West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
To Touch the Ground
What if Sam had known about Arwen's gift to Frodo?
Author: Withywindle
Rating: R
The late afternoon sun slips below the crest of a cliff when the small party trekking down the steep winding path finally reaches the Last Homely House. It has been a long trip from Gondor to Rivendell, but thankfully not the arduous, fear-fraught journey of that first time, nearly a year ago. The scent of autumn is thick on the breeze, and dry leaves swirl and dance at the horses' feet in colors of muted red, ochre, and brown. Water falls through clouded mists and catches on the tips of hair and cloak alike.
The elves are waiting for them with reverent, but silent hospitality as they dismount their steeds. Sam unlashes his pack from the back of his pony, then turns and grabs his master's kit even before Frodo has barely slipped from his saddle. He hefts one over each shoulder and follows the entourage through the stately arches and down the stone corridors. Gandalf's boots ring hollowly through the hallways as he turns to the side to attend a course of his own design. Merry and Pippin follow a short pace behind, hushed banter flying between them as each in turn is led to rooms prepared for them by their gracious hosts.
Frodo is escorted to what Sam recognizes as his old bedroom from their time spent here before. Familiar sights and smells assail his senses as he follows Frodo over the threshold, fighting back the bile that rises uninvited in his throat at the memory of long, sleepless nights and fearful waiting, of sickness and near-hopeless despair. He shivers, then shakes his head to clear it and follows Frodo into the room, hefting his pack onto the bedside chair.
"I know you're anxious to go find Mr. Bilbo, sir, but mayhap a short nap would be in order first?" he asks tentatively.
Frodo hadn't complained any on their journey, but Sam knows the travel has taken a toll on him. His efforts to conceal his discomfort had been admirable, but Sam had not been fooled. His eye had caught the small winces of pain that crossed Frodo's face each time they had stopped to dismount for meals or to camp. And each night he had fallen, exhausted, into his bedroll with barely a 'Good night, Sam,' on his lips before sleep overtook him. His face now is drawn and colorless, his eyes dull and weary-looking despite the small smile that plays at his mouth at the mention of his cousin's name.
"I'm fine, Sam. Really. I'm just a little tired from all the riding. Now that I can walk on my own two feet again, I'll feel better." As if to reassure him, he flashes Sam another smile, one that goes all the way to his eyes this time.
"Well...if you're sure, I guess I'll be findin' my room then. I'm sure the elves have got one for me around here somewhere."
He turns toward the door, then halts as a firm hand is laid on his arm.
"No, Sam. Don't go...please. Stay here with me. The elves won't mind and frankly, it's none of their business where we sleep or with whom. There've been too many nights of campfires and bedrolls and hard ground, and I've rather been looking forward to sharing a proper bed with you again."
The gaze that holds Sam's eyes is steady and determined, and Sam's heart melts immediately.
"You do know how to get your way with me, don't you, me dear?" he whispers as he drops his pack and enfolds his master in his arms. The body beneath the heavy travel clothing is still far too thin, despite the long days of leisure and feasting at the finest tables Minas Tirith had to offer. Frodo captures his mouth in a gentle kiss, then lays his head on Sam's shoulder. They stand, embracing the silence and each other for long moments until Frodo sighs and pulls away.
"Come on, Sam. Let's freshen up a bit and then go look for Bilbo. I'm sure he'll want to see you just as much as me."
Sam is doubtful as to the truth of that statement, but isn't about to gainsay the Ringbearer. Picking up his pack once more, he heads for the washing room.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
It is with a bit of relief that Sam holds the bedroom door open for his master a few hours later. Their visit with Mr. Bilbo had not been entirely the joyous occasion he had hoped for. His old master had failed considerably in the months they had been away, and though Sam knows he would never admit it, he can tell Frodo had been shaken to see his beloved cousin in such a state.
