Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam

It was one of those nights when Sam just couldn’t stay asleep. It wasn’t getting no better, neither. It was June; they’d been home for a year now, and he still woke up all of a sudden, all hours of the night, thinkin’ he heard something and worrying where Frodo was.

Pushing the covers back, he got up and padded out of the bedroom. Frodo had gifted him one of the nicest bedrooms in Bag End, one with a window lookin’ out on the garden. ’Course, it still felt odd, living here in Bag End like he was a gentlehobbit. The old Gaffer made no secret of how he didn’t approve. Well, if Sam never did anything his Gafter wouldn’t have approved of…but he couldn’t finish that thought.

Truth was, Frodo insisted. Said Bag End was too big for just him, said Sam and Rosie would need plenty of room for their family one day, said it was the least he could do after everything Sam had done for him. Sam hated when he talked like that, like he’d done anything special, like Frodo owed him anything.

But there was one good thing about living at Bag End, one very good thing. And it was this: when Sam woke up with his stomach in knots because Mr. Frodo wasn’t right there with him and maybe something’d happened to him, it wasn’t so hard to calm those fears.

He crept, stealthy as ever a hobbit could be, down the darkened hallway to Frodo’s room. The door was closed. He turned the knob. The little click was too quiet to wake Frodo if he was still asleep. Yes, Sam always slept light as a feather, and the littlest noise would snap him to alertness (and usually he’d be wishing he had Sting in hand before he remembered where and when he was again), but Frodo? Frodo always slept like he was makin’ up for years and years of restless toil.

Sam nudged the door open. First thing he saw was the window, with the curtains pulled back to let white moonlight stream in. And there was Frodo. A vision, he looked. Elflike, in one way. Translucent in another. Pale as his cream-colored nightshirt, he was.

But he wasn’t hurt and he wasn’t lost and he was safe. That was enough to set Sam’s heart at ease. Leaning against the doorframe, he drank in the sight. Just a minute more, and then he’d go back to bed and see if he could find sleep again.

Then Frodo twitched. Only a little movement of his head, hardly enough to rustle his hair against the downy pillows. Except something about it wasn’t right. Something about it brought Sam to attention.

Frodo twitched again. Now his face didn’t look so relaxed anymore. His forehead was creased, eyebrows drawn together, mouth pinched.

Sam knew the look of it well. Nightmare.

Sometimes, when this happened, he tried to wake Frodo up. Except sometimes that only made things worse. See, even if he could wake him (and that was never easy), that didn’t mean he was aware of things. Sometimes he thought whatever had been happening in the dream was happening still. Bad enough when he cowered in terror. But the worst, the very worst, was when he fought back.

Not that Sam minded for himself. Frodo didn’t have enough strength to do more than bruise, no matter how hard he hit. No, the problem came when Frodo realized what he’d done. He never cared that it wasn’t on purpose, never cared that Sam wasn’t ever hurt too bad. Most times if he spied a bruise on Sam, he’d spend the whole rest of the day hiding out in the woods somewhere, and when he finally came back home, he wouldn’t look Sam in the eye.

Awful, it was.

So Sam moved gingerly toward the bed, but didn’t shake him or even touch him at all.

Frodo’s head snapped around wildly. Sweat plastered his dark curls to his forehead. His arm moved, as if to ward off a blow.

Sam bit his tongue and resisted the urge to intervene.

But then Frodo cried out with a terrible, strangled sound, and clawed at the blankets.

Sam just couldn’t leave him like this, trapped in a nightmare and probably thinkin’ he was all alone. There was nothing else for it. He crawled onto the bed and grabbed Frodo’s maimed hand between both of his. “Hold up, Mr. Frodo! Wake up!”

Frodo flinched, but his eyes opened. They darted wildly around the room, passing twice over Sam like he wasn’t even there, before they latched onto Sam’s face with sudden focus.

For a moment, all Sam could hear was Frodo’s shallow breathing echoing around the room.

Then the tears came. They welled up like an ocean, although Frodo quickly stared straight upwards to keep them from falling free. He blinked three times and swallowed hard until he’d got himself under rigid control.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he whispered at last. “Did I wake you?”

Sam held his hand tighter. “Don’t you worry yourself. I was already awake.”

“Do you get any sleep at all these days?”

“I get by all right.” Sam rubbed his hand, trying to coax warmth back into his skin. “What was all that about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

He couldn’t say why he kept asking. Frodo never answered. Just like on the road to Mordor, when he wouldn’t talk directly about what that Ring was really doing to him.

But this time, Frodo stared down at their joined hands and said, “I can’t stop thinking about It.”

Sam held his breath, not daring to say anything that might make Frodo stop talking now that he’d finally started.

“I’m not sure which is worse,” he went on haltingly, like he was finding the words as he spoke. “But sometimes I dream I kept It, and slowly, slowly, I become like…like Him. Or I become like Sméagol, and I’m cast out of the Shire, and you…” He glanced fearfully up at Sam, but only for an instant before he looked down again. “But just now, I dreamed I kept It and…He caught me.” He started trembling. “Of course He would have. I see now I would have had no chance against Him.” He wet his lips. “Just when you woke me up, He was torturing me. Just like those orcs threatened to do, in…in the tower.” He shuddered. “The look of their knives…”

Sam fought back a shudder of his own. “Don’t let’s speak of it. It was just a dream, wasn’t it? Look, you’re safe here in Bag End.”

Frodo drew his hand away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

No, no, that wasn’t right. Better to speak than to keep it all bottled up. But wasn’t it better still to not keep thinking on it all the time? Look, he wasn’t trembling so bad before, until he started talking about it.

And now his eyes were glazed and distant.

Sam touched his shoulder. “What do you need? I could get you a glass of water, or tea? Or maybe a bite to eat? Or—”

Frodo shook his head.

The stab of anxiety was as bad as the knots in Sam’s stomach. “Please, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what you need.”

“I’m fine.” The words were wooden, meaningless. Like it mattered more to him that Sam wasn’t upset than that he say what he really felt. He picked at a loose thread in the blanket. “I’m all right. Please don’t worry about me.”

Sam blew out a scared, frustrated breath. How many times had they had this talk by now? “I can’t just not worry about you. You know this.”

“Things will get better,” Frodo went on like he hadn’t heard. “I’ll get better. I promise.”

But his voice was both uncertain and desperate. And who was he trying to convince, anyway? But Sam couldn’t find the words to ask.

In the silence, Frodo turned away.

Sam didn’t know what to do. Should he have seen this coming somehow? He wracked his brains, tryin’ to remember what Frodo was like yesterday evening. Was he tense and withdrawn? Was he laughing too much and too loud? What signs had Sam missed that a nightmare was coming?

And why were they still coming? It was all so long ago now! Maybe if he wouldn’t keep writing in that book. Sam was doing this all wrong. He should be getting Frodo out of Bag End more. A walk through the forest, the very thing he used to love so much, maybe that would help. Or maybe just lying on the Hill in the sun, maybe that would chase away the memories. Or maybe—

Frodo cleared his throat. “There are a few hours before dawn, still. You—you should get back to bed.”

No, no. Sam held his gaze. He had a pretty good read now on when Frodo said something like that because he wanted to be alone, or when he said it only because he didn’t want to be a burden. “I think I should stay…begging your pardon.”

He knew his read was right when relief filled Frodo’s eyes, even though he didn’t do more than nod. And it was a small, quick nod at that. Without another word, he pulled the covers back.

There. At least Sam got something right tonight, at least he did some sort of good amidst all his uselessness. He slid under the blankets, but he kept his back propped up against the headboard. “Here now, Frodo. Use your Sam as your pillow.”

Maybe it was silly. Here they were, on a feather mattress, surrounded by more than enough pillows for both of them. But they had passed so many endless nights this way. Now Frodo curled up with his head in Sam’s lap and Sam’s hand instinctively found its place draped across his chest, so nothing could disturb him without Sam noticing.

Frodo fell asleep first, like he always did, like whatever rest he’d gotten during the night had been drained away by the nightmare. It probably had.

Sam stayed awake, staring out the window while the hours faded.

Chapter Text

Frodo awoke to growing sunlight. Blinking his eyes open, he saw a rumpled coverlet obstructing most of his view of the bedroom. He found that he was lying as when he had fallen asleep, curled sideways with his head in Sam’s lap, only now both of Sam’s arms were around him. Sam himself was slumped against the headboard and tipped over at a rather awkward angle.

He could not possibly be comfortable, sleeping like that. But Frodo could not bring himself to wake him, or to move at all just yet. Bad enough that he’d disturbed him last night with his nightmare. And he suspected Sam had stayed awake long after Frodo fell asleep. That always seemed to be the case, though Sam apparently didn’t realize Frodo knew. But too often Frodo had fallen asleep with Sam still awake, only to regain consciousness later, hours later according to the changed light in the room, and find Sam still alert. Weary, but alert.

For now, Frodo remained motionless, letting his eyes drift closed again, content to drowse in this timeless interlude, feeling the bedroom slowly warm as the light increased behind his eyelids.

Finally, Sam stirred and yawned. “Morning, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo still did not rise. “Good morning, Sam,” he said softly. “Sleep all right?”

Sam did not answer immediately. “Better here,” he said after a moment, “where if I wake up worryin’ about you, I’ve just to glance down and see that you’re all right.”

Frodo shifted in discomfort. It wasn’t right, that even after all this time his sleep should be so interrupted by worry. He considered apologizing for the nightmare…but what good could that possibly do? It would change nothing, and he knew from experience that it would only make Sam begin awkwardly trying to reassure him.

“Breakfast?” Sam asked brightly.

“That would be lovely,” Frodo answered automatically. He supposed he should sit up, then, to allow Sam to move. Sam sat up as well, and raised his arms above his head in a delicious stretch. Then he proceeded to roll his neck, wincing at the crack.

But he said nothing of it. He simply got up, whistling off-tune, and wandered off back to his bedroom, presumably to put on something other than a nightshirt.

Once properly dressed himself, Frodo made his way into the kitchen, doing up his braces as he went. Sam was already there, busily making tea and toast and frying eggs. He seemed to have first breakfast well in hand, but Frodo made himself useful by washing blackberries to go with their meal. They worked in harmony, side-by-side, easily moving around each other without need for speech.

In one moment, when Sam was studying the eggs with a little too much intense concentration, Frodo selected a particularly plump blackberry, took aim, and flicked it. His aim was true, and the berry bounced off the apple of Sam’s cheek.

Sam jerked back with a yelp, batting at his face, and Frodo giggled before he could stop himself. Sam gave Frodo a wounded look. “What was that for?”

“The eggs will be fine if you leave them alone for half a minute,” Frodo informed him.

“They’ll get all browned on the outside,” Sam argued. “And don’t tell me you don’t like your eggs fluffy.”

Frodo angled his head up into the sunlight streaming through the window. “Yes, but it’s a beautiful day and it won’t be ruined if the eggs are imperfect.”

Sam’s sigh suggested he thought Frodo woefully ignorant as to the importance of optimal eggs for first breakfast. With a pointed look, he turned his attention back to the stove.

Smirking, Frodo returned to his blackberries—only for the smirk to drop away an instant later when one of yesterday’s scones struck him on his ear, sending up a puff of powdered sugar. “Oy!”

Sam was unapologetic. “You started it, sir.”

“And I’ll finish it, too,” Frodo warned, snatching up the scone and cocking back his arm.

War ensued. More of their would-be breakfast ended up on the floor than on their plates. By the time they finally sat down at the table as was proper, Frodo had sugar in his hair and Sam had a streak of blackberry juice across his forehead.

And the eggs were browned after all.

~

Later that morning, after second breakfast, Frodo returned from town and began strolling the grounds of Bag End, searching for Sam.

He found him in the garden around back, tenderly pruning the vines winding around a trellis there. For a moment, Frodo simply stood there in the sun, hands in his pockets, watching Sam at work. Was there a more peaceful sight or a more peaceful sound than the steady snipping of shears?

It wasn’t long, of course, before Sam noticed him. Quickly straightening, Sam wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Sorry, Mr. Frodo. I didn’t see you there. You should’ve said something.”

“It’s quite all right. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“I’m just pruning, that’s all.”

Frodo smiled. “Yes, I can see that. The vines look lovely.”

“They’re not quite right, begging your pardon. This one here, see…” Sam held a bud lightly in his hand. “It’s growing wrong. Keeps pointin’ downwards or sideways, ’stead of up like it’s supposed to.”

“What’s wrong with downwards or sideways?”

“Well, see, it won’t get enough sun.”

Frodo came closer to get a better look at the bud. It was just a little thing, not yet unfurled. “If it doesn’t want to go upwards, is there any good in forcing it?”

“The sun, Mr. Frodo. Like I said, begging your pardon.”

“Are there no other ways for it to get enough sun?”

Sam sighed. “I s’pose I could try to clear back some of the other vines and make more room for it. But it’ll still look awful strange, goin’ the wrong direction like that.”

“You can only do so much to help it.”

Sam’s disgruntled look made it clear that he disagreed with that assessment.

Frodo stepped back. “Well, anyway, I, um…I have something for you.” He pulled the folded-up envelope out of his pocket and held it out.

