been, and the distance from the Shire to Rivendell still surprised him. “There’s plenty of taters in the kitchens. I thought maybe I could fry up some fish to go with them.”
“Oh, that sounds heavenly,” Frodo says. “I shall weigh twice as much by the time we leave here.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but you got awful thin when you were sick. Food will only do you good.”
Frodo lays a hand on Sam’s forearm. “Thank you for always looking after me. Now, shall we go and find some fishing rods?”
Elves always seem to pop up when you need them in Rivendell, and before long Frodo and Sam have acquired rods and tackle and even some advice on the best fishing spots (which are different from Merry and Pippin’s suggestions). The little paths leading down to the river get progressively wilder - changing from tidy stone paving to gravel to dirt. Tree branches sway overhead and weedy grasses intrude on the path from both sides. Rivendell has seemed like an estuary of seasons since Sam arrived, but the effect is magnified as they venture away from Elrond’s House. Vivid green stalks spiking out under yellow trees and red trees and winter-bare trees. The sweet smell of decaying leaves underfoot one minute and fresh new grass the next. They walk through humid patches of sun followed by ever cooler gusts of river-air.
Frodo points out a little grove by the riverside. It’s as good a spot as any, so they clamber down the bank to reach it. There’s the musical sound of rustling leaves and a bird calling in the distance as they bait their hooks. A little wind picks up, carrying coppery water-smells with it.
“Ah,” Frodo sighs, casting his line out into the river. “There is nothing quite like being alone in a wood. It’s marvelously refreshing.”
“That it is, Mr Frodo.” Sam casts his line a little farther downstream, meaning to snag any fish who come across Frodo’s bait but try to avoid it. “What do you suppose your cousins are up to, this morning?”
“Whatever it is, I suspect it would be counterproductive to my convalescence.”
“Aye. I don’t know how they’ve avoided a scolding from Gandalf - or Lord Elrond himself - for as long as they have.”
“Believe it or not, Sam, I used to be as bad as Merry in my misspent youth in Buckland. You remember our recent encounter with Farmer Maggot, of course.”
“Yes, but . . . ”
“But?”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but I still have a hard time picturing you stealing mushrooms just for the thrill of it.”
Frodo hmms. “I used to run around getting into all sorts of trouble when I was a tween. There isn’t much to do at Brandy Hall that isn’t considered grown-up and boring when you’re that age. But after my parents died I wanted to escape into other worlds, and Bilbo’s library was ideal for that. Somewhere along the way I suppose I got into the habit of preferring books to other hobbits. And anyway there were few children my own age in Hobbiton.”
“You’ve friends now, though. In Hobbiton.”
Frodo considers. “After a fashion, yes. But I often find that people in Hobbiton aren’t very genuine with me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They just tend to favor me with a kind of unearned deference. Not you, of course.”
Sam frowns at that, but Frodo hurries to add:
“That is - although you are always a very proper and respectable hobbit, I have never felt that your kindness towards me is false.”
Sam frowns again for a different reason. “Why should I be kind to you if I didn’t want to be?”
“Sam, the fact that you think that way is precisely why I so enjoy your company.”
The sun disappears behind a cloud then and the world seems to breathe a sigh of relief. Sam thinks he feels something bite a couple of times, but nothing comes of it. The river is clear and shallow and Sam hasn’t seen anything larger than a minnow so far. Translucent little flies flit here and there on the water’s surface but other than that is it seldom disturbed. Not far from the shore is a little island with high red banks crowned by a trio of saplings that would make for a better fishing spot - the water looks significantly deeper around it.
“I think I’ll go out to that island,” Sam says. “Maybe we’ll have better luck there.”
“Shall I come too?”
“Oh, don’t bother yourself, Mr Frodo. I can manage.”
Sam leans his fishing rod against a languid willow and rolls his sleeves up. He wades out into the shallows, flinching at the temperature of the water. About halfway to the island the riverbed drops, submerging Sam up to his waist, and the current picks up. He grabs onto a root to steady himself but loses his grip and sends himself falling against the banks of the island. Thick red mud smears his arms and shirt.
“Sam?” Frodo calls.
“I’m fine.” Sam struggles to stand upright but is immediately knocked back down by the current, this time into a patch of even softer mud with a comical splat.
Frodo’s laughter carries over the water.