Bilbo had been overjoyed to see his darling nephew and his gardener's son, but the old hobbit had barely been able to keep his eyes open, much less follow their conversation with any degree of coherency. It was a shame, Sam had thought, to see such a bright, vibrant soul wrapped up in the wizened skin of doddering age. Why, it seemed like it was only yesterday that he had sat in the parlor at Bag End, propped on the rug with his feet to the hearth and losing himself in tales of dragon's gold and eagles' wings. Surely that wonderful wit and imagination was still there, somewhere behind that sleepy countenance? Sam's heart ached for the both of them, and he sorely hoped that things would be better in the morning, for Frodo's sake as much as Mr. Bilbo's.
They had supped in the great Hall of Fire with Lord Elrond and the rest of their dwindling Fellowship. Not the grand feast that had been held before the Company had left on its Quest, but rather a small, more subdued affair. Gone was the bustle of lively conversation twining through a background of soft music and the clink of silver utensils on fine bone plates. Gone, too, was the sense of taught nerves and anxious anticipation behind that lively chatter, that had whispered of uncertainty and unknowing fear.
The elves were kind and solicitous, almost beyond bearing, and Sam had had to smile to himself to watch Frodo struggling to accept their near-worshipful attitude toward the Ringbearer with some modicum of grace. He knows how much Frodo chafes at the attention, feeling it to be undeserved, and no amount of talking on Sam's, or anyone else's part can convince Frodo of that untruth.
It had wrenched at his heart to watch Lord Elrond. Sam had always thought the elves to be pretty much devoid of human emotions, their calm, almost disdainful demeanor making him feel so small and inferior whenever he was in their presence. Even Legolas still intimidated him a little despite everything they had been through together, both good and bad. But he realized then that it is all a very well-kept façade, for he could almost feel the grief he saw in the elf lord's eyes. Arwen's absence was a very real presence at their meal, and Sam wondered how it must feel for someone to be leaving their home forever to travel to a distant land, as he knew Elrond would someday soon. And what's more, how they could bear to leave behind the person who is dearest to their heart.
So when Frodo excused himself after dinner and declined the offer to join Gandalf and his cousins for a smoke, Sam was only too glad to return to the refuge of their room.
"Do you want me to go to the kitchen and scare you up a bite to eat? I noticed you didn't take much at dinner," he asks hopefully.
"Thank you Sam, but no, don't bother. I'm really not hungry. Besides, all I'd have to do is stand outside on the veranda and let my stomach growl, and twenty-seven elves would appear, laden with silver trays filled to overflowing."
The sarcasm fairly drips from Frodo's tongue, and he decides he'd best steer the conversation in a different direction.
"Mr. Bilbo's changed a mite since we last saw him," he says, taking his master's tunic and hanging it on a hook in the towering wardrobe. What he wouldn't give, at this moment, to be back in a snug and cozy smial where pillows are not necessary for eating at table, and clothing hooks are at proper eye level. "He was sure glad to see you, though. I wonder if someone told him we were back, or if it was a surprise."
"It was hard to tell, wasn't it?" Frodo replies. He stands staring pensively into the tall mirror on the wall next to the wardrobe. His shoulders are slumped and his arms crossed in front of his middle, as if to hold in a sudden pain. "It's the Ring, you know. Now that it's gone, time has caught up with him in a hurry."
He continues to stare at his reflection as if in a trance, one hand lifting to brush through the silver-streaked curls at his temples. "I wonder how long it will take to catch up with me?" The question is so soft, Sam barely hears it, but it raises a sob to his throat that he cannot stop before it reaches his voice.
Startled at the sound, Frodo turns, his eyes widening momentarily, then lowers them with a sheepish shrug. "I've certainly begun to feel my age lately. Especially after all those weeks in the saddle."
Sam walks quickly to face him, pulling him away from the mirror and into his arms.
"Come 'ere, old hobbit," he says, tilting Frodo's face to his and gazing intently into wide azure pools. How many times over the years has he looked into those amazing eyes and felt himself falling, losing all sense of time and place and self?
