Turning his back on the campfire, Frodo walked downhill until its cheerful light was only a promise and stared at the countryside stretching out below him. Dusk had gathered in dale and on mount, turning them into indistinct shadows relieved only by the occasional flickering of hearths and candle-lit homes, almost as if stars had been captured to help hold back the night. The land had never looked more beautiful or dear to him. Caught unaware by the upwelling of emotion for his home, he stood there until full night had come, watching in his mind's eye as his people laughed and made merry in their taverns and holes.
Yet, despite that, despite the haste of his departure and the unpleasant weight of the ring in his pocket, there was a mad sort of happiness in him, though he couldn't for the life of him say why. Perhaps it was because he was finally following in his uncle's footsteps and having an adventure of his very own, no doubt scandalizing his kin and neighbors. Or perhaps it was because he was doing something important for Gandalf, giving him the chance to prove himself to his friend.
The sharp crack of a log collapsing into the campfire drew his attention back to the tree they had chosen to shelter under for the night, and he half-turned toward its welcome, smiling. Sam was on the edge of their small campsite, making up pallets of fresh grasses for their beds, head bent over his task as if it had to be done just so. //Or perhaps,// Frodo admitted, //it's because I'm out and about with Sam, as if we have nothing more important on our minds than the shared pleasures of a cross-country tramp and camping out.//
He walked back uphill, unintentionally stepping quietly, and laid his hand on Sam's shoulder, meaning to speak to him about plans for the morning. The sturdy body under his touch trembled slightly; with a start, he realized Sam was trying not to cry.
Before he could recover enough to even think of offering comfort, Sam said thickly, "Don't you pay me no mind. Just a bad moment, that's all."
Kneeling in front of him on the unfurled cloaks, Frodo asked gently, "A bad moment?"
Sniffing once, hard, Sam knuckled his eyes, and blurted, "It was just so sudden and all! No time to close up Bag End proper or see to my Gaffer. Who'll tend to the gardens? It's near time to bed them for the season and no one to care, never mind do the work."
Pulling out his handkerchief, vaguely wondering what he would do for a clean one, Frodo offered it to him. "I know, Sam, I know. But Gandalf is right. It's better for anybody looking to find it abandoned, with no one to give answers as to why. Safer for two to travel, as well."
He smudged away some of the dampness on Sam's cheeks with his thumbs, and added softly, "I miss home, too."
Bending his head until it rested on Frodo's shoulder, Sam wept quietly, no longer trying to hide his tears. Frodo let him, petting his hair and rubbing his back. Soon Sam was curled against him, arms around his waist, and he whispered words of comfort, fighting the urge to rock him like a small child.
Finally Sam cried himself out. After a few minutes of muffled, hitching breaths, Sam turned up his face to give Frodo a hesitant smile of apology. Returning the smile as reassuringly as he could, Frodo reached to dry his cheeks again, but Sam shifted at the same time, and Frodo's thumb landed squarely on the soft bow of his lips. Sam's eyes widened first in surprise, then in a shy pleasure that held Frodo mesmerized.
The vulnerable flesh of Sam's mouth quivered, and suddenly all Frodo could think of was how that would feel against his own lips. And if Sam would taste as appealing as he looked at that moment. Slowly, uncertainly, he bent until he could almost taste, giving Sam every opportunity to stop him. Sam went very, very still, fists knotted into Frodo's shirt at the back, but made no move to escape. Curling his fingers over Sam's jaw line, Frodo held his chin and finished the short journey to their kiss.
Frodo lingered only a moment, barely allowing himself to sample Sam's sweetness before lifting away to meet his hopeful, innocent gaze. "Oh, Sam," he whispered. Sam parted his lips to speak in turn, but before he could completely shape words, Frodo claimed his mouth again, deepening their kiss with a careful dip of tongue. For the first time Sam stiffened, but only for an instant before eagerly yielding, telling Frodo clearly that this was the first time he'd ever been kissed that way.
That knowledge undid Frodo in a way he would never understand, but would always cherish as one of the most beautiful memories of his life. A thick bolt of desire stabbed through him, leaving him breathless and shaky, and he unwillingly drew away to find some air. Sam followed after him, timidly taking his turn at tasting. With a gasp Frodo opened to him, lovingly tangling their tongues together and sucking gently.
Moaning, Sam pushed him down onto their bedding and wove his fingers through the curls at the back of Frodo's head to hold him close, one elbow holding up most of his own weight. Winding his arms up Sam's back, Frodo urged him closer, following some un-named, and before this moment unknown, need to be under him completely. Unbidden, his hips began to rock into Sam's, rubbing his maleness over Sam's groin and thigh, learning how to take pleasure in that way even as he taught Sam.
