By: Dana
Summary: What differences that there could be with a lady's touch upon the Ring.
Characters: Rosie Cotton, Sam Gamgee, Frodo Baggins
Pairings: Rosie/Sam, Rosie/Frodo, Sam/Frodo implied
Rating: R
Warnings: Darkness, angst, alternate universe, violence suggested and sexual content implied
Author's Notes: Inspired by the The One Ring Challenge. I can't really say what I wanted when I set out to tell this tale, but the most drastic of alternate universes can be inspired by the most small of things. This is not a Happy-Ever-After story, and is rather dark in tone and content.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

The air is viscous and sweet like fresh marmalade, heavy raindrops drop like blotches of grey paint from the cloudy sky above; the end of the seasons nears, the last of the summer showers thick and wet and hot. Vibrant air stirs sweetly in Rose Cotton's lungs. She stares down at the party field from the cast open door of Bag End; behind her, there is darkness, the warmth of spice and tea, home and hearth, her home, her hearth, behind her. Somewhere deep within the smial, the slight pad of bare feet upon well-worn, hard-packed earth is heard; the sound of a ghost, nothing more than a shadow. Rose keeps her gaze upon the path up from the field that rounds up from Bagshot Row. Her hair is damp from standing too long in the light downpour, makes her seem taller, more vibrant; as though she's connected to the earth, lives with it, breathes with it; if she sinks her toes into the rich dark soil of the gardens, she'd grow, too; she'd bloom.

The gardens.

The roses are in bloom, some white like fresh fallen snow, others pale peach like springtime blossoms, and then the ones Rose herself holds closest to her heart; red, darkest crimson, as thick and sweet as clotted blood.

She hears the sound of approaching footsteps, sucks hot breath down into needy lungs; she's ready to bloom now, she feels it in her veins. It surges through her, consumes, lights her on fire. Opening her eyes again is like seeing for the first time; sensory overload washes over her, pulling at her like the Moon pulls at the Sea, and Samwise Gamgee puts his hand on the gate at the foot of the curve from Bag End's front door.

A scream, guttural snarls, whimpers of pain and pleading pain dear Valar just let it end don't make it go on; it had been raining then, too; she remembers it well. Cold air, still bodies, darkness and the single dance of a flame on a wick that lies too close to its end. White sheets and the smell of death in the air, the smell of death and the smell of roses. It tickles her senses, a pit of curiosity churning violently as only a child's can in passing wonder and amazement at what lies beyond the door to the place that had been her home; it doesn't feel like home anymore.

"Good morning to you, Rosie," Sam says, an easy smile on his lips; she likes it when he smiles, likes the way it lights up his eyes, brings color to his cheeks. The rain is a fine mist in the air, tickles her nose as she takes a step down the path.

"Good morning to you, too, Sam."

He swings the gate open, takes steady steps up towards her. "How are you feeling this morning?"

Another step, the feel of wet silk sticking to her legs; Sam's quicker gait has him standing before her down, and hazel seeks out emerald, and silence spans between them. "What are you doing out here in the rain?" Sam asks her, and Rose smiles.

She laughs.

He likes it when she laughs; there hasn't been laughter in Bag End since Bilbo went Away, since Frodo... since Frodo... His throat knots up and he shifts his satchel of gardening tools. "What are you... the rain...?" he mumbles again, less sure of himself as the memories surge against his inner defenses. Sam's mouth is dry like cotton had been stuffed inside, and Rose laughs.

She smiles.

"I was waiting for you; there's tea and biscuits, Sam. Do you have to go to work so early this morning? It's lonely in the smial. I'd like a bit of company, if you don't mind..."

Careful, careful, not too quick. She pulls it back, anticipation numbing small fingers. A girl no older than twelve, standing on tiptoes. A flicker of flame and shadow, and sunken darkness on skin stretched too thin and pale over bones sharp and brittle; eyes devoid of life stare blankly into her own. A gasp of surprise; Rose doesn't realize she's crying until she falls back onto the storeroom floor, clutching thin arms around her body. Her parent's eyes (they're dead, dead, dead, no, no, no!) never, ever, ever go away.

