Work Text:
For a week it was much of the same--rugged terrain, a far away glimpse of mountains to the east, and a wind from them that just would not let up. After a lone wolf startled the company out of sleep with its howling that night Sam and Frodo had lain together under Boromir's eyes, Strider had changed tactics to travel in the morning and night and sleep in the afternoon, without a fire. Sam was cold, he was hungry, his feet were so numb he didn't even notice when he cut them on sharp rocks or twigs, and he was testy to boot. Small wonder Frodo generally left him alone.
The sun was just past it zenith when Gandalf called for a halt to eat and rest. The sky was clear today, 'perilously clear," Strider called it. After a cheerless meal of dried meat and fruit, Sam sat for a moment in the shade of a large boulder, watching Boromir teach Merry and Pippin the finer points of swordplay. Frodo was asleep next to Gandalf. Of all them he seemed to tire the most easily, no doubt thanks to the Ring and his mended wound.
Sam blinked as Merry came up to him and held out a hand to offer Sam help up. "Boromir says you should be practicing with us." The look on Merry's face was apologetic but eager; he was probably tired of having to defend himself against Pippin's boundless energy.
Sam sighed. This was Boromir's latest project: ready the hobbits for battle. Since Frodo had volunteered to take the Ring, there had been tutors in Rivendell eager to teach him basic self defense. Sam had learned a little from some of the elves, then on the journey Strider had continued the lessons, but Sam had trouble learning from him, and the elves too, for that matter. The Ranger and elves moved with the same easy grace--grace Frodo had learned quickly, treating it like a dance--but grace was not one of Sam's strong suits. He felt about as graceful as a duck in a dress. (Something he knew about firsthand as his sister Marigold had once put her dolls' clothes on a neighbor's duck and watched it careen and crash around the Row, overturning Dad's wheelbarrow and a few of Ma's potted geraniums.)
Sam had felt so awkward, he hadn't learned much, he knew. And with Strider in particular he seemed to have trouble concentrating on the lessons--when he watched the Ranger bestow praise on Frodo and smile one of his rare smiles, it was as if a hive of angry bees had taken up residence in his head.
So it was with reluctance he took Merry's hand and forced his tired legs to stand. At least he wouldn't feel too clumsy next to Pippin and his mad lunges. And he didn't much care what Boromir thought of him so there would be no embarrassment there either.
Sam started to walk over to where Boromir and Pip were practicing in a clearing between clumps of brush, when Merry pulled him aside. "Sam, I've already spoken to Frodo, but I thought I should talk to you too. I want to say I'm very happy you and Frodo have--" he blushed, "--well, have found each other." His brows drew together as his eyes watched Pippin parrying Boromir's blow. The two were laughing. "I do have to say you two have put me in a rather uncomfortable position."
Sam felt the blood rush to his face. "I told Mr. Frodo--"
Merry laughed. "Yes, he told me. It's quite all right. I could hardly keep Pippin innocent forever. It's just . . ." Sam didn't think he'd ever seen the Brandybuck blush, but that's what the rose color creeping into his cheeks just had to be. "Well you see I . . . and he--not yet, mind you, but he's been asking. And I'm really trying to protect him. It's not a good idea--we're both heirs who have to marry and have children and it will only end up hurting him . . . so I've managed to hold it off so far." His lips made the little puckered shape they made whenever he was frustrated; many a time Sam had seen that look in regards to figuring out Mr. Frodo's mind before he decided when to leave the Shire.
Did Merry mean what Sam thought he did? That Pippin wanted a sort of relationship like Frodo and him? They were close cousins . . . so very close. Yes, it made sense. He could see it blossoming. But not quite at this time, just like he and Frodo had been just a little too soon. Winter frost could kill a bud that opened too early. Sam wasn't sure quite what to say, except, "Well, best of luck to you and Pip, then. I know you'll take good care of him."
Merry clapped him on the shoulder. "Believe, me, it's not as easy as all that!" He grew serious a moment, his eyes intent on Sam and it seemed he was debating with himself. "I should also say . . ." He trailed off, eyes going dark, inward. He glanced over at Frodo. "He mentioned you wondered who . . ." He blew out a harsh breath, scowling and eyeing Sam with what looked like worry. Sam shook his head. What was he trying to say?
