West of the Moon

A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive

 

 

Hope Always
Samwise holds on to the hope that Frodo can be wholly healed.
Author: AZ Telcontar
Rating: NC-17

 

"...All things now went well, with hope always of becoming still better; and Sam was as busy and as full of delight as even a hobbit could wish..."

The Grey Havens, The Return of the King, LOTR

Rosie Cotton would not object, Samwise Gamgee knew that. The generous offer of living at Bag End had been an welcome honor, and Sam didn't doubt for a moment that Rosie would fit in around Bag End as perfectly as a bloom in a flowerpot. It was he who worried about what the impact of his bringing Rosie--his wife!--into Bag End, would have; for them to live there, married, with Frodo.

It had been a difficult decision. Not the asking Rosie to marry him, although the rapid beating of his heart and the twisting ache in the pit of his stomach had made him grip his hands into nervous fists and studder out his proposal; but that hadn't been hard. No, he knew he had wanted to wed Rosie for years, but he also knew that he could never leave Frodo Baggins, not after all they had been through together, not after...well, not knowing how he felt now.

And now, more than ever, Frodo Baggins needed him. For weeks Sam had travelled all around the Shire, re-planting the trees and mending the raw bitter scars the Great War had inflicted on their beloved homeland. He felt driven to do so, to fight the evils he had experienced and the horrors he had witnessed in the best way he knew how: to plant seeds and nuture growth where it had been ripped away. Sam dug into the rich deep-brown soil of the Shire with a zealous need, relishing the scent of it with its potential to bring forth new life. The soil was the color of Frodo's curls, and Sam would occasionally stop in his labor to wipe away not only sweat but tears from his face. If only he could heal Frodo's wounds as easily as he could the Shire's hurts.

He hid it well, but Sam was aware of a seemingly uncurable torment still raging in Frodo, a sadness that hadn't been there before. It was his look of lost innocence, a longing, as if Frodo was trying to remember something from long ago. Sam recognised that look, but it had taken a while until he remembered where he had seen it. It was the look Elves got at times in quiet unguarded moments, an expression that reflected in the depths of their eyes. Sam recalled seeing that look on Frodo's face on Mt. Doom, when he had returned from fulfilling the quest to destroy the Ring, the madness and burden gone. It had been Frodo again, sane and unburdened as he had been before, but...changed. Changed in a way that Sam doubted anyone or anything in Middle Earth could reverse, for all his wishing and effort.

It had been that desire to heal Frodo which decided Sam. He had fretted and worried over what to do like a dog at an old bone, first feeling one way and then another, torn between his two loyalties. When Frodo had suggested Sam marry and move into Bag End with Rosie, it had seemed to solve all the difficulites, but it had been Frodo's expression that had decided him. Frodo had looked so wistful, wanting Sam to bring a quiet domestic existance to Bag End, to have a semblance of normal Hobbit life around him. It was Sam's fondest wish to be able to give that to Frodo. And perhaps, he dared hope, that would be enough.

Sam was tired, a honest, healthy tired that came from working at manual labor, one that would allow him to look back on a productive day, enjoy a fine well-earned supper and long, drowsy rest by the fire before falling into a quiet sleep, he hoped. He was staying at Bag End, and he felt the warm comfort of knowing that The Gaffer was just out the door and down the way, and that Frodo was just across the hall, right where Sam could reach him if needed.

Sam had noted that despite the unusually warm Spring weather, Frodo had kept fires in all the fireplaces day and night. He had found him in the study earlier, wrapped in a quilt, pacing the study floor, muttering things under his breath while working on the notes he was constantly jotting down. Sam had fixed him tea and a tray of bread and jam and cheese, urging him to eat and rest. Frodo had only nodded absently, stepping back to the writing desk and taking up the quill again. Quietly closing the door, Sam had slipped away to set on supper and tidy up, bringing it to Frodo with wine some time later and noting the barely touched tea. Frodo had thanked him kindly, remarking that Sam should not wait up as he would be working late, distractedly taking a sip of the wine and nibbling at the food.