"Frodo!" Sam groaned, half in delight, half in confusion. "What're you...?"
"I can't stop, Sam, I can't stop." Frantic to be nearer to him, to feel more of the powerful body on his, Frodo tugged and pulled on clothing to get it out of the way, finding lovely, satiny skin everywhere he touched. "Do you have any idea what we're doing?" he whispered against the bared hollow of Sam's throat.
"Makin' love," Sam whispered back. "You'll have to show me.
"I can't," Frodo said with some frustration. "I don't know myself."
"Well," Sam tried to say thoughtfully, the effect ruined somewhat by how rough and hungry he sounded. "I can't say as I have any complaints, so far."
In spite of himself, Frodo had to laugh; then he had to whimper as Sam gingerly laid his palm over the crown of Frodo's need, pinning it to his belly. It felt so much like the loose grip he used to satisfy himself that he couldn't help but shove up into the careful hold. Sam made the oddest sound, a mix of hunger and awe, and covered his mouth in a desperate, devouring kiss, his hand working Frodo's erection feverishly.
It was too much, far too much, and Frodo began to thrust frantically, barely retaining enough presence of mind to copy Sam's action on Sam himself. A few brief moments later, release cascaded over him, leaving him adrift in an ecstasy he had not known was possible. His only anchor was the solid heat and mass of Sam atop him, and the faint stirring of Sam's breath against the curve of his neck.
"So that's what all the fuss is about," Sam muttered sleepily a long time later, rousing enough to use his borrowed handkerchief to tidy them both up.
"It is, indeed," Frodo said. He smiled and pressed a small kiss onto Sam's forehead, fingers toying with the curls on the top of his head.
Sam mumbled an unintelligible answer, tucked himself in closer, and fell asleep, exhausted by both his tears and their loving. More than willing to follow him into rest, Frodo pulled a cloak over them for warmth and closed his eyes, pleasantly aware of Sam against him. Surprisingly, sleep didn't come easily. Long after the fire had burned down into glowing coals, he was still awake, randomly stroking Sam's back or dropping small kisses on his peaceful features.
The longer Frodo lay there, the more his mind turned over the events of the night before and the more the weight of the Ring preyed on him. It dug into his flesh through the pocket of his waistcoat almost sullenly, as if it were aware of the living comfort of Sam on the other side of him. Sam's sleep became more restive, and he curled in tighter against Frodo, occasionally making small noises of distress.
Once, he was sure he heard Sam ask for his Gaffer, and guilt hit Frodo hard, making him second-guess everything that had happened since Sam had been caught eavesdropping. Perhaps Gandalf had been wrong; perhaps it wouldn't have been that dangerous to have simply sent Sam to another part of the Shire for a while. Sam wouldn't have spoken of what he knew; Frodo had every confidence that he knew how to keep his own counsel, no matter how subtle the questioning.
Sam half-woke, drowsily kissed his throat, and adjusted his arm so that it fell across Frodo's waist, and went back under so quickly that Frodo didn't believe he'd remember the fleeting moment when morning came. On the heels of that thought came the unhappy realization that Sam might not want to remember any of it; that Frodo had taken advantage of him in a weak moment, when all he really had wanted or needed was chaste comfort. Until this night, he'd given every indication that it was Rosie who had caught his eye, and Rosie could give Sam a home and children.
Suddenly uneasy, Frodo cautiously rolled away from Sam, making sure to tuck the edges of the cloak around him snugly, and wrapped himself in his own, feeling a chill that had no acquaintance with the cool evening air. Bree wasn't so far, he reasoned. Once they were there, if Gandalf felt that they should travel on farther, he could send Sam back home, his little adventure over and done with so quickly that no one would even notice it had happened. He'd be safe, with only a small tale for winter nights around the fire to mark that he'd ever ventured past his own gates. For some, that was as it should be.
There was a flare of something deep within his mind, and it seemed for a second that Frodo could hear the rumbling mutter of a voice, triumphant and gloating. He shut it away and resolutely chased after the nothingness of deep sleep.
The Ring will be safe in Rivendell. I *am* ready to go home – Frodo Baggins, FOTR
Paying no heed to where they walked, Frodo wandered the magnificent gardens of Rivendell with Sam, reminiscing about the Shire as if it had been years since they'd departed, and making plans for their return. Eventually, without ever consciously deciding, his steps led them to his room with its great wide bed and luxurious sheets. It wasn't until they were poised on the very threshold that he shied away from being alone with Sam there, unsure of what he might do. Though Sam hadn't seemed upset to wake up by himself after that one night they had together, he hadn't ever referred to it, either by word or deed, leaving Frodo with the inescapable conclusion that Sam had only been reaching for whatever pathetic comfort he could find in a friend's arms.
