![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Frodo shook the snow from his hair and brushed the melting flakes off his shoulders with his right hand before taking off his coat. As the numbing cold slid away, the pain bore down thickly, his left arm twitching helpless at his side. He'd spent many night of late under the winter night sky, watching stars twinkle and listening to night air to escape the pain-- the poisoned ice in his shoulder muted by frost and starlight. Tonight he'd wandered about; the cold not doing its best, but the light snow wasn't much of a bother. Alas, no twinkling above, only the Lonely Star light poked through the clouds, a reminder of the Starlit Sea Frodo had forsaken.
Walking tonight in the new snow gave him time to think and to regret. Remembering wasn't what Frodo wanted to do, but Bag End was too empty to return to, but he must.
He made his way to his room. Bag End was as hollow and as cold as the pain he felt. Only his room had a fire burning; a faint reminder of time before he sent Sam away.
The oak logs were wet and sparks popped, catching in fireplace screen. Yes, Frodo thought, that was a clever barter he'd made with the dwarves-- a good trade for the single wooden bookend. He remembered Sam's words that day, "Never knowed a dwarf to have use for books let alone a bookend. That was some skilled talking you done, sir."
Frodo leaned heavy against the creamy wood of the doorframe, closing his eyes, shivering with cold. Seems the walls tonight had ghosts of the years taunting him, Sam's voice haunting him. "You're chilled through and through, Mr. Frodo," the voice echoed. "Here, let your Sam warm you up." And how Sam would use those hands to warm him up. Frodo shook his head, hair dripping wet from the snow. Best not to think on such things.
Since that day he'd freed Samwise of all the responsibilities of Bag End, Frodo never took care to stack enough wood to dry. Frodo made for a bad keeper. Left to himself, meals were no longer punctual and often forgotten. Frodo cared not for rising and retiring; time became nondescript. He counted time only as the journey in the red-bound book he'd written in. Some days it seemed so long ago and others like this day it seemed but yesterday. When he wrote, the present mattered not other than moments he used to move his pen. He was alone, as he believed he should be. He'd had his chance to go with Bilbo to sail into the west. He had not taken it, instead, he selfishly thought to be with Sam. And they were together for a time. But that was not to be.
Frodo took off his shirt and readied for bed. A chore as simple as this reminded him of the Ring as fingers fumbled with the buttons. Snuffing the candle again, he was reminded of the physical loss he could never forget. His finger, the Ring, his innocence.
Sam would never understand what it was like, and for that Frodo was thankful. At least Samwise was spared that pain. A week after Bilbo had left for the Grey Havens, Frodo knew nothing would change; the pain would never leave him, and Sam's caress at night would never temper the failure that ate at him night and day. But Sam could have a future, and it was not for Frodo to deny him that future. Sam could separate from the past; he could have a normal life. A family. A chance with Rosie. Frodo knew that a healthy life for Sam would never come to pass in Frodo's bed.
Sam didn't leave easy. Frodo knew he was cruel, but it was necessary. To give Sam hope was to give Sam sorrow. He threw Sam out of Bag End, out of his bed, bequeathing Sam most of his land to him by way of the Gaffer. Frodo knew Samwise would never take the land on his own. Come Trimidge, Frodo planned to go away, far away, as soon as the weather changed and Sam married. Not over the sea, but over the cold to the Misty Mountains. The cold would envelope him. And Sam, he wouldn't follow Frodo, he wouln't leave Rosie. He couldn't. This was best for his Sam.
Sam could never find happiness with Frodo so near.
Tomorrow, Yule would pass and maybe Sam and the others would let him alone.
With Number Three only a short walk to Bag End, Frodo saw Sam wandering near his door often. Samwise still came, knocked on the door, wanted to help Frodo, but he couldn't open it to see the hope in Sam's eyes. Samwise stood on the other side of the door, waiting in the cold shadows of Bag End.
Frodo sat on the edge of his bed, hearing a gasp, surprised to realize it was his own. He flopped onto his mattress, their mattress. He'd slept in the bed little since the night he made Samwise leave. He'd taken rest in chair instead. He told himself many tales: it pained his arm less that way, that Shelob's sting was eased, that he had less bad dreams. True, in the chair dreams came in fits and waking fast-- while reclining in the bed dreams came long and waking slow.
He didn't want to dream.
Tonight he made himself take to the bed like some foul medicine. He closed his eyes and waited for dawn to come.