Sam wiped his hands on his breeches before taking it. “What’s this?” His eyes moved slowly from word to word. The lines in his forehead deepened the way they always did when he was concentrating hard.

Frodo slid his hands back into his pockets. “I’ve applied for you to be my heir.”

Sam’s mouth fell open.

“It’s not quite adoption,” Frodo went on, “not in a technical familial sense, at any rate—you’d remain a Gamgee, for instance—but the practical result is much the same, at least in terms of inheritance—”

“What? Me, your heir?”

“It’s yours to accept, if you wish, yes. You don’t have to, of course, but since you and Rosie plan to live here in Bag End anyway…well, I just thought we might as well make it official. Besides!” Frodo grinned. “What better way to ensure the S.B.’s never get their paws on this place?”

Sam’s eyes were still wide in shock.

Frodo felt a strange desire to laugh. “Is this so surprising?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Sam stammered. “If you had to pick an heir, I just never would’ve thought you’d pick me.”

“Why, who else would I pick?” Frodo asked in disbelief, grin fading.

Sam fidgeted with his shears. “I don’t know! But there must be other hobbits more important, or—I don’t know.”

Fixing his gaze on his friend, Frodo tilted his head. “More important? But who could be more important to me than you?”

Sam blushed and snapped his shears a few times and mumbled something inaudible.

Frodo felt his smile returning. “Well, now that I’ve made the application, you’ve seven days to accept it, not counting highday, but it’s all right if you need longer to think about it. I can always make another application. Or, rather, I can technically make up to seven additional applications, but—”

Sam mumbled something else.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Sam coughed. “I said, erm…there’s no need for another application, sir.”

Warmth spread through Frodo. “Now, Sam,” he chided gently, “you really mustn’t call me sir when you’re set to soon inherit my home.”

But Sam suddenly averted his gaze. “Please…please don’t talk that way, begging your pardon.”

Frodo frowned. “What way?”

“About me inheritin’ Bag End and all. As if…as if you’ll go first.”

Any reply Frodo might have made died on his tongue.

But Sam would not let him find refuge in silence. He peered at Frodo now, with a strange mix of sadness and defiance in his visage. “You don’t really think that, do you?”

Frodo forced a laugh. “Well, I am older than you.”

“That’s not it,” Sam said quietly.

Frodo stared down at the grass at his toes. “No,” he agreed, just as quietly. “It’s not.”

“But why do you talk like…like you’ll never get better? Like things won’t ever change?”

“Because they’ve tried, Sam dear. Aragorn, the elves…they’ve tried. And they’ve helped,” he added. “But it’s not enough. It isn’t their fault. I was hurt by something too powerful for anyone to withstand, even the elves.”

Suddenly, Sam’s eyes widened. “But that’s not true!”

Frodo was rather in bemused at the thought of Sam thinking anyone or anything could be in any way superior to elves. “Beg pardon?”

Sam snapped his fingers. “What about Tom Bombadil?”

Frodo now wondered what logical jump Sam had made that he himself had missed. “…Bombadil?”

“Couldn’t he help you?” Sam asked eagerly. “I mean, he banished the wights and all, and he could see you even with It on your finger, he’s that powerful.”

“I…” Frodo didn’t know what to say.

“Let’s visit him! Today!”

“You want to walk all the way to Buckland and through the Old Forest today?”

Sam’s eyes were shining. “Well, we can start, at least! Please, Frodo, can’t we? There’s nothing left to do here in the garden that can’t be done in a day or two, and you don’t have any appointments or any such thing, do you?”

“Oh, er…” No, there was no reason they couldn’t take the day and tomorrow to travel. But how would it end? Tom was certainly powerful in his own strange way, but even Gandalf had said that Tom did not have any particular power over the Ring—rather it was the Ring that had no power over him. So what reason was there to believe he could provide more relief than the Elves?

Oh, and it would hurt. It would hurt to look for healing yet not find it. And it would hurt far worse for Sam to have his hopes dashed with such finality.

But at least Frodo would not be the one to extinguish that hope.

With an effort, he smiled. “All right, Sam. Let’s go today.”

Chapter Text

Sam

It was nearly midday by the time they were packed and ready to set out. Frodo was dressed smartly in one of his white linen walking shirts—he never bothered with waistcoats when he was adventuring through the Shire. Sam’s oat-colored cotton shirt was heavier, but they planned on takin’ it easy on the walk, and he could always change into something lighter if he got too hot.

Stopping at Mr. Bilbo’s old trunk, he dug Sting out beneath the other odds and ends Frodo stored there. Stars, but it was still so beautiful. He brought it with him to meet Frodo in the front hallway.

Frodo saw Sting immediately, and immediately tensed.

“Here,” Sam said shyly, holding it out.

“I don’t want it.” The words were almost as sharp as the blade.

Sam quickly lowered the sword back to his side. “I’m sorry, sir. I just thought, we’re not likely to run into much dangerous out there, but—”

“Nothing dangerous, I should think,” Frodo cut in as he busily adjusted the straps of his pack. “The Road has never been safer, and there are no longer dwarves and other folk fleeing any spreading darkness. We don’t need weapons.”

Sam was doubtful. “Well, all right. But you’ll at least take a knife or something, won’t you?” He’d been keeping one pocketknife in his pocket for himself. “There’s still animals and things. Wolves, maybe.”

“I don’t think a knife would do much good against a wolf.” But Frodo reluctantly accepted the small weapon. He slid it into his pocket and seemed to make an effort not to look at it.

Sam hesitated. “D’you…d’you mind if I take Sting, then, if you won’t? Just in case?”

Frodo’s face softened. “It must feel strange, not carrying it after so long.”

Sam turned the sword over in his hands. He hadn’t thought of it like that. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe that’s it.”

“And that’s fine. I just don’t want to…” Frodo trailed off.

Sam put a hand on his shoulder. “I understand.”

With a brief, flickering smile, Frodo opened the door to the beautiful day. Only a few clouds lazily rolled through the blue sky and everything was perfectly green, fresh from the last spring rain.

Packs slung over their shoulders, staffs in hand, Sting sheathed at Sam’s belt, they started off. But Frodo still wouldn’t look at Sting.

Sam couldn’t blame him. Hobbits lived in the moment, not the past, but some memories clung like burrs. And Frodo spent too much time in his own head anyway. Well, wasn’t that just another reason why this was such a good idea? Long walks made good medicine, as the Gaffer always said.

Frodo chose a road that took them along the edge of Hobbiton, rather than straight through. Probably he was hoping to avoid running into many hobbits. For about a mile, their luck held.

Then two gentleladies emerged from a smial they were passing. One of them had dust clinging to the hem of her skirt, but other than that, everything was all scrubbed clean and pressed perfectly into place. One wore blinding yellow, like the sun; the other bright blue, like the summer sky. They watched Frodo and Sam from under arched eyebrows.

Sam felt more than a little self-conscious. “They’re staring,” he muttered.

“Of course they are,” Frodo sighed. “You’re strolling through Hobbiton with a sword.”

“At least they’re starin’ at me, not you.”

“They’re staring at both of us.”

Sure enough, one of the gentleladies—the one in yellow—stepped away from her friend. “Morning, Master Baggins!” she called. “Where’re you off to this fine day?”

Frodo flashed her a bright grin. “The Old Forest, my dear Honeysuckle!” he answered without missing a beat.

She immediately looked scandalized.

Sam bit his tongue to keep from smirking. It wouldn’t be proper. But it sure was nice to see Frodo with a bit of cheek in him again.

She rallied quickly. “Well, I s’pose you always were a wild one,” she said with a sniff. “More Brandybuck than Baggins. But that Samwise, now, surely you don’t got to be taking him with you? What would Miss Cotton say?”

Well, Sam didn’t feel like smirking anymore. It was none of her business how hard Rosie took it when he left with Frodo before. But this wasn’t to be like that! This was just a visit to Tom Bombadil. They weren’t even going as far as Bree.

“Now, Honeysuckle,” her friend reproached, “don’t bother yourself. Where Mr. Frodo goes, that Samwise is bound to follow, and don’t we all know it.”

Frodo drew himself up. “I assure you, Sam is at perfect liberty to go wherever he pleases.”

“Yes,” Honeysuckle sniffed, “and where he pleases is always after you.”

Sam shuffled his feet. He didn’t like their tone. But what could he say? They were right.

“Pray, are we disturbing you in some way?” Frodo asked with that chilled politeness he’d mastered long ago to deal with the likes of the Sackville-Bagginses. Sam was always a little in awe to watch him wield it.

“Not at all, not at all.” But Honeysuckle set her hands on her hips. “I just wonder what’s so fascinating beyond the Shire that it’s worth ignoring duties here.”

“Which duties might those be?” Frodo inquired.

Honeysuckle’s chinks pinked. Probably she was used to making vague little remarks without ever actually being asked to clarify. “Why…all of Samwise’s work in the gardens, of course. And surely you, Mr. Baggins, have something of import to see to.”

Frodo didn’t relent. “And what do you suppose Sam and I might be pursuing in our journey to the Old Forest?”

Honeysuckle’s cheeks changed from pink to red. “Why, I couldn’t possibly begin to guess.”

“Then I wonder very much why you have already decided our journey is wasted.”

“I never said—”

“No, you didn’t have to.” Frodo started to walk on, then stopped and turned back again. “Though I don’t owe you any explanation, I will give you one that is as veiled as your unsolicited commentary. The duties you have mentioned or alluded to are not unimportant, but they become negligible in comparison to what we hope to accomplish.”

Honeysuckle gaped. Her friend rescued her by pulling her into the nearest shop.

Sam grinned as they set off again. “It’s so good to hear you talkin’ about how important it is for you to get better.”

Frodo gave him a strange smile in return. “Yes, that’s what this is about.”

There was somethin’ more going on in his head, that was plain, but Sam didn’t question it. Not for now, anyway. For now, he was just happy to see him smiling.

~

They followed the road up and down for several miles until they passed the steep bank overlooking the Woody End. That was about when Frodo started trippin’ over his own feet. ’Course, he kept right on going without saying a word about it. Whether he truly didn’t notice his own weariness or whether it was his sheer Baggins stubbornness, Sam couldn’t say.

So Sam stopped and heaved an exaggerated yawn. “Reckon we’ve gone far enough for one day, hey?”

“I’m all right to keep going.”

Sam set his hands on his hips. “You’re dragging your feet.”

Frodo shot him a look both keen and grateful. “I suppose I am.”

Sam took that as permission to veer off the road. “How far d’you think we’ll have to go to find a good spot?”

“Not far, I shouldn’t think.” Frodo quickened his pace to walk ahead. “In fact, if I remember correctly, there ought to be a cluster of trees near here, overlooking a stream. I used to camp here with Bilbo in the summers…”

Sam tilted his head and caught the noise of water rippling over stones just ahead.

It wasn’t long at all before they found what Frodo was looking for. Sam scanned the area, turning it into something comfortable and homey in his mind. There were the trees Frodo mentioned, giving shelter. And the grass beneath was still green and fluffy, even in the summer, due to the stream so close: the perfect bed. And there, in a little clearing, he could set up a campfire.

Frodo was just right, as always. This really was the perfect place.

And there he stood, chin high, hands in his pockets, eyes closed. Looked like he was enjoying the sound of the stream, or maybe the memories of Mr. Bilbo.

“I’ll go get us some firewood,” Sam offered. “You just stay here and rest, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo opened his eyes. “No, I can help.”

“You were all but nodding off while we was still walking, and no mistake.”

“It’s nothing,” Frodo insisted. “I’m fine. I was just—”

“You don’t have to act like everything’s all right all the time,” Sam muttered—and then winced, shocked at the words that had come out of his own mouth like that.

Frodo looked just as shocked. “I—I know,” he stammered. “I’m not. I mean, I…” He trailed off.

“It just makes it harder. That’s all I’m saying.”

Frodo’s gaze slid downwards. “I think it makes it a good deal easier.”

He’d never said that before. What did he mean? And easier for which one of them? Not understanding, Sam wasn’t able to come up with an argument. At least, not fast enough.

“I’ll go see to the firewood,” Frodo said shortly, and disappeared into the forest.

Doubt and guilt wiggled together in Sam’s stomach. He must’ve done something wrong. Maybe Frodo would explain it when he got back. So for now, Sam set to clearing away a space for the fire.

Except by the time Frodo returned, arms stacked high with branches, his eyes were bright and he was already chattering about the small russet fox he’d seen, and how when he’d held still, the fox had dared to approach, and came almost close enough to touch.

He was so delighted, Sam couldn’t bear to bring up their earlier quarrel. If it even was a quarrel? He wasn’t sure.

They set up the rest of the camp with practiced ease. While Sam got the fire going, Frodo arranged a bed of blankets on the downiest bit of grass. They feasted on a late supper (bacon, mushrooms, blueberries, and rolls) to the music of crickets, and Frodo told a tale between bites. Sam recognized most of it as one of Mr. Bilbo’s old stories, except for the parts Frodo changed. The story was somewhat…well, there was more to it than Sam remembered, and not all the added parts were very cheery. But he couldn’t say he didn’t like it, somehow. It felt…deeper, in a way. Like there was more to it beyond just having extra words.