Not noticing his hesitation, Sam crossed to the other side of the room to rummage through a small stack of blankets, looking for something. Puzzled, Frodo followed. Eyeing the bedding, he asked, "What are those for?"
"Gets a mite chilly in here at night, being so open and all," Sam said off-handedly. Then he muttered to himself, "Now where did I put that...?"
"Gandalf said you'd hardly left my side," Frodo said slowly, frowning. "Surely you had a room and bed of your own where you could sleep when you wanted to."
Still distracted by his search, Sam snorted. "As if I'd sleep anywhere 'cept by you 'til we're back in the Shire." Triumphantly, he produced a small folded square of fabric and turned to face Frodo. "Besides, the floor and some nice, comfy blankets are good enough for the likes of me. Elf linens are too fine for a simple gardener."
"Don't you say that," Frodo said fiercely. "Don't you *ever* say that!"
Startled, Sam took a step back, but Frodo caught him by the shoulders and gave him a tiny shake, making him drop the cloth he held. "Who was the one who caught me and pulled me onto the ferry at Bucklebury crossing? Who rushed in to fight a Man armed with a sword, with nothing but his fists to defend me? Who was the first to stand between me and those Ringwraiths?"
With each question he gave Sam another shake. At the last, Frodo drew him close and hugged him tightly. "You did all that. You're the finest, bravest, noblest hobbit of all and Elvish linens aren't fine *enough* for you!"
For a moment, Sam seemed too taken aback to say or do anything, but then he hugged back hard, burying his face in Frodo's shoulder. "But you see, I had to."
Remembering the promise Gandalf had forced from him, Frodo shrank back - or started to. Sam clenched his hands into fists, hanging onto him for all he was worth, and mumbled, "I didn't do a good enough job of looking after you by half. That wraith almost killed you!"
"That wasn't your fault, not at all. Please don't blame yourself. Please!" Without thinking Frodo kissed Sam's temple. "You did all you could and more than most would."
Sam groaned and turned his head, pressing a damp kiss onto Frodo's throat. "You're warm. Oh, you were so cold for so long, and now you're warm!"
The moist trickle of his breath tingled over Frodo's skin, and he shivered in pleasure, eyes closing as the sensation stirred all through him. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he tilted his head to give Sam better access. "Thanks to you. Lord Elrond may have called me back to the light, but you were the one who held me there until I was strong enough to do it myself."
Nuzzling a soft path up to Frodo's ear, Sam darted out the tip of his tongue to taste, and whispered, "Don't you worry about that none. I ain't going to let you go, not ever."
"Sam..." Frodo shivered again, and turned to find his mouth. "Sam," he breathed against his lips, and kissed him, all the world and all his troubles shrinking away until all that was left was Sam's mouth under his, mobile, soft and giving. Pressing his growing erection into Frodo's thigh, Sam shyly parted his lips and begged for a deeper kiss with a diffident tap of tongue.
Frodo sucked Sam's tongue into his mouth, nursing on it until they were both moaning. He tumbled back onto the bed, taking Sam with him, and began struggling with their clothes. The Ring slithered on its chain to the middle of his back, and he left it there, not wanting it anywhere near Sam, concentrating instead on pleasing him. Clumsily, Sam helped undress them, intent on not losing possession of Frodo's mouth for even a moment.
That lasted only until they were both skin-to-skin. Sam threw back his head and drew in a huge, harsh breath. Back arching, his maleness dug into Frodo's belly, and Frodo would have wrapped his arms and legs around him to let him move as he wished to find release. But Sam had ideas of his own, apparently. With a tiny, pained cry he lifted away, then crouched down, leaving a trail of nipping kisses down Frodo's torso.
Leaning up on one elbow, Frodo asked, "What...?" and froze completely in ecstatic shock. Sam's lips didn't stop when they reached Frodo's groin, but continued along the length of his shaft before settling over the tip, then opening to cover the crown completely. The hot wetness surrounding that most sensitive of places was the most incredible, erotic sensation that Frodo had ever known. All he could do was watch open-mouthed as Sam lovingly suckled at his flesh.
Without thinking, he thrust once to meet the movement on him, and Sam pulled back sharply, gagging. Stasis broken, Frodo reached down, caught his face between his hands, and urged him up to lie atop him again. "Where did you learn to do that?" He half-laughed, sprinkling kisses everywhere.
