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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement V - Dynamics AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Shadow PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: R SUMMARY: Tooks can be unnervingly observant. So can Gaffers. ILLUSTRATION: 'Does He Know?' by Daffodil Bolger
Dynamics: An interactive system or process, especially one involving competing or conflicting forces; characterised by continuous change, activity, or progress.
* * *
DYNAMICS
* * *
When they had sung many songs, and talked of many things they had done together, they toasted Bilbo’s birthday, and they drank his health and Frodo’s together according to Frodo’s custom. Then they went out for a sniff of air, and glimpse of the stars, and then they went to bed. Frodo’s party was over, and Gandalf had not come. FOTR, Three Is Company
* * *
The day had dawned fair and bright but the warmth had bled away, hand in hand with the Sun. Twilight brought a chill with its indigo advent and Frodo found himself wishing he’d thought to take his cloak from its peg as he’d passed through the door. No matter; he clenched his pipe between his teeth and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets.
“Nippy tonight,” Pippin observed as he pulled up beside his cousin. Without preamble, he dug into Frodo’s breast pocket, pulled out his weed satchel and began filling his bowl.
“Please do help yourself,” Frodo smirked, choosing to let the thievery slip rather than removing his hands from his pockets.
“I believe I have.” Pippin’s voice clipped neat and clear against the cold as he stuffed the satchel back from where he’d got it. He dropped a kiss to Frodo’s nose as he did so and Frodo chuckled.
“You’re an impertinent bit of Took, did you know that?”
“Aye, of course,” Pippin grinned. “That’s why you love me so.”
“Oh, is that it, then? I’ve been wondering.”
“We’ve all wondered such, at one time or another,” Freddy said cheerfully as he lumbered up, and Pippin, just as cheerfully, cuffed him upside his head. “Hoy, there, Took!” Freddy grinned and snatched Pippin’s pipe away then doubled himself over it as Pippin attacked.
“You may be round, Master Bolger, but I’m wiry and stronger than I look!” This as he clung pig-a-back to Fatty and snaked his hand towards the coveted pipe. “If you spill that, Frodo will have to kick your arse for you, you know.”
Frodo laughed and shook his head. “That’s good weed you’ve there, Freddy,” he warned. “You may want to flick that gnat off your back and find yourself a light before it ends up fertilising the lawn.”
“Good advice,” Fatty agreed and straightened, sending Pippin sailing to the ground with an indignant, ‘Oomph!’ He made a show of adjusting his cuffs, smoothing his coat, before holding out a hand and helping a laughing Pippin to his feet. He bowed and held the pipe out to the Took, who snatched it up and held it protectively to his chest.
“I only came out to wish you both a good night,” Fatty said with not a little bit of cheek. “The wrestling was purely a bonus.”
“I doubt anyone else in the world would call rolling yourself into a great, foolish ball ‘wrestling’,” Pippin protested.
“We work with the gifts we’re given,” Freddy returned.
“You’re off to bed, then?” Frodo asked.
“And gratefully so. Folco’s already had his bath and tucked himself in and I’m for following in short order.” He bowed to Frodo with a twinkle. “’Twas a lovely evening and you’ve been a most gracious and entertaining host. I shall see you both on the morrow.” He turned to Pippin. “And you would be wise to keep your mischief to a minimum, young hobbit. I know where you’re sleeping, you know.”
Pippin turned to Frodo. “I’ve been threatened. You’re witness, should I need one.”
Frodo chuckled and shook his head. “I’m sure he only wants you to know that he knows where to bring your breakfast in the morning,” he told his cousin.
“Oh, aye,” Pippin retorted with a roll of his eyes. “I’ll be sure to hold my breath for that.”
Freddy grinned at Frodo. “If that’s a promise, I’ll take my leave now, before he wises up.”
Frodo snorted and wished his cousin a good night. Pippin warily watched Freddy walk towards the burrow and only turned back to Frodo when the large, dark form was safely behind the closed round door.
“Have you a light?”
“I haven’t,” Frodo answered. “I lit mine before I came out, I’m afraid.”
“Well, bother,” Pippin muttered and looked mournfully to his pipe and the fragrant weed packed in its bowl. He paused in lament before casting a hopeful eye on Frodo’s.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Frodo warned and took a step back.
“Be needing anything else tonight, sir?”
Frodo and Pippin turned as Sam approached, a punk from the fireplace burning in his hand, the other cupped around it. He stopped at Pippin’s side, raised the punk to the bowl of his pipe; Pippin puffed and pulled until the weed glowed red.
“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said pointedly with a lift of an eyebrow at Pippin. “You do think of everything.”
“What?” Pippin groused. “I was going to thank him. Can’t help that you blurted it first.” With a rather overdone lift of his chin, he made a face at his cousin then turned to Sam. “Thank you Sam,” he echoed. “You do think of everything.” He turned and winked at Frodo and Frodo rolled his eyes, chuckling.