Sam smiles, and Rose smiles back; the pleasant pleading tone of her voice puts his worries at rest. "We'll get you out of the rain, then, and you can get warm."

"Oh, but Sam, I am," she replies, lifting a hand up. Her skin has a healthy glow about it, and stands out against the dark blue of her laced up bodice. Her fingers curl, clutching at something that cannot be seen; relaxing, Rose's hand reaches out to Sam. "I am, now that you're here."

He goes red under a wet mop of curls, and Rosie laughs; joy surges through her veins, and she takes the last few steps towards him, throwing her arms around Sam and pulling him into her embrace. "It's good to see you, Sam. So lonely, here. So dark with despair. I don't know what I'd do without you, Sam. Don't know what I'd do at all."

He curls the one free arm he has about her, feeling the rhyme and reason of her slender form as his arm rests so comfortably around her. She's warm, alive, the thunderous roar and rush of her overjoyed heartbeat as they stand in the warming summer light. The rain has stilled somewhere, sometime when they hadn't been looking, its presence still hanging like a thick blanket over the hill; Rose turns so her face is buried close to the pointed tip of Sam's ear.

"Good morning, Sam," she whispers, and Sam shivers like his spine has been set on fire.

"You already said... good morning."

"Yes," she replies, her voice liquid heat cascading over his skin. Rosie's eyes close and her lips press like smooth silk to the warm wetness of the skin at Sam's neck; his breath catches in his throat, he finds it suddenly hard to breathe. Her lips are cold, cold like death, and as she pulls away, a smile lighting up her eyes, he sucks breath back hard into the depths of his lungs. She'd said she was warm... she felt like she was made of ice.

"Rose," he says with a groan, and Sam steadies himself.

"Sam," she replies with a smile, and Rose turns to look back up to the still open door. "Make sure to close the door, Sam, and latch the bolt. You know how those Sackville-Bagginses can be. Sticking their noses in where they don't belong."

Crying; no matter what, she couldn't stop crying. They find her like that, broken arms like a shattered doll, tears old and new, palms wet with blood, her blood, nails dug into the soft skin of her palms. That was the last time she saw her home, sobbing. They took her away, took her as far as they could go; she never did know why she ended up at Bag End, nor why Old Bi?bo took her in; it's been years now. She can't go back.

Sam heeds her words, and the air within is stirred with their passing. The kitchen beckons to them; Sam's set his gear down at the front door and Rosie makes him his cup of tea.

He was a young boy, not much older than herself; trusting hazel eyes and sunny yellow hair. "Who're you?" he asks, suspicious.

"Rose Cotton," she announces with pride. "And who are you?"

"Samwise. Samwise Gamgee. But call me Sam. Everyone does." A nod, and then a pause. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

"I could ask the same of you." she quips. He pulls himself up to his full height (she's got an inch or so on him in fact) and puffs up his chest.

"My Gaffer takes care of the Bagginses gardens."

Rosie smiles.

"Then maybe I'll tell you a secret."

"A secret?"

"A secret." She beckons, and Sam leans close. Her breath tingles on the flesh of his ear and he closes his eyes.

"I'll be Mistress of Bag End one day," she says.

"Will you marry Master Bilbo?" he replies.

Rosie laughs. "No, you silly duck. I'll marry his heir."

She serves him biscuits, soft butter and honey, as well, sitting him at the kitchen table and slipping into the seat that sits directly opposite. Sam sips the tea; the high back of the chair feeling like it's made to cut right through the heavy fabric of his shirt.

She remembers stories of old Gandalf from Bilbo; Frodo knows of him, too, but Rose has never met him herself.