To his amusement, Sam blushed. "Saw Merry and Pippin once."
"Really?" Frodo smiled, thumbs brushing over Sam's reddened cheeks. "Who was kneeling?"
"Neither. They was sharing, like," Sam mumbled.
All humor instantly vanished. Frodo kissed Sam fully on the mouth with all the tenderness he could summon. "I'd like that. Sharing, I mean."
"Oh!" Sam's erection jerked once, hard, then wetness began to seep from the eye. "I'd like that, too."
"Well, then." Frodo turned to his side, and Sam scrambled around so that they were head-to-toe with each other. He didn't waste any time, but went back to his sucking as if there hadn't been an interruption. For a moment, Frodo had to leave him to it, overwhelmed again by how beautiful and thrilling Sam's caresses were. Sam moved to take Frodo deeper into himself, and his erection dabbed against Frodo's cheek, calling his mind back to it.
It was like Sam himself: sturdy and stout, with an intriguing softness covering it all. Frodo carefully pulled the foreskin back and licked the spongy cap, not at all surprised by how good it tasted to him. Trying to imitate what Sam was doing, he gently stroked up and down the shaft while slipping the head past his lips.
Sam gave a muffled shout, the powerful muscles of his thighs quivering under Frodo's hands. He began a ragged pumping in time to Frodo's careful attentions. That was wonderfully exciting for Frodo, as good as the hungry mouth on him, and he lost himself in the give and take of pleasure, gaining confidence and surety as he learned what Sam loved best. Before very long, urgency began to creep into their caresses, demanding more speed and harder thrusts from both. Frodo was so intent on the release he was pulling from Sam that his own caught him off-guard, erupting in a surge of ecstasy that left him heedless of anything but himself and the smooth, strong column in his mouth.
An eternity of pleasure later, Sam's erection began to thrum, calling Frodo back in time to deal with the salty flood of his seed. He swallowed instinctively, finding that he relished that as he did everything else about their love-making. When the last drop was gone, he coaxed Sam to turn until they were face-to-face again, and pulled him close.
Mumbling indistinct endearments, Sam nestled bonelessly against Frodo and fell deeply asleep. His first true rest, Frodo suspected, since they arrived at Rivendell. Exhaustion was nibbling away at him, as well, but he didn't want to give up the sheer bliss of being so close to Sam. There was no way of knowing when he would be again, or even *if* he ever would be. Once they were home, it was very likely that Sam would settle back into his old life and old ways, forever dismissing all his journeying with Frodo, and everything they did together on those journeys.
*Let him,* Frodo thought. *I won't forget, and if Rosie doesn't snap him up straight away, I'm going to woo him for myself. And I'm not giving up until Sam himself tells me I have no chance of winning him.*
There was every reason to believe that was precisely what would happen, but Frodo pushed that possibility away, determined to enjoy what he had while he had it. Before long, though, the chain of the Ring began pulling on his neck like a collar, the Ring itself digging into the skin between his shoulder blades. Part of him wanted to shift it so that he could clutch it in his hand; a larger part wanted it to stay where it was – as far away from Sam as possible.
Eventually that part won. Promising himself that when it was safely in Lord Elrond's care, nothing would ever tear him away from Sam again, Frodo got up and dressed, his eyes on Sam until he could no longer resist the urge to wander. He'd taken less than three steps when he spotted the folded cloth Sam had pulled from the blankets. Recognizing his own handkerchief, he scooped it up, smiling at its neat condition. He pressed it against his lips once, carefully put it under his shirt next to his skin, and slipped from the room, longing for a night when he might rest peacefully next to Sam.
Even the smallest person can change the course of the future. – Galadriel, FOTR
How long Frodo sat on the bottom step of the stairs leading down to Galadriel's Mirror, he would never know, though it was hours after Galadriel herself had gone. He couldn't rid himself of the memory of the disjointed, terrifying images he had seen. They consumed his every thought, for that time even displacing the presence of the Ring. The single vision that haunted him most was of Sam, chained to a line of other hobbits, under the lash of the orcs.
Galadriel's Mirror had done nothing but add to his torment and confusion. With nothing else to do but swallow that bitter pill, he stood and retraced his steps back to his companions. He was within sight of the tented pavilion when he heard a small noise that seemed to be a stifled sigh of pleasure. Surprised and intrigued, he crept toward it and peeked through the curtains of a small bower to find Merry and Pippin sprawled over Boromir's naked form, obviously just finished making love with him.
Frodo retreated as silently as he'd approached, torn about what he had witnessed. Though he knew his kinsmen were well and truly fond of the big Man, and Boromir had seemingly grown as fond of them, it troubled him that they would choose to comfort him this way. Yet who was he to say that it was too late to combat the madness slowly overtaking Boromir with the simple affection and companionship of two good hobbits?