Sam can’t help chuckling too; it’s certainly ridiculous. “I’m naught but a joke to you, am I?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sam. Are you all right?” Frodo asks, still struggling to tame his laughter as he wades out into the river. “Have you been hurt?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I think I might’a twisted something . . . ”
“Here, let me help you up - ”
Sam takes Frodo’s outstretched hand and yanks him down into the water too. Frodo yelps in surprise, looking shocked but delighted. He makes a lunge for Sam but Sam splashes him away. Frodo splashes back. They keep stumbling and landing on the muddy banks of the island so that by the time all splashing has ceased they are both covered in mud. Frodo gestures chaotically to indicate a truce, too paralyzed with silent laughter to speak. The bubbles they’d disturbed the water with begin to ebb and Sam can hear late-summer insects whirring distantly again.
Frodo is drenched, hair plastered flat against his skull and a sensational streak of mud across his cheek and nose. His eyelashes are strung with drops of water that catch the sunlight, ruddy-faced and smiling, and Sam is hopelessly caught by his gaze.
“Well, I suppose that concludes our fishing expedition,” Frodo says, breaking eye contact at last. He seems in no hurry to get up, however - he’s acquiesced to the river, and sits in the shallows letting one hand float above the current absently.
Sam stands, trying to wipe mud off and only succeeding in smearing it further. “Ugh! We ought to get cleaned up before showing our faces in Rivendell again.”
Frodo cocks his head. “I can’t even imagine a dirty elf, let alone what an elf would think of a dirty hobbit . . . ”
Sam laughs. “We passed a waterfall a ways back, sir. Perhaps we ought to wash up a bit.”
Frodo agrees, and they steady each other against the current on their trip back to the riverbank. The sun does little to warm them in their sodden clothing and by the time they reach the waterfall Frodo’s teeth are chattering.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’ll catch your death if you don’t get out of those wet clothes.”
Frodo hesitates for a moment, looking abruptly serious, and Sam fears he has been too bold, but then Frodo seems to collect himself and they locate a secluded but sunny slab of rock to lay their clothing on. They wade naked into the frothy pool at the base of the waterfall. The water feels heavenly, warmed by the sun and shielded from wind by the cliffside.
Frodo kicks away from Sam to float on his back while Sam scrubs the mud off of his face and hands. They trudge closer to the cliff, ducking under the waterfall and reemerging in a sun-dappled alcove behind it. The water here is even warmer, sloshing lazily at their waists. Frodo reaches a hand out into the waterfall, beyond which the world is distorted and glistening.
“No fish for dinner, then,” Frodo says, voice echoing against the rock.
“Not tonight, in any case.” Sam notices a stubborn streak of mud in the dip between Frodo’s collarbones and reaches out to wipe it off.
Frodo shivers a little but doesn’t move away. “Thank you,” he says, placing a wet cool hand over Sam’s.
Sam’s fingers seem to trail up the bare goosebumped skin of Frodo’s neck of their own accord, and still Frodo doesn’t move away. In fact he moves closer, sending little waves to splash against Sam.
“I haven’t done anything like this in years,” Sam says, unsure if he’s referring to frolicking in waterfalls in general or whatever it is that is ripening between them.
“Oh? Not even with Rosie Cotton?”
“No.”
“Why not?” Frodo asks mildly.
Sam feels so untethered by the mirth of the day and the secrecy of the waterfall that he blurts out: “Because it’s better with you. Always has been.”
Frodo comes closer still, close enough that Sam feels his breath and smells his river-damp hair. He is sure that Frodo can hear his heart pounding.
The rush of the waterfall is loud, but over it comes the high piercing note of a horn. Both hobbits peer out through the water at the new arrivals trotting on horseback up the path. There must be at least a dozen of them, bearing a rainbow of different banners.
“What do you reckon they’re doing here?” Sam asks.
“I cannot say,” Frodo replies from beside him, squinting to see better. “Do you know, I think some of them may be Dwarves. There are ponies among the horses.”
“Dwarves in Rivendell! That’s queer indeed, Mr Frodo - are you sure?”
“And a Man.” Frodo looks troubled now. “I wonder.”
After the company has passed they retrieve their partially dried clothes and follow the visitors back to Elrond’s House.
*
“Are you quite sure they were Dwarves, Frodo?” Merry asks. “Seems a bit odd for Rivendell.”
Bilbo had retired after breakfast, but the other hobbits have assembled to enjoy a smoke on a treeless balcony by a fountain. Cool breezes drift across the babbling water but are held at bay by the warmth of the midmorning sun. Merry and Pippin have discovered a stash of pipeweed somewhere in the cellars, and although it isn’t quite as fine as Longbottom leaf, it is still a comfort to smoke it together on such a beautiful autumn day. In fact Sam thinks it’s the comfort of a familiar custom that sets him at ease more than the leaf itself.