Frodo sat with his legs crossed, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, with the fire glowing in his eyes. “And they lived happily ever after,” he finished at last, “to the end of their days.”

“A fine tale, Mr. Frodo. Bit sad, though.”

“Not good?” Frodo asked wryly.

“Not bad,” Sam said. “Just different.”

With the story ended, Sam made sure the fire would have plenty of kindling to last through the night while Frodo smoothed down the blankets on the fluffiest stretch of grass. Finally, they both changed into thick nightshirts and lied down together, shoulders brushing, staring up into a roof of arched boughs. There were no words, and no need for words.

But after a moment, Sam started humming unthinkingly. It wasn’t nothin’ fancy. Just the melody he’d made up for that song he sang when he was trying to find Frodo in the tower.

He stopped as soon as he realized what it was he was humming. Frodo didn’t need to be thinking of that tower, and right as he was about to fall asleep and all! He’d have nightmares for certain.

But— “Don’t stop,” Frodo murmured.

“You sure?” Sam whispered.

Frodo nodded.

Sam cleared his throat, and sang in a whisper: “Above all shadows rides the Sun, and Stars forever dwell…”

The night was as warm as anyone could wish for in June. And there was the fire, crackling merrily. And there was the body heat of two hobbits, curled up together. They didn’t need more than one blanket over them both.

Just like always, Frodo fell deeply asleep nigh as soon as he shut his eyes. But Sam laid awake, still humming to himself, staring up at the trees and trying to glimpse a star through the leaves.

There! A glitter of light, so high up and far away. Timeless, it seemed. Not worried about anything. Everything would one day be as it should, the star seemed to promise.

Sam glanced down at Frodo, the dark lashes against white cheeks that had some color in them after their long walk, but still not as much color as was right for a hobbit.

Everything as it should. One day.

Even for Frodo.

Chapter Text

Frodo

Oh, but the birds had to start singing so deucedly early.

He slitted open one eye. The forest had that ethereal, gray tint as predawn light filtered through the leaves. He burrowed deeper into the bedding. The tip of his nose was cold, but the rest of him delightfully cozy with Sam’s warmth radiating so near.

It was then that he realized: he hadn’t dreamed last night. No nightmares, nothing but blissful oblivion. If only he could bottle up the magic of this morning, use it again and again. Maybe then his mind would clear and his body would finally recover. Maybe then he could heal.

He let out a sigh. Fanciful thinking and daydreams used to be his refuge. Now they only made the bitter hurts sting more deeply.

Sam was still asleep, on his side just behind Frodo. He could feel the slow, even breaths on the back of his neck. Perhaps Frodo could slip out of the blanket and stir the fire’s embers for breakfast? But no: Sam slept too lightly, as if even now he was not quite convinced they were safe. The best gift he could give, then, was to remain still and allow Sam a few more precious minutes of slumber.

He distracted himself watching a beetle crawl up a tall blade of grass. What was it looking for? Was it near or far from its goal, and did it even know? How many more blades in an endless sea of grass would it climb before it found whatever it sought?

Behind him, Sam’s breathing suddenly quickened. An instant later, he snapped awake, jerking upright too quickly, taught as a bowstring.

Frodo was not the only one who still had nightmares.

He rolled over. “Everything all right?”

“Ninnyhammers,” Sam muttered. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Not at all. I was watching a beetle.”

Sam blinked down at him. “What?”

“A beetle. I expect you startled him off, though.”

Sam opened his mouth, no doubt about to ask a string of questions. Then he shrugged, perhaps too tense from the nightmare to bother, or perhaps simply content to leave some of the mysteries of Frodo’s mind unexplored.

Standing, he peered up at the strip of pale blue sky visible through the trees. “Looks like it’ll be a clear day. Good. The Old Forest is dark enough without the sky bein’ overcast.”

“Agreed.” Frodo started to sit up, and groaned. “Oh, my back.”

Sam stifled a snort.

“What?” Frodo exclaimed in indignation. “Aren’t you sore, too?”

“Sure I am.” Sam rolled up the topmost blanket. “It’s just that we’ve slept in worse places than this, you know.”

“Well, it’s been a year,” Frodo grumbled. “I’ve gotten used to my feather mattress.”

“Maybe you should sleep outdoors a bit oftener, then,” Sam said helpfully.

“It’s not so bad, really.” Frodo stretched his arms up above his head and yawned widely. “Ugh. But it’s still so early.”

Sam was definitely holding back a smile.

Frodo squinted at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sam said quickly. “How about breakfast?”

“Have we time to at least cook something warm?” The prospect of entering the Old Forest later today was not appealing; much less so the thought of actually finding Tom Bombadil and asking for aid that the strange being would most probably be unable to give.

Oh, Frodo would endure it all, if it kept Sam’s hope alive, painful as his hope could be at times. But it would at least be a good deal easier to endure after a proper breakfast.

“I can cook up some sausages,” Sam suggested.

This pleased Frodo well enough that he didn’t even attempt to throw any food at him while Sam worked. Instead, he busied himself collecting water from the stream. Returning to the camp, he paused long enough to appreciate the moment.

It was so lovely, out here away from all the other hobbits. It was quieter, to be sure, and that was nice enough. But it was more complicated than that.

He glanced covertly at Sam, who was fussing to make sure their sausage was warmed all the way through. Why did he feel such a need to make sure everything was just right? That he was trying to help was plain enough, but how was it that he evidently had no idea how much he helped simply by…being there?

Being there still, at his side, even after everything….

They scarfed down the breakfast, not ample enough by typical hobbit standards, but plenty sufficient for the two of them. Then, after quickly trussing up their packs again, they were off.

The forest was beautiful. The path wound through tunnels of arching fronds. Green bracken encroached as if it would soon swallow the path entirely. Hobbits who came this direction would have to find their own way before long. It was lovely, so lovely: something out of his childhood, and like something out of a tale.

Frodo was at peace to walk in enraptured silence—but suddenly, Sam started giggling.

Frodo smiled. “What is it?”

“I’m just thinkin’ what it would’ve been like if you’d told those gentleladies what we’re really up to.”

“I did, if you recall.”

“You told ’em we were goin’ to the Old Forest, begging your pardon. What you didn’t tell them was who we’re hoping to meet there.”

“Oh.” Frodo ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch. “No, I can’t imagine Honeysuckle and her friend would know what to do with the very idea of Tom Bombadil.”

Sam giggled again. “Imagine him singing one of his songs to them.”

“They’d be scandalized by the sheer silliness! That’s if they could even hear the song over their gossip about how yellow his boots are.”

Sam smirked. “That Miss Honeysuckle’d have no room to judge, what with how yellow her dress was.”

This shocked a laugh out of Frodo. “Sam! Goodness, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Sam immediately blushed. “I—I just meant—”

Frodo grinned. “I know what you meant, and I heartily approve. Miss Honeysuckle appeared to be endeavoring to rival the sun.”

“And failing,” Sam added with a renewed smirk.

“Quite.” A new thought struck Frodo. “Think what would happen if Honeysuckle met Goldberry. Now there is a maiden Honeysuckle could never hope to outshine.”

“Goldberry?” Sam echoed with a sly sideways glance.

“Well, I mean—” Frodo stammered as his face inexplicably warmed. “I mean, she’s so—well, you know what she’s like.”

“Aye, but I’ve never made up poetry on the spot over her.”

“That was—that was one time,” Frodo protested. “She’s married, Sam, for heaven’s sake!”

“So’s Mrs. Bracegirdle, and that’s never stopped you from blushin’ and stammerin’ around her, just like you are right now!”

Frodo gathered himself and stood up at his full height. “My dear Sam,” he began with the same tone he’d employed against Honeysuckle earlier, “I haven’t the slightest idea what you are implying, but I assure you—”

“Oh, lay off it,” Sam said impishly. “Your gentlehobbit airs won’t work on me no more, begging your pardon. I’ve seen too much—of the world, and of you, mind.”

This was too much for Frodo. There was only one remaining thing to do to preserve his dignity. He picked up a stick, under the pretense of using it for walking, and waited.

After a moment, Sam looked down to step over a root.

Then Frodo attacked.

He’d never beat Sam in a wrestling match, but he had his wits and chose his tactics accordingly. Thus, rather than lunging straight for the other hobbit, he thrust the stick into the space between Sam’s pack and his shoulders, and yanked in an arcing motion.

Sam yelped as he was spun around. His feet tripped over the root he had been so carefully trying to avoid, and he went down with a heavy thud. For a moment, he simply stared up at Frodo from the ground in bafflement. Then he fished one hand back behind himself to draw out the stick.

Indignation scrunched up his face. “You tried to yoke me?”

“I’d say I succeeded,” Frodo retorted smugly.

Sam brandished the stick. “But all you’ve really done is give me a weapon.”

Frodo should probably have foreseen this alarming turn of events, but his wits did not fail him yet. Scampering backwards, he took to the nearest tree and scaled it, trusting that Sam’s distrust of trees coupled with his heavier weight would ensure his protection.

Sure enough, Sam eyed him with affected enmity. “Stop cheating!”

In answer, Frodo simply shook the nearest branch, raining chestnuts down in a vicious aerial assault.

Sam tried in vain to shield his head. “All right, all right! I give!”

“Thank you,” Frodo said regally—as if clinging to a tree like a squirrel had indeed preserved his dignity.

Sure enough, Sam was stifling another giggle. “Are you coming down now?”

“Do you first admit that I am perfectly happy for both the esteemed Mrs. Bracegirdle and the unparalleled Goldberry, and that I myself am quite content without matrimony?”

“Yes, all right.”

“Say it back, then,” Frodo commanded.

“I’ve forgotten half of it already! I won’t tease you about Goldberry anymore,” Sam promised. “Is that good enough?”

Frodo considered it. This tree was not exactly comfortable, and he did hope to reach the Old Forest well before nightfall. “Truthfully, Sam,” he said as he began his descent, “I have the dearest friends any hobbit could wish for, and that is more than enough. I even have the fair Rosie’s company.”

Sam’s answering look plainly said that he did not quite understand, rare as perpetual bachelorhood was in the Shire, but that he was nevertheless glad.

“Speaking of the Rosie,” Frodo began awkwardly as he landed on the ground, “have you been able to…to explain more of it to her? Why we had to leave?”

“Well, yes, in a way.” Sam brushed away the miscellaneous twigs and leaves clinging to Frodo’s shirt and hair. “But haven’t you found it’s mighty hard getting anyone to understand who wasn’t there with us?”

“I haven’t tried,” Frodo confessed as they started off again.

Sam cast him a sideways glance. “Maybe you should, begging your pardon.”

“Whatever for?”

Sam frowned. “I just wish more hobbits appreciated everything you did, that’s all.”

Frodo scoffed. “And you think telling them what happened will make them appreciate me?”

“It should, if they’ve any sense.”

Frodo wasted no energy attempting to change his mind on this point. Sam had borne the Ring for such a short time, and he hadn’t listened to It, not really. He didn’t understand. And if he didn’t, there was no hope that other hobbits would.

He steered the conversation back to the original point. “But does Rosie at least realize why you had to go away for so long?”

“Oh, yes, and she doesn’t hold it against me, she really doesn’t. It was hard on her, but she knows it never meant she was anything less to me. She knows we were doin’ somethin’ that was…well, that was bigger than any of us.”

“She is very wise, then,” Frodo said wistfully. “Most hobbits can’t see beyond the Shire. And even if they admit that such a world exists at all, they can’t see how it should affect them…still less why they might ever have a reason to affect it.”

“Save you and Mr. Bilbo.”

“More hobbits might think beyond themselves, I believe, if they only listened to Bilbo’s tales.”

“I think most hobbits just don’t understand ’cause they get distracted thinkin’ on whether dragons or real and the like.”

“They miss the deeper meaning, then. It’s not about dragons, not really. It’s not about mystical places and fantastical creatures.”

Sam tilted his head.

Frodo barely noticed, too caught up in his own thoughts. “And isn’t that the way of it in real life, too? There’s a deeper meaning in all of it, I think. Every choice, whether good or ill, ripples out into the world in ways we can’t always control or fully comprehend. And even when things have gone badly, good can still come of it, unlooked for. Like when you hear a story as a child, and there are parts you don’t quite like or understand, but then you grow up and realize there was a greater story underneath that needed those parts.”

Only when he stopped speaking did he realize Sam was giving him a strange look. Their eyes met. Sam quickly smiled. “That’s my favorite kind of story, anything with layers like that.”

Frodo smiled softly in return. “Bilbo was so good at those sorts of stories,” he murmured. “It takes an especially skilled storyteller to take even great evils and work them for good in a way that really matters.”

Sam bumped into his shoulder. “What about our story?”

“Well, we saved the world, of course.”

“But I mean…for you, and for me.”

Frodo cleared his throat. “I’d say you ought to ask Rosie. See what she has to say about what good in your life may have come from our journey.”

“I’m handier with a sword,” Sam said thoughtfully, “although I s’pose that’s not the most practical thing.”

“No, but I’m sure she’d consider it an impressive thing. Have you shown her?”

“Shown her what?”

“How you killed that spider, for instance, or brought down orcs.”