“You’re welcome, sir,” Sam replied.
“Did you bring your pipe, Sam? Frodo’s got a stash in his pocket and he doesn’t seem inclined to fight for it this evening.”
“No, Master Pippin, I didn’t,” Sam answered. “If Mr. Frodo has nothing else he needs, I’d best be getting off to sleep. It’s a long trip we’ll be starting tomorrow.” He turned to Frodo with this last, gazed at him meaningfully.
Frodo dipped his head, cleared his throat. None of it was lost on Pippin, who regarded them both with a keen eye and buttoned his lip.
“Thank you, Sam, but no,” Frodo said finally and smiled warmly. He pulled his hand from his pocket, reached out and clasped it to Sam’s shoulder. “Thank you. For everything, Sam,” he said, his voice quiet, his tone earnest. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder then clapped him on the back. “Get some sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam muttered and ducked his head -- hiding a blush, if Pippin was not very much mistaken. “Goodnight, sirs,” and Sam turned quickly and headed for the Row.
Pippin watched his retreating form, turning his eyes from Sam to Frodo at quick intervals. He puffed his pipe and chuckled low.
“What’s funny?” Frodo asked as he stuffed his hand back into his pocket.
“He’s sweet on you, in case you didn't know,” Pippin told him.
“Sam? Don’t be an ass. He and Rose Cotton have been joined at the hip since they were tweens.”
“So have Daisy and Griffo but that hasn’t stopped her from sniffing after you like a bitch cat in heat every time Griffo turns his eyes away.”
“That’s different,” Frodo returned reasonably. “Daisy’s a bint with a face like a sack full of hammers.”
Pippin was caught out with that one; he snickered and sparks flew from his pipe. Several sharp little, embarrassing yips and he beat at his coat, brushing embers off the thick wool, cursing through his laughter.
“What’s all this, then?” Merry strolled up and plucked Frodo’s pipe from his mouth, popped it into his own. He took a few puffs before graciously returning it to its owner. “Having fun without me? I’ll not have it.”
“We were just discussing Sam’s crush and Daisy’s face,” Pippin offered.
It wasn't Pippin's imagination: Merry stiffened.
“The more pleasant of those two would be Sam’s crush,” he said casually. “Miss Cotton certainly has sprung to blossom, hasn’t she?”
“She has,” agreed Pippin. “But that’s not the crush to which I refer. I was talking about the one he has on Frodo.”
Pippin was more amused than he should have been; it was dark but he clearly saw the dark glare Merry turned on him, though he covered it quickly then turned to Frodo with a questioning glance. Frodo only shrugged and rolled his eyes.
“Pippin is an ass, Merry. Either that or he’s talking through his own. Ignore him and he’ll go away eventually.”
“Oh, that’s nice, that is,” Pippin scowled. “That’s twice you’ve called me an ass now, cousin. I’m beginning to feel insulted.”
“Why do you think Sam has a crush on Frodo?” Merry wanted to know. He draped an arm around Frodo’s shoulders and Pippin could have laughed out loud at the attempt at casual indifference.
“I can just tell,” Pippin said. “Call it Tookish intuition.”
“Tookish impertinence is what I call it,” Frodo remarked. “Leave off the lad, Pip. He’s a good heart and I don’t want you making fun.”
“I’m not making fun,” Pippin defended. “Only stating an observation. I know well enough Sam’s a good sort. I’d never speak ill of him.”
“Has he a crush on you, Frodo?” Merry’s indifferent tone had Pippin hard-pressed yet again to keep his snickers to himself.
Frodo looked away, took several pulls on his pipe then cursed and knocked at the bowl when he realised it was dead. “It’s cold,” he said finally. “Why don’t you get Pippin off to bed, Merry? The lad’s squiffed.”
“I most certainly am not!” Pippin exclaimed indignantly. “All I did was point out something that’s all too obvious and you go getting all shirty. Forget I said anything, for pity’s sake.”
“See?” Frodo said to Merry. “Impertinent.”
Pippin growled and Merry smirked, let go of Frodo and started steering Pippin towards the burrow. “Come on, Pippin. Let’s do the washing up and then you can get some sleep. You do look knackered.”
“Oh, sure – someone gets huffy and we blame the Took. And why me? Why didn’t you draft Folco and Fatty for kitchen duty? Most unfair, you do realise that, I hope.”
“Yes, yes, most unfair, Pippin, of course you’re absolutely right.” Merry pushed a muttering Pippin through the door then turned back to Frodo. “Are you coming?”
“In a few minutes, love,” Frodo called over his shoulder then turned back, face tilted to the stars.
Merry paused at the sight, caught between a fond smile and a cold shudder. How many nights had he lain in sweetgrass beneath these very stars, listening to Frodo paint pictures with them, watching his eyes take on the eager, distant shine of their sparkling flame? He'd almost loved the stars back then; then again, he'd been very young then, with no idea how they could turn on a person, drown out his voice with their own sentient voices. How many times had he wished Frodo would turn away from them, unhear their songs, turn to him?
