Work Text:
Sam avoided spending any time alone with Boromir for the next few days, but things soon became busy enough that there wasn't time to think about his tangled feelings, not for Boromir or Frodo or even Strider. A few days after his heated sparring match, they entered the land of Hollin. Strider stopped the party in the early afternoon and announced they could rest the remainder of the day and the night as well. It didn't take long for everyone to roll out the bedrolls and go to sleep--it had been days since they'd stopped for more than four or five hours at a time and a decent sleep. Sam watched everyone resting with a slight tinge of wistfulness--he had first watch. He gave a start as Strider materialized at his side from his scouting, folding his long legs to sit next to him.
"I'd like to sit with you a moment, if I may."
Sam tried not to stiffen as the Ranger spoke, adjusting his position on the broad rock overlooking the camp to accommodate the Man. His reactions were getting a tad silly these days, he knew, but he just couldn't much trust the race of Man lately. All too well he was getting an understanding of what Frodo's problem had been.
"Something wrong, sir?" Sam asked as Strider tilted his head, listening to the dead quiet of the land under the bright cloudless sky. First warm day they'd had, and finally that awful wind had let them alone.
The Ranger focused his attention back on Sam, his grey eyes piercing him. "I don't know yet. How are things with you? Frodo worries that you've been upset with him. You've been more quiet than usual lately. We could use more of your poetry."
Sam blushed at the kind gleam in Strider's eyes. "Ain't the right company here for any of my stuff. One Man and my brethren's one thing, but here we have an elven prince, a dwarf, and the son of the man caring for your kingdom . . . . never dreamed I'd be traveling in such company, sir. Fair freezes my tongue, if you like."
Strider smiled. "If it is only that, I'm sure you'll get used to everyone in time. I know it has hardly been the atmosphere for singing, but you've looked so troubled. Is everything all right?"
Sam shrugged, feeling decided awkward at Strider's insistent questioning. He was hardly going to speak plainly to the Man. A gardener, telling off a King that he should have said no to his master's advances? Ha--if the lads at the Green Dragon had heard such a tale, they'd bust their seams laughing. Only Sam didn't much feel like laughing. Crying, more like. He still honored and admired the Ranger. If his heart weren't caught up in the matter, he'd be the first to take Frodo's hand and place it in Aragorn's.
He was a sorry fool to be caught between them at all.
"I love another, you know. As much as I care for and admire Frodo, we never would have lasted together in any kind of relationship--we're simply too different." The Ranger looked inward. "or perhaps too alike . . . " He looked troubled a moment, then smiled again. "At any rate, it was not meant to be. He loves you. If anyone will get him to Mordor, I know you will, and care for him after, whatever happens. But you must let him love you. I don't know what exactly is happening between you. I only know that the two of you seem very unhappy when really should be happy to have found love in each other."
Sam winced as Strider's leather-enclosed hand gripped his shoulder. The sun might be shining, but he felt no warmth. Strider continued. "You have to let it go. You can't cage a wild bird. Frodo was free, and he returned to you. Accept him for what he is and let go of the past."
Sam shook his head--he was past all that; it had no bearing on his current dilemma. How could he blame Frodo his urges when he himself was suffering them? But he certainly wasn't talking to Strider about that.
They sat in silence so thick every breath was a roar, every movement a loud grating. Sam swore he could hear his blood flowing through his veins, hear the loud creak in his bones. Strider had earlier said he wondered at the lack of birds or other natural noises usually found in these parts. Sam held his breath as he caught sight of something in the distance, flying towards them.
"What's that, Strider? It don't look like a cloud," he whispered.
The next few minutes became a blur. Strider pulled him down, hissing at him to be quiet, then crows, big black ones, circling and screaming, flew past overhead. Strider woke Gandalf after that, and the company decided to move out as soon as it was dark. Sam gave up the watch to Strider, and gratefully took to his bed to be near Frodo should those black swarms return. When he was woken at dark, there was little time to talk to anyone; he took rear guard position on the march leading Bill, with Legolas walking beside him. Gandalf, Strider, and Frodo were at the front again, the two larger figures guarding Frodo closely like mother geese.
For once Sam was glad. The danger of the mission was suddenly startlingly clear, and his heart was pounding. Through the night they hurried towards the line of mountains curving in from the east, then waited anxiously through the next day in hiding as flocks of dark shapes continued to cross the skies. Strider announced they would be climbing up into the mountains--Sam tried to get a feel for whether this was anywhere near that Mount Doom, but only received a bemused look as a reward. He flushed. Confounded maps didn't serve him a bit in these vast lands.
