Work Text:
They were five days out of Rivendell, and already thoughts of warm beds--actually warm anything--were blown away by the never ceasing wind which tore through cloak, wound its way through jacket, weskit and shirt, in to the very bone to chill and create misery. Sam was in the back of the Company, leading poor old Bill who was probably wishing he'd been left behind by now. Ahead of him Boromir, Pip and Merry walked together as the hobbits had found only Boromir seemed willing to listen to their endless chatter and laugh at their horseplay and jokes. Ahead of them the dwarf and elf walked stiffly, neither talking, eyeing each other suspiciously. At the front led Gandalf, and behind him Aragorn and Frodo.
After Frodo's night with Aragorn, Sam had been grateful to learn that Aragorn was leaving with a party of scouts. He was away for much of the time the rest of the Fellowship was in Rivendell, and during that time Frodo and Sam had tightly woven their relationship--he was no longer only a servant now; Sam felt truly that he had Frodo's heart in his care as well as his person. He had made love to Frodo, filled him with his seed as it were, trying to claim him. But he could not drive out the jealousy. Like that poisonous shard they had removed from dear Frodo's shoulder, it burned deep, trying to pierce his heart.
He knew Frodo had remained loyal since then. He knew Frodo was sorry. Strider too--the Ranger had come to speak with him shortly before he left on his scouting foray, trying to make certain that things were well between Sam and Frodo, apologizing for any hurt he had caused. To fault the future King was near ridiculous--Sam couldn't imagine how anyone could fail to fall to Frodo's beauty and plight. Nor could Sam fault Frodo for his needs, especially given that he had since followed his promise. Frodo was too precious to be angry with, too dear.
That left only himself to hate.
Bill snorted and bobbed his head at something on the wind as they walked, but a touch from Sam soothed the animal as it plodded along. "Steady on there, Bill. Anything we should worry about?" Sam asked in a low voice. Ahead of him, Boromir gave him a queer look, apparently not approving of his speaking with the pony. Sam bristled.
This was one member of the Fellowship Sam wondered if it had been wise to include, after his words and actions at the Council. Strider belonged on this mission, and Sam was glad to have his protection even if the whispered words he and Frodo shared twisted in his veins. The elf and dwarf had already shown their talent in wood lore for the elf and the art of lighting a fire in the wind for the dwarf. Every time Sam looked at Boromir, however, he knew there would be trouble, make no mistake.
"Does Bill smell something?" Merry had noted Boromir's look and turned around to walk backwards a few paces, his gold-touched curls blowing into his face. Boromir smiled down at him and used one large gloved hand to brush the curls out of his eyes. The man of Gondor seemed strangely fascinated by all the hobbits--all except Sam, who he seemed to go out of his way to avoid or talk to. Sam's fiery glare at him probably had something to do with that.
Sam spoke up against the wind, "Perhaps, Mr. Merry, but he don't seem too concerned. I'm certain Bill would tell me if things were amiss."
Boromir snorted and shot him a look. Was that humor in his eyes, or was he just feeling' high and mighty? Sam's brows drew together, anger heating his limbs for a moment against the cold. With a shake of his head and a shrug, the Man turned back towards the trail and their slow progress. Sam tried to burn into Boromir's back with his eyes, happy to have somewhere else to focus his venom. It was hard to tell what the warrior looked like under his cloak, armor, and other odd garments, but one thing was clear--he was larger and stronger than anything that walked on two legs Sam had seen, perhaps even stronger than Strider. If he decided to turn on them and attack Frodo for the Ring, Sam wasn't sure he could stop him. That power in his chest and arms was evident when he chopped wood for the nightly fire--one hand probably held the strength to strangle the life from a helpless hobbit. Sam feared that strength.
He also craved it.
"If I were built like that ox, Mr. Frodo wouldn't have nothin' to fear from no one, not orc, man or beast!" Sam thought to himself. An odd shiver ran through him as he watched Boromir lift Pippin over a fallen tree in their path. Sam meanwhile was forced to go around after a few failed attempts at getting Bill to jump over the log.
"A horse would have served better, I think," Boromir said in a softer voice than usual, walking over to help Bill past the tangle of branches and the rocks off the path. Sam seethed at him, hating what he was--a Man, a warrior, something like Strider that Frodo seemed to find so fascinating but without any of Strider's nobility and gentleness. He was a boor and a brute.
And Sam wished he were him.