Pippin called out "Merry, are you going to take all day? My arm's getting tired! Get Sam to keep Boromir busy a bit!"
"We can talk later," Merry said in a rush, dragging Sam along. "Just this--be gentle with Frodo's heart. He doesn't show things sometimes, when he's hurt. Rather like some others I could mention." Before Sam could puzzle that one out, he was next to Pippin and Boromir and Pippin was helping to unsheathe his short sword and arrange his cloak for fighting. Sam gave a long suffering look at Pippin but the little mite only grinned.
Boromir stood next to Sam, and Sam was reminded again just how *big*a Man Borimor was; Sam was about eye level with his--hmm, well, best not to think on that. "All right then, Sam, get into the ready position. We'll try you against Merry for a moment."
Merry raised his sword and did a few quick lunges and retreats, testing Sam's defenses as Sam clumsily tried to remember the correct way to parry each attack. They got their blades tangled, and Sam nearly dropped it. He fought down a flush of shame as he faced Boromir whose face showed only a troubled expression. A kind face . . . Sam had never noticed that before . . .
"Has no one taught you the proper guard positions?" Boromir said at last.
Sam caught himself from snapping back something insolent just in time. Why did this Man upset him so? He felt a strange, raw need to impress him, and his failure was beginning to hurt. "The elves did, sir--well at least they tried. I guess I'm just not suited to be a warrior."
Boromir looked at him with something perilously close to pity. The last thing Sam wanted. "Nonsense. Of all the hobbits I would expect you to be best at this, with proper training. You have the build--" He smiled. "--and the temperament for it."
What was that supposed to mean? Sam's belly heated in anger, but before he could mutter an excuse to quit and leave, the warrior crossed behind him then knelt down so that Sam's back was hard against his chest, his legs against Boromir's taut thighs. One of Boromir's hands reached out to take Sam's sword arm and with gentle pressure moved it into the 'ready' position; the other pressed down at Sam's waist to put him into a defensive crouch.
"Here, let us teach it to you this way," Boromir's husky voice rumbled somewhere near Sam's ear.
This was not supposed to be exciting him . . .but it was. Sam felt his whole body responding and cursed the thin fabric of his breeches as his backside rubbed against the supple leather of Boromir's surcoat and the hard chainmail beneath that. He fought to keep himself from trembling or the blood wholly rushing to his face as Boromir turned his left thigh back, positioning his foot, and murmuring, "Keep a perpendicular stance--most stable, and well enough apart to either leap forward or back," then that same hand was trying to shake out Sam's free arm. "If you're fighting against a larger enemy--which will be most of the time for you little ones, use both hands on your sword. Otherwise, relax this arm back here, out of the way."
Sam forced himself to relax and let the big Man show him the proper positioning. He had to admit, were it not for his sudden discomfort, this was a much better way of learning. Once his body was shown the proper position, it remembered it. Boromir wrapped both arms around to show him the eight parry positions, naming them, "Arm up to defend the head--parry one. Parry two. Down to defend the body--your most common target. Parry Four. Parry Six. Lower, Parry seven. Parry Eight. And to complete the defenses, parry three, and parry five. Show me."
Sam did so, running through each parry several times before Boromir gave him a slap on the back and a "Good Job!" The Man rose to his feet, and Sam was hard pressed not to stop him or lean back for just a little more feel of that strong body. Oh toads and salamanders! How shameful was this, being attracted to the ox! Except he wasn't behaving like an ox now. He was being downright kind.
Sam wasn't sure if he was feeling hot or cold; the wind blew his hair into his eyes and his cloak around him, hopefully hiding any evidence of his state as Boromir set Merry against him again.