Bad End isn't as dark when you're in than when you're looking from without. Rose's gaze is dark and intent, watching the way that Sam's lips moves as he speaks, as he bites, the curve of his throat as he swallows. Sixteen, sixteen. Sam had been sixteen when she'd first met him. Frodo... Frodo... Frodo Baggins. Sometimes, that name wasn't something she could clearly remember. But Rose had been right; Rose was always right. She was the Mistress of Bag End, and she felt it humming in her blood.

"Sam."

She follows him, watches him as he works; Sam's Gaffer comes to Bag End less and less these days. Bilbo and Frodo are content in the quiet of their home; Rose won't have any of that. It's times like this, the sun hot and the wind fresh and cool, that she's glad they never took her away. Not that anyone wanted her. She wasn't right, they said. Neither was Frodo. Rose knew they were meant to be.

"What's it like, Sam?"

"What's what like, Rosie?" he replies.

She blushes. "I didn't know I'd said that out loud."

He smiles. "Well, why did you ask it?"

"Oh," she pauses. Sam is hunched over a flowerbed, peonies blooming like a haze of summer pink under the tanned curves of his fingers. "The earth, Sam. What's it like?"

He doesn't seem to know what to say. "It's... it's..."

She knows words fail him, so she moves closer; her skirts are blue and green and pool about her like water as she kneels at his side. A pale hand rests on darker skin, and Rosie smiles.

"Show me."

"Show you..."

Rose nods, and Sam clears his throat.

"Well, it's like this..." he says, tuning her hand over in his own. He puts two fingertips to her palm; she looks to his gaze, but finds it downcast towards her hand, and the soil beyond the constrictive curve of the path. "Like..." he loses his words again, and sighs in frustration. He moves her hand so that it's flat down against the soft smooth soil, and then, only then, does he look into her eyes.

"Dig your fingers down, Rosie."

She does, breath caught up in her throat, the silk soft loam rich and cool as it envelops her fingers.

"Can you feel it?"

He whispers, she nods in reply. A dizzy sensation comes over her; perhaps it's the sun, the warmth. Perhaps it's the feel of his body leaning so close to hers.

"I... feel... dizzy..."

"Maybe... it's too much..."

She turns; he's looking right into her eyes.

"No."

Her lips are warm; his hand curls gently around her wrist, feeling the pulse of her life even as she feels the pulse of their ow?.

"Rose."

She licks her lips; he licks a drop of honey from his finger. The motion is slow, languid, stretched out into infinity. He pauses, his gaze dark.

"Sam..."

Dark eyes watch them; Rose looks up and Frodo stands there, ink stains on his fingers, his weskit unbuttoned. Rosie smiles, turning back to Sam. Frodo watches, a disturbed fascination lighting his eyes, as Rose nudges Sam's throat, seeks out his lips, and opens her mouth to him.

Frodo watches.

"Rose."

She laughs and Sam leans back in his chair; his expression is serious.

The laughter in her eyes dims. "What is it, dear?"

"I..." a yawn. "Sorry, Rosie. I feel a bit sleepy, is all."

This is for this... this is for that... round and round... they all fall down.

Rosie smiles.

"It's early, still. Maybe you should take a nap."

Sam's lids droop; he wouldn't think it proper, but the air is warm and he's feeling oh so tired.

"Take my hand, Sam."

He does.

She never hears Frodo's voice; almost never; had she ever heard it at all?

Such a silly thing to think.

Rosie ties her hair back, a fine gold threaded ribbon from beyond Bree, blue like Frodo's eyes. Frodo's watching her, again. Standing at the open door to her room; is he even breathing?

"Help me lace up my dress, Frodo."

It feels like forever since Bilbo left; she'd been seventeen when Frodo had come of age, come into his inheritance, and had been given Bag End as his own. There were whispers; whispers about her, and Sam. Whispers about unfaithfulness. Whispers about her, and Frodo.

She liked it when they talked about her.

Frodo doesn't say a word as he walks over, and Rose pulls her hair out of the way. His touch is light, and she shivers at the exposure of cool air on her back, the bare span of breaths that separates their bodies. She's twenty-five, now. She has a good head on her shoulders.