Now Merry found he almost wanted to cross the distance, take Frodo firmly by the shoulders, pull him away from that vast-deep that threatened to swallow him whole and insist that he forget his plans to leave, come away to the Hall with Merry and hide himself away until this dangerous business eventually solved itself. He wanted to tell Frodo to turn his face away from those stars that beckoned to him so seductively, to let Merry’s bed be the only adventure he needed.
In the end, Merry only said quietly, “Don’t be long, yeah?”
Frodo didn’t respond, might not have even heard, only stood still and silent beneath a cold black sky filled with stars Merry found he could no longer trust nor love, if he ever really did. Feeling foolishly akin to a jealous lover in the face of a greater rival, Merry turned, stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
* * *
Sam stepped softly through his front door, immediately ensconced in the warmth flowing from the hearth in the frontroom. Hamfast looked up as he entered, face shadowed, eyes flickering a little bright in the uncertain light. Sam nodded to his father and shivered a bit as he removed his coat and hung it on its peg.
“Mari left your supper in the warmer,” the Gaffer told him.
A nod and a small smile. “Thanks, Da.”
His father only went back to staring into the fire. Sam stood for a moment, unsure of what to say in the oddly weighted silence, and so he said nothing. He moved soft-footed to the kitchen and removed his supper from the warmer: beef and gravy with whole baby carrots and roasted potatoes. She’d even saved him some bread. Sam smiled and placed his plate on the table then turned to the door of the coldroom for some milk. He would normally do with water at suppertime, leaving the milk for his da and sisters, but Sam knew tomorrow would bring a want for everyday luxuries with it and he thought this small indulgence not entirely uncalled for.
He took up the pitcher, nearly dropping it and its dear contents to the floor when he swung the door of the coldroom closed to find his Gaffer standing still and quiet behind it, watching him with a look Sam had seldom seen on the worn, cragged face. His father shifted his weight a little, leaned half on his stick and half on the doorjamb.
“Everything’s taken care of up to Bag End, Sammy?”
“Aye, Dad. Everything’s ready for…” Sam paused, looked kindly to his father. “Everything’s ready, Dad.”
The Gaffer nodded slowly and Sam thought he looked sad. An unusual state for the practical hobbit and it gave Sam a turn to realise that he hadn’t seen his father look quite this way, hadn’t been called ‘Sammy’, since they’d laid Sam’s dear mother in the ground.
“You look out for your Mr. Frodo, now, boy,” Hamfast rumbled, the authority in his voice almost over-riding the cheerless note beneath it. “And…” The Gaffer paused, swallowed. “And you look out for your own self, too, Sammy. I know you’ve a ways to go and you’ll do your job by Mr. Frodo well enough but…” He shook his head. “Don’t be too long, son.”
Another pause and Sam bit his lip, looked down. “I’ll do you proud, Dad,” Sam replied, his voice thick.
Sam’s father looked at him hard. “You always do, lad.” He regarded his son keenly, eyes rheumy but so very sharp.
Sam found himself feeling suddenly exposed, naked beneath that intense gaze, and he shifted his weight anxiously. His father only continued to stare, almost expectantly, it seemed to Sam, and he found he could no longer hold that gaze. He turned away, sat down at the table and filled his cup with milk, feeling his father’s eyes on the back of his neck.
“Does he know, son?” the Gaffer asked him quietly.
Sam frowned, turned to his father. “Know what?” he asked. “Who?”
Hamfast smiled a little, not unkindly. “Does Mr. Frodo know you love him?”
Sam flushed and felt his gut curl in on itself. He put his cup down carefully, his hand shaking a little. “’Course he knows I love him,” he answered evenly. “We all do and he loves us all right back.”
The Gaffer’s eyes hardened just a little. “Don’t play with me, Samwise. You know what I mean as well as I do.” He hobbled over to the table, stood in front of his son. “Does he know?”
Sam lifted his chin stubbornly for the smallest of moments before dropping his eyes to the table. Now was not the time to begin lying to his father. Tears threatened but he pushed them back.
“No, sir,” was the quiet reply.
Hamfast nodded, sighed. “No.” He pulled out the chair opposite Sam and lowered himself carefully onto it. “No, I don’t expect he does.” He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “He’d not let you along, if he did, I’m thinking.”
Sam’s head snapped up. “Mr. Frodo ain’t like that! He wouldn’t never think twice on a lad…” He faltered before stammering out, “Why, he and Mr. Merry--”
“That ain’t none of our business, boy, and don’t you never forget it!”
“No, sir! I only meant that Mr. Frodo wouldn’t hold that sort of thing against me, is all.”
“You think I’m daft, Samwise?” Hamfast roared.
