West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Heart's Ease I: The Language of Flowers
Sam can't tell Frodo how he feels, so he lets the garden do the talking for him.
Author: Annwyn
Rating: PG-13
"Beggin' your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but the mayor's here as wants to see you. I've put 'im in the parlor and I can bring a bit of tea in if you like."
Frodo looked up from his work and frowned distractedly. "Oh - I'd quite forgotten!" he exclaimed. "That's all right, Sam, Will and I have some business at the mathom hall. Don't bother about supper either - I'll have something at the Green Dragon later." He hesitated. "I don't suppose you'd like to come along?" he asked, but without much hope.
"Uh - I better not, Mr. Frodo." Sam felt telltale warmth creeping up his face and looked away bashfully. "The Gaffer'll be along soon to check up on the garden anyways and it won't do for him to find me shirking my work now, you see?"
"Oh - the Gaffer. Yes, I suppose I see." Frodo said resignedly. "You work so hard though..." he turned toward the door. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow then, all right?"
Sam murmured a reply and his fingers twitched as he watched his master leave the room. He strained his ears to listen for the light voice as Frodo greeted the old mayor and heard the smial door boom shut as they left the hole - then he stared around the study unhappily. He wanted more of Frodo's company desperately, but he couldn't please himself in that direction. The Gaffer's latest lecture on the merits of 'knowing his place' still echoed in his ears - and bid fair to ruin his pleasure in the sunny autumn afternoon. He drifted to the window and stared out at the clear blue of the sky - not as beautiful as Frodo's eyes, and not any bluer either. His fingers twitched again and he looked down at them ruefully.
Sam was a hugger, he was; it came of trying to make up to Marigold for the loss of the lovely mother she never knew. There wasn't anything a warm hug couldn't fix, and even if he didn't understand the vagaries of the female sex, a hug went a long way toward conveying a willingness to try. What was good and needful while she was growing up wasn't as convenient now, though. Not when his master looked at him with such warmth in his eyes - not when even the thought of those eyes made his knees go weak and his blood pound in his brain. He'd give anything to be able to wrap his arms around Mr. Frodo and lay his head on that sweet shoulder. Beyond that, he didn't dare to see. After all was said and done, the Gaffer was right. It wasn't his place, and couldn't ever be.
He turned resolutely away from the window and began to retrieve assorted crockery from various surfaces in the room. Frodo was that absentminded when his writing was going well, and like as not would forget that he'd had a cup of tea and go off to get another one. As he passed the desk, a blaze of color caught his eye and he swerved in his path, his curiosity aroused.
The book was beautiful, its pages adorned with line drawings of plants, their leaves and colorful flowers laid out in loving detail. It was written in Elvish, and he leafed through the pages carefully, fascinated as only a keen gardener would be. There were sheets of coarse paper covered with Bilbo's fine hand inserted between many a page, and Sam nodded to himself as he realized what his Master was about. Mr. Frodo was continuing his uncle's work - translating the text into the Westron tongue.
The Language of Flowers, he read slowly, his interest piqued. He'd reckoned that he knew summat of this, but soon found that what he knew wasn't hardly enough. What he'd learned was limited to the rustic herb lore of the Shire, words of protection and healing - old hobbit-wives tales. Which was all to the good, he supposed. Hobbits weren't given much to idle fancy, and he'd never dangled after the lasses like most lads of his age did. Flower-talk was the sort of thing they liked to hear, from all accounts.
He recalled his lessons with Mr. Bilbo, Frodo at his side, their mouths a-gape as they learned that an Elven year encompassed 144 years of Shire-reckoning; it was awful hard to imagine, it was - how long the elves lived. He supposed that they had quite a bit of time for tomfoolery, at that. And yet...there was something in those pages that called to him - a poetry that caught at his practical soul. He looked out the window beside the desk, and mused idly that the honey-suckle around the window needed trimming. Honey-suckle, he thought - he'd seen that in the book - and he turned the pages back and found it. Honey-suckle for devotion, he read, of Bilbo's translation, and his eyes went blank as his thoughts turned inward. After a long moment, he raised his eyes to the window again - to the line of dusty lavender that was all the scenery he saw, and he smiled slowly. Devotion. It was fitting, surely.
Mid-morning of the next day saw him digging up the row of lavender and relocating it to the other side of the hill. Frodo looked out of the window and frowned in puzzlement. "Sam," he called, and Sam looked up from the turf he was cutting and cocked his head in answer. "What are you doing? It's too hot for heavy work - and look at you - you're swimming with sweat! Isn't it a little late to open up a new bed?"
Sam wiped the wet from his forehead with a dirty hand, leaving a streak of soil across it. "Dad says it's all right, Mr. Frodo. I just wanted to get a good start on the spring growing, and the soil here's as good as ever could be. Was wasted on the lavender, it was. Come next year, you should've summat nice to see when you look out yon window - and it's not all that hot, really it isn't." He got to his feet and stretched, unkinking his back. The Gaffer always was hot on stretching. He maintained that it kept the muscles limber and the bones strong - and looking at the spry old man, he was right, seemingly.
He stopped in mid-stretch as his eyes fell on his master, and let his pent-up breath loose in a cautious exhale. Frodo's eyes were fixed on his torso where the worn homespun was plastered wetly to his skin, and there was a most peculiar look on his face. Sam felt the heat of his gaze, and his skin crawled as every little muscle on his body tensed with longing. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again. No. He didn't have the words, and he didn't have the right. He'd go on as he did, and hope. And if that hope came to naught, why - it was fitting too. He lived only to serve, after all. And the moment passed.