She knows what she's doing.

Rose feels the tug of fabric as Frodo lifts up the laces. Another tug and he's weaving them together.

"Frodo?"

Silence; she felt like she was in a dream.

"What is it, Rose?"

Oh, there it was; that was what it was like. Soft and cool, like star shine, bright and distant all the same. "Your voice... oh... Frodo. I don't think I hear it that much. No, no. Not anymore."

"Sometimes... I don't know what to say."

He pauses in his work, reflects quietly, and then he's threading them together again. She looks back, a dark smudge of lashes on fair cheeks. "Tell me a story."

"Rosie," a laugh, a smile, Rose feels a giddy rush down to her toes. "It's your party night, dear. There isn't time."

"There's always... time." She replies, shifting. Frodo loses his hold on the ties, and one shoulder lies bare. Rose doesn't take her gaze off of his own. "There's time... right now."

"Rose."

"Frodo."

He doesn't move first. She does, with soft lips and an insistent tongue.

"Frodo, Rosie. It's been so long. Has he gone away, too?" Sam's voice is weaving in and out, and he leans on her shoulder; she supports him with more strength than you think her frame could support.

"Shh, dear, shh."

"I miss him," Sam mumbles, and sobs rise up in his voice. "I never see him anymore, Rosie. Where is he... where is he..." Stumbling, Sam falls forward, only his knees. He sinks down gratefully onto the ground.

"Frodo."

"Sam."

"F-frodo! Mister Frodo. What a surprise."

Frodo smiles and Sam turns away, a flustered blush staining his cheeks.

"I was just finishing my ale," he says, and Frodo nods.

"Rosie's looking for you, Sam. She wants to have her dance."

Sam looks back at Frodo, a smiling coming to his lips. "Have you had yours, already?"

Eyes darken, a smile that could almost be a frown. "Yes, Sam. I've already had mine."

"Sam."

She hates it when it storms. It tears at the earth, tears down all of Sam's hard work. It wasn't fair.

Sometimes in the dark of the night, she can hear Frodo in his room; talking t? himself; talking to others. Talking to things and people and places that aren't or never were.

They do have a lot in common, Rose reflects; he talks sometimes of the Brandywine, of living in Buckland. He remembers the river and white flesh tinged with blue, wet ribbons sticking to the sides of a face that didn't move. They did have things in common.

They did.

Rosie makes a pot of tea and takes a tray back to Frodo's room.

"Frodo?"

He's sitting on his bed, quiet, disheveled. As she enters, his gaze stays rooted on the floor.

"Frodo, you need to get some tea into you."

She sits beside him, the tray across the room. She offers him the cup.

He takes it, then shatters it on the floor. Rosie flinches, turning away.

"Frodo..."

"You don't... it doesn't... there's no help, Rosie. I can feel it already. You don't help."

She kisses him, anyway, the fine line of his jaw, back to his ear. He leans back, moans. She doesn't care; she doesn't need to care. And she doesn't care if he does.

"Frodo's sick, Sam... maybe you'll see him... see him soon..."

A kiss to Sam's brow, Rose kneels beside him. She gathers him up in her arms; there's strength there, yes. Strength that cannot be ignored. But Sam doesn't see it; he doesn't. He sees Frodo, instead, a Frodo that he doesn't think can be.

He runs.

Into the rain, feet splashing in the water that ran down the slope. He runs, runs until he can't anymore, throwing the gate open and stumbling out onto the winding path.

Frodo's fists hit the ground.

His shoulders tremble.

Rose follows at a slower pace, catching up with him. He trembles with unshed tears and grief and torment that she doesn't understand though she knows the cause.

"Frodo."

He doesn't say a thing to her, though it sounds as though he does.

"Y-you'll be... the death of me," Frodo mutters, pawing at his vest pocket. He pulls something out, something small. Something Rose doesn't remember seeing before.

"What a pretty ring, Frodo."

He looks up, seeing her for the first time.

