Archive of Our Own ^beta

Samwise Gamgee is digging a hole, and his hands are dirty. There’s mud, dirt, and secrets covering every inch of his skin, and Sam’s not sure how he’ll ever wash his hands enough to be clean of them. Never in his life has he felt more alone.

He’s gotten no one’s permission to do this and poor Mr. Baggins’ doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, but Sam can’t stop. It feels like the type of task one ought to do in the secrecy of twilight, but it’s only early evening and the sun shines down on the dirt as he digs. It doesn’t even have the decency to shadow his work from the rest of the world – instead, Sam’s shadow falls behind him, like even it is trying to flee.  

Truly, though, Sam is thinking of only one thing – digging. More than one worm falls victim to his trowel, and even more than that end up sent flying, but Sam cannot bring himself to feel sorry for them. While these creatures are usually his friends, if one of them has to lose their home he would rather it be them than him.

He digs and he digs, for minutes or hours or years, when suddenly there’s something soft on the end of his trowel. Not soft like mud or grass, but like… hair?

With renewed urgency Sam lifts the dirt, desperate to prove himself wrong even as he uncovers more brown curls with every swipe of his shovel. There’s no way it’s hair, not in Mr. Baggins’ garden! There hadn’t been any hair yesterday when he’d moved the tulips! Surely, he must be mistaken… Except he isn’t, because next comes a forehead, then eyes, then a gently sloping nose and delicate, pink lips.

There is a person in Mr. Baggins’ garden.

At first Sam’s convinced it’s a dead Hobbit, and that he’s just discovered a horrible secret of Mr. Baggins and he’s about to be murdered himself. But then he finishes uncovering the chest of the body (their clothing is rather plain, mostly dull blues and browns, nothing like the bright yellows and reds of Hobbiton) and sees the small but steady rise and fall of their chest, and he sits back on his heels in relief. It only takes a few more moments for all of them to be uncovered, down to their feet (that look just like a Hobbit’s).

It’s anticlimactic when they finally open their eyes. One minute they’re lying in the ground and the next they’re on their feet, clear blue eyes wide and blinking. Sam falls back a little in surprise, but it’s not enough to give him an actual scare. When they open their mouth to speak their voice is clear, which seems a little peculiar. Shouldn’t there be at least a little dirt in their mouth, from their time in the ground? The dirt above them had looked much the same as it had when Sam last saw it, so they must have been down there a while.

“Oh, hello.” They say with a light tone of surprise, like they’ve just received an unexpected visitor rather than woken up from a hole in the ground.

“H-hullo.” Sam replies despite his shock, because his mother raised him well and proper and he knows to always mind his manners

Now that he looks closer, and now that they’re awake, there’s something not quite right about the creature in front of him. Their skin, for one, is much too pale – not even the most recluse of Hobbit’s would allow their skin to lose so much colour or be that bereft of rosiness. Thin, too, like they’ve only been eating breakfast and dinner. And their ears! Sam nearly keels over when they turn their head to look around – he’s never seen a Hobbit with round ears before, not even Liatris Headstrong, and she’s half Big Folk!

Now Sam could probably have put all of that behind him, because he knows better to judge a Hobbit by their looks, but there’s something… bigger at play here. Though the being in front of him stands humbly, shoulders gently curved and smile welcoming, Sam feels absurdly like he’s looking at one of the painted pictures in his Gaffer’s favourite story book, the one with stories about far away lands and adventure. The two impressions war in his head, and Sam is confused.

Despite Sam’s generous show of manners, the being doesn’t seem inclined to return the favour. Instead they look around Mr. Baggins’ garden with wide eyes, taking in the round door to the Hobbit hole and soft winding path like it’s a wonderous sight to behold.  

“Um, excuse me,” Sam begins, trying to grab their attention. It’s immediately given – their blue eyes dart to him with a startling intensity, and for a moment he’s at a loss for words. Never has Sam seen a more beautiful pair of eyes – surely unnatural, with the way they seem to shine, but beautiful, like rays of light filtering through clear water. “Begging your pardon, but are you alright? I’ve never pulled anyone from the ground before, I do hope you aren’t hurt…” A small smile draws across their face, and they nod.

“Yes, I’m quite alright. I don’t suppose you could tell me where I am?”

“You’re in the Shire,” he replies, gesturing out over the rolling hills and scattered Hobbit holes, “Hobbiton to be specific, Mr. Baggins’ garden to be even more specific than that.” A horrible thought comes back to Sam, and his voice drops to a whisper filled with concern – just because they aren’t dead, doesn’t mean that Mr. Baggins couldn’t have.... “Say, Mr. Baggins didn’t bury you here… did he?”

That can’t be the case, it just can’t! Mr. Baggins is much too nice for that sort of business, and he can barely tend his own garden as it is. There’s no way Mr. Baggins is behind this strange matter… right? He looks at them with growing dread, but they just look faintly amused.

“I’ve never met any Mr. Baggins in my life, so no, I don’t think he buried me.”