Sam snorted. “I think it’d be hard to show that sort of thing, unless someone volunteered to help. I’d need someone to pretend they was the spider or an orc.”

“Pip would do it,” Frodo said confidently.

Sam laughed. “I reckon he would, at that.”

Suddenly, Frodo grabbed Sam’s arm. “Look!”

The Hedge rose up before them, and behind it, the Old Forest loomed large overhead. Gnarled branches reached for the sky. It was as if the forest somehow wished to make itself appear taller, the way a cat might raise its hackles as a warning to any threats.

Sam lit up. “We made it!”

“We still have to find Tom Bombadil,” Frodo cautioned.

“He’ll find us,” Sam said confidently. “He did last time.”

Frodo did not point out that both times when Tom Bombadil found them previously, it had been to rescue them from peril. Would Bombadil even allow himself to be found if they were not in danger? He must have a hundred better things to do than entertain two hobbits—even before he discovered that Sam expected him to do the impossible.

Now that they stood here, at the very border of the Old Forest, Frodo wished they could turn around. This was going to be hard, terribly hard. Sam wanted Frodo to be healed, but why did he not understand that a day like this, wandering through the Shire together, was all that was needed? He did not understand that true healing lay beyond the abilities of this world. Was there anything, or anyone, with such power?

If a being that held such power even existed, surely so great and mighty a one would have no concern for a mere hobbit.

Chapter Text

Sam

How could the Bucklanders ever come in this place willingly?

The Old Forest was so dense and shaded, with gnarled branches blocking everything that might be considered a path. The heavy air smelled like mulch. You could hardly even hear any birdsong; every sound was muffled flat by thick leaves and snaking vines and moss.

Sam would never’ve thought he could’ve said a place could be too green.

“’Course, I’d rather have this than Mordor,” he muttered.

“Come again?” Frodo asked with a backwards glance. He was leading the way, partly because that was his nature, and partly because he was faster at threading a path here. There was just so much less of him for branches to snag.

“Just thinkin’ how glad I would’ve been to see anything green in Mordor,” Sam explained. “But now that I’m here again, I could do with a good deal less green, if you take my meaning.”

“This was your idea,” Frodo reminded him lightly.

Sam didn’t have a retort to that.

Two hours passed, or maybe three. He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that he was hot and sweaty and hungry. They’d stopped for elevenses breakfast (not a proper elevenses by any means, more in substance like a ’tween-meals snack), but they skipped luncheon and ate a scanty afternoon tea (without any actual tea) while still on the move.

That was Frodo’s suggestion. He didn’t want to spend any longer here than they needed. And Sam readily agreed. The sooner they found Mr. Bombadil, the sooner they could leave.

“Shouldn’t we be about near by now?” Sam panted.

Frodo glanced around. “Perhaps? It’s so easy to lose your way in this place.”

“We ought to’ve brought Mr. Merry.”

“Yes, probably.” Frodo stared up at the sky; only snatches of blue could be seen through all the green. “It’s impossible to tell which direction the sun is going.” He paused to study the nearest tree. “And the moss grows on all sides of the tree trunks. I think Bilbo once said spiders prefer to spin their webs on the south side of trees, but I can’t find any spiderwebs, can you?”

Sam was wholly out of his reckoning here. Ask him to tell the difference between true and false morels or black nightshade and deadly nightshade, and he’d do just fine. Ask him which flowers needed more shade and which needed more sun, and he’d talk for over an hour.

But this? He went to look at the same tree, like Frodo asked, but couldn’t see any spiderwebs, and he wasn’t really thinking about spiderwebs anyway. He was thinking about being lost.

What if they couldn’t find their way to Mr. Bombadil’s cabin? What if they couldn’t find their way back home? And no one would come looking for them. The only hobbits who even knew they’d ventured this way were those gentleladies from Hobbiton. Well, maybe they’d gossip about it and the news would spread a bit further. But no Hobbiton hobbit would dare risk going into the Old Forest. Maybe the news would reach Merry and Pippin? But by then it might be too late!

“Now, don’t panic,” Frodo said.

Sam gulped. “I’m not panicking—why would you say I’m panicking?”

“Everything will be fine, truly.”

He couldn’t know that, though!

“All we have to do,” Frodo went on calmly, “is pick a direction and stick to it. We’ll mark our progress as we go. Then, no matter what happens, we can at least know where we’ve been. And once we see a directional marker, we can orient ourselves from there.”

Sam just nodded. Frodo knew his way around the Shire woods, that was certain, but this was different. This was the Old Forest and it was bad enough for them last time and he should never, never have come up with this confounded idea.

They were lost, and it was all his fault.

Pulling the pocketknife from his pocket, Frodo made a decisive mark on the tree: a small, quick rune that Sam didn’t recognize.

Maybe he was imagining it, but the tree seemed to groan and quiver in response.

No, he wasn’t imagining it, because Frodo pulled back sharply. “Or…” He bit his lip. “We could…draw a line in the ground, perhaps…”

“With Sting!” Sam drew the sword, pleased that it was coming in useful after all. He lowered the tip to make a divot in the dirt.

“Wonderful thinking.” Frodo flashed Sam a grateful smile. And with that, they were off again: Frodo still at the lead, and Sam dutifully dragging Sting’s tip through the dirt behind him.

~

Hours passed. The sun was setting. Not that they could see it, smothered as they were by trees that seemed to be movin’ in closer and closer. All Sam knew was that the world was getting darker and colder.

The wind was definitely colder. It whispered from the east. Shivering, Sam wished they’d brought along their Elven cloaks.

Then again, the cloaks would’ve gotten caught on the branches. See there, that branch all but grabbed his arm. Sam pushed past tangled limbs twitching out to snag him. A few twigs snapped as he forced free of them.

“The trees are gettin’ worse,” he grumbled to himself.

Frodo turned to look backwards with worry in his eyes. At that moment, a massive branch swung down—straight at Frodo’s head.

“Watch out!” Sam slammed bodily into him, shoving him out of the way. They landed in a jumbled pile.

But with a sickening crunch, the branch smashed across Sam’s left ankle. Lightning-hot pain flashed through him and the world went white for a second. His stomach felt like it’d been caught by a fishhook and yanked right out of him.

When he was aware of things again, Frodo had dragged him a few feet away. The branch had returned to where it used to be and the cursed tree looked somehow smug as it leaned over them.

And the other trees all leaned in too. Reminded Sam of when he was a kid, and Lotho Sackville-Baggins set some other older tweens to bully him. Once they had him on the ground, they all towered over him like this, exactly like these trees were doing to him and Frodo.

For right now, they weren’t making any more moves, but that wasn’t to last.

“We’d best get out of here, and quick!” Sam scrambled up and set his foot to the ground—and immediately howled and dropped back onto his bum. He grabbed for his foot.

“Don’t touch it!” Frodo caught his hands and didn’t seem to care when Sam’s short nails dug into his skin. He wasn’t payin’ much attention to the trees right now, neither. All his focus was on Sam. “Look at me—it’s all right. It’ll be all right. Take deep breaths.”

Sam gulped for air. His ankle was bent and swollen, the skin all mottled and discolored like a bruised apple. He felt ill but he tried to take another deep breath like Frodo said.

“Very good,” Frodo said shakily. “Let me just take a look at it, all right? Don’t move.” With that, he bent down, his curly hair blocking Sam’s view. “Well, it…it could be worse.”

“It’s broken, Mr. Frodo. I know it’s broken.”

“Well, yes, but…it looks like a small break, at least,” Frodo said bracingly. “And the bone isn’t, erm, sticking through the skin, so that’s…that’s good. As I said, it could be worse.”

Despite all the pain, Sam managed to give him an incredulous look.

“Now, stay still.” Before Sam could breathe a word of protest, Frodo raised his right arm and bit down on the sleeve and ripped it.

“What’re you—”

“This will hurt.” Starting at his toes, Frodo began wrapping the torn linen around Sam’s foot.

“Ow!” Sam reflexively tried to pull away.

But Frodo’s grip was merciless. “I know it hurts. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, but it has to be tight.” He continued wrapping all the way up and around Sam’s ankle. “How’s that?” he asked as he tucked the last piece into the rest of the wrap.

Sam just groaned.

“That should at least help with the swelling, but what we really need is something to keep it immobilized, and a way to keep it elevated…” He trailed off, standing, glancing nervously at the trees while the remainder of his torn sleeve hung loosely over his arm.

Sam took a deep breath. “Are you goin’ to leave me here?”

Frodo blinked as he came out of his thoughts. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, but you can’t carry me all the way back to the Shire.”

“It’ll be all right,” Frodo soothed. “I’ll think of something.” He brushed Sam’s sweaty curls back from his forehead. “I could try to fashion a splint of some sort, but you would still be unable to put any weight on the limb. And I’m afraid you’re quite correct about my ability to carry you far.”

Sam’s ankle throbbed. He whimpered.

“Shh,” Frodo breathed. He took both Sam’s hands and pressed them between his. His brow was furrowed, but he wasn’t coming up with any solutions.

Sam whimpered again.

Brow still furrowed, Frodo opened his mouth, but what came out wasn’t strategy. No, it was a song. Sam’s song. Frodo began in a quiet voice, barely to be heard over the wind whistling through the trees: “Beyond all towers strong and high, beyond all mountains steep…”

Sam was startled for a heartbeat before his mouth moved tightly into a smile.

Frodo sang a little louder, rising above the tree-limbs creaking: “Above all shadows rides the Sun, and Stars forever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell.”

At the sound of his voice, Sam was able to grin. “You sing better than all the minstrels of Gondor, and no mistake.”

Frodo blushed and chuckled. “I don’t know about that. And I know a song won’t change anything. But it came to me just then.”

“It’s lifted my spirits a bit,” Sam said encouragingly.

“You need a healed foot rather more than lifted spirits, but I suppose lifted spirits don’t hurt.” Frodo glanced around. “Perhaps we should return to the idea of a splint. I’d break a branch off a tree for you, only I don’t think the trees would forgive me for it.”

“Bebother the trees,” Sam muttered.

“They’re defending their home,” Frodo pointed out. “I’d say they’re no more suspicious of hobbits than hobbits are of them, they just—”

But whatever else he was trying to say was drowned out by a sudden, loud, ominous, all-too-near creak. Not the creak of a slender sapling in the wind, but the effortful creak of something large moving in a way it shouldn’t.

Frodo took a quick, frightened step closer to Sam. “Did you hear that?”

“Aye, what d’you think it was?”

“Perhaps—”

There it was again, even louder and even closer, just hidden behind the trees surrounding them…trees that suddenly seemed even closer than before.

Frodo’s hand shot out. His fingers grasped Sam’s hand. Sam squeezed back.

A branch rose directly in front of them, and snapped at their faces.

They ducked, and Frodo jerked Sam away. Direction didn’t matter anymore as they stumbled, desperate and terrified, through leaves and branches that tried to trap them as surely as that giant spider’s webs.

And the trees were all moving now, roots dragged out of the soil, throwin’ dirt up in the air as branches waving and tangling together. Wind whirled, bits of dirt and bark flew through the air. Every time something struck Sam’s foot, more lightning-pain lanced through him, and he couldn’t choke back his yelps as he limped on fast as he could go.

Under his feet, the land changed. Not mossy anymore. Now the grass was long and thin and he could feel cold earth beneath. Were they at the edge of the Forest? Were they almost safe?

Suddenly, Frodo grabbed Sam closer and pulled them both to the ground in a huddle. “Shut your eyes, Sam, shut your eyes!”

Sam buried his face in Frodo’s shoulder and Frodo did the same, only with his face turned against Sam’s neck. Bits of bark stung the bare skin of his hands and cheek before he hid himself even closer against Frodo. They pressed together, clinging to each other like a vine clings to a trellis in a raging storm.

He didn’t know how long it lasted. He just knew, at some point, the wind started dying down. But still trees creaked and still the ground shuddered as they moved. They seemed to be getting farther and farther away, but Sam did not dare to open his eyes, and Frodo did not move.

Finally, finally, everything seemed to settle. A cool mist touched the back of Sam’s neck. Cringing, he opened his eyes and raised his head.

What in all the Shire?

Where…?

The white mist hung heavy in the dusk, clouding everything in the distance, shrinking his world to just what was right around him. He couldn’t even see the trees.

Frodo untangled himself from Sam’s grip and got to his feet in windswept grass. Leaves and twigs and bark stuck in his hair and his creamy linen shirt was smudged with dirt all over. He turned in a slow circle.

And he paled.

“Frodo?” Sam whispered. “What happened? Where are we?”

Frodo swallowed hard. His hands, Sam realized, were shaking. “The Barrow-Downs.”

Chapter Text

Frodo

We are going to die.

He could not push the thought from his head. True, it was not exactly a foreign one. Not for him, not anymore. It had long ago become his constant companion, though it had not visited as often in the last year, save in dreams.

No, in the last year, its near relative had been Frodo’s more frequent friend: I am going to die. As it happened, Frodo could coexist rather amicably with that particular thought. It wasn’t terribly urgent, and it was undeniably true. And since it was true, there was nothing for it but to acclimate to its presence as best he could.

But Sam?

Sam deserved a long life yet, rich in joy and wholeness.