Sam sat back in his chair, his face pale. “No, sir,” he whispered.
“Mr. Frodo wouldn’t hold nothing against nobody, I know that well enough. I knew him since he were a wee lad, tagging along after your elder brothers, and he were my master a’fore he were yours, so don’t try and give me lessons on…” He clenched his teeth, thumped his stick against the floor before taking a deep breath, making an obvious effort to calm himself. “I know him well enough, Samwise, and I know he’d not have you along, were he to know where your heart lay. Duty is one thing and accepted readily enough but love is a whole ‘nother thing. He’d not have you be putting yourself in harm’s way out of love for him, no way, no how, and you’d best watch yourself real careful, else he’s like to send you right home, should you trip over your tongue and let your heart spill out of your mouth.
“If this business is as dangerous as that old wizard says, it wouldn’t surprise me a’tall if Mr. Frodo up and run off without his kin and you as well. So, you watch over that one real careful-like, you understand? And keep your heart to your own self.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam whispered, the tears closer now. It took him several long moments to gather up the courage to meet his father’s eyes and when he did, he was surprised to find a kind smile waiting for him.
“You do your job proper, Samwise, but don’t get yourself so tangled in your heart that you jump off a cliff trying to save Mr. Frodo from falling in a ditch, you hear?”
And Sam knew that he would willingly step in front of any danger, real or imagined, for Mr. Frodo but thought it best to keep that behind his teeth. “Yes, sir,” is all he said.
“You be as careful as you can, son,” Hamfast said. “Take care of Mr. Frodo and don’t forget to bring him home safe when this nasty business is done.” He stopped there but Sam heard, ‘And bring yourself home safe, as well,’ as clearly as if his father had spoken the words.
He nodded slowly, gave his Gaffer a small smile. “I will, Dad.”
“I know you will, Samwise,” his father said and then he stood slowly. “I took them old pans off your pack and put the good ones on,” he told Sam over his shoulder as he made his slow way to the door. “Them gentry’ll be expecting you to take good care of them and you can’t do that with those banged-up old ones, can you?”
Sam thought to argue but only murmured, “No, sir,” to his father’s back as he quit the room. He looked to his plate, found himself not as hungry as he’d been when he’d got home, but he applied himself to it resolutely nonetheless. He wouldn’t be getting roasted beef with gravy on the Road and that was for certain.
* * *
“So, what do you know about this Sam business?” Merry asked, even before he had stepped into the kitchen.
Pippin was already laughing. “You’re just a little bit pathetic,” he snorted, dipped a plate into the basin, suds up to his elbows.
“I’m not,” was Merry’s most indignant reply.
“All right, then. You’re jealous.”
“I’m not,” Merry repeated.
“My, you’re just full of fascinating debate this evening, eh?”
“Bugger off, Took. Now, spill what you know, or I may have to paste your hands to your hair while you sleep.”
“That’s the second time I’ve been threatened tonight,” Pippin remarked. “I may have to go and sleep with Sam tonight.” He tossed a flannel at Merry’s head. “Start drying,” he ordered. Merry obeyed, eyeing Pippin expectantly.
“I don’t know anything,” Pippin admitted, handing a clean dish to his cousin. “I’ve just been noticing…” He paused, furrowed his brow. “Well, you see Sam with Frodo often enough. Can you honestly tell me that it’s never occurred to you that he’s just a touch smitten?”
“Yes, it’s occurred to me,” Merry answered carefully. “In fact, it’s entirely possible that Sam is in love with Frodo.”
“Of course it’s possible,” Pippin insisted. “Likely, even. Frodo’s wonderful.”
“Well, I know that, don’t I?” There was a touch of temper in Merry’s response.
Pippin snickered. “Jealous,” he said.
“I am not jealous. But I’ve been thinking about this since the summer and… I mean, honestly – Sam’s a good enough sort but he blushes every time Frodo even looks at him. I pity Rose Cotton if Sam ever cranks up the nerve to ask for her hand. She’s likely to still go to her grave a virgin.”
“Hmph,” Pippin snorted. “Not bloody likely.”
Merry stopped, nearly dropped the dish he was drying. “Peregrin Took, have you…?” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Get your mind out of the privy, lecherous Brandybuck. I hardly know her.” He handed Merry another dish. “No, I haven’t but, from certain noises I heard coming from the tool shed on one occasion, I’m fairly certain that Sam has. Of course, I’m only assuming it was Rose making the other half of all the noise but I heard quite enough to cause me to believe that Sam is not at all the shy lad he seems.”
Merry blinked at his cousin, face flushing red, hands clenching on crockery. Somehow, while Merry hadn’t been paying attention, Sam had changed from the shy gardener’s lad into a nicely-built young hobbit, who was – to Merry’s sincere chagrin – very easy on the eyes and in very close proximity to Frodo every single day. And Merry had missed all of it until it had walked right up to him this past summer and smacked him square in the middle of his forehead. It hadn’t even occurred to him before then to wonder at Sam’s devotion to Frodo, or any possible reasons behind it besides the obvious. And what if--
“Put that down before you break it,” Pippin commanded. Merry complied absently, settling the dish precariously on the edge of the counter.