When the blizzard on the knees of Caradhras hit, Sam's whole world became the struggle to keep Bill moving and make sure Frodo didn't fall, but once they stopped and the cold began to send the four hobbits into sleep, Sam realized it was Boromir who had saved all of them with his insistence on bringing firewood. As the wind howled and Sam wrapped his arm around Frodo to share what little warmth he could, he felt the warrior's gaze on him, through the night. The big man was sharing his warmth with Merry and Pippin, but always his gaze strayed to where Sam sat sandwiched between good old Bill and his master. Was it the Ring's pull that drew Boromir, or was it . . . . Sam didn't want to complete the thought. It certainly wasn't the time for it.
But he had no choice but to confront it the next morning. Sam watched Strider and Boromir cut through the snow with amazing strength and diligence and felt his dislike melt further into . . . something. Something else. The two Men carried Merry and Pippin first, but it wasn't until they returned that Sam realized what was about to happen. Of course Strider picked up Frodo to carry on his back. That left Boromir . . . and him.
"On my back, then, Sam. Gandalf and Gimli can lead Bill."
Sam hesitated, imagining the feel of that strong body beneath him and himself in such an awkward position should his body decide to rebel against him. "I'm capable of leading Bill myself. Just a bit tired, that's all. I don't need to be carried, sir," he said in a low voice, watching as Strider went first into the path they had carved. Had Legolas said twice a Man's height at one point? Well, he supposed if they could burrow through, so could he.
Boromir smiled--not patronizing, but understanding his position, Sam felt. "You're strong; I understand this; but this has nothing to do with that. It's purely about your height. You won't be able to breathe under the snow. Please, trust me. Let me carry you."
He did trust him. More and more, as Sam saw what he was capable of. Yes, certainly there was a point past which that trust might be broken, but wasn't there such a point in any person? He was getting rather close himself. Nodding lest his hesitation appear to be lack of trust, Sam came forward as the big Man knelt down, back towards him.
"You'll have to hold tight; I'll be using my arms," Boromir said, and rose as Sam grabbed hold of his shoulders and gripped his waist tight with his legs, locking his feet in front. Very awkward this felt, especially with Sam's big pack in back, but there was certainly enough to hold onto that he was pretty sure he'd not fall off once they hit the drift. Oh, spare him that embarrassment, at least. That, and one other.
Muscles rippled under the surcoat and mail as Boromir began wading through the snow, helping one last time to widen the path for Gimli and the pony bringing up the rear. Sam had hoped the mail would provide enough bulk to mask the sensations of musculature beneath, but it only seemed to make them even more plain to his senses. This was Boromir's third trip; his body was hot with exertion and sweat ran off the side of his face in streamlets, dampening the dark blond hair at his nape. He smelled of leather and iron and something more, something no hobbit would ever smell of. Sam couldn't help it; he leaned in close to the back of the warrior's neck, breathing in the scent of him.
And the movement of muscles! Sam could feel the power behind each thrust as Boromir shoved aside the snow, the power in those legs as he drove them forward. Oh this was no good--these movements were far too similar to another activity, something where generally it was Sam doing the thrusting, but just once he'd like to have someone else do it for him . . . that tore it. He was getting hard. Oh, stupid, stupid, fool that he was! He tried to think of something else--Frodo lying wounded in Rivendell. No good. Frodo miraculously recovered and invited him into that gigantic bed of his . . . Lobelia. Lobelia Sacksville- Baggins. He held that thought. It worked--for a little. Until his feet slipped a little and brushed against something--no, that was in the wrong spot to be Boromir's sword . . .
"Almost there," Boromir grunted, shifting his weight to help Sam climb up higher again. Was that a slight hitch in the Man's breathing? Had he thrust backwards with his legs to get a better feel of Sam pressed up against him, or to shove him away?
"Uh-huh," was about all Sam could think to say. He was too afraid to say anything more. This new trust between them was delicate. The last thing he needed was to find out Boromir didn't have any urgings towards him. Or did. He wasn't sure which was worse.
They reached the highest part of the drift, and Sam could hear the high voices of Merry and Pippin on the other side, checking on Frodo. The snow towered over their head; Sam could imagine the despair Boromir must have felt when they reached this the first time, not knowing how far it went this way. He burrowed his head into the nape of Boromir's neck as snow fell down upon them, trying to smother them. Heat from the warrior's body warmed him against the cold snow seeping into his cloak and breeches. He could hear the heart of the warrior pounding as he struggled to get them through and imagined lying on top to listen to that pounding in the aftermath of lovemaking.
They broke through. Sam nearly leapt off Boromir's back in his haste to get himself under control before Frodo saw anything, before he realized how close he was to throwing himself at Boromir's feet and begging . . . Sam fell face first into the snow. That should look like an accident, he thought, but it had its purpose. The icy cold did fast work to kill his desire. Positive nothing would show now, he rose and laughed as the others dusted him off, assuring them that he was just fine; nothing bruised but his poor ego.
And his heart, as he saw Boromir turn away. Really, he should say something to the Man, try to explain.
He should talk to Frodo.
Tomorrow.