Yes, it would be good to have Rosie around, Sam thought as he stripped down for bed. There was no window in his bedroom, nor fireplace. It had been built deep into the hill and was well-insulated, but that night it felt stuffy and too close. He left the door a bit open for the light and air, then sank into the bed with a welcome sigh. Within moments Sam was fast asleep.

The waxing moon's light had wandered across the window of the study by the time Frodo sighed and laid aside the pen. It had been difficult to set down the notes for the day, bringing up memories of things that Frodo would have preferred to not to record, things that he wished not to recall. He knew he must, for he had promised Bilbo, and he owed it to Sam and the others that what they had all experienced should never be forgotten. Absently he toyed with the white gem hanging around his neck, then reaching for the wine. The fire had died down to glowing embers. Still holding the globlet, he gently closed the study door and made his way to his room.

He sat in bed, knees drawn up and chin resting on his arms. It was so peacefully quiet at Bag End, calm in a way that Frodo should have found restful, but instead made him feel stifled and unsettled. He shivered. He suddenly didn't want to be alone. Pushing back the covers, he slipped from the bed, his bare Hobbit feet barely making a whisper as he padded across the floor and out into the hall.

Shyly he looked in the doorway to Sam's room, wanting to just see him, to take reassurance of his presence. There was a shielded lamp set on a little table opposite the bed, giving off a steady dim ruddy-gold glow around the room. Sam was sprawled out in the middle of the bed, lost in deep sleep. He must have been very tired, for it seemed that he had simply stripped down and fell into bed without nightclothes. The blankets were bunched in a crumpled mess by the foot of the bed, and Frodo saw that the curls near Sam's brow were slightly damp from the warmth of the room.

In the light, Frodo thought that Sam looked beautiful. His hair gleamed like a mass of honeyed gold. Sam's muscles had returned with greater definition since he had begun his work in the Shire, the deprivations he had suffered on their journey to Mordor smoothed away with good food, clean water, honest work and sleep. Frodo felt a sudden tightness in his chest, an ache in the pit of his belly. Sam lay before him, his skin like fresh baked bread and his gentle breathing so inviting, and without thought Frodo entered the room to kneel by the bed before him.

For long moments he rested his head there on one arm, just watching, the sight and presence of Sam a comfort to him. His eyes travelled the paths across Sam's body, from his blissful face, down his soft neck and wool-dusted chest to the slope of his Hobbit belly. Frodo felt a sudden hunger, a rising desire, and he slowly pulled himself up to settle next to Sam. Quietly, he lay his arm across Sam's middle, stroking with sensitive fingers, his own breath growing more rapid.

Sam stirred, a small ripple washing across him as he shifted, an arm falling comfortably across Frodo in a loose sleepy hug. Frodo smiled, resting his head on Sam's belly, relishing the pillow comfort of Sam's scent. His hand traced across the bones of Sam's hips in lazy circles, delighting in every inch of Sam's skin. Sam gave a quiet grunt of pleasure, still lost in sleep. Frodo flushed, his own pleasure rising in answer to his slow exploration. He slipped his hand down to Sam's thigh, rubbing up the inner lengths of it, pleased with the result it produced. Frodo leaned closer, excited, watching with rapt attention as Sam's erection grew stronger, harder. Frodo's hand found the sac beneath them and he cupped it gently, rolling his fingers in a gentle kneading.

Able to contain his own growing arousal, Frodo shifted himself up, pushing Sam's legs wide and curling his body into the space in between them. Frodo lay back on Sam's thigh, the one hand still cupping Sam and reaching over with the other to dance across Sam's erection in utter fascination. Frodo breathed deeply, his aching want and lustful hunger making him shake. With the tip of his tongue he licked the length of him, tasting him, drawing his lips together in quick wet kisses up and down the shaft. Sudden warmth radiated over his skin from an inner fire he had not felt for too long.