“Perhaps it was Lobelia on the pony,” Pippin suggests. “I wouldn’t put it past her to stalk poor Frodo all the way here to complain about the quality of Bag End’s cutlery.”
Frodo rolls his eyes. “I doubt she knows where Rivendell is, if she’s heard of it at all.”
“Oh, Miss Lobelia has a sixth sense when it comes to sniffing out Bagginses,” Sam says. “I’ll wager she’d turn up eventually, if we stayed here long enough.”
Frodo snickers, and it ruins the smoke ring he had just carefully puffed.
“Maybe the Dwarves have come to visit with Uncle Bilbo,” Pippin says. “The old fellow seems much too comfortable here to go adventuring any more, despite all his talk.”
“Hm. Yes, that could be it.” Frodo bites the stem of his pipe thoughtfully, and Sam is slightly spellbound by the elegance of his smoking. And by Frodo’s tongue when it darts out to wet his upper lip. “Or perhaps it’s about the Ring.”
Merry frowns. “I rather thought that business was over and done with. Surely the Ring will be safer here than sitting on some dusty old bookshelf in Bag End.”
“Hm.” Frodo continues to fiddle with his pipe, but seems to forget about smoking it altogether.
Sam touches Frodo’s arm gently to snap him out of it. “Gandalf wanted us here in Rivendell for a reason, Mr Frodo,” Sam reminds him. “Let wiser folk like him and Lord Elrond take it from here.”
Merry’s frowning has only deepened. “Could it be about the Ring . . . ?”
Pippin groans. “Ugh, I’ve had enough gloominess to last a lifetime since we left the Shire. Can’t we talk about something else?”
They move on to other topics, but the conversation soon lapses into silence while each of them smokes and ruminates. Sam is sure that Gandalf knows what is best when it comes to the Ring. Even Strider has earned Sam’s respect by now. Rivendell is filled with wiser folk who know far more about the Dark Lord and his machinations than any hobbit ever could. It’s been a rougher road than Sam had expected, between the Barrow-downs and the Black Riders, and he is glad that the road has come to an end. Bilbo always said that the road goes ever on, but even he has reached the end of his journey at last. Sam looks over at Frodo and finds him holding his pipe listlessly in one hand while the other is laid protectively over his trouser pocket.
As if sensing Sam’s scrutiny, Frodo sits up straighter and dumps out what’s left of his pipe, which earns him a look of pained disbelief from Pippin. “I’m feeling a bit tired now, lads,” he announces. “I think I’ll retire until noon.”
“Suit yourself, Frodo,” Merry says. “But if you’re not on time then I shan’t be held responsible for Pippin filching your lunch.”
“Oi!” Pippin protests, smacking Merry’s arm but laughing along with him anyway.
Frodo offers a little smile to them all before taking his leave. Sam considers going after him, but Frodo seems intent on being left alone.
Frodo doesn’t show up for lunch, and although Merry comments on it neither he nor Pippin seem very troubled. Sam checks on Frodo after the meal and finds him sleeping in his clothes, one arm flung out over the edge of the bed and his head turned sharply away from the door. His neck is exposed from this angle, and he looks like a sculpted companion to the noble Elven maid carved into the headboard. Sam assures himself that Frodo is still breathing before leaving him to rest.
The sun grows hot in a cloudless sky, making sitting outside less comfortable than it had been in the morning, so Sam retires to his own room to while away the time. He unrolls a map he had obtained from the library and another, blank piece of parchment to write on. He’s been meaning to work out a more agreeable route back to the Shire, but has been too occupied with Frodo.
Some of the landmarks have different names on the Elvish map, but Sam can recognize them easily enough. He hopes they might stay a night in Archet rather than Bree to avoid Bill Ferny altogether, then cut through the Chetwood to the Greenway. He’s still uncertain about following the Road, given all that he now knows is afoot out in the wide world. But without the Ring perhaps they could follow it back and spare themselves another trudge through Midgewater.
“The Gaffer was quite wrong about you learning your letters,” says Frodo softly from the doorway, making Sam jump. He approaches and nods at Sam’s preliminary map. “It seems you are making good use of your skills.”
“Mr Frodo! We missed you at lunch.”
“I know,” Frodo says, picking up one of the Elvish maps to study it more closely. “I lost my appetite earlier, but now I confess I am terribly hungry.”
“You must take better care of yourself, sir. You’re not entirely healed, although you might feel well enough.”