"In the first place, you're not old. You're just comfortably middle-aged. In the second place, you just need a good long rest with plenty of pampering by yours truly to get you to feelin' yourself again. And in the third place..." Sam bends forward, brushing his lips against soft, moist velvet. "In the third place, it don't matter how old you are. You'll always be the most beautiful, magical creature I've ever set eyes on...and I've seen quite a few lately. Can't none of them hold a candle to what I'm seein' right here in front of me."
His voice softens, taking on a lightly teasing tone as he wraps Frodo tightly in his arms and nuzzles his face in ebony silk.
"You know, from what I've been hearin' from you since we got here, I'm thinking you need takin' out of yourself for awhile. Why don't we just go to bed and you let your Sam see to getting you out of that mood you've gotten into."
He can feel the low chuckle rise from Frodo's chest before it even reaches his ears.
"I'm sorry, Sam. I have been a bit selfish tonight, haven't I?" Frodo's sigh brushes Sam's cheek as they meet again, mouth to mouth, in a long, slow caress. " I don't deserve you."
It doesn't take long to stoke the fire in the hearth and set a few more candles about the room. When he is finished, Sam removes his outer tunic and shirt and hangs them away, leaving him with only his breeks. He still isn't used to dressing like the Gondorians, and thinks how good it will be to get back to plain old hobbit habiliments once more. But seeing as clothing for halflings had been rather limited in Minas Tirith, he reckons he should be thankful for what was offered. Frodo, on the other hand, looks as if he had been made for such elvish style; the long regal robes accentuating his strange, otherworldly beauty that so often glows like an aura around him, and that takes Sam's breath away each time he sees it.
Sam turns and searches the overly large room for his master and finds him standing outside on the balcony, still fully clothed, his face turned upward toward the stars. Frodo is bathed in the soft starlight, a slight breeze ruffling through his curls that tumble about his face. For a moment, Sam stands mesmerized, caught up in the vision before him that fills his sight and wraps itself around the very core of his being. He has loved Frodo, in one way or another, for longer years than he can remember. He had not even been aware of when his feelings had slipped from the innocent adoration of youth to the ecstatic, painful longings of first love. And then had come...gradually...the quiet but reluctant acceptance of maturity, and the knowledge that although Mr. Frodo was dear and kind, the love he offered would never be more than friendship, and Sam learned to tuck his yearnings away in that deepest part of his heart. So when Frodo had turned to him for comfort and security on their dark trek to Mordor, only to discover his own feelings for Sam to be wrought anew in the heat of the Ring's fire, Sam's heart had rejoiced beyond bounds to finally be able to give back the love he had carried and protected for so long, deep within his soul.
Stepping up quietly from behind, he wraps his arms around Frodo's slight frame. Frodo closes his eyes and leans back into Sam's sturdy one, his head against his shoulder.
"Why aren't you ready for bed, love? I thought you were tired?" He bends forward, unable to resist the exposed throat and the pulse that throbs there. He suckles gently, eliciting a small moan from the star-washed dream standing in his arms, and oh...it has been too long...far too long! Desire sweeps over him in one thunderous wave and his grip tightens as his mouth leaves that ivory column and makes its way up to sweetly parted lips. His tenuous control is quickly slipping away as liquid heat surges through every part of his body, and he turns Frodo in his arms, crushing their mouths together in a hungry, desperate kiss.
Long moments later, he pulls away, breathless, and gazes into eyes no longer dulled, but sparking with blue flame.
"Well, I guess I've got your attention now," he whispers hoarsely, his gaze still riveted to a fire that grows and brightens with every breath. "What say you come inside and let me get those clothes off of you?"
Curiously, Frodo tenses at his words for just a few seconds, then relaxes and smiles as he lets Sam lead him to the bed. Once there, Sam turns and reaches to gently undo the fastenings at Frodo's throat, but Frodo pulls away suddenly and turns his back to Sam, fingers fumbling at the ties of his shirt.