Autumn wore on, and Sam dug and spread compost throughout the new bed. He sneaked into the study when Frodo was out and worked his way through the elvish tome, choosing and committing his choices to memory. Then he planted bulbs and started what plants he could. Yule came and went and winter drew to a chilly close. The last frost silvered the grass and the tender green of new shoots started to show above the rich soil.
By the middle of spring, the bed was blooming. Sam chanted under his breath as he tended it: in the middle of the plot, red roses for love, and around it, pansies for loving thoughts. It boasted the bluest of forget-me-nots for love so true and a clump of lavender, silvery-grey against the green, for devotion. A cloud of maiden's breath hung in the air, promising everlasting love, and to keep the soil from drying out, a carpet of clover. Be mine, it whispered. Here and there, the yellow blooms of late jonquils bobbed, and they asked, will you love me? And the wild daisies replied coquettishly, DO you love me? A garden chock-full of questions, and of love. Sam was content.
He hummed as he weeded, and didn't notice Frodo come up behind him, his feet soft on the grass. "It's beautiful, Sam," his master said wistfully, and Sam jumped to his feet, his heart in his throat. A wave of guilt washed over him - why, he didn't know, and he stared at his feet and mumbled his thanks. Frodo stared at the flowers, an odd look on his face, and then glanced sideways at his gardener. "Clover, Sam? An unusual combination, but it works fine, doesn't it? I know most of them, but what's this? It's lovely!" and he touched a gentle finger to a sprig of maiden's breath. Sam told him, and Frodo smiled shyly, setting the dusting of golden freckles on his nose a-dancing. He stood still for a long moment, staring at the blooms, then his smile faded and he turned abruptly on his heel and disappeared into the smial without another word. It wasn't like him at all, and Sam's heart clenched in disquiet. A movement caught his eye through the window, and he saw Frodo enter the study and go toward the bookcase. Time seemed to slow down in the strangest way, and his feet felt as if they had grown the very roots he tended. His master reached for a book and opened it, and the paralysis that had gripped him fell away. He gathered up the tools and raced for the shed, dumping them any which way, and then ran quickly out the garden gate. He was halfway down the Hill when he heard Frodo's voice calling his name, and he slowed to a stop, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He knew he could be seen from the front door, and he didn't see no other choice. He was done for.
Frodo fixed him with a steady gaze and held out a familiar book. "Have you been reading this, Sam?" he asked.
Sam lifted his eyes defiantly. If he was going to get sacked, he'd go with pride, he decided. He'd done nothing wrong, by his lights. "I'm sorry if I forgot my place, Mr. Frodo," he said hoarsely. "The pictures were so pretty, and it were of plants, so... "
"No! Sam, I'm not angry at you for reading it!" Frodo said sharply. "I just wanted to know," and his voice faltered, "if you had really read it."
Sam couldn't look at those penetrating eyes any longer, and turned his head away. "Aye." he muttered. "I read it."
"Oh, Sam," Frodo's voice had a husky quality to it that rasped against exposed nerves in the most painfully exquisite way. "Would you come in? Please - I need to talk to you."
Sam entered the hole and followed Frodo to the kitchen, his body trembling in trepidation. Frodo pushed him into a chair gently, and then said quickly, "Wait here. Wait for me." and he grabbed a knife off the block and ran from the room.
Sam closed his eyes against the sting of tears and sat quietly, trying to sort out the incoherent thoughts that whirled through his mind. He couldn't make any sense of them, and stopped trying with a sigh. Soft footsteps sounded in his ears like thunderclaps and he opened his eyes warily, watching as Frodo stopped in front of him with his hands behind his back. Their eyes met and his master smiled tentatively, the line of his jaw tense beneath the translucent skin.
"Sam," he whispered, and he laid his hoard on the smooth wood of the kitchen table.
First, a sunny yellow jonquil, held out to him with a hand that trembled. "Yes" came the soft whisper. "I will."
Then a bunch of daisies, tied together with a twist of grass - and "yes," Frodo husked again. "I do."
Sprigs of maiden's breath, forget-me-not and lavender showered onto the polished wood, luminous in the dim light. "I love you, Sam." came on a sigh.
And at last, a pink clover flower, held out on a soft palm. "I'm yours, Sam. I always was - will you be mine too?"
Sam stood up slowly, his eyes on the dear face. His throat worked, but for the life of him, he couldn't make a sound. So he nodded instead.
Frodo laid a hand gently against his face and leaned in, and Sam held his breath in awe at his beauty. Their lips touched and clung, moving so slowly, so sweetly. For a long moment they kissed, their only other connection, a hand cupping a cheek, and then Sam's reserve broke, and he found his voice at last, whispering his love into Frodo's parted lips. His arms came up to press his unlooked-for gift close against his body, and he felt the heat of his master's hardness stir and unfurl against his thigh. So much joy, his heart sang. So much love.
The Gaffer was wrong, he decided, feeling the peace and the rightness of it all sing through his veins. He knew his place, and it was in his master's arms.
He was where he belonged. He was home.
~~~~~
Continued in Heart's Ease II: Yearning
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