“You don’t think Frodo would…” He found he couldn’t even say it out loud. For months, Merry had been consoling himself with the theory that Sam was simply too shy to act on his feelings but now--
“And why not?” Pippin asked. “It isn’t as if you keep to yourself, away there in Buckland.”
Merry flushed deeper. “Actually,” he said quietly, “I do, as a matter of fact.”
Pippin started to laugh then caught the look on Merry’s face. His jaw dropped.
“Oh my. You’re not joking, are you?”
Merry shook his head slowly. “As you say, he’s wonderful.”
“Well, yes but…” Pippin frowned, turned back to the shrinking pile of dishes. “And anyway, I thought you and Melilot… well, I thought…”
“No,” Merry admitted. “That was just a bit of prattle she started to get Berilac’s attention. I never denied anything because…” Merry rolled his eyes, blew out an exasperated breath. “Well, because I didn’t want Frodo to think I was pining, when in fact, I was simply… well, I was simply…”
“Pining,” Pippin finished for him.
“No! I wasn’t.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t! I was simply…”
“Pining.”
“No! It was--”
“Pining.”
“Will you-- It wasn’t--” Merry sputtered for a moment before his shoulders sagged. “Oh, bugger, all right, fine! I suppose I do, at times. I can’t help it. He’s…”
“Lovely,” Pippin finished again.
Merry sighed, plopped into a chair. “Yes, he’s lovely and I love him. What of it?”
“Nothing, of course, I just--”
“And now I find I have a strapping young gardener to contend with and we’ll all be in close quarters for who knows how long and what if--”
“What if nothing,” Pippin put in sternly. “He’s got three people who love him desperately, just when he’s stepping into more danger than Bilbo ever dreamed of. Three is one more better than two, Meriadoc, and you should be thankful that Sam is coming along, instead of twisting yourself into a jealous fit!” Pippin threw the dishrag into the sink, stalked over to Merry and dipped down until they were nose-to-nose. “He needs us, Merry – every one of us, and if you do anything to scare Sam off--”
“Pippin,” Merry interjected, “one of these days, you’re going to open your mouth and fall right into it! What do you think I am, for pity’s sake? I stayed away all summer, didn’t I? How hard do you suppose that was, eh, with Sam hovering about and watching every move--” He growled, rolled his eyes. “Bugger all, do I seem the sort of person who would let a fit of pique endanger someone so close to my heart?”
Pippin looked Merry up and down, lifted an eyebrow. “No,” he admitted. “But you seem the sort that would think it over rather thoroughly.”
Merry had to give him that one. He sighed, slumped his shoulders, gave a sheepish shrug.
“Not a word, Pip. I swear it.”
“And I’ll be remembering that, lest you forget it,” Pippin warned and cuffed him on the ear for good measure. “I’m going to bed,” he said. “You can finish up.”
A shake of his head and, "Strapping young gardener indeed," Pippin muttered, stomped across the kitchen. He was almost through the door before he stopped, turned back to Merry. “He’s no more strapping than you, you know,” he said, and if a smirk could be kind, Pippin managed it remarkably well. “And he’s older than you are, you nit.”
Merry peered at his cousin over his shoulder, shook his head and chuckled. “Go to bed, Pippin.”
Pippin shrugged then turned and made his way up the hall.
Merry heaved a mighty sigh, kneaded at his temples. It was quite long before he began the business of cleaning up the rest of the kitchen.
* * *
Sam watched from his window as, one by one, Mr. Frodo’s friends and kin relinquished him to the night, retreating to the warmth of the big smial while Mr. Frodo hisself remained, tall and straight against star-pocked pitch. His own choice, his own preference, Sam knew, but Sam stayed and Sam watched, unwilling to release the superstitious tether on his master that his gaze alone kept close.
Does he know, son?
It weren’t so simple as his dad had made it out. Even Sam himself hadn’t really known until that September twilight so long past, when he’d stumbled breathless and dripping wet into a scene that had washed his most secret dreams in amber-blue haze.
And it were different now, anyhow. He wasn’t the lad he’d been back then. Mr. Frodo was no longer the suddenly fey and exotic creature of Sam’s imaginings that he was to the starry-eyed and breathless young lad Sam had been – he was blood and bone, real, and Sam loved the person he was now -- not the object of a naïve, young boy’s new stirrings over his first infatuation.
It had been the pump, what started it all. Sam smiled a little at the memory, his cheeks heating only the slightest bit. He had his own stubbornness to thank for the whole thing and, though he was well aware it was wrong at the time and the years between didn’t make it any less so, he still couldn’t help but smile over it.