“You’re right, of course,” Frodo says. He continues to study the map as he adds lightly: “Perhaps we might cook something together now. To tide us over until dinnertime. If you want to, Sam.”
Sam puts his quill down and says, “I want to.”
They find the kitchens empty as usual, which continues to bewilder Sam considering the sheer size of the feasts Elrond holds every night. Frodo lights the fire while Sam finds carrots and celery and garlic, potatoes and thyme and the unusual buttery stuff the Elves seem to favor as a fat. They balance large cutting boards between stools to form two tables at hobbit-height. Sam delegates the chopping of celery to Frodo and cuts the carrots himself. When Sam has moved on to smashing garlic cloves under his knife Frodo says, “Oh that smells heavenly,” causing Sam to glance over at him and see the mess he is making of the celery.
Sam puts his knife aside and comes over to Frodo, unable to keep the smile out of his voice: “You don’t do much cooking on your own, do you, sir?”
Frodo laughs. “I’m afraid I defer to your expertise for anything more complicated than breakfast. I am sorry to say that my suppers consist mainly of bits of cheese from the pantry or pies from Bywater Market.”
“No wonder you always look so peckish. I should’ve been coming up the Hill for supper more often.” Sam hurries to clarify, “To cook for you.”
Sam is sure he catches a brief glimmer in Frodo's eye. “Yes, we shall have to make some new traditions when we return home.”
“Yes.”
“Well? Will you show me how to chop this properly, since my skills are so objectionable?”
Sam takes Frodo’s knife and joins him at the board. Frodo doesn’t make any room for him. Sam takes a stalk of celery and shows Frodo how to chop it both quickly and finely, but when Frodo tries the knife slips almost immediately and they both have to laugh. Sam says, “No, here, like this,” and puts the knife back in Frodo’s hand and lays his own hand on top of Frodo’s to guide it. Frodo does better now, but he still has the giggles, and Sam can feel it reverberate through his chest - they’re that close, and closer because Frodo is leaning back into him now and their hands have stalled together mid chop.
“Better, Sam?”
Sam clears his throat. “They’ll do nicely, sir. Will you help me peel the potatoes while these cook a little?”
Frodo exhales a little shakily and again, Sam feels it. “If you want.”
They separate, and the world feels suddenly colder. Frodo stirs everything in an overlarge pot with some of the Elvish butter while Sam washes potatoes. Sam fetches water from the little well out back and they peel potatoes while waiting for it to boil in relative silence. Chopping them isn’t as precise as the smaller vegetables, and Frodo finishes his batch almost as quickly as Sam does. Their makeshift tables have served them well so far, but things get somewhat trickier when it’s time to transfer the potatoes to the boiling water. Sam favors a less is more strategy, carrying only half a handful at a time across the kitchen, but Frodo bites off rather more than he can chew by attempting to transport more slippery potatoes than he can quite contain in his cupped hands. He realizes his miscalculation too late, but luckily Sam is there to catch the overflow with his own hands, and they only lose one errant vegetable between them. Sam leads them carefully over to the pot and after the potatoes are dropped into it he forgets to let go of Frodo’s hands.
Frodo looks entirely unperturbed - in fact he seems transfixed by Sam, and his lips are parted slightly and his eyes are unthinkably beautiful. Sam kisses him before he can second guess himself, unable to ignore how desperately he has wanted to any longer. Frodo makes a tiny sound in response, hands sliding up Sam’s arms and gripping tightly as if to steady himself.
Sam senses Frodo begin to pull away so he kisses him harder to avoid whatever happens next - Frodo sighs into it for a lovely bright moment before freeing his mouth to mumble between them, “The stew, Sam. We should stop.”
Sam stops, lightheaded and worried now as he steps away from Frodo. Frodo has crossed his arms around himself and averted his eyes.
“Sir, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking - ”
Frodo waves him off impatiently. “No, I should be the one to apologize. I never should have taken advantage of your friendship as I have been. It was horribly irresponsible of me.”
Sam’s stomach drops. “I thought you wanted . . . at the waterfall you . . . ”
When Frodo finally looks up Sam can see the panic in his expression as plain as day. “I just don’t want you acquiescing to my whims out of obligation.”
“Whims?”
“No not . . . I only meant that - ”
But Sam tunes out Frodo’s words, too overwhelmed by the icy onslaught of doubt to hear anything. He’s certain if they continue to discuss this he’ll say too much - or worse, break down completely in front of Frodo like a tween. He feels unbelievably stupid. “Like you said, sir, we ought to tend to the stew right now. It shan’t take long, but if you would rather pass the time somewhere else I’d be happy to bring it to you.”