----------------------
Samwise had watched Bag End all winter. He'd gotten Merry and Pippin to come from Crickhollow, and they'd had no better luck. Yes, Frodo did let them in to Bag End, but the cousins did not stay. He sent them on their way, and both stopped to see Samwise before returning home.
"He's stubborn," Merry said. "We sat talking about the Battle of Bywater, but as soon as we mentioned you, we were out the door with no by-your-leave." Pippin and Merry both insisted Frodo cared. Thus Samwise continued his daily walk to Frodo's door; his knocks and daily pleas ignored from behind.
Over the past two days, Sam was beside himself with worry. The chill of Rethe was still upon them and no smoke curled up from the chimney at Bag End. He'd made a decision, one the Gaffer and he had made together: If no smoke curled from the chimney by Highday's end, he would break his way into Bag End through a window.
There was no smoke.
Samwise feared the worse. 'Twas near the anniversary of that she-devil Shelob's fateful sting, and Sam remembered well last year's anniversary. Frodo tried to hide his pain for so long, but those bleak days he no longer could. A malaise came over his master, and Frodo had taken to bed, nary stirring except for when in the throes of some horrific nightmare. During that time, sleeping and waking became one. He'd never forgot the day he found Frodo cold, lying upon his bed clutching Galadriel's stone about his neck, saying, "It is gone forever, and now all is dark and empty."
That day was like a stone on Sam's heart. The nasty Ring still haunted his master.
Now, Samwise crept to that same window-- the one he'd heard Gandalf through as he trimmed the hedges; it seemed so long ago. He broke the glass to reach through, gashing his arm in his haste. He pulled the latch, opened the window and then shimmied through. Ah, he'd been slimmer when Gandalf pulled him through.
He fell harder on the other side than he did on that day, too. He listened to Bag End's song, but heard no stirring within.
As he walked through what he'd once called home, Samwise noted that dust coated the bookcase and
the desk where Frodo wrote-- a sign that sent fear through Sam-- for if Frodo ceased his writing, something dire must have happened to his master. A large red book rested there, dust on its cover as well. He made his way to Frodo's bedroom. Cold, hollow steps echoed down the hallway. The door was shut and locked from within. Sam called, "Mr. Frodo, are you there? Answer me, Frodo!"
Sam heard not.
He took his shoulder to the door. A solid door, to be sure. Even with Sam's girth, it took the whole force of his body battering it over and over, his shoulder bruised and sore before it gave with a groan. As he crashed through, Sam saw his fears all come true: There on the bed was Frodo, pale and still, sheets crumpled at his feet.
"Frodo!"
He went to his side, slipping in next to him on the bed, cradling him near. Frodo was cold but breathing. Sam pulled the blankets, swaddling them both.
He held him tight. So tight.
Frodo lashes moved.
"Sam," he whispered, "the last pages are for you."
--------------------------
The days and nights melded together, and Samwise took care to make Bag End a home again as he nursed his master. Frodo had not refused Sam; he had not the strength to send Sam away yet again.
"But Sam," he asked, seeing Sam's belongings side-by-side his own, "what of your plans to marry Rosie? You will surely break her heart."
Sam bent his head, "I never asked her, sir."
Still, Frodo was not well, and Sam feared that the foul illness would return with the anniversary. Until that time he vowed to keep close to his master.
For sometime Samwise had coaxed his master to leave the walls of Bag End. There were days when he got Frodo to walk the garden with him. He told Frodo how beautiful the mallorn was. Though Frodo had seen the tree from afar, he had never seen its splendor close-up. At last, Frodo relented.
That Astron day, he took Frodo to the mallorn. As they neared, Frodo eyes grew wide.
"Sam, I feel odd."
As they sat beneath the branches, Sam's brows creased together.
"You're not feeling ill again?"
"No, it's not that at all, Sam. It's gone."
"Gone?" A chill went through him-- the last time his master spoke words such as this, it was of the Ring, but now as he looked upon his master, Sam felt relief for Frodo's cheeks were rosy red; his eyes were sparkling clear. He hadn't seen Frodo look so well since the day before Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday.
"I feel free." His eyes blinking as they met Sam's. "Could it be? The cure part was Galadriel's gift to you all along? Such as the tree flourishes and all around it, so do I?"
Frodo sat in wonder, gazing on his Sam, and Sam gazing the same. They spent that day under the tree, words passed between them both, words long felt but been afraid to say. As the sun slipped down into the hills, Frodo shyly slipped his hand into Sam's, and they walked home, listening to crickets chirping in the night air. The Lonely Star no longer looked as lonely to Frodo.