Oh, he’d been so glad to be done with that particular day’s work; the party field was a hash and no mistake and it had taken him and the Gaffer the full day to set it to rights again. And then the added work of repairing the verge and shrubbery about Bag End after Mr. Frodo’s relations had been so careless with their steps in their haste to claim the gifts Mr. Bilbo’d left, well… It had made for a long, hard day of difficult, thankless work and Sam had been glad to be done with it at last. Every time he’d filled in a divot in soft loam left by a cavalier step, every time he’d righted a late-blooming aster in its bed, he’d cursed those relations who cared not a whit for Mr. Frodo but only had wide, greedy eyes for the hope of jools left them by Mr. Bilbo.
Sam had only caught glimpses of Mr. Frodo since Mr. Bilbo’s little trick and those fleeting, at best. But he’d seen his master when the wizard had packed up his cart and turned it to the Road; Mr. Frodo’d looked sad and tired then and Sam’s heart had near broke for him. Mr. Frodo had stared after the cart until its clap and rattle had faded into the afternoon sun and Sam had watched him from his crouch in the dirt. He didn’t know how long it was before Mr. Frodo finally shook himself and headed into Bag End but when he did, his shoulders were slumped and his steps were slow. It was then that Sam decided that his business at Bag End was done for the day.
He stood, brushing his dirt-crusted hands over his knees, placing his fist to the small of his back and bending ‘til his spine crackled. With a satisfied grunt, he collected his tools and headed to the pump for a rinse. He’d neglected to stop for lunch or tea, electing instead to get the job finished before dark, and it would be nice to get himself cleaned up in time for supper.
And so, of course, the pump refused to work.
It were a persnickety old thing in the first place and annoyingly temperamental. His Gaffer’d told Mr. Bilbo many a time over the past couple months that it needed new rods ordered from the Twofoots’ but Sam thought it likely that rods for the pump were something Mr. Bilbo had spent very little time thinking about. Sam would have to tell Mr. Frodo about it when next he saw him.
‘Course, that didn’t help Sam now. Neither did priming the thing ‘til the primer stuck firm and neither did pumping the handle that fell far too loose back into its resting place. Well, nothing for it; he’d have to make do with hauling up some buckets from the well and rinsing off that way.
Sam left his tools by the pump and trudged down to the well. He’d not had to haul water from here for years – not since Mr. Frodo’d come to stay and Mr. Bilbo thought some new conveniences were in order about the place. The pumps -- one right up close to the back of the burrow and two inside, if you could believe it -- had come right along with the new fireplace insert for Mr. Frodo’s room and the great big desk, all the way from some high-falootin’ wood shop over to the Tookland; made special, it were, just for the new lad, and Mr. Bilbo were right pleased with it. Sam’s Gaffer was a little less pleased, as he’d had to help wrestle the great beast of a thing into the smial and down the tunnel to the new lad’s study.
Anyhow, at least the crank and pulley of the well were in good repair. Sam had been keeping the care of that his own self, not particularly trusting of machinery he didn’t know how to take apart and rebuild himself. And a good thing, too, as it turned out.
He hauled up buckets and dumped them over his head ‘til he lost count. Oh, it felt good, it did, layers of grime and sweat rinsing away in cool streamers down his neck and back, rivulets runneling soothing fingers all down his limbs. Sam dumped the last bucket and grinned his pleasure. He guessed he must look a sight but dripping with clear, clean water was certainly better than caked and matted with a full day’s hard work.
He locked the crank then turned up the Hill to Bag End. He hated to disturb Mr. Frodo now, of all times, but he needed telling that the pump were broke and Sam was going to have to collect the old yoke from the cellar to haul some water up for tomorrow morning's work. Nothing for it.
It were getting dark in the burrow when Sam stepped into the kitchen. The fire was still going nice in the stove but the place seemed deserted otherwise. A board of cheese sat curling and hardening on the table, along with a bottle of wine, uncorked and half-gone. Sam shook his head, peered about for the cork before finding it and re-stoppering the bottle. Most likely Mr. Frodo had had a poor excuse for a supper and a few too many mugs of wine and taken himself off to sleep away his misery.
It made Sam sad. Mr. Frodo were the quickest with a smile as Sam had ever known and he couldn’t help but feel a little angry with old Mr. Bilbo on his new master’s behalf. Sam had known pretty much all his life that Mr. Bilbo had one foot out the Shire and Mr. Frodo most likely knew it, too. But knowing a thing were coming didn’t always help the living through it and even the short glimpses Sam had caught of Mr. Frodo since the Party were plenty to tell him how well Mr. Frodo were taking the whole thing. It pained him to think Mr. Bilbo, who’d been the cause of many of those quick smiles on Mr. Frodo’s face in the past, was now the cause of a deeper sadness than he’d seen on any hobbit in all his life, with the exception of his da, after Sam’s ma had passed. He wondered if Mr. Frodo’s face had looked the same when they’d put his own parents in the ground and quickly pushed the thought away. Too many sad goodbyes for one hobbit, if you asked Sam… not that anyone did.