Frodo’s face is contorted with worry and Sam has to look away, furious with himself. Frodo bites his tongue and nods, mutters something about the library and leaves. Sam stays close to the pot, bathing himself in its steam and aromatics and trying to focus on nothing else. Technique aside, most hobbits have a sixth sense about food, and Frodo comes back right as Sam is ladling the stew into big Elvish bowls. There is small talk while they eat, and the stew is delicious, but any enjoyment of the meal has been hopelessly tainted.
*
Sam skips dinner that evening and sleeps fitfully. The birds wake him up before dawn from a dream that had felt vitally important but which he promptly forgets. He doesn’t recognize his room, at first, and is overcome with sadness to realize he is in Rivendell rather than his own bed at 3 Bagshot Row. And he chuckles at that, because who would’ve guessed that Samwise Gamgee would be sad to be visiting Elves? That’s the point of dreams, he supposes - they are something to aspire to, and not to have, not really. Because the having of them will always turn out to be less happy than expected.
He thinks about Frodo, about the fantasy they have been living in this faraway place where fantastic things truly do happen. Maybe that had made it easier to buy into. Remembering the Shire and Sam’s sureness about life there helps him to snap out of his moping. A reestablishment of order is needed, and the burden is on Sam to introduce it.
At breakfast the hobbits are much too busy eating to do much conversing, but toward the end of the meal Frodo socializes with his cousins some, although he seems reserved. At lunch Frodo avoids socializing altogether, pushes away half of his meal and excuses himself early.
And in the mid-afternoon Sam knocks softly on Frodo’s door.
Frodo looks up from his book. “Oh hullo, what’s all this?”
Sam sets a tray on the little table on Frodo’s balcony. “It’s teatime, and I thought I’d see what I could scrounge up in the kitchen for the occasion.”
Frodo shuts the book and approaches to survey the contents of the tray. “Sandwiches . . . and scones!”
“Well, as near as I could make them.”
“Sam, you are a marvel.” Frodo beams at him, and any residual frustration Sam had had with him begins to melt away. But Sam’s face must have betrayed something because Frodo’s brow creases. “I must apologize for . . . “
“Me too, Mr Frodo,” Sam interjects. “I’m sorry for . . . “
“Yes, well.” Frodo puts on a smile. “We ought to drink the tea before it cools.”
The tension releases gradually as they eat and drink outside, enjoying the Rivendell breezes that seem to bring scents from all seasons - first smoky dried leaves, then thick summer florals, and then a whiff of eager new grass. Sam had found only dark breads in the pantry, but they complement the sandwiches wonderfully, and he makes a mental note to search Bree for Elvish goods when they pass back through. Some of Rivendell is uncomfortably strange, but much of it is enriching. Sam expresses as much to Frodo as they near the end of their meal, splitting the final scone between them as the afternoon wanes.
“I agree with you, Sam. There are many things I shall miss about Rivendell. Let us do our best to bring the nicer things back to the Shire with us.”
“Speaking of the Shire, Mr Frodo, I’ve been thinking: we shan’t need to travel cross-country on the journey home, now that that business with the Ring is done with. I’m in no hurry to cut through the marshes again.”
“No indeed.” Frodo sips the last of his tea and replaces his cup with a clink.
“I can heat up some more if you want it, Mr Frodo. It won’t take but a moment.”
“No, Sam. Thank you. I am quite content.” He certainly seems so, stretching like a cat against his chair with a sigh. “Oh, I am looking forward to being at home again. I admit I was excited to leave Bag End behind at the beginning of all this, but it’s amazing how much one misses something once it is gone.”
“Supposing the Sackville-Bagginses even let you past the front gate . . . ”
Frodo laughs. “Leave Lobelia to me. She can scarcely harass me now, after all that we have seen.” He touches his shoulder wound absently then, and the mirth begins to fade from his expression.
“I’ll run her out myself if need be, sir,” Sam says. Frodo smiles to himself at that. “It will be a blessing to have things back to normal.”
“Not everything, though, I hope,” Frodo says, and Sam looks sharply over at him. Frodo looks back evenly, refusing to back down.
Sam’s mouth has gone dry, but despite his better judgement he asks, “What do you mean, sir?”
“Well, I should like to be a better friend to you, that’s all, Sam. I realize I haven’t been one in the past.”
Sam shakes his head. “Nonsense. You’ve always been kind to me. And fair.”