Down Bagshot Row to Bag End they walked, holding hands and only letting go to open the door.
As they stepped inside, Frodo turned to Sam and drew him close, a kiss whispered between them. "Well, I'm back."
Walking tonight in the new snow gave him time to think and to regret. Remembering wasn't what Frodo wanted to do, but Bag End was too empty to return to, but he must.
He made his way to his room. Bag End was as hollow and as cold as the pain he felt. Only his room had a fire burning; a faint reminder of time before he sent Sam away.
The oak logs were wet and sparks popped, catching in fireplace screen. Yes, Frodo thought, that was a clever barter he'd made with the dwarves-- a good trade for the single wooden bookend. He remembered Sam's words that day, "Never knowed a dwarf to have use for books let alone a bookend. That was some skilled talking you done, sir."
Frodo leaned heavy against the creamy wood of the doorframe, closing his eyes, shivering with cold. Seems the walls tonight had ghosts of the years taunting him, Sam's voice haunting him. "You're chilled through and through, Mr. Frodo," the voice echoed. "Here, let your Sam warm you up." And how Sam would use those hands to warm him up. Frodo shook his head, hair dripping wet from the snow. Best not to think on such things.
Since that day he'd freed Samwise of all the responsibilities of Bag End, Frodo never took care to stack enough wood to dry. Frodo made for a bad keeper. Left to himself, meals were no longer punctual and often forgotten. Frodo cared not for rising and retiring; time became nondescript. He counted time only as the journey in the red-bound book he'd written in. Some days it seemed so long ago and others like this day it seemed but yesterday. When he wrote, the present mattered not other than moments he used to move his pen. He was alone, as he believed he should be. He'd had his chance to go with Bilbo to sail into the west. He had not taken it, instead, he selfishly thought to be with Sam. And they were together for a time. But that was not to be.
Frodo took off his shirt and readied for bed. A chore as simple as this reminded him of the Ring as fingers fumbled with the buttons. Snuffing the candle again, he was reminded of the physical loss he could never forget. His finger, the Ring, his innocence.
Sam would never understand what it was like, and for that Frodo was thankful. At least Samwise was spared that pain. A week after Bilbo had left for the Grey Havens, Frodo knew nothing would change; the pain would never leave him, and Sam's caress at night would never temper the failure that ate at him night and day. But Sam could have a future, and it was not for Frodo to deny him that future. Sam could separate from the past; he could have a normal life. A family. A chance with Rosie. Frodo knew that a healthy life for Sam would never come to pass in Frodo's bed.
Sam didn't leave easy. Frodo knew he was cruel, but it was necessary. To give Sam hope was to give Sam sorrow. He threw Sam out of Bag End, out of his bed, bequeathing Sam most of his land to him by way of the Gaffer. Frodo knew Samwise would never take the land on his own. Come Trimidge, Frodo planned to go away, far away, as soon as the weather changed and Sam married. Not over the sea, but over the cold to the Misty Mountains. The cold would envelope him. And Sam, he wouldn't follow Frodo, he wouln't leave Rosie. He couldn't. This was best for his Sam.
Sam could never find happiness with Frodo so near.
Tomorrow, Yule would pass and maybe Sam and the others would let him alone.
With Number Three only a short walk to Bag End, Frodo saw Sam wandering near his door often. Samwise still came, knocked on the door, wanted to help Frodo, but he couldn't open it to see the hope in Sam's eyes. Samwise stood on the other side of the door, waiting in the cold shadows of Bag End.
Frodo sat on the edge of his bed, hearing a gasp, surprised to realize it was his own. He flopped onto his mattress, their mattress. He'd slept in the bed little since the night he made Samwise leave. He'd taken rest in chair instead. He told himself many tales: it pained his arm less that way, that Shelob's sting was eased, that he had less bad dreams. True, in the chair dreams came in fits and waking fast-- while reclining in the bed dreams came long and waking slow.
He didn't want to dream.
Tonight he made himself take to the bed like some foul medicine. He closed his eyes and waited for dawn to come.
----------------------
Samwise had watched Bag End all winter. He'd gotten Merry and Pippin to come from Crickhollow, and they'd had no better luck. Yes, Frodo did let them in to Bag End, but the cousins did not stay. He sent them on their way, and both stopped to see Samwise before returning home.