Perhaps Tom Bombadil would find them again, and Sam’s faith in him would be proved in one way, at least. But Frodo could not bring himself to expect it.

No, he could not expect anything good at all.

In an instant, the story of his life unfurled in his mind with startling clarity. Each prior moment of unforeseen providence had been orchestrated with no regard for him, but rather to bring about a specific final end: the destruction of the Ring and the salvation of Middle Earth. With that end accomplished at last, his life was now subject to the world’s indifferent vicissitudes.

He looked down: there Sam remained, hunched on the ground with his face pinched by pain and fear. He looked up: stars glittered far above. Arrestingly beautiful, yet so distant. They cared nothing for him. They never had. He knew that now.

The fog deepened, swirling about them now as if stirred by some sinister breath. Frodo’s heart took flight in his chest as some sense other than sight or sound warned of a stalking but unseen presence. The standing stones of the burial mounds rose from treeless hills like fangs in a mouth—and also, somehow, reminding him of the broken remains crowning Weathertop Hill. Memory surged, unbidden but persistent—and not just a memory, but the same sights, the same smells, the same feelings: the darkness of Weathertop, the pressing terror, the command to put on the Ring.

Frodo jolted as if from a dream. He forced the memory away as he tried to pull Sam up to standing. “Come on! Hurry!”

But the instant Sam put weight on his foot, he yelled and blanched and collapsed on the damp grass. “Just a moment,” he panted. “I can do this.”

Frodo twisted to look over his shoulder. How much time did they have? Minutes? Seconds? The wind disturbed the curls over the back of his neck and he spun back around again, expecting to see some monstrous being bearing down on them. But there was nothing, only Sam struggling again to get to his feet.

“Here, just—” Frodo drew Sam’s arm over his own shoulders. “Don’t use your foot. Lean on me, that’s it, there we go. Come on!”

They made it four more steps before Sam slipped and went down again, even harder than before, hard enough to jerk Frodo down with him. Tears of fear and pain and guilt filled Sam’s eyes. “I can’t. I’m so sorry. I was only tryin’ to help but this is all my—”

“Hush,” Frodo snapped. Sprawled there in the grass, his mind raced. There had to be a way of escape. They had not gone to Mordor and back to die here, among haunted barrows, not a day’s walk away from the Shire. So close, home was so close.

It struck him then, as it had once before, so long ago and yet not so long ago at all: he could flee. He was uninjured, after all. He would mourn Sam for whatever was left of his life, but he at least would escape this evil fate.

Gritting his teeth, Frodo knelt over Sam. “Stay still,” he breathed as he drew Sting from its sheath.

Sam’s frightened eyes watched his every move. “Yes, take Sting and get yourself out of here. I’ll follow, fast as I can.”

“I am not leaving you,” Frodo hissed. Standing again, he planted himself in front of Sam and held Sting with both hands, raised towards the encroaching fog, though he knew not what good the sword would do in this fell place.

The broken circle of Weathertop flashed once more across his vision. He blinked hard and shook his head to clear it and tightened his grip on Sting.

Did his eyes cheat him? No, something tall and dark was in the fog, approaching with the unhurried pace of a predator that knew its prey had no chance of escape. He swallowed hard and spread his feet in a solid stance.

But there was no hope for it. The stars watched on, uncaring, and no song of rescue rose over the wind. They were alone, truly alone.

“Stay close to me, Sam,” Frodo whispered, and he could not have said whether the words were for Sam’s comfort or his own.

The wight drew ever nearer.

Soon the shape towered over him, blotting out the stars so high above. Only now that Frodo could no longer see them did he want them back, futile and childish though the desire was. Now the only light came from the spirit’s eyes: two pinpricks of pale light, holding him in thrall.

Then Frodo cried out in agony. The wound from the Morgul blade flared, both hot and piercingly cold, as if the blade had riven his flesh yet again. He doubled over; numb fingers dropped Sting to clutch at his shoulder.

“Frodo!” Sam gasped. He sounded far away, beyond the rushing in Frodo’s ears.

The earth tilted and the world swam and dark shapes approached from every side. He was going to be sick. He was going to faint.

Behind him, Sam yelped, as if he had begun to rise only to fall back the moment he put any weight on his injured foot.

Yet Sam’s yelp echoed in his mind. Frodo’s left hand was lifeless now, but in the last moment, he snatched Sting in his sweat-slicked right hand once again and lifted the blade desperately.

The wight paused.

The sword quavered in his hand, but Frodo leveled the blade as best he could at the spirit. “Stay back! If you touch him, I will slay you!”

From the darkness, a voice laughed. It was deep and cold and fearless.

Against his will, his sword-hand lowered.

Then the voice spoke. “Long have I awaited your return, Ring-bearer.”

Frodo seized up in new terror. He knew this shape—this was the same spirit that nearly trapped him before—but how could the spirit know him? How could it reference the Ring?

“I will hold you here,” the spirit breathed, “until the King of Angmar comes for you.”

Frodo’s mouth went dry.

The spirit moved closer, a shadowy hand outstretched towards Sam.

Sting flashed upwards. “Stay back!” Frodo’s voice was small and thin in his own ears. “The witchking is dead, and the Ring that empowered him was destroyed!”

The shadow paused once more. Almost uncertain, it appeared for a moment.

Frodo held Sting in a steadier hand now. “Your master is gone. The power that roused you is already fading.”

“That same power sustained you for many years. If I fade, you shall fade with me.” The wight advanced again.

Frodo lunged. Sting glinted and sang as it sliced through fog and shadow alike.

The screech that emitted rose the hairs on the back of Frodo’s neck. But the wight neither retreated nor diminished. It lifted ever higher off the ground, looming over Frodo and Sam like a dragon of darkness with eyes now lit by yellow flame.

We are going to die.

In the same instant as the thought gripped him, resolve settled, molten and furious, in his stomach. If they were going to die, he at least would not die in cowering fear, and Sam would not die without knowing, in his last moments, that Frodo would go as far to protect him as he had ever gone for Frodo.

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel!” The cry burst from Frodo’s lips. “Le nallon sí di’nguruthos, a tiro nin, a tiro men!”

As if in answer to his prayer, Sting blazed—not with cold blue, but with yellow to overpower the unholy light in the wight’s eyes. The handle burned in Frodo’s hand. He barely kept his grip.

Again, he lunged. Again, he stabbed, straight into the heart of the wight. Sting flashed and tore through shadow and a spectral scream rent the night. He wrenched the blade upwards, slicing cleanly between the two points of light.

The scream broke and died. The shadow dissipated into wisps of darkness that faded into the night. Stars shone overhead once more.

For a long while, Frodo still brandished Sting, though it no longer glowed. He did not dare lower it, though he was shaking hard enough that he feared he might drop it. His heart still raced in his ears and his left hand was still numb and the old wound in his shoulder was now ice-cold. The memories he had kept at bay fought to rise in his spinning mind. It now seemed impossible he would win this battle.

Sam was chattering joyfully beside him. “That was a sight to behold, and no mistake! They’ll make songs of that, they will!”

With all his remaining strength, Frodo forced himself to remain present. “Only if one of us lives to tell the tale. Hurry, before more of them come!” Pressing Sting into Sam’s hand, Frodo drew Sam’s other arm over his shoulders once more and pulled him upwards. Like two hobbit children in a three-legged race, they stumbled towards the east, where the sun would one day rise again.

Chapter Text

Sam

They were going to make it! Oh, but that was incredible, that was. Sam was almost giddy with it. Frodo standing there, Sting glowing in his hand, a prayer on his lips, and that monster cowering before him.

He’d never turn it into a song or poetry himself, so Sam would just have to do it for him, as soon as ever he could.

But first they had to get home. And it wasn’t long before the wonder and exhilaration faded. Now Sam was aware of just how far they were from home, and how awfully his ankle hurt, and how slow their pace was, and how Frodo was still unaccountably quaking like a leaf in a storm.

Sam’s breath started coming in thick, hitching gasps. He was doing his best to keep his weight off Frodo as much as he could. All but hopping on one foot, he was, trying to only use Frodo for balancing. But his good leg soon ached and throbbed and sweat drenched his clothes.

They were going too slow. There was more than one wight around the barrows, wasn’t there?

Setting his teeth, he tried to focus on nothing more than the next step. No sense thinking about what lay behind them, no point trying to see how far there still was to go before safety.

But it was no good. What if even now another awful wight was creeping up on them? Twisting, he craned his neck.

And tripped, and they both hit the ground. Sam barely managed to keep ahold of Sting.

He scrambled to at least get to his knees, facing back westward. The fog was thinner now. He could see farther in the dying light. But he couldn’t see any wights. He couldn’t even see the barrows from here. This looked more like the stretch of field where he and Merry and Pippin had run free after Mr. Bombadil saved them.

Could it be? Were they safe?

“Frodo?” Sam asked, turning back, only for his heart to flip in his chest.

Frodo lay flat on his back, gasping for breath, staring unseeingly up at the sky where clouds covered the stars. His left hand didn’t move but his right crept towards his chest, fingers twitching, grasping for where the Ring used to lay at his breast.

Sam watched in dread.

It was obvious the moment Frodo realized the Ring was lost. His lips whitened. He pushed himself up to claw at the grass, like he thought he might’ve only dropped it, like at any moment his fingers would close around a band of gold.

Quickly sheathing Sting, Sam hobbled closer. “Frodo—”

Frodo shot to his feet. A wild light flared in his eyes. “Stay back!” His hand plunged into his pocket. When he drew it out again, a blade glinted.

Sam went very still. “It’s…it’s just me.”

“Don’t come near me!” Frodo tightened his grip of the knife Sam had given him until the bones showed through his skin.

Sam raised his hands with careful slowness. “It’s me. It’s your Sam.” He risked a step closer.

Frodo flinched backwards. “Stay away! Don’t touch me!” His voice rose and he raised the knife higher. “I swear to you, you shall have neither the Ring, nor me!”

“C’mon,” Sam begged. “You’re not thinking straight. It’s gone, remember?”

Even as Sam spoke, Frodo’s face drained of all color. He seemed to forget he was even holding a knife as he pressed his fist against the old shoulder-wound. He staggered.

He looked like he might faint at any moment. “Won’t you sit down?” Sam pleaded. “Let’s just rest for a bit, that’ll be better.”

Frodo’s eyes dimmed. His head suddenly lolled forward.

That was too much for Sam. He lurched forward on his good foot to catch his friend before he fell.

As soon as arms closed about him, Frodo thrashed wildly. Sam couldn’t hold them both upright but he was expectin’ to go down this time. All he had to do was make sure Frodo came out on top.

It wasn’t hard. Frodo fought furiously, but he hadn’t the strength. Sam gripped him tight and used his own weight to choose the direction of their fall: Sam on his back, Frodo cushioned on top but held fast, unable to escape no matter how hard he tried. But Sam couldn’t hold back a shout as the wrestling jammed his broken ankle.

And then there was the knife.

Snarling, Frodo slashed. Sam threw his right arm up to shield his face and the blade burned. Sam heaved up and flipped them, slamming Frodo down hard enough to drive the air from his lungs, pinning him with an elbow across his chest. Sam’s other hand wrenched the knife from Frodo’s fist and flung it somewhere behind them.

“Stop it!” Sam shouted as blood ran down his forearm and his ankle roared in agony. “This isn’t you!”

Frodo still struggled, but he was weak, so weak. He had no hope of throwing Sam off.

“C’mon,” Sam growled, shaking him. His blood pooled on Frodo’s shirt, staining it crimson. “I know the real you’s in there somewhere. Come back to your Sam!”

Frodo strained upwards one last time before his strength gave out. He fell limply back, but his head turned away, as far as he could get, and his eyes screwed shut. He went completely, pitifully motionless, helpless, finally given over to whatever horror he imagined awaited him.

Guilt wrenched Sam’s heart at the terror etched in his face, the terror he had put there just from trying to help. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he babbled. “You’re safe, I promise, you’re safe—I just can’t let you up yet, not yet, don’t you see?” Carefully, he shifted some of his weight back, put less of it on Frodo’s chest, not enough for him to get up, but enough for him at least to take a deep breath.

But Frodo wouldn’t, or maybe couldn’t. He was shivering, breaths coming short and fast and sharp as he fought panic.

And there was nothing, nothing Sam could do.

His throat tightened and tears rolled down his cheeks to land on Frodo’s shirt, mixing with the blood there. “What do I do?” he whispered, voice ragged. “Please, come back. Just tell me what to do.”

He’d do anything. He walked to Mordor and back for him and he’d do all that again, and again, and again, if it could just drive away the fear, if it could just make him whole.

It was a long time before Frodo mastered his paralyzing panic, and longer still before there was even a hint of recognition in his eyes.

“…Sam?” he asked at last. His voice cracked over the single word.

Sam could’ve melted in relief. “Yes, it’s me!” He climbed off and helped Frodo sit up, helped him stay upright despite a wave of dizziness that crossed his face.

“What…happened?” Frodo asked weakly.

“I don’t rightly know, sir. It was like you was havin’ a nightmare, ’cept you were awake. But you didn’t know what you were doing.”