Well, Sam would go check and make sure Mr. Frodo had at least lit the fire in his room and got beneath the covers. The nights were getting a decided chill to them and it wouldn’t do for him to catch fever or worse, now he was here alone and all, with no one to look after him. Then he’d bring up a few buckets and fill the old barrel by the backdoor, plus the one in the shed. It were early yet, not even past suppertime, and Mr. Frodo might yet wake while Sam was tending these last chores and then he could tell him about the pump. And if he didn't, Sam would just leave a note about it all a’fore he went home.
He was only halfway down the tunnel when he heard it. He wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was but it sounded like…
Oh, glory, was Mr. Frodo weeping? Soft moans and sharp gasping breaths wafted heavy through the still air of the tunnel and Sam closed his eyes tight, a picture forming all too clear in his head: Mr. Frodo, alone and weeping, his dark hair stark against the snowy pillowslip, his shoulders wracked and buffeted with each fresh sob.
Sam shook his head, sympathetic tears of his own rising hot behind his eyes. His own breath was coming harsh and shaky now and he roundly swore beneath it, but whether at Mr. Bilbo or the awkward situation he now found himself in, Sam couldn’t tell.
He stood, dithering, unsure of what to do or whether he should even do anything at all. This weren’t one of his sisters, who would dearly welcome a shoulder to cry on when in the throes of some mysterious feminine froohaw – this were his master and, as fine and decent a hobbit as he was, Sam somehow didn’t think he’d appreciate being surprised in his grief by the gardener lad, of all people.
Sam wrung his hands. If only Mr. Gandalf hadn’t’ve left -- he’d know what to do. He probably could have even snapped his fingers at the pump and fixed it right up and then Sam wouldn’t’ve had no cause to be standing out here in the hallway, listening to his master weep in the first place.
It weren’t right, none of it. Mr. Frodo was the kindest, most generous hobbit Sam had ever known, even moreso than Mr. Bilbo and Sam would never have guessed in a million years that were even possible, much as he loved the old hobbit. It weren’t right that Mr. Frodo were left to cry alone in his room with no one to stay by him in his grief, it just weren’t right.
Mumbles, thick and slurred, carried from the room through its open door, the sounds indistinct, blurred through the pounding in Sam’s ears. Only one word broke through and when it did, Sam near broke right in half with the beseeching tone of it.
‘…please…’
It decided Sam with crystal-sharp resolution; master or no, gentlefolk or no, Mr. Frodo needed someone – anyone – and, what with Sam being the only one about, he would just have to do. He set his jaw, squared his shoulders and made for Mr. Frodo’s room--
--and forgot to breathe when he reached the threshold.
He couldn’t make sense of it, at first; a tangle of limbs, washed amber-blue in the approaching twilight, movement deep and quick in a rhythm Sam knew but couldn’t reconcile. A last dying splay of burnt-gold sunlight waned warm over the bed and Sam was sure for a moment that what he saw was himself, moving to the tempo set by the writhing figure beneath him.
The light pulled russet from Frodo’s hair and gold from Sam’s. Shadows dipped and swayed over his broad tanned back and his thighs flexed and strained with each thrust of his hips.
His hands held pale wrists in their expansive grasp and the body beneath him surged, coiled tight and hung upon a razor’s edge. Heat rolled through Sam, tore his mind loose and his hips swayed a little as the look on Frodo’s face laid him open, at the mercy of the abandoned grace that curled and snarled beneath him. He looked down into a face covered in sweat, glistening gold with the very last drop of the Autumn sun, and thought he’d never in his life felt so complete, so real.
“Now, Merry, I can’t…”
And Sam reeled, thumped right back into his own body. A nasty jolt ran through his spine; something angry and regretful and horribly, desperately sad, all at once.
Merry. Of course. Mr. Frodo’s Brandybuck cousin had come for the Party and Sam had just assumed he’d left with everyone else. Why shouldn’t he have? He’d not seen hide nor hair of the riverhobbit since Mr. Bilbo’d disappeared and Sam had just assumed…
“Don’t,” the Brandybuck said. “This is it. Don’t hold back.”
If Mr. Bilbo had appeared out of thin air right in front of him and demanded to know what the gardener lad was doing spying into the master’s bedroom, Sam couldn’t have unpinned his gaze from Frodo’s face in that moment. He’d never seen anything like it, had never even known such beauty could exist and, even in Mr. Bilbo’s tales of Elvish splendour and ethereal misted worlds of dreams, he’d never imagined anything so glorious could share the same mortal earth as Samwise Gamgee.