"He's stubborn," Merry said. "We sat talking about the Battle of Bywater, but as soon as we mentioned you, we were out the door with no by-your-leave." Pippin and Merry both insisted Frodo cared. Thus Samwise continued his daily walk to Frodo's door; his knocks and daily pleas ignored from behind.
Over the past two days, Sam was beside himself with worry. The chill of Rethe was still upon them and no smoke curled up from the chimney at Bag End. He'd made a decision, one the Gaffer and he had made together: If no smoke curled from the chimney by Highday's end, he would break his way into Bag End through a window.
There was no smoke.
Samwise feared the worse. 'Twas near the anniversary of that she-devil Shelob's fateful sting, and Sam remembered well last year's anniversary. Frodo tried to hide his pain for so long, but those bleak days he no longer could. A malaise came over his master, and Frodo had taken to bed, nary stirring except for when in the throes of some horrific nightmare. During that time, sleeping and waking became one. He'd never forgot the day he found Frodo cold, lying upon his bed clutching Galadriel's stone about his neck, saying, "It is gone forever, and now all is dark and empty."
That day was like a stone on Sam's heart. The nasty Ring still haunted his master.
Now, Samwise crept to that same window-- the one he'd heard Gandalf through as he trimmed the hedges; it seemed so long ago. He broke the glass to reach through, gashing his arm in his haste. He pulled the latch, opened the window and then shimmied through. Ah, he'd been slimmer when Gandalf pulled him through.
He fell harder on the other side than he did on that day, too. He listened to Bag End's song, but heard no stirring within.
As he walked through what he'd once called home, Samwise noted that dust coated the bookcase and
the desk where Frodo wrote-- a sign that sent fear through Sam-- for if Frodo ceased his writing, something dire must have happened to his master. A large red book rested there, dust on its cover as well. He made his way to Frodo's bedroom. Cold, hollow steps echoed down the hallway. The door was shut and locked from within. Sam called, "Mr. Frodo, are you there? Answer me, Frodo!"
Sam heard not.
He took his shoulder to the door. A solid door, to be sure. Even with Sam's girth, it took the whole force of his body battering it over and over, his shoulder bruised and sore before it gave with a groan. As he crashed through, Sam saw his fears all come true: There on the bed was Frodo, pale and still, sheets crumpled at his feet.
"Frodo!"
He went to his side, slipping in next to him on the bed, cradling him near. Frodo was cold but breathing. Sam pulled the blankets, swaddling them both.
He held him tight. So tight.
Frodo lashes moved.
"Sam," he whispered, "the last pages are for you."
--------------------------
The days and nights melded together, and Samwise took care to make Bag End a home again as he nursed his master. Frodo had not refused Sam; he had not the strength to send Sam away yet again.
"But Sam," he asked, seeing Sam's belongings side-by-side his own, "what of your plans to marry Rosie? You will surely break her heart."
Sam bent his head, "I never asked her, sir."
Still, Frodo was not well, and Sam feared that the foul illness would return with the anniversary. Until that time he vowed to keep close to his master.
For sometime Samwise had coaxed his master to leave the walls of Bag End. There were days when he got Frodo to walk the garden with him. He told Frodo how beautiful the mallorn was. Though Frodo had seen the tree from afar, he had never seen its splendor close-up. At last, Frodo relented.
That Astron day, he took Frodo to the mallorn. As they neared, Frodo eyes grew wide.
"Sam, I feel odd."
As they sat beneath the branches, Sam's brows creased together.
"You're not feeling ill again?"
"No, it's not that at all, Sam. It's gone."
"Gone?" A chill went through him-- the last time his master spoke words such as this, it was of the Ring, but now as he looked upon his master, Sam felt relief for Frodo's cheeks were rosy red; his eyes were sparkling clear. He hadn't seen Frodo look so well since the day before Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday.
"I feel free." His eyes blinking as they met Sam's. "Could it be? The cure part was Galadriel's gift to you all along? Such as the tree flourishes and all around it, so do I?"
Frodo sat in wonder, gazing on his Sam, and Sam gazing the same. They spent that day under the tree, words passed between them both, words long felt but been afraid to say. As the sun slipped down into the hills, Frodo shyly slipped his hand into Sam's, and they walked home, listening to crickets chirping in the night air. The Lonely Star no longer looked as lonely to Frodo.
Down Bagshot Row to Bag End they walked, holding hands and only letting go to open the door.
As they stepped inside, Frodo turned to Sam and drew him close, a kiss whispered between them. "Well, I'm back."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
Thanks!