"I'm throwing it away. It's not worth it. My dreams are telling me, Rosie. I know it's not... I-I know..."

He lifts it up, as if to hurl it into the void of green and the way that the hill spills downwards before them. He draws his arm up; Rose's eyes go wide.

It doesn't go far; it barely makes it from Frodo's hand.

Without some great cry, with a choked sob instead, Frodo's shoulders shake, his entire body trembles as the ring barely slips from his palm right before him, into the water, not moving though the current is fast.

Rose is then beside him, and he can feel the boundaries of her and her world.

"Get up, Sam. You're almost there."

It was hard, so very difficult, but he managed it, she managed it, too. Sam's steps are slow, like a child first learning to walk. Like an invalid getting back their legs.

"Frodo..."

His breath is hot on her neck, his arms limp and hanging at his sides. Her arms carry the weight of his world and her own.

"F-frodo..."

She could lose herself in it; she's never felt it like this; she's never... never...

"M-mine..."

Well, she didn't lose Frodo, did she? He's hers forever.

She won't lose Sam, either.

They'll be together, forever after and always.

Rose leans forwards, and Frodo is torn with panic as she picks it up lightly from the water. It glitters in the light of a lightning flash, dark and beautiful. No, no, no; that was Rose. The ring... the ring only added to the effect. Wet curls clinging to wet skin, a glow in Rose's eyes that hadn't been there before.

She fingers it, the smooth touch of gold under her fingers. Frodo shivers, arms wrapped around himself; his sobs drown in the storm song of the rain. "Shouldn't... shouldn't..."

Rose looks towards him. "Such a pretty, pretty thing..."

She turns the ring over in one hand; with the other, she touches Frodo's cheek.

"Never... ever... throw it away."

The storm calms as though the world?has come to a halt; lightning flashes silently in the sky, Frodo's eyes are wide and unseeing. The ring digs into Rose's palm as she leans and kisses Frodo's cheek. "Come with me, Frodo. Come with me." He slumps against her, and she supports him; she feels stronger now than she ever had been before. "Come with me..."

She wraps him in her embrace.

Tears mingle with rainwater on her shoulder as the world around them crashes back into sound.

"Your ring, Frodo. You've given me your ring. I'll stay with you forever; I love you so very much. Do you love me very much, Frodo? Do you? I'll never ever let you go..."

She kisses him, his lips parted as he sucks in breath to sob.

She lies him down in bed; she knows a lot, though she might not look it. The people down in Hobbiton might not think highly of her, might think she's just sharing the bed of the Master of Bag End (but she's the Mistress and that is where the power lies)... but they don't know.

No one knows.

She kisses Sam's cheek, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"He doesn't come out into the light anymore; he stays back in his room." Playing with Sam's curls, the light from the door a blade of gold that cuts the room in two and highlights the color that lingers in his cheeks, Rose smiles. "Would you like to see his room, Sam? We have a lovely room. Such a big, lovely bed. There's room for you, Sam. So much room for you. Frodo will tell you stories; I can kiss you good night. Such a big... lovely... bed..."

She lies down, puts her arms over him; her bosom is warm, the time is right. She kisses his neck and rests her head next to his.

"You'll think about it... in the morning... think about it..."

Her heartbeat eases gently to slumber, dropping from breakneck speed; cold lips are parted, exhale onto Sam as she sleeps. The ring, that ring, is a comfort pressed between her chest and the soft curve of Sam's shoulder.

She sleeps and dreams.

He dreams and loses himself in nightmares.

In time, the light in the hallway fades.

Sometimes when it's dark out, when Rosie slips into shadows and night, he glides out of his room like a ghost, a memory preserved with dark mussed hair and eyes that shine in on his soul. There's still a glimmer of recognition there; oh, how he loves his Rose. Oh... Sam...

This is his home, isn't it?

Doesn't feel like it... no, no, no. Not anymore.

There was... someone else... once before.

But he's gone now.

It would be... nice to have visitors.

He searches out the nooks and crannies of the house, the kitchen and the dining room, the parlor and the study; the fire in the hearth has died down.