Mr. Frodo’s head was thrown back, his body arched in an exquisite curve of taut muscle. His skin rippled with release, burnished warm with the slant of dying sun and a heated glow that came right from his soul. Dark hair curled damp against his cheek and splayed over the sheet beneath him. His mouth was open, lips swollen and blood-red in the uncertain light, and cries dropped long and liquid from between them. The muscles in his arms corded as he strained against Mr. Merry’s grip and then his hips bucked and he froze, the only movement a rippling spasm that seemed to move from his body to Mr. Merry’s and then the Brandybuck was shouting out as well.
Sam just stared, rooted to the floor as his master’s face moved from wanton abandon to lax satisfaction. He’d never seen anything like it, never suspected such a thing could be real, blood and bone, but here it was, right in front of him, and Sam felt an aching, wrenching sorrow that it was unquestionably out of his own short reach.
There was light beneath Mr. Frodo’s skin and it weren’t no trick of the eye – Sam could see it, sure as he stood there. Not a glow so much as a sweet-soft pulse that came right out of his heart, spread over every inch of him and spoke softly of Good and Love. It filled Sam, moved him beyond words, beyond sense, and he just stood there and let it, unwilling to let the sensation go so soon after he’d discovered it could exist.
It was only when Mr. Merry stirred, drew a gentle hand over Mr. Frodo’s face that Sam snapped back to himself. Quiet as he’d come, he backed down the hall, watching the indigo-rose light spill through the door and onto the droplets of water he’d left on the floor of the hallway. He hadn’t even the sense to hope they dried before his master saw them. It didn’t matter; at that moment nothing mattered except that Sam was filled, body, heart and soul, with something new and wonderful and horribly sad, and the tears that slid sluggishly down his cheeks were a co-mingling of exalted joy and bone-deep sorrow.
It was different now – still true and honest but the years had burned that love deeper, had changed it at its core. The desperate desires of the tween he had been had long-since been put away and what came in their place seemed yet richer. Mr. Frodo had changed from that elusive, smoke-misted figure, writhing on a soft bed of white linen, to the hobbit Sam had come to know and know quite well over the years since. This was a person who had offered accounting assistance to his tenants and helped turn many of the farmsteads from money-pits into prosperous assets and even refused tithe-increases until those farmers were able to pay off other debts first. The very same who trekked to Michel Delving to answer the Mayor’s call and swore testimony against his own cousin over a water-rights squabble Mr. Lotho were having with one of Bag End’s tenants. Not to mention the fact that Mr. Frodo would drop whatever he might happen to be doing at any given moment to sit down with on the porch steps with Sam or Rosie or Marigold and tell an hours-long story about anything they asked him to. Why, he'd even indulged Mari when she asked him for a story about purple puppies, of all things; made it all up as he went along and even Sam had to admit it were a really good tale in the end, though he'd done plenty of eye-rolling at his younger sister when the request had come burbling from her. But Mister Frodo... he'd never rolled his eyes, just smiled at Mari, winked at Sam and commenced to tellin'.
A person like that couldn’t remain an object of fevered imaginings for long – a person like that you had to love down deep in your bones.
Sam knew well from the very beginning that the fevered hope of a love-struck tween was useless, knew he could no more touch his master than he could hold a star in his hands. But that tweener infatuation had grown over the years, became a more adult love, hard and deep, and Sam’s hands no longer felt quite so empty for their lack of moon-pale skin to hold to, so long as his heart was filled-to-bursting. He supposed a person could say that he carried a torch for his master and he supposed he did, for it wasn’t as though, should the world tip over one day and the offer were made, Sam would refuse. He’d have to be right daft to go and do a fool thing like that. But with each crooked smile meant just for Sam, with each note of laughter, rising clear and warm to blend with wind and sky, with each shared joke or quiet tale, that flame sparked and grew into something yet more profound and without bounds.
Love wasn’t only sighs into sweated skin and hands to heat it. It was richer, deeper and had its own sad beauty and Sam held fast to his, made it a part of himself and kept it close.
And now he would use it, put it to work for the sake of the one it was meant for. After years spent biding his time, wandering about his life, watching and waiting for his Purpose to make itself plain, Sam’s heart had found its use.
Sam lifted his face, looked to the stars through the fog-misted glass. “I love him,” he said aloud. “And I mean to see him through what needs doing. I’d sure appreciate you keeping watch as well.”
He looked back, saw that there were two figures now, moulded together into one silhouette, and he knew that Mr. Merry had come to stake his claim. He shrugged a little, trailed the tip of a finger down the length of the glass then turned and made for his bed.
* * *
|
And Sam had known beyond doubt
right then and there that there was no love in all of creation that could rival
what moved through him at that moment; moved through him still as he stood with
his brow pressed to the cold pane of glass that was only too representative of
his tacit separation from the distant figure on the other side of it, standing
straight and tall beneath the stars. For the first time in his life, Sam had
known and really understood what true, honest love was.