Sam groaned as Frodo moved up and took him full into his mouth. The musky fullness of Sam in his mouth, twitching and pulsing with a life of its own made him move with more desire and heat, wanting to have Sam, wanting to take in Sam's light and life and feel it renew him, to receive from him that which was so painfully missing. Frodo's hands snaked across Sam's sides, reaching beneath him to move his hips, urging him to answer Frodo's frantic desire. Sam, now wide awake and moaning, met Frodo's rhythm with equal intensity, straining and thrusting against Frodo's delicious mouth, wanting to continue on forever in waves of passion even as he built up to an explosive climax.

Frodo drank him in deep, swallowing and sucking in abandon, his face pressed against Sam's tan thigh. Sam shouted aloud in wordless pleasure, and Frodo sighed happily, still ablaze with his own need but wrapped in having given to Sam. Strong hands reached down to him, drawing him upward, pulling off his nightshirt as Sam lay him beside him on the bed, curling around his pale back in protective comfort. Frodo leaned back as Sam nuzzled against his jaw, planting soft kisses there with his generous mouth. Holding Frodo fast against him, the hand Sam had beneath him running through his hair, the other reaching over Frodo's hip to grasp him with a sweat-slicked hand.

Sam's hand moved rapidly, rubbing, stroking him, urging him on. Frodo shook, his hands clasping at the sodden sheets, panting. Sam stroked his face, and Frodo brushed his lips against his fingers, licking, sucking. Sam pushed back his sweat-soaked hair and kissed his neck, giving it gentle bites. With a cry, Frodo arched against him and felt the rush of his release flow over Sam's hand. The raw scent of their sweat and spent seed filled the warm room like a damp sea breeze, and they lay there for a time gulping like stranded fish on the shore. When their breath slowed, Sam quietly off wiped his hand. Frodo drew Sam up, leading him across the hall to his own room, and they lay together side by side on the bed, naked in the warmth.

At last Sam stirred, turning Frodo to face him. He gave him a gentle kiss. "I spoke to Rosie," he said, his voice deep and rough from spent passion. "She's agreeable to moving into Bag End, with your leave. "

Frodo said nothing for a long moment, enjoying the close feeling of Sam's heartbeat so close to his own. "Does she know...about us?" Frodo asked finally.

"Not everything," Sam said. "Not this. But she knows how much you need me to be here at night, and she might have some sense of what we might be doing."

"And she doesn't object?" Frodo asked in a small voice.

"She says she loves me, and she knows I love you, and she says that it would be cruel to try to change that. She said..." At this Sam paused, and his voice was even rougher with emotion when he continued. "Rosie said she felt right honored."

"Honored?"

Sam blushed, his eyes shining. "That I could enjoy my greatest treasure in all the world, and still have her with it."

Frodo's expression softened and his eyes blurred with tears. "Oh, Sam..." he murmured.

Sam cradled him close, a long familiar stance recalled from the darkest days of their quest. "You'll see, Frodo. Rosie will look after us both, and all will be well and whole again. I'll plant up the gardens here and tend to them, and Rosie will mind Bag End as well as it ever has been; it will fairly sparkle when she's here. Imagine, Frodo, we could all settle in the sitting room after the day and maybe tell stories or poetry or such. We'll set up Bag End for you proper; we'll see you're well cared for...oh, but why are you crying?"

Frodo was indeed crying, and he held Sam and shook wordlessly for a long while before saying, "I'm sorry, Sam; it's just that my heart is so glad for you, that you have Rosie and such work as to keep you busy for years to come." Frodo looked up into Sam's moss-and-copper eyes, his own eyes a bright glowing blue. "I'm going to retire, Sam, from being Deputy Mayor. I must focus my attention on my writing, and I want to enjoy the summer with you and Rosie. This summer will be grand, I think, filled with a richness and growth and fulfillment of your efforts."

Sam smiled. "That's all I've ever hoped for, Frodo, that we will enjoy our lives in health and happiness forever after, here in the Shire." He kissed Frodo's forehead gently, leaning back to drift into sleep once more.

Frodo lay next to him, eyelids slipping shut. As he passed into needed slumber, his hand crept up, fingertips brushing the delicate chain around his neck, the white gem like a glistening star fallen from the sky resting on his pale flesh. But for that night, Frodo slept well and undisturbed in Sam's careful embrace.

 

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