“I want to be close.”
“We already are,” Sam says a little defensively. “Sir.”
“Still,” Frodo says, keeping his voice light but he glances at Sam’s mouth. “I want to be closer.” Indeed he is leaning closer over the little table between them, and his hands have somehow found their way to Sam’s.
“Frodo.” Sam’s voice comes out at a croak and he has to clear his throat before asking, “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you know?” Frodo looks directly at him, terrifyingly exposed.
It is difficult to face Frodo like this, so earnest and pleading in expression, stroking idly across the back of Sam’s hand. Sam takes an unstable breath and says desperately: “I had better take everything back to the kitchen.”
“No,” Frodo says, refusing to look away.
Sam swallows. “I beg your pardon?”
Frodo tightens his grip on Sam’s hands and drags Sam up with him as he stands. He steps around the table and gets close close closer until his sweet pliant mouth is melting against Sam’s. Frodo’s hair brushes ticklishly against his forehead and the little sound he makes into the kiss seems to vibrate all the way to Sam’s groin. He pulls away wetly and says with hot whispered words, “I was cruel to you before, Sam. I wanted to make sure you weren’t humoring me when you kissed me, but I’m afraid I have offended you instead. And I am truly sorry for that, because I do care for you whether you want to kiss me or not . . . ”
Sam has to laugh. “I would’ve thought it was plain that I wanted to, at this point.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Frodo says, drawing him back in until Sam can feel his smile against his mouth. Frodo’s hands find purchase at Sam’s sides hesitantly, then more firmly as the kiss deepens with heat and damp and sweetness. Sam doesn’t know who moans into it first, but the sound sets his blood afire and makes it impossible to think.
Frodo is untucking Sam’s shirt now so Sam returns the favor. Their frantic hands collide several times while tugging suspenders off and Frodo laughs so delightfully that Sam stops in order to kiss him again. Plans to undress are put on hold while they explore each other’s mouths and stumble aimlessly around the room. The sun blares loudly at Sam through his shut eyelids and between that and the heat of Frodo’s mouth the entire world feels red. He unbuttons Frodo’s shirt by feel, eliciting little gasps at every brush of his fingertips against skin, then yanks the shirt down and off before stepping away.
“Sam, what are you - ?”
“Hush,” Sam insists, sliding behind Frodo to kiss the nape of his neck. Frodo shivers under his touch and Sam asks him, “All right?”
Frodo relaxes back against Sam in response. “Lovely,” he replies in his most velvety tone. “You feel lovely.”
Sam breathes hot across the shell of Frodo’s ear, cold along the side of his neck. He sucks gently at the juncture of Frodo’s neck and shoulder and is rewarded with a long low groan. Frodo smells ethereal but tastes like home, just skin and the tinge of sweat and little imperfections dotting his pale skin.
Frodo squirms more insistently against Sam, and against a particularly enthusiastic part of him that causes Sam’s hips to buck just to get some relief. Frodo mmm’s and finds Sam’s hand, guides it down between his legs so he can press his own arousal into Sam’s palm with a sigh. Sam buries his face in Frodo’s hair as he strokes him through his trousers.
“Ah, keep doing that . . . “
“Like this, sir?”
Frodo nods rapidly. “Yes, but - I can’t - half a minute.” Frodo slips away from him, leaving Sam momentarily bereft. He returns swiftly, however, to struggle with Sam’s buttons. “Oh, just. Take this off, Sam. And get on the bed.”
A sharp flood of arousal radiates from Sam’s groin all the way to his fingertips. He hurries to comply, tossing his shirt to the floor and clambering up on Frodo’s enormous bed. Frodo is with him almost instantly, sliding greedy hands up Sam’s arms and down his chest before urging him onto his back. Frodo straddles him with a rush of heat and sweet pressure against Sam’s hardness, then bestows a searching kiss while threading his fingers through Sam’s hair. Sam clutches at Frodo’s hips, tries desperately to grind up into them but Frodo keeps backing off just far enough to elude him. Frodo looms above - pupils huge but making his eyes all the more piercing for it - and leans in to give Sam light teasing kisses, dragging his lips tantalizingly across Sam’s mouth, his jaw, damply up to breathe hot gusts into Sam’s ear. Sam tries to draw him closer but his wrists are pressed into the mattress; tries to crane his neck up for more but Frodo will not relent. It makes Sam feel thrillingly desperate for him.
“Let me touch you,” Sam says, feeling his face heat as the words leave his mouth.