Without any orders from him, his feet took him back to his bed, but he stood beside it indecisively, too agitated with hurt and sorrow to be able to sleep.
"There you are," Sam murmured sleepily behind him. "You should be resting, not gallivanting about."
Turning, Frodo said, "I *am* tired." A strong, capable hand closed over his and pulled him down until he was kneeling beside Sam. "But I can't seem to find any peace to be able to sleep."
"I can help," Sam promised softly. "Let me try." Not waiting for an answer, he half-sat and curled the fingers of his free hand into the nape of Frodo's neck. "Please," he whispered against Frodo's lips.
Even if Frodo had possessed the heart to deny such a sweetly spoken plea, he didn't have the will to refuse Sam anything he desired. With a wordless murmur, he kissed Sam's waiting mouth, sinking into his embrace as if to hide from all the troubles of the world there. Sam seemed more than willing to let him. He coaxed Frodo into lying under him, all the while gently kissing him, tongue and lips stroking with as much intent to comfort as to arouse. Frodo all but melted, bone and muscle answering Sam's tender commands to be at ease. Only his maleness refused that siren's call, growing ever harder and more ready with each pass of lips and loving hands.
Sam reverently undressed Frodo and sat back on his heels, fingers lightly petting the flat plane of Frodo's stomach. Fumbling in his pack, he mumbled, "I know I... ah! Got it." Holding up a small pot he said bashfully, "I asked the Elves at Rivendell for this. They used it to soothe you when your dreams were bad while you were healin' from that Morgul blade."
Cracking open the wax seal, Sam cradling the pot carefully. A half-remembered fragrance filtered into Frodo's senses, touching him like a cool breeze on the hottest summer night. Sighing deeply, he closed his eyes, knots of pain and hurt he hadn't even known he'd had suddenly giving way.
"I thought that might do the trick," Sam said in satisfaction. A moment later he poured a small pool of oil onto Frodo's breastbone and began to spread it over his torso with long, even strokes that didn't stop until he'd covered every inch of Frodo's body from fingertip to toe to forehead.
Frodo let himself drift under Sam's patient ministrations, moving as needed to obey his gentle nudges and prodding. When his conscience would have spoken up to complain that he was taking advantage, Frodo bestirred himself, opening his eyes to at least apologize. But the devoted, rapt expression on Sam's face and his amazingly ready erection silenced both apology and conscience. Instead a moan of passion forced its way out of him, and his erection jerked once, hard, as if to call Sam's touch to it.
As though that was the cue he'd been waiting for, Sam lay down atop Frodo, weight on his elbows. In answer to some half-understood urging from his own body, Frodo opened his thighs to ensnare Sam's erection between them. He languidly rocked up, and Sam answered by smoothly rocking down, setting up a slow, rolling rhythm that built toward release as surely as a rising tide. Unlike the other times they had loved, when passion had rushed over them and swept them to their finish, they lifted toward climax steadily until it found them in a single powerful spasm that went on and on and on.
When the last spurt of his seed finally flowed from him, Frodo went completely limp, quietly whispering Sam's name over and over.
"Told you that would help," Sam said contentedly.
"*You're* the balm this troubled soul needed," Frodo whispered, but sleep claimed him before he heard Sam's reply.
Sam, I'm glad you're with me. – Frodo Baggins, FOTR
Night found them just below the first ridge above the river and about as miserable as two hobbits could be. Rain had begun to fall, heavy and wind-blown, soaking them thoroughly even through the warmth of Elvish cloaks. They didn't dare strike a fire for fear of who might see the light. When they could go on no longer, they found a small overhang of rock and huddled under it, doing their best to weather the storm.
They managed to doze, each taking a turn at the watch and as pillow for the other, but it made for a long, long night. Frodo had far too much time to think and brood, second-guessing every decision, every move he'd made since leaving the Shire. Though he honestly couldn't see a single thing he could have done differently, not even his decision at Rivendell to carry the Ring to Mount Doom.
Looking down at the fair head resting trustingly on his shoulder, he corrected himself. There was one thing he *should* have done differently, one thing he wished he could undo. "This hardship should have never fallen on you, Sam," Frodo whispered. "I should have sent you home, back to the Shire, that very first night."
Sam stirred, waking a smile from Frodo, and hugged him tightly. "I wouldn't have gone. And no power, not even Mr. Gandalf, could have made me." He gave a sleepy sigh, and stubbornly repeated, "I wouldn't have gone."
finis