He remembers how to do that and Frodo does. Frodo... Frodo... yes, he's not that hard to remember. Not now. Not when it's dark, not when it's calm.

Scattered mail lies on the desk in the corner. The smell of ink calls him, and he sinks down into a chair that reminds him of distant comforts. The envelope is smooth against even fingers; he knows that script, he knows those names. Oh... oh... He picks up the letter opener, slices through the top. Words sprawl like worms on the paper. Oh... that's it... that's it, he sees. Merry... Pippin... they're coming to visit. Pippin's married, it says. Merry will be so, soon.

They love each other dearly. What will they think... the wives?

What will they think... the scandal...

It will be nice... to have familiar faces in the smial. Frodo's face isn't as familiar as it once was; how many years had it been? How long since he'd been forgotten?

He forgets what it's like to feel, forgets what it's like to laugh, to cry; to feel joy, to feel sorrow. All he feels now is an empty darkness that consumes. He'll never be well; he doesn't think Rose wants him to be well. Rose, Rose, Rose... oh, she'd been such a pretty little girl. Where had the time gone? Where had it gone? Sam... Sam... what had happened? Would he stay here, too? Frodo thinks he'll like it if Sam were to stay; Sam cou?d keep him grounded. Sam would help him find himself again. Pick up all the pieces, put them back where they belong. Frodo would like it... would love... love... love love love oh how he needed wanted to feel have Sam feel him.

A strangled gasp, a dull thud as something heavy falls to the ground. Frodo opens his eyes (when had they closed?) to fine a stain of cerise spreading like water on the faded tan of Pippin's letter. Frodo parts his lips, breathes in the copper scent. He curls his hand up into a fist, the long gash of his injured arm spreading from the cove of his elbow in a diagonal line down to his thumb. It hurts. He thinks he could cry; he can't remember the last time he felt so happy.

The letter opener must have fallen to the ground.

He runs a hand through the veil of sanguine that seems to flow sluggishly from his veins; smears his fingertips; brings tears to his eyes.

Frodo slumps forward, resting his head at an angle on the desk, hair sticking in a slick pool of his own blood. He smiles, doesn't close his eyes. Such a pretty sight... such a pretty, pretty sight. What would Rosie think? Oh... she'd... yes... and yes... oh... and Sam... what would Sam... he... might... would he kiss him, Frodo wonders. Frodo would like that; how long has it been... since he saw Sam face to face.

He always had been jealous of Rose.

Time slows, the lights grow and seem larger, brighter; the air is thicker now, richer. He almost thinks he can smell the rain. The rain, and roses, and the lingering approach of death. But no matter how close he comes to the end of it all, it's never enough; he thinks, sometimes, that his body just doesn't know how to die. Elbereth herself knew that he had tried. One day, he'll try again.

She feels like a mother, though she isn't one, no not yet; she will be, in time. Rose feels that the birth of a child is the greatest power that the world has ever seen. To hold a life within you, and to bring it into the world. A little spark of life that looks up to you, a nit of light that you nurture and love. Her stomach is flat now, young. One day, her belly will swell, and she'll feel the surge of a new life, mingling in her blood, rushing in her veins. The thought makes Rosie dizzy. One day, one day. It shouldn't be too long now. She's a lover, too, gentle and caring but knowing when harder words are needed. Frodo... yes... Frodo. He needs that, from her. He'd fall into himself if not for her, if not for the way she holds him up. The morning light is faceted, and Frodo's skin is pale, too pale. Matted red is dried on his arm, thick on the papers beneath. Rose clicks her tongue in a small sound of worry, padding over to the desk. Frodo's arms are slender, yes, and cast about like broken dolls. He's breathing; faintly. She touches his shoulder, shakes him awake.

"Frodo, love, wake up. Wake up, Frodo. Wake up."

Her voice is melodic in the morning; she misses the warmth of her bed, her shared bed. It would be warmer if only Frodo would. And Frodo -- he's cold where she seems to radiate; a warmth that exists only between her hands, and in her heart, and down the curves of her shape.