Frodo passed a trembling hand over his face. “I thought I was at the Ford of Bruinen, only this time the witchking crossed the river and caught me. I cut him, but…” Then he froze.

His eyes landed on Sam’s arm.

The cut still burned, and it looked exactly as bad as it felt: a long line of slashed skin, with slick blood still running down over his hand.

Horror dawned on Frodo’s face.

“It’s all right!” Sam said quickly. “You didn’t mean anything by it. You were just defending yourself, see, and if you thought I was a wraith, I’m glad you were able to fight back…”

Frodo gave no sign of listening. He was too busy ripping the other sleeve of his shirt.

“It’s not that bad,” Sam rambled as he got more and more scared by the look on Frodo’s face. “It hardly even feels like anything, honest.”

Wordless, Frodo approached with the strip of torn sleeve. His hands were shaking so hard he could barely get it tied around the wound. Red immediately soaked through the linen.

“Frodo?”

As soon as it was knotted in place, Frodo hurried backwards, almost out of reach.

Sam caught his hand just in time to slow him down. “Please don’t be upset. I know it wasn’t on purpose. It wasn’t you.”

“And that makes it all right?” Frodo jerked out of his grip. When Sam started towards him again, he flinched back. “Don’t touch me!”

Sam stood still, heart breaking.

Frodo retreated a safe distance away, then sat down in the grass with his knees drawn up to his chest and his head hidden in his hands, fingers knotted in tangled curls. His torn sleeves fell down past his elbows. He drew slow, measured breaths.

Sam fidgeted with a loose thread on the hastily-tied bandage. The silence stretched out between them. All he could hear was the wind rustling the grass.

There was nothing for it. Sam took a limping step towards him, and held his breath.

Frodo did not move.

Sam risked another step.

“Stop,” Frodo whispered from behind his hands.

“I just wanna help. Please let me help.”

“You can’t.”

No, that wasn’t true. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Sam couldn’t’ve kept him going all the way there and back again just to fail him now.

All of this was his fault.

When Frodo spoke again, his voice wavered and nearly broke. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. But does that even matter at this point?”

Sam knelt in the grass before him. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. You couldn’t help it.”

“That makes it worse!” Frodo suddenly lifted his head so Sam could see his face, streaked with tears. “Don’t you see? That means—that means—I—I can’t—” He gritted his teeth against the stammer and stared up at the sky as if expecting to find the words he needed writ there.

“Can’t…?” Sam echoed uncertainly.

“It’s just—if—if I can’t—damn it,” he burst out, and punched the ground, and gave up trying to speak.

Sam gaped at the curse, at the bitter fury. Silence stretched between them, not the comfortable and familiar sort, but something new and fraught, like watching the last thread of a frayed rope about to snap.

Frodo took a deep, deliberate breath and gathered himself and closed his eyes. “Please, Sam…go away.”

Chapter Text

Frodo

He held perfectly still, listening for the slightest sound that Sam was doing as asked. There was none.

Sam kept saying he wanted to help. Oh yes, that was all he ever did: help. And it was never enough: Frodo couldn’t be helped. He should have told Sam that long ago. But he was so selfish. Sam’s hope was such a beautiful thing. He hadn’t wanted to snuff it out. Even if he could not share it himself, he at least could warm himself in its glow.

So utterly selfish.

And now Sam was hurt, so deeply hurt. The wound on his arm was unforgivable. But the wound to his heart? That was even worse.

Frodo should never have asked him to move into Bag End, should never have promised Sam could build a life there. Or maybe he should have given Sam the smial outright, and then moved out to Buckland. Well, no, Sam would just follow. Frodo should have remained in Rivendell or somewhere even farther away and sent Sam back to Rosie alone. Sam would not have wanted to leave, but surely he would have gone eventually…even if it took years.

“Frodo?” Sam’s voice was small, like a child’s. “Please, won’t you talk to me? Won’t you tell me what all this is about?”

Frodo forced himself to find the words to form a single sentence: “I am not getting better.”

Sam’s response was immediate and expected. “You don’t know that!”

Frodo formed another sentence: “This isn’t fair to you.”

“Well, who said anything about fair?” Sam argued. “I’m not just going to sit on my hands while you’re still so…so…sick.”

Sick. That was one way of putting it.

“And I don’t know why you’d ever think I’d give up tryin’ to help you.”

Frodo shook his head.

“What is it?”

Frodo pulled his knees tighter to his chest. He couldn’t give words to the fear. Why, oh why could he not find a way to say it?

Sam suddenly dropped his eyes away. “Of course, I s’pose you’d actually rather I give up by this point.”

One word now came easily: “What?”

“Since I’m so awful at actually helping.” Sam sniffled. “All of this was my fault, anyway. You didn’t even ever think Tom Bombadil could really change anything, did you?”

Frodo hesitated. Reluctantly, he shook his head again.

“But I kept insisting.” Sam rubbed at his nose. “I’m stubborn as a Baggins now. More stubborn even than you, I guess, and now I’ve gone and made everything so much worse. My Gaffer’d say it’s just what I should expect, tryin’ to make anything better that’s bigger than a bit of garden. That’s all a Gamgee’s good for.” The eyes he lifted to Frodo’s swam with guilt. “I’m sorry I’m never good enough to save you. But I promise, it’s not for lack of trying with—with everything I have.”

Frodo stared, uncomprehending, for a long time before he realized what Sam was trying to say. If Sam had stabbed him through the heart with that knife, it would hurt no less.  “Sam…” he began slowly, speaking through the pain, choosing each word with the utmost care, “I’m not asking you to save me. Indeed, you can’t. No one can. Of this I am certain.”

“But—”

“I love you,” Frodo said, soft yet clear. “I love you more than I can say. And it is not because of any noble deed or act of sacrifice or because I am waiting for you to find a way to heal me. Honestly, I think no one could help but love you simply for your joy, your courage, your delight in all that is beautiful. But more than for all these things, I love you because—” His throat tightened. “Because you’re you, and you have somehow decided to remain faithful to me unto the very end, whether that end be near or far for me.”

The words hung between them. For an instant, he almost wished to take them back. It was too much weight to put onto Sam’s shoulders. What if he now felt bound to Frodo in a new way, no matter what torture it brought him?

But the words were honest. Whatever else they might be, they were honest.

Frodo dared to reach out and take Sam’s hand. “Please, never believe you aren’t good enough. I don’t need you to heal me. I only need you to—” He broke off.

Sam gripped back, even tighter. “To what?”

Frodo couldn’t meet his gaze. “Will you forgive me if I ask something terrible of you?”

“Ask me anything. I’ll do anything.”

There was no doubting the strength of his promise. Still, Frodo could not look at him. He stared down at the moonlit grass, blades turned silver and blurred by tears. “I am not getting better. If anything, I suspect things will get worse.”

For once, Sam did not argue. He did not speak at all.

“Will you…will you allow me to stay broken?”

Sam wrapped his arms around him, enveloping him. “Of course! I’ll be here for you, whatever you need, whether you ever get better or no. Wait…” Abruptly, he stopped and pulled back with his hands on Frodo’s shoulders. “Are you…are you saying, all this time, when I’ve been tryin’ to help, it’s made you think I won’t love you just as you are?”

Warm tears spilled down Frodo’s face to wet the fabric on his knees. “It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “It’s nothing you did or said. It’s just…”

Sam was shaking his head. “But that’s not how I feel at all! I—I’m never as good with words as you are. I don’t know how to say it right.” His face scrunched up with effort. “I want more’n anything for you to…to…to have the life you deserve, after everything you gave up.”

Frodo glanced away.

Sam’s gentle hand turned his face back. “But that’s all for your sake.” Now his eyes locked fiercely onto Frodo’s, lit with a fire that he remembered from the cold nights of Mordor, when Sam’s stalwart hope was the only heat he could still sense. “For my sake, I don’t care if you’re never like who you used to be and I don’t care if you’re never any better. I love you the same no matter what. And that’s a promise.”

Frodo was stunned. There was no disbelieving that Sam meant every word he said with every fiber of his being. But why, how, when Frodo’s continued affliction hurt him so?

He managed to voice the question, though only in its very simplest form: “Why?”

Sam looked bewildered. “What d’you mean, why?”

“I mean, don’t you wish I was…like I used to be? Not only for my sake, but for yours?” Frodo pulled back slightly. “After all, wasn’t it easier, when you didn’t always have to be so mindful of me? When you could just be yourself, and I could be myself, in simplicity?”

Sam tipped his head to one side, looking more bewildered than ever. “I s’pose I haven’t thought about it. Hmm. I don’t think…no, I won’t say I’m glad we went through everything. Glad isn’t the right word at all. But I think…I can see the good that came of it. Some of the good, at least.”

Frodo’s lips pursed. “Saving the world, you mean?”

Sam laughed a little. “There’s that, sure enough. But more than that. For you, I mean. There’s no denying it would’ve been…easier…for you if things went on as they always were. But then you wouldn’t be who you are now.”

“Oh, I know,” Frodo said bitterly.

“No, listen.” Sam’s hand turned his face back again before Frodo could look away. “You’ve not turned into some dark and broken and poisoned—or poisonous—creature, no matter what you tell yourself. You know what I think, when I think of you?”

Frodo could only imagine.

Sam didn’t give him long to dwell on imaginings. “I think you’re a hobbit with more hurts and sorrows than any of the rest of us, but more wisdom and pity and hope because of it.”

“Hope?”

“Aye, hope,” Sam said firmly. “Not the kind from feelin’ like everything will work out, but the kind from knowing it, deep down in your soul, even when it doesn’t make any sense, even when you can’t actually feel anything at all.”

Frodo swallowed hard. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, you may not see it in yourself just yet,” Sam admitted, “but that’s all right. I can see it in you for you.”

Frodo was suddenly, inexplicably overwhelmed. Again, words utterly failed him.

Sam found his hand again and held it. “So in the meanwhile, how about this: I will love you, and you will love me, even if I can’t fix you, and even if you can’t be fixed.”

Frodo could only nod. Closing his eyes against the tears, he leaned forward, drew Sam closer and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

~

After a long time, Sam stirred. He shifted about, favoring his left ankle.

It was then that Frodo remembered his injury—his other injury. “Oh, Sam, your poor ankle. And I’ve nothing to tend it with and no way to care for it.”

Sam grimaced. “It’s not too bad.”

But one look revealed how swollen it was, straining against its makeshift bandage. “We ought to be elevating it,” Frodo fretted, “not traipsing about.”

“Maybe so, but staying still to elevate it would’ve left us dead,” Sam pointed out, “and then I don’t think I’d be able to worry ’bout the rest of it, if you take my meaning.”

“We can’t go back through the Old Forest. The quickest way back to the Shire will be along the East Road. Or perhaps we should go to Bree instead. I can’t promise they’d offer better care than we’d find at home, but it would be sooner—”

“But what about takin’ you to see Mr. Bombadil?” Sam interrupted anxiously. “That was what we came all this way for in the first place!”

Frodo paused. “You read my mind correctly before, Sam. I don’t believe even Tom Bombadil can change anything for me. I’m afraid it would hurt worse to ask him, only for it to come to nothing. And even if he could…well, there’s no urgency where I’m concerned. But we must see to your foot as quickly as possible.”

“But…” Sam’s voice pitched higher in desperation, “you don’t mean we’ve really come all this way for nothing?”

Frodo held his gaze. “For nothing?”

“I wanted—” Sam bit back whatever he’d been about to say. No doubt something about still wanting this journey to make a difference for Frodo. An exchange of promises would not override a lifetime of service.

“I wish you had not been hurt,” Frodo said gently, “but I cannot say I regret this adventure of ours, and I do not think it was for nothing.”

Slowly, despite the pain and disappointment, a small smile began to bloom across Sam’s face.

“Come on, then,” Frodo murmured. “Let’s get to Bree.”

He helped Sam rise to stand on his good foot, and arranged Sam’s arm over him so he could support him. Clasped together, they started on, towards a destination neither would have chosen when they set out from Bag End.

Frodo lifted his eyes to the east, and stopped.

“Frodo?”

“Look,” Frodo whispered as his eyes took in the scene before him. The sun had just crested the mountainous horizon to shine through giant, tumbling clouds of white. Between the clouds, rays of golden light slanted downwards in dazzling streaks.

Hope, Sam said. No, Frodo had none left for himself or for his future. But nevertheless, he somehow found that he could appreciate the fleeting beauty of this one, precious moment.

Chapter Text

Sam

This was going to be hard, and no mistake.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t see where Frodo was comin’ from and all. It wasn’t like Sam ever made a secret of how badly he wanted him to be healed. Must’ve been easy for him to start feeling like Sam could never be happy without that.

And that just made Frodo want to keep everything to himself all the time. He was such a private hobbit naturally, no wonder he’d take the slightest reason to keep more secrets and run with it—and think he was helping Sam the whole time!

It all got so twisted around, somehow: both of them tryin’ so hard to take care of each other, and instead making everything worse.

Sam chewed on these ideas as they limped eastward, towards Bree. Now that they’d made their declarations and their promises, all they had to do was figure out how to…actually do any of it, not in ideas, not in talk, but in life.