Frodo nuzzles into the space behind Sam’s ear, sucks at the tip briefly and replies, “What’s stopping you?”
Sam tests his strength against Frodo again but Frodo uses his body weight to keep Sam pinned, smirking a little. So Sam wraps one of his legs around the back of one of Frodo’s and pulls them flush, canting his hips up and pressing heat and hardness between them, making Frodo gasp and loosen his grip. Sam seizes the opportunity to free his arms and reverse their positions. It’s not a very fluid motion and arms and legs are flung awkwardly for a moment but it only makes Frodo laugh. Then they’re kissing again and Frodo moans.
Sam takes in the sight of him, sun-gilded and unmarred but for the angry-looking slash across his shoulder.
“Your shoulder,” Sam says, worried now. “Have I hurt it?”
“To be honest I can’t even feel it anymore,” Frodo says. “It’s been numb since I woke up. Now, can’t we please talk about pleasanter things?”
“You want to talk? Well, all right, sir, if you insist . . . ” Sam makes as if to leave.
Frodo laughs and grabs Sam by the shoulders, then sinks fingers into his hair and fits their mouths back together. Frodo shifts under him and tilts his head and everything slides suddenly into dizzy breathlessness, feels suddenly urgent and too much and not enough.
Sam tears his mouth away to kiss along Frodo’s jaw, trailing discreetly around his scar and down his throat and chest, nosing against Frodo’s hipbone while he unbuttons Frodo’s trousers.
Frodo’s breath quickens, and Sam can see his hands clench and unclench in the bedsheets. He says something unintelligible that morphs into a gasp because Sam’s freed his erection now. It twitches under Sam’s exploratory tongue, impatient, so Sam licks up its length and across the swollen head before taking it into his mouth. He’s rewarded with a low throaty groan from Frodo and trembling hands in Sam’s hair as he sucks.
“Oh, perfect,” Frodo murmurs drunkenly, arcing his back for more.
Sam stills Frodo’s hips and takes him deeper. When he backs off enough to glance up at Frodo he finds Frodo staring at him hungrily, panting and wild-looking.
“Come here,” Frodo says.
Sam kisses his way up Frodo’s body, coming to rest half straddling and half laying on him. Frodo licks his lips, then strains up to lick Sam’s too. Sam catches Frodo’s head and lays him back down to kiss him properly, soundly, dizzyingly while Frodo leaks continuous moans into Sam’s mouth.
“Take off your clothes,” Frodo rasps, then rolls away from Sam to rummage in the bedside table. Sam takes the opportunity to try to slow his breathing as he disrobes - his heart feels like it could pound right out of his chest. The Elf carved into the headboard looks down on them serenely, and (Sam suspects) maybe even a little smugly.
“Ah!” Frodo says, bouncing naked back across the mattress with a sudden sharp floral fragrance - lilac? - and he grabs Sam’s cock with a warm slick palm, spreading oil over it in the most heavenly manner possible. Sam feels ravenous now, and entirely unconcerned about what either of them should or shouldn’t want - he only wants, and feverishly.
Frodo’s free hand takes Sam’s and guides it to Frodo’s cock too. Sam finds himself mirroring Frodo’s strokes, Frodo’s breathing, probably his heartbeat and his thoughts as well. Frodo tugs at Sam’s shoulders until they fall back among the massive pillows together with Sam on top of him. Writhes deliciously beneath him, every inch of skin where they touch igniting with sweet friction. Then he worms a hand down between them and after a moment of adjustment has encircled both of them in a firm slick grip. Sam thrusts forward instinctively and they both moan, then laugh, then moan again as Frodo curls a leg around Sam’s and Sam goes faster.
“Ah, you feel wonderful,” Sam says.
As Sam drives into that hard-soft-heat he watches Frodo’s mouth fall open, eyes squeezed shut and expression alternating between concentration and pleasure and mirth. Frodo’s head thunks back against the headboard and the Elven sculpture shudders a bit, but Sam has never cared less about Elves.
“Keep doing that,” Frodo breathes. “Oh, keep doing that . . . “
But instead of waiting for Sam to comply Frodo begins to move his hand in tandem. His mouth seeks Sams disjointedly, drawing him into vague wet kisses that are more breath than anything else. Gasping to each other in the secret humid space between them that seems to thrum with magic.
Their foreheads press together almost painfully as Sam’s hips begin to stutter. Then Frodo makes a perfect wanton sound that sends Sam right over the edge. Sam pulses between them, muscles locked and shaking. Frodo transfers his attention to his own cock and gives it a few urgent strokes until he too climaxes, silently, open-mouthed and elated as he strains against the mattress.