"Thank you Sam, but I can undress myself. I'm not helpless, you know."
Sam is dumbfounded, unsure of what to say or do. Surely Frodo isn't ashamed to let him see the scars on his body? Why, back in Minas Tirith he hadn't hesitated a bit to allow Sam to undress him. Back when this physical intimacy between them had all been so new and exciting, and clothing was hastily discarded in a whirlwind of scrabbling fingers and breathless kisses. Or perhaps in a slow, languid tease accompanied by nibbling bites and well-placed licks of tongue and breath. Why the sudden shyness now?
Determined not to be thwarted, Sam steps around to face him again, gently but firmly removing Frodo's hands from his task and taking the ties himself once more.
"I know you're not helpless, but have you forgotten how much we've both enjoyed this?"
Frodo sighs, dropping his arms in surrender to stand quietly, his face averted to one side, eyes staring off into the outer darkness of the room. Sam proceeds with his task, and as he draws the fabric of Frodo's shirt off his shoulders, the glint of silver catches his eye and he halts, hands in mid air, trembling. A wave of nausea crashes over him like the falls of water over the rocks and cliffs that echo in the distance, not so very far from where they stand. Anger, disbelief, then blinding fear, whirl about his mind like leaves in a maelstrom. It is gone, isn't It? Is this some kind of evil trick ...a hallucination? But solid metal meets his touch like no hallucination could, and he pulls his hand away as if he has been burned.
"What...what is this?" he cries, searching Frodo's face for an answer, any answer to calm the sudden pounding in his ears. After what seems like an eternity, Frodo meets his gaze and reaches up with gentle fingers to caress Sam's cheek, sorrow and regret mirrored in his eyes.
"It's all right, Sam. I'm so sorry...I didn't mean to frighten you." Reaching up with his other hand, he pulls the chain out from beneath his shirt. There at the end dangles a curious gemstone; small, hardly bigger than the end of his thumb, and in the shape of a star. Its color is a dull white until Frodo's fingers brush over its surface. Then it comes alive with a brilliant light, its radiance seeping between his master's fingers like sunlight through a canopy of leaves.
"What is this?" he asks again, awe in his voice replacing the fear of a moment ago. "It's beautiful! It looks elvish."
"It is," Frodo replies, lifting it higher to dangle at the end of its chain. The inner light is gone now that Frodo's touch has left it, but soft candlelight catches and reflects off sharp planes and smooth curves.
"Lady Arwen gave it to me, just before we left the White City. It's the Evenstar, the symbol of her namesake."
Sam cannot take his eyes from the glowing charm, which seems to calm him, almost hypnotizing him as he stares at it in wonder. "But why? Why would she give you such a gift?"
"She said it would help to soothe the pain and nightmares when they come. And it does seem to work. Whenever I feel the darkness pulling me in, I hold it in my hand, and I can feel the light of the stars and hear their music ease into my mind and chase the shadows away. Some days I don't think I could survive without it."
"But why didn't you tell me about this before? I got the feeling, just now, that you were tryin' to hide it from me...I don't understand." Sam tries very hard to keep the hurt he feels from creeping into his voice; hurt and another uneasy feeling he doesn't care to name, but the look on Frodo's face tells him he isn't succeeding.
"Oh Sam." Both hands come up now and cradle his face, cool and soothing. "I do love you so. More than I can possibly say. And I'm sorry I've kept this from you. It's just...it's just that I wasn't certain how you would feel about it. I didn't want to burden you any more. You worry about me enough as it is."
"That doesn't make sense, Frodo." Sam feels a vague apprehension creep over him and curl itself into the pit of his stomach. "Why would it burden me to know that you have something to give you comfort? There's nothing that would make me happier, exceptin' to see you completely whole and healthy again. And if that little jewel can help ease your pain, then I'm more than glad you have it."