Their slow pace gave Sam plenty of time to think on it all. They stopped a few times, sometimes to eat their dwindling food (Sam hadn’t packed expectin’ the trip to last nearly this long), sometimes for Sam to rest his ankle, sometimes because Frodo was gettin’ exhausted keeping them both upright. By the time the sun was setting, Sam felt like they hadn’t hardly made any progress at all.

Presently, Frodo stopped. “It’s no good,” he panted. “We’ll never make it to Bree at this rate. And you should be resting, not hobbling about.”

“I can keep going a good bit,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “We can’t stay out here in the open.”

“You can’t, and we can.” Boding no argument, Frodo made Sam sit on an ancient fallen log, all weather-worn wit no bark left at all, with his foot cushioned by Frodo’s pack. Meanwhile, Frodo dug supplies out of Sam’s gear. It felt mighty uncomfortable, sitting there useless while Frodo set up the camp. Sam tried a few times to help, but Frodo always banished him back to his log with a swift look.

Frodo was no bad cook, but there just wasn’t enough food to make much of a meal and they were too tired for much talk. After supper, Frodo set to arranging the blankets for bed. Only he didn’t stack them like they had before. He spread two of the blankets out on separate patches of sad, flattened grass.

Sam frowned. “It’s more comfortable with the blankets together. And there’s room enough for both of us.”

Frodo wouldn’t look at him as he smoothed one of the blankets down over a few remaining lumps of grass. “I don’t think that’s best. Not tonight.”

“Why?”

Frodo sat back on his heels and dragged a hand over his face. He fidgeted with a corner of the blanket. “I’m going to have a nightmare just as soon as I fall asleep. I already know that.”

Sam was still confused. “We’ve handled that before.”

“I don’t want to hurt you. Not again. I—I can’t.”

So that was what he was afraid of. “Maybe you won’t,” Sam said lamely.

Frodo shrugged and lied down on his own blanket, facing away. “Goodnight, Sam.”

Plainly, Sam was not going to win this argument. Sighing under his breath, he settled down on the blanket spread out for him with his foot propped on their packs. He stared up at the stars.

Frodo wasn’t asleep yet. Sam knew ’cause he could hear his breathing, too carefully controlled.

Sam shivered. They hadn’t brought enough blankets and there was no shelter out here from the whistling wind. Now he was frightfully cold. But he didn’t dare say anything about it. Frodo would probably just give him his blankets and then he’d freeze, even though this entire adventure was supposed to be to be about helping him.

This entire adventure was the worst idea Sam ever had in his life.

Frodo was still awake, still motionless, still breathing in that horrible, stilted way.

He couldn’t leave him like that, thinkin’ he was the problem, thinkin’ that even after everything he went through and everything he gave up, he still had to keep giving things up just to make sure everyone else was all right.

Gritting his teeth to keep from makin’ a sound, Sam got up. He nudged the stacked packs over towards Frodo and followed, lowering himself onto the blanket next to the other hobbit, wiggling under his blanket.

Frodo tensed. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

Sam didn’t answer. He propped his foot up on the packs again, then dragged his blanket over to cover them both.

“Sam—”

“It’s all right.” Sam slid an arm around his shoulders, like he always did, so he’d notice if anything went wrong…and so he could have the comfort of holding onto him, like he was a pillow.

A very tense pillow. “Sam—”

“Shh.”

“I could kick you, you know,” Frodo muttered. “Right now. Purposefully.”

“And knock my ankle off its prop?”

“See? Yet another reason why you should not be anywhere near me tonight.”

“I think I’ll take my chances.” As the seconds ticked by without Frodo either kicking him nor retreating neither, Sam slowly relaxed. “You know,” he said more quietly, “you asked me to let you stay broken. All right, but I’m asking you to let me stay close meanwhile.”

Frodo made no answer.

Sam cleared his throat. “How ’bout a story?”

“What, right now?”

“You’re not sleeping, are you?”

Frodo sighed, weariness and fondness and exasperation all mingled together. “I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t think I have it in me for a story tonight.”

“Or maybe telling a story’d make you feel better.”

Frodo’s silence now felt somewhat pointed.

“Maybe it would,” Sam insisted.

“I can’t think of anything.”

“The prayer!” Sam gasped as the memory lit his mind. “Can’t you tell me the story behind the prayer?”

Frodo turned over, moving carefully so as not to jostle Sam. Moonlight glinted in sad blue eyes. “What prayer?”

“What you said, before you struck down that wight,” Sam said eagerly. “Oh, but it sure was beautiful to hear it. There must be an even beautifuller story about it.”

Frodo raised his eyebrows.

“Please?”

Frodo gave in. “Very well. Elbereth was—is,” he corrected himself, “one of the Valar. The Queen of the Valar, actually. She created the stars as a gift for the Elves and a light for the earth to combat the growing darkness, and she was the first to recognize the discordant rebellion against Ilúvatar.”

“Ilúvatar?”

“The One who creates life and light from nothingness.”

“Oh.” Sam nodded as if this made sense.

“The Elves say she is too beautiful for description,” Frodo went on softly, almost musically now, “for her face reflects the light of Ilúvatar.”

Was it wrong to say Frodo reflected that sort of light too, sometimes? Even if he never seemed to realize it. “Why’d you call for her?” Sam asked.

“I…I don’t know. It’s said she hears everyone who calls to her throughout Middle Earth. But…”

“But what?”

Frodo smiled wryly. “Well, why would she hear a hobbit?”

That couldn’t be right. “You’ve called out to her before,” Sam pointed out. Maybe Frodo didn’t remember?

“Well, yes, but that was different.”

“How’s that?”

“That was part of the Quest.”

Sam cocked his head, completely at a loss.

Hunching his shoulders, Frodo looked suddenly very small. “If the Valar care about Middle Earth at all, of course they’d care about me—about us—when we were trying to save it. Of course they would care about the Ringbearer. But why…” His lips pressed into a thin line that he tried to force into a smile. “Why would they care about Frodo?”

Plainly he was getting all hung up on all the wrong things. “Weren’t you just sayin’ earlier all about how you love me, but not for any of the things I can do for you?”

“Again, Sam dear, that’s different.”

He got like this sometimes: actin’ like he knew more than other hobbits. Because, well, he usually did. And usually Sam didn’t mind. But tonight, he was frustrated. “How’s that different?”

Frodo looked frustrated too, but with something like hurt wetting his eyes. “Honestly…”

“How?” Sam demanded.

“I enjoy you, Sam!” he burst out. “Like I said before. I love the way you think, your skill with gardening, the love you have for beautiful things, your poetry, your kindness, your cheerfulness, the way you make me laugh…I don’t need you to do anything for me because I simply enjoy you.”

“…Right,” Sam said slowly, resisting the temptation (unthinkable before now) to suggest that Frodo was, maybe for the first time in his life, being a little bit of a dunderhead. “And…?”

“Are you honestly suggesting that one of the…one of the Valar…could…enjoy…” Frodo shook his head. “Do you actually think a Valar could enjoy me?”

“You said they created the world,” Sam reminded him with great patience. “Why would anyone do that if they didn’t want to enjoy what they created? I wouldn’t plant things in the garden I didn’t think are beautiful, would I? And the plants can’t even talk back.”

“I don’t believe the Valar would want to hear what I would say to them,” Frodo muttered.

“I bet they would,” Sam argued.

Frodo turned over onto his back, staring up into the sky.

“They would,” Sam repeated.

“I…” Frodo made a noise like a growl. “I don’t know what to say. You want me to agree with you, and believe me, I wish I could…but I can’t.”

But that was so plain sad. “Maybe if you just—”

“Sam,” he interrupted, still staring upwards, “please, I don’t want to discuss it any further.”

But that wasn’t like him at all. Mr. Frodo, not wanting to talk about somethin’ big and grand and complicated? There had to be more to it.

But Frodo rolled over, facing away. He wasn’t asleep, that much was clear. But it seemed he meant it when he said he didn’t want to discuss it.

Sighing, Sam stared up at the stars again, thinkin’ about them as a gift to all Middle Earth, like Frodo said. And what about that one star he saw in Mordor? Seemed almost like it wasn’t just a gift for Middle Earth—it was a gift for him.

He glanced at Frodo. Would he ever see it that way?

~

Dawn came too soon. Sam squeezed his eyes tighter shut against bright light. He nuzzled closer to the warmth in front of him, burying his face between Frodo’s shoulder blades.

But now he was awake, he couldn’t go back to sleep, no matter how tired he still was. Not with his ankle throbbing so, and his arm stinging. After only a few minutes, he gave it up, sighed, and pulled back. Opening his eyes, he took in the colors of the sunrise streaking the sky.

He was torn between finding the beauty in it and wishing it’d given him another hour of sleep.

“Good morning,” a rough voice rasped from somewhere on the other side of dark, mussed curls.

“It’s some kind of morning, at least.” Sam sat up, careful to keep his foot still elevated. He blinked blearily at the swelling threatening to spill out of the makeshift bandage. “Ugh.”

“Is it much worse?” Frodo rolled over.

Pity punched through Sam’s chest at the sight of him. Frodo was pallid other than the dark circles bruising under red-rimmed eyes. “Didn’t you sleep at all?”

“Yes,” Frodo lied. Such an obvious lie.

Had he really somehow kept himself awake all night? And after neither of them sleeping a wink the night before on the Downs? Of course he had. “Frodo,” Sam said, a little desperately.

“Yes?” Frodo’s stare, even fatigued as it was, held a challenge.

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. Steady. No good going off at him about it. He’d probably just take that as Sam trying to fix everything again.

Sam heaved a sigh instead, which earned him a pointed look. But Frodo seemed to realize he’d gotten what he wanted, because he didn’t press the matter.

They didn’t speak as they packed up and started plodding off towards Bree. Sam kept a close eye on Frodo, who gave no sign of weariness as he supported Sam…other than a scrunching of his eyes as the light increased. It was plain as plain he had a headache, but of course he didn’t say anything…and if ever Sam tried to put less weight on him, Frodo would give another pointed look.

Sam was starting to feel rather anxious. They couldn’t keep going like this. Could they?

Suddenly, Frodo stopped and cocked his head. “Do you hear that?”

“Huh?” Sam asked blearily.

But Frodo lit up. “A wagon!” He slid out from beneath Sam’s arm. “Wait here!” And without another word, he shot ahead.

Sam tottered awkwardly after him, finally reaching the top of a hill lookin’ over the Greenway. Now, they called it the Greenway ’cause it wasn’t hardly ever used, and the road was all grown over with grass. But Frodo was right. Against all odds, there was a wagon pulled by two large ponies, stopped in the middle of the grassy road, and there was Frodo talking earnestly up at the old Man driving it.

“Aye, I was just on my way past Bree,” he was saying through a heavy Bree accent. “Wouldn’t be no trouble at all to give the pair o’yee a ride.”

Oh, thank the stars—or the Valar, maybe, or maybe all the way up to Eru, because if He was big enough to create everything, surely it wasn’t too much for Him to send a wagon along to help them.

The Man even climbed out to help Sam up into the wagon. Bit of an indignity, that, being lifted like a bairn. But Sam swallowed his pride and was soon settled next to Frodo in the wagon.

“I didn’t think the Greenway was much used,” Frodo ventured.

“Didn’t used to be,” the Man said with a snap of the reigns. The horses set off. “But things are changing.” He leaned back in his seat and didn’t wait for encouragement to keep speaking. “Not so many ruffians and rogues about as there used to be. Folk say it’s because there’s a king in Gondor again, and I daresay he’s got summat to do with it, but there’s more to that story, if you ask me.” He turned to give Sam and Frodo an uppish look. “The very air used to feel dark and heavy. Now there’s hope in the wind. Some folk say I’m seein’ what ain’t there,” he admitted, “but I daresay the change is real.”

Sam glanced at Frodo and they shared a small smile, so small no one else would’ve seen it.

The Man chattered on about Bree. The Prancing Pony still had the best beer around and didya know there were rumors the new King of Gondor was none other than old Strider?

“Stranger things,” the Man said happily. “Stranger things!”

Before long, they’d reached the Greenway-crossing and the West-gate. The wagon slowed to a stop. “This good enough for you, little sirs?” the Man asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Frodo replied, polite as ever.

They climbed out. With a wave of his hand, the Man steered his wagon on.

Frodo gazed up at the gate, which was open and almost welcoming. “Shall we?”

“Just a moment, sir.” Sam took him in, seeing him as the Breelanders might. Twigs and things still caught in his hair, tear-tracks in the dirt smudged on his face, both sleeves ripped, blood splotched across his shirt. Aye, he was a right mess. “Hold still.” He ran his fingers gently through Frodo’s curls.

Frodo’s eyes fluttered closed at the sensation. “Thank you.”

“You’ve got another shirt in your pack, haven’t you?”

“What?” Frodo looked down, and winced at the sight of Sam’s blood. “Um. No.”

Sam stared in disbelief. “You…only brought one shirt?”

“I didn’t think of it!” Frodo protested. “We did leave in rather a hurry, you know.”

“I should’ve thought of it,” Sam muttered to himself, opening his pack.

“You’ve no need to pack my clothing for me.”

“Clearly I do, though.” Sam dug a spare shirt out of his pack. “It’ll be a mite big on you, I’m sorry to say.”