Sam rolls away from Frodo as soon as he remembers to, and they lie there letting hearts slow and sweat cool in silence. The sound of wind rushing through the trees reaches Sam, and far off birdsong, but instead of soothing him it reminds him uncomfortably of the real world and their real lives . . .
As if sensing Sam’s unease Frodo’s hand finds Sam’s in the rumpled bedsheets, entwining their fingers easily. He scoots closer to Sam, curled up on his side with his face pressed against Sam’s neck. “You’re warm,” Frodo murmurs into his shoulder.
*
Bilbo makes a rare appearance at dinner that evening, holding court among the hobbits at their end of the table. Sam loves to hear Mr Bilbo’s stories retold, even the ones he knows best - the very telling of them is comforting, the familiar gestures and the funny voices that Bilbo puts on. Tonight he is focused on the end of his own quest, and Sam thinks he can finally understand Bilbo’s wistfulness about it.
“Now Thorin was rather a gruff fellow, even for a Dwarf, so maybe his final words to me meant more because of that: If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. The older I get the more true that seems to me, for while quests are exciting and fantastical there is nothing like the comfort of home. I spent most of my quest wishing I was home, but I spent my years in the Shire wishing I was off adventuring again. It’s funny how that happens, isn’t it? We are always seeking what we don’t have. Or at least I am.” Bilbo sighs, and then becomes more cheerful. “Ah, well! Try to learn from my mistakes, my lads, and I expect yours will indeed be a merrier world.”
“Well I for one will be taking that to heart,” Merry says. “When we get back home I plan on raiding Brandy Hall’s pantry immediately.”
Pippin nods. “There’s a stash of pipeweed with my name on it in Crickhollow. Frodo, Sam - you must stay over at least for a night before trekking back to Hobbiton to brave Lobelia. Oh, just think of how lovely another bath would be in those great big tubs.”
Merry nudges him. “There are much larger baths here, Pippin. Not to mention the hot springs.”
“I understand what you mean, Mr Pippin,” Sam says. “It’s the relief of being at home and doing those things that makes them so pleasant.”
“Quite right, Master Gamgee,” Bilbo says, then leans close to Sam and confides: “I fear you’ve a better head on your shoulders than these other three combined, Samwise. You’ll look after Frodo for me, won’t you?”
“ ‘Course I will,” Sam says, startled by Bilbo’s earnestness. “Yes, sir. Don’t you worry about him.”
“I can hear you both, you know,” Frodo whispers, grinning.
“Oh, Mr Frodo, I didn’t mean - ”
Frodo laughs and catches Sam’s protesting hand. “Forget it, Sam. I am glad to have you around to look after me.” He doesn’t quite let go of Sam’s hand, in fact he simply drags it beneath the table and continues to hold it.
If Bilbo notices this he doesn’t say anything. He has produced a pipe from his breast pocket and has begun to smoke. Merry and Pippin are busy bemoaning having left their pipes in their rooms.
“Shall we go to the Hall of Fire tonight, Sam?” Frodo asks him.
Sam agrees, and they take their leave of the others to walk to the Hall. Out on the balconies all is half shadow and half moonlight. The trees sway gently in a cool blue breeze, and it seems that a proper autumn has finally arrived in Rivendell. Elvish magic can only do so much to ward off the march of time, after all. Sam is glad to be here, glad to have expanded his horizons beyond the Westfarthing at last, but it is as Mr Bilbo had said - that excitement is only temporary.
“I didn’t know about those hot springs that Merry mentioned,” Frodo says, swinging their joined hands a little. “Perhaps we might find them tomorrow.”
“Alone?”
Frodo turns to him, surprised but pleased. “Yes I rather thought so.”
“It should be secluded,” Sam points out nonchalantly. “Like the waterfall.”
Frodo glances slyly over at him. “And when we are home again, there are a number of secluded spots in the garden, if I remember correctly . . . ”
“There’s a fine spot by the rhododendrons for picnicking.”
“And I’ve an extra bottle of Old Winyards in the cellar that we can share. But don’t tell Merry or Pippin.”
Sam laughs. “Some sandwiches, of course, and fruit and cheese and crackers too. I’m looking forward to getting back into Bag End’s pantry.”
“I’m looking forward to kissing you whenever I like.”
“Aye,” Sam says. “But why wait ‘til we’re home for that?” He takes Frodo in his arms and spins them into an empty doorway. He can feel Frodo smile against his lips as they kiss.
*