Merry and Pip had apparently missed whatever reactions Sam had been going through with Boromir behind him; with a brazen shout, Merry attacked, trying out feints and stabs and even a few disengage moves that Sam was hard put to defend. Still, it was a sight better than last time; at least now his parries were actually working. Pippin cheered and Boromir stifled a chuckle into his glove, and after a moment Sam could feel himself smiling as he hadn't smiled in days. Almost fun, this. Not that he really felt much of a warrior, training or no. He'd have Boromir know he was still a gardener at heart.
He actually tried a few lunges of his own and managed to knock Merry's sword away on a rather forceful riposte. Merry laughed and threw up his hands. "I'm spent. How about we call that a lesson?"
Pippin nodded. "I'm hungry."
Boromir sighed, shaking his head at the two, and with a great sweep of his hand, said, "Very well, then, off with you. But I think I'll have one more go with Sam here." He stared at Sam, his grey eyes unfathomable. "If you don't mind."
Sam shrugged, not trusting himself to say anything further. He was trembling again, but whether with fear, ire, or expectation he wasn't quite certain. This Man certainly seemed to stir up his emotions as few others could, but he couldn't rightly say why. He didn't trust the Man, not farther than he could throw him, and he didn't like him. Or at least he hadn't liked him, until today. And he certainly did not want him. Absolutely not. Despite the fact his body was responding again just by the look Boromir was giving him . . .
Boromir drew his blade, a good two and a half times the length of Sam's short sword, and took up position across from him, his gaze dark and smoky. "I know you've never trusted me, Sam, but I am doing this for you. We all know you're going to be closest to the Ringbearer in any trouble, and I think you need to be able to defend yourself against an enemy. Let's pretend someone my size is attacking you. How will you defend? Or attack? I'm going to first go through the parries again with you, let you feel what it is to deflect a larger blade. Then I'm going to attack. Are you ready?"
Did Boromir know Sam's fears? That someday he really would have to defend Frodo, very likely against Boromir himself? It was unsettling, but Sam couldn't deny the fact he needed this practice, for precisely those fears. He swallowed and gave a nod, grasping the hilt with both hands and checking his stance to the way Boromir had shown him. Then he watched for Boromir's movements.
"Parry one! Parry four! Parry seven!" Boromir went from parry to parry, striking with what had to be near his full strength so that Sam was hard put to deflect the blows, forced several times to retreat or be hit with the flat of his blade. Relentlessly the Man delivered blows, until Sam's arms were aching and sweat poured into his eyes, but miraculously, he was holding his own; one hit did connect with his shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise, but that was all. He was amazed that he was actually strong enough to deflect blow after blow. Boromir stopped calling out the necessary parries and began advancing on him and now Sam knew he had to attack or be overcome. He tried a disengage, but that was useless--he'd never wrest the sword from the big Man. He tried lunging under Boromir's defense, and one swipe actually came rather close. Boromir backed up a step and lowered his blade.
"I don't think I want you coming closer than that. Very well done."
They were both sweating, Sam saw; he had actually given the warrior a decent workout. With a smile, Boromir offered him a gloved hand, which he shook, smiling. "Fair to say I've gotten the gist of it there, sir?" Sam panted, feeling giddy and relaxed all at the same time. The anger was gone. He felt himself again. For the moment, anyway.
Boromir made a move to ruffle Sam's hair, as he so often did Merry and Pip, but hesitated just shy of his head, moving instead to squeeze a shoulder. "Fair to say, yes, I would say that." He seemed ready to say more, his lips partially open--Sam felt a shiver go through him imagining the feel of those lips, the neat trimmed beard. Suddenly he felt chilled and afraid again. He drew close his cloak.
"I'd best be back to Mr. Frodo. Little enough time to rest before we move again, I expect," Sam murmured, and ducked away before he could find out what else the Man was struggling to tell him.
As he passed through the brush back to camp, he heard Boromir behind him, "You're a loyal one, Sam, very loyal." There was no mistaking it--pain and regret in that voice. Sam fought the urge to look back and see the expression on the Man's face.
Frodo was still asleep. After a good swallow of water and change of shirts, Sam managed to calm himself enough to where he could lie down next to his master and think of sleep.
But it was a good while before sleep finally found him.
He wasn't so sure of his loyalty any more.