They open their mouth to continue (giving Sam a view of perfectly white, Hobbit-like teeth), when the wind blows and carries with it voices from over the hill, probably from the fishermen returning home, and Sam nearly jumps out of his skin. He curses his foolishness, immediately dropping to his knees and shoveling dirt back into the hole (which is now quite large, given he had to dig up a body) as fast as he can. How could he have let himself become so distracted?

He abandons the shovel entirely, instead moving dirt with his hands in desperation. If he thought his hands were dirty before he was mistaken – now his skin looks grey from the dust covering every inch of it up to where his sleeves are rolled past his elbows, and small rocks hide under almost all of his fingernails.

As distant footsteps grow nearer Sam’s movements grow more desperate until he’s sobbing as he shovels dirt forward with shaking hands. The sobs that wrack his body hinder his progress but Sam can’t stop, not when he can still see yellow parchment. The hole’s only half full, I’m not going to make it, Sam thinks, and then –

The hole is gone, a pale hand laying where it once was. The being he’d dug up is crouched beside him now, and through tears Sam can see the way they hold a steady finger to their lips. It’s more shock than conscious thought that quiets Sam’s sobs enough for him to hear the fishermen pass by. The two continue crouching for a few minutes to give any stragglers ample time to amble away before either dare to move.

“That was a close one.” They whisper mischievously as they stand, leaning in so close to Sam’s ear their breath tickles his skin. “What were you in such a hurry for, anyway?” Sam leans away from them and the question, instead eyeing the ground where the hole used to be.

“How did you do that?” He asks instead of answering, gesturing to the dirt. “I reckon they’d have caught me if you hadn’t stepped in!”

“It wasn’t hard.” They reply vaguely, taking a step back and out of Sam’s space. “It was rather fun, actually, I so rarely get the chance to help people. Say, what’s your name?” The question is sudden, sounding like two of their thoughts had collided at once. Sam curses himself – had he really not introduced himself?

“Samwise Gamgee, at your service.” Sam replies, bowing deeply at the waist like he does when greeting the more prestigious members of Hobbiton. It feels like the right thing to do, though Sam doesn’t actually know what position if any this being holds in the Shire. If nothing else, they are raised in his eyes alone for the help they have afforded him.

When he straightens up again they’re staring openly at him, in a way similar to how they’d taken in the world around them. It feels uncomfortably like he’s being studied – Sam squirms under the attention, sure that once they find what they’re looking for he’ll come up lacking.

“What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?” He blurts out, eager to distract them.

The moment he speaks their eyes dart back to his, the intense eye contact returning. If it weren’t so intimidating Sam would be awed at how much attention this being gives him. He’s not used to people listening to his words like they matter.

“My name doesn’t matter.” They answer decisively, waving their hand to dismiss the question. “Even if I could remember it, I don’t doubt that any translation would come up utterly lacking. Your language is so quaint – you hardly have any words to express the big things!”

“Uh…” Sam’s having trouble following. Are they not both speaking Westron? “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t really follow…”

“That’s quite alright.” They reply, smiling soothingly. “Now, do you need help fixing those flowers, or are they supposed to look like that?” Sam looks where they’re pointing and his heart drops like a rock to the bottom of the river.

“Oh, no!” He moans, falling to his knees.

“What’s wrong?” They ask, looking down at him in confused amusement. Sam can’t see any humour in the situation.

In his haste to dig a hole deep enough Sam had neglected to notice where the dirt was falling; Mr. Baggins’ tulips were clearly buried. The green stems are broken and bent, not to mention the sad pile of petals that now lie on the ground. It’s obvious to Sam that there’s nothing to be done except clear them away to make way for new seeds, which Mr. Baggins will notice for sure.

“Now I’ve done it – I’ve gone and killed Mr. Baggins’ tulips!” He exclaims, covering his face in his hands. “How will I explain this to him?” There’s no excuse he can think of – there’s only the truth, and to Sam the truth is as good as death.

“Is that all? Here, let me help. It’s the least I can do.” They say, dragging Sam from his thoughts, and before he can insist that they’ve already helped him once and thus don’t owe him anything, the being is kneeling in the dirt beside him. Picking up the pathetic pile of petals they kneel closer to the plants, cupping their hands over the barren heads. When they pull back again, the flowers are whole and healthy again, standing straight right before Sam’s eyes.

“There!” They exclaim. “Beautiful again!” But Sam’s too distracted to listen.

There’s no excuse to be made this time, no way for this to be written off as a trick of the light or a mistake. Those flowers were dead and now they’re alive.

The person sitting next to Sam just created life, like it was nothing!

Like a puzzle, things start to fall together in Sam’s mind. Their strange appearance, the almost-but-not-quite-Hobbit air about them feels more important. Suddenly, it truly hits Sam, more than it had before – he’d dug this person up from Mr. Baggins’ garden.

“Samwise? Are you alright?” They ask, concerned when the silence stretches and all blood drains from Sam’s face. They hold out a hand, most likely in concern, and Sam can’t help but flinch away. However, seeing as they’re both kneeling on the ground, he can’t go far, and just ends up tumbling onto his behind.