Frodo rolled his eyes but wiggled out of his shirt. He made a face, with another lingering, guilt-ridden glance at the bloodstain.

Sam plucked it from his hands and buried it deep in his pack, with a mental note to burn it sometime when Frodo wasn’t looking. As for Sam’s own shirt, it was indeed large enough to flap in the wind as he adjusted his braces over his shoulders.

It was by no means perfect, but it was good enough for now.

Good enough.

Chapter Text

Frodo

Bree was as loud as he remembered, with Big Folk riding by in carts and shouting at one another in their harsh accents. But it didn’t feel as dangerous as last time. Some might say it was merely because some ruffians seemed hardly a threat, after all the dangers they’d faced together by now—except that with Sam in his present condition, any ruffian would in fact be a great threat.

No, the difference went deeper. It was as the Man had said: there was hope now in the air.

Tentatively, almost furtively, Frodo allowed himself to taste a tiny dose of pride.

He did his best to lead the way through Bree’s winding, muddy streets and under the shadows of too-tall, many-storeyed buildings. Oh, but his head hurt, the kind of deep and dizzying ache that only lack of sleep could create. How far away were his lovely mattresses in Bag End!

“We should get inside,” Sam said from close beside him, as if he guessed Frodo’s thoughts. Then he sheepishly ducked his head. “But—but I’ll still love you even if you’d rather spend another night out in the open.”

Despite his weariness (or perhaps because of it), a surprised laugh burst from Frodo’s lips. “You don’t say? Well, I don’t intend to sleep outside again for…hmm. A fortnight at least, I should say.”

“Let’s make it a month, begging your pardon.”

“That is quite fair,” Frodo conceded. Sam started to lead the way towards the Prancing Pony—but Frodo’s hand darted out to catch him.

Sam cocked his head in confusion.

“Thank you,” Frodo said softly.

Sam’s answering smile was a little confused, a little bashful, but genuine.

~

The Prancing Pony had not changed. The same smoke-dimmed lamplight. The same loud, rough laughter. The same overpowering smell of drink. The same sticky floor beneath his toes.

He and Sam joined the common-room, the better to have somewhere to elevate Sam’s foot while still having the chance to get some news. Good Butterbur remembered them (rather miraculously, in Frodo’s opinion), and stopped by their table for a long while. He talked more than he listened, but the news was uplifting.

The hobbits ate ravenously throughout the day to make up for their recent missed and meager meals. They joined in with the singing, though Frodo resisted any temptation to climb atop tables. Several of the local hobbits expressed concern over Sam’s foot, and were not surprised at all to hear that his injury had occurred in the Old Forest. Greater was their surprise that Sam and Frodo had ventured there of their own volition.

More than once, Sam urged Frodo to leave the common-room and go to bed, yet Frodo refused. Closing his eyes for longer than a blink invited memories of the wight’s yellow eyes…or blood running down Sam’s arm. He dreaded what further nightmares sleep would bring.

But he could not stop the sun from setting, and it was a struggle to keep his eyes open through supper.

“You should eat somethin’ more, if you don’t mind my saying so,” Sam said from across the table, only to pause with a sheepish duck of his head. “But of course I’ll still love you if you don’t.”

Frodo’s lips curled in a weary smile. He obediently swallowed another spoonful of stew. Finally, he finished the meal to Sam’s satisfaction and yawned. “I suppose we should find our room,” he said reluctantly. “You, at least, must stay off that ankle.”

But now that it finally came to it, Sam hesitated. “It’s so…” He glanced around the inn. “It’s so close in here.”

Yes. After spending several nights in the open, the walls and roof felt almost foreign.

Frodo stood. “How about some fresh air first?” It would be good for Sam, and it would keep him awake just a little longer.

Sam looked relieved. “Yes, that’s what I wanted.”

Frodo led the way out a back door, to a small porch nestled against the hill behind the inn. There they found a few tables and chairs, some Man-sized, some hobbit-sized. Sam perched on the edge of a table and rested his foot up on the railing surrounding the porch.

“Aye,” he sighed, “I’m not sure I could’ve walked a step farther before that Man showed up. Pretty lucky, isn’t it, how he came along the road like that, all of a sudden and with a wagon and all?”

“Lucky?” Frodo blinked.

“Well, it sure was nice.”

Lucky. Was that it? Luck? None of the unlooked-for aid during the Quest had seemed like luck at the time…and how was this any different? So was it all mere coincidence? Or was it all something more?

Sam tilted his head up and whistled. “Will you look at that!”

Frodo followed his gaze to the night sky. Oh, a thousand stars glittered overhead. They seemed, in one sense, cold and fierce. Relentless and infinite. In another sense, they looked as if they might have been flung into the night sky with joyful abandon, like a child at play might toss sparkling sand into the air.

Between the two extremes, Frodo felt torn. All he knew for certain, standing there beneath their expanse, was how small he felt.

Small, and almost…afraid. Afraid of what, exactly, he could not say.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Sam breathed. “To think, we get to be here lookin’ up at ’em. You know, there was a star in Mordor…just the one…and it gave me hope, somehow. Reminded me that all the Darkness couldn’t defeat that Light, helped me believe that even the Shadow must pass.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, you were asleep,” Sam said apologetically. “I didn’t think I should wake you, begging your pardon.”

Frodo nodded in understanding. A glimpse of a star could not possibly have brought him the same hope that it had brought Sam, and he had been in dire need of the physical virtue of sleep. Better for Sam to carry hope for both of them.

“And maybe it sounds silly, but I sometimes wonder if that star was put there for me.”

Frodo tilted his head. “For you?”

Sam shrugged and blushed in the starlight. “I’m not meanin’ to make myself sound more important than I am. It’s just…anyone big enough to make stars is big enough to know I’d have needed that specific star right then, don’t you think?”

Frodo frowned. “Perhaps…”

“You said,” Sam continued tentatively, “that you don’t see how important folk like the Valar could enjoy you. But how can you feel that way when you look at the stars?”

“They don’t make you feel…well, insignificant?” Frodo shifted his weight from foot to foot, because insignificant was putting it very neutrally.

Sam smiled shyly. “No, sir. Well, yes, I s’pose, but in a good way at that. It’s one thing when I’m in the garden, under the sun, with my hands in fresh soil, and I think: how special it is that I get to be doing this. That’s one sort of joy, you could say. A close, comfortable one. This is a different sort. A bit bigger and even a little scary, sometimes, with just how big it is. But it’s still a gift, I think.”

Frodo studied him, studied the stars reflected in his shining eyes. Perhaps it was easier for Sam to believe all this when he had nothing to hide.

“Well, what about the gifts you’ve been given?” Sam prompted.

Frodo shuffled his feet. If the great and powerful ones took such notice of him as to give him gifts…what else had they seen?

It was overwhelming.

Terrifying.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s like how gardening and that one star are gifts given special to me,” Sam explained patiently. “Somethin’ beautiful in the world that strikes you deep down. And,” he added, “somethin’ that has nothing to do with savin’ the world or any of that.”

Frodo let out a long breath. He felt, oddly, like a tween again, struggling with a particularly difficult translation of Elvish. “I don’t know.” He didn’t quite enjoy anything the same way as he used to, but…. “Poetry, I suppose.”

Sam lit up. “Poetry! Yes, that’s a good one, if you don’t mind me saying so. What else?”

You, Frodo thought—and was struck deeply, just as Sam had said. Oh yes, but Sam was a gift, the most precious gift he had ever received, too precious for words.

Sam simply nodded. “I can see you’ve thought of something. Well, that’s good. Just hold onto that, then, and think: someone important and powerful knew how much that gift would mean to you.”

Frodo closed his eyes.

Poetry and language. Songs and tales. The smell of parchment and ink. Hidden paths in the Shire, tunnels of green. Fresh-baked bread and crisp apples and good, rich wine.

Bilbo.

Sam.

Stars.

It was overwhelming. But it was good.

Because it wasn’t about the Quest. It wasn’t about the Ring. It was only about…Frodo, hobbit of the Shire, blessed by all these things even despite his worst mistakes, and for no reason other than—

“There it is,” Sam whispered.

Frodo opened his eyes. “What?”

Sam was looking at him with some emotion that could not be named. “There it is. That’s what I was talkin’ about before. Hope.”

~

It was a long time before either stirred. Frodo could not say why Sam was content to remain still and silent—he only knew for himself that he wanted to remain wrapped in the peace of this moment for as long as he could.

Finally, Sam wiggled his foot. “Should we go up to bed? Mind, but don’t think I’ve forgotten you haven’t slept for two nights.”

Frodo smiled. “But you’ll still love me if I choose to stay awake all night again?”

“Well, yes. But please don’t do that,” Sam added in a rush.

Frodo laughed. “Not to worry. I’m sure I couldn’t if I tried.”

Returning to the inn, they found their way to their small room. Sam lit a lantern, illuminating a little round table with chairs, washstand, and two beds. The round window gave the place a homelike feel.

Frodo hurried to set their packs on the table, then dragged one of the chairs over to the washstand for Sam to finally clean the cut on his arm. Sam hissed as he unwound the bloodied cloth.

Frodo hovered at his side. “How bad is it?”

Sam made a face. “What was it you said about my ankle? Something about how it could be worse?”

“Pardon me for trying to be optimistic,” Frodo retorted.

“About broken bones?” Sam ran cold water over the wound, muttering under his breath about whether Bree had water as clean as in the Shire.

Frodo fetched a fresh bandage and returned to hover anxiously behind him.

Sam rewrapped the wound. “It’s really not that bad, you know. Might be I’ll get a nice scar out of it, something that’ll impress even Merry and Pippin.”

Frodo fought down the guilt and snorted.

Sam yawned. “Bed, I think.”

Frodo darted ahead to pull back the thick covers for him, relieved when Sam didn’t argue about doing his proper duty. Instead, Sam simply climbed in, and allowed Frodo to arrange his foot on additional pillows, and let Frodo tuck the blankets back around him again.

But then Frodo turned toward the second bed.

“No,” Sam said, propping himself up on his uninjured arm.

Frodo jumped a little. “What?”

“No. Not over there.”

Frodo folded his arms tightly across his chest. “I beg your pardon?”

Sam was unapologetic. And there was a strength in him, not belied by his positioning in the bed like an invalid. “I promised to love you enough to let you stay broken. And you promised you’ll love me even if I can’t fix you. We’re both still struggling to believe those promises, aren’t we? So I reckon it’d be easier for both of us if you slept in another bed—me, ’cause at least I’d know you got a good night’s sleep, and you, ’cause you could keep all that brokenness of yours boxed up tight where it won’t bother me. But I’m not settling for that.”

“Sam…” Frodo said helplessly.

“We’re not just gonna settle for easy, are we? You and me, after all we’ve been through?”

“There’s easy,” Frodo said, “and there’s hard, and then there’s…” Frightening. Vulnerable. Dangerous. “Impossible.”

“Now, Mr. Frodo.” The slight smirk did not lessen the determination in Sam’s eyes. “You smote down a barrow-wight just yesterday, and you say this is impossible?”

Frodo flushed. “I know, I know, but…” He scuffed his heel against the floor in frustration.

Something changed in Sam’s tone. “It’s worth it, isn’t it?”

Frodo tensed. “What is?”

“Well…us,” Sam said quietly.

Frodo wet his lips. “Yes.”

“Then come here next to me and prove it.”

Ears burning, jaw clenched, Frodo marched over to the far side of the bed. Sam was already on the left side, meaning that if Frodo got in on the other side, at least he would not be near the broken ankle.

He pulled back the covers and slid beneath them. The bed creaked as Sam lied down flat again. Frodo hesitated. Then, with a quick breath, he rolled over to let his head rest not on the pillows, but against Sam’s shoulder. Sam wasted not a moment before he slipped his arm around him. His right arm. Frodo could feel the bandage through his nightshirt.

It was all right. He was forgiven.

Frodo let his eyes close.

But after a moment, Sam shifted.

Frodo kept his eyes closed.

Sam shifted again.

It was too much. Frodo pushed himself up onto one elbow. “Does your arm hurt terribly?”

“Just stings a bit,” Sam said quickly. “It’s all right.”

“I’m so sorry, Sam.” Frodo winced. “I know I keep saying it, but—”

“Well, don’t worry,” he interrupted lightly. “You can stab me again anytime you feel like it.”

Frodo sat up. “What?”

“You can,” Sam insisted, “and I’ll still love—”

Frodo hit him over the head with a pillow. But he was laughing despite himself. “Thank you, Sam. Truly.”

“For what? Dragging you on this pointless adventure?”

“I don’t…” Frodo wet his lips. “I don’t think it was pointless. I think I have much to thank you for. You may not have found the healing for me that you sought, but…”

He struggled again to find the words—not like before, when the words he needed had been too choked by fear. This time, he found himself struck by the weight of everything Sam meant to him.

“Just, thank you,” Frodo whispered.

Sam blinked up at him in the darkness, gentle and understanding.

It was overwhelming. But it was good.

Frodo lowered himself back down onto the bed, in the cradle of Sam’s arm. He closed his eyes again and allowed sleep to take him wherever it would.