Frodo stirs, his lashes dark on shadow smudged cheeks. Darkness that lances light that's fragile like a thin sheen of ice on a winter's morning; breakable, they do not simply know how to bend. "Rose."

Her name is a hoarse whisper and Rosie smiles. She leans down, kisses his ear tip, then down the curve of his cheek. "What are you doing out here, you silly duck?" she pauses, places her hand on dry blood. It's gritty under her fingers and Frodo whimpers, a sharp inhalation of breath. "You've gone and hurt yourself again."

"My body," he laughs, a shaky, unsteady ringing of bells, "is your web of scars."

She smiles, her touch still light, and kisses him again. "Get up, Frodo love. Let's get that looked to. You must be hungry; you must be exhausted."

"I miss the sun," he whispers, looking to the window, dust motes drifting lazily?in the air. Rose's tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth.

"Silly boy. You have no need for the sun. You have me." She presses his injured hand to her chest, and he feels the tremor of her heartbeat beneath his skin. "I'll be your sun. You need nothing more."

He'd been stronger once, he knew he had, but that doesn't matter now. He lets Rose lead him, right to his room. It smells like her, like cold, like roses, too, sweet and fragrant, pressed and dried, saved for all of time. "But Rose --"

"No buts, Frodo love," she laughs, crystal bells and shiny things and it distracts Frodo for what seems like a long, long moment. He always comes back. He can never stay away. She kisses his cheek then and pushes him down into bed. He doesn't resist, lies back instead, as she pulls the cover over him and tucks him in. Sitting at the edge of the bed, Rose runs her hand lightly through his hair. "I have a surprise for you, Frodo."

"A surprise?" he asks, the movement of her hand and the dark light in her eyes twisting and turning, fascinating him into silence.

"A surprise. You'll see him soon. Now, stay here a moment. I'll be right back."

She is, having walked across the room. She returns with fresh bandages and a cleaning salve. She holds Frodo's limp wrist, cleans the self-inflicted wound, kisses his palm and wraps it tight. "There, that's better."

Frodo doesn't reply.

Rose smiles, circling his palm with her thumb. She puts the medicinal aides away, leans towards him. She kisses his lashes, he closes his eyes. She skims the smooth curve of his nose, the soft parting of his lips. Sam, she feels, whispered against her lips. She kisses him deeply, lets him know, lets him feel, and then she leans back and steals it all away. Frodo's eyes are closed now and she smoothes back the hair on his brow, smiling.

She pulls the covers up to his chin, his breath curling so softly. She lights the candle at his bedside with a careful hand, otherwise leaving him in darkness when she leaves the room, latches the door. She doesn't understand him, though she'd never understand; how he slips away, why he slips away. She gives him all she needs, all she wants, and thus it's all the same and all he needs and wants; what more could he possibly have to have?

It's cool and she stops, pressing her back against the door, breathing in deeply. She'll tend to the fires, start breakfast, and that will be what will call Sam to her, call him from bed. She pads gently by the room which she's made into his, casting her shadow across his sleeping form, the door slightly ajar. The smial comes to life as she goes from room to room, bringing light and warmth. She goes so far as to greet the day on the front steps, staring into a sky that's wide and limitless and blue. Blue like Frodo's gaze when starlight falls on it, blue like when he cries and she cries, too, because he's beautiful and hers and no one else's when he cries.

There's a world out there and darkness stirs, darkness calls to her and she calls back; it will be so long and then her world will be knocked a stray. Rose isn't sure what she'll do without her loves, without her playthings. She has what's most precious and nothing more. What she loves most, and the men she loves as well. She couldn't ask for more.

She holds out her arms, the wind blows her hair. Rose closes her eyes, and rain falls almost unbidden, crystal rain in a sky that was clear but a moment before.

Rose feels the earth, is the earth for one fraction of a moment, and never again will she be left alone to cry.