Gentle fingers stroke Sam's cheek as Frodo gazes intently into his questioning eyes. At last, he leans forward and kisses him softly, then grazes his lips with velvet softness across Sam's jaw to his ear.
"Forgive me, love," he whispers. "Sometimes I find myself not thinking very clearly anymore." He lifts the chain up and over his head and lets it fall with a soft clink to the table next to the bed.
"What are you doing? I thought you need that?"
Frodo reaches for Sam's hands and clasps them together between his own, laying them over his heart. "Not tonight, love. I have something much better...I have you."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
He had loved his Frodo with a fervor bordering on desperation. At first he wasn't sure why, whether it was just the many weeks on the road with so little privacy and opportunity, or whether it was something deeper. But their conversation earlier had left his emotions in a jumble, surrounding him with an overwhelming need to touch and possess...body, heart and soul. The unease in the pit of his stomach had risen up to name itself, and he'd found an unreasonable fear that he was still in danger of losing Frodo, even more so than that fear he had lived with day after day on their journey to Orodruin.
And Frodo had been in a fey mood as well, declaring his love for Sam over and over in whispered words and searing touches, as if fearing that Sam would likely forget if he didn't brand it into his skin. And when they had finally spent themselves and lay sated in each other's arms, Sam had felt the warm wetness of Frodo's tears on his neck.
Now the gray light of early dawn peaks through the arches off the balcony, and Sam lies deep in the soft cocoon of their featherbed. Frodo is curled around him, his head pillowed on Sam's chest, one arm hooked tightly around his waist, legs in a tangle over Sam's own. His breaths come deep and even, and Sam knows he will remain sleeping for a while yet.
Memories from the night before steal slowly over Sam as he lies, his mind still struggling to reach the surface of full awareness, fingers brushing idly through the ebony curls lying over his heart. As he turns his face toward the growing grey of dawn, his eye catches the twinkle of silver on the bedside table. Taking care not to wake his sleeping master, he reaches over and picks up the elvish bauble, holding it up before him for closer scrutiny. It looks very different now than it had in the burnished candlelight of the evening. Ordinary, almost common, like a simple, polished stone he would find at the bottom of a stream bed or washed up on the shore of a running river. It feels cold and lifeless to his touch, the calming effect of the night before completely gone. And yet, when Frodo had held it, it had seemed so vibrant, so alive, almost as if it knew his touch and welcomed it. Then again, it seems to Sam, he should not be surprised at such a response, for he knows only too well how that gentle touch can call light out of darkness and hope out of despair.
His thoughts turn once more to the warm bundle of hobbit asleep, half-on, half-off his torso. He sets the trinket back on the table and rolls to his side, repositioning Frodo to lie within the circle of his arms. There is a stirring at the movement, and Frodo raises his head to look at Sam with a sleepy smile. Sam bends to place a kiss on the tip his nose.
"Mornin', love. Did I wake you?"
"Yes, but I'm glad you did. This is so nice."
With a sigh, Frodo snuggles back down into his nest in Sam's arms. For long moments, neither hobbit speaks, but Frodo's fingers play in languid circles over the heartbeat next to his ear. Finally, he raises up just enough to place a gentle kiss to the lightly-furred skin beneath his fingers.
Sam chuckles under his breath. "What was that for?"
"Thank you, meleth."
"For what, me dear?"
"For loving me...and keeping me grounded."
Sam nuzzles the silken curls under his nose and sighs, his thoughts momentarily flashing, unbidden, to an image he remembers from his childhood. Of the time he and Jolly tramped through the swamp in the deep woods behind the Cotton farm. Of the will-o'-the-wisp that sprang up out of nowhere, it's bright flame skipping and dancing above the ground through the trees ahead of them, then vanishing in a breath of mist. He tightens his hold around the magical spirit in his arms, and sends a wish to the stars.
"I'll try, love. With all my heart."
~ ~ ~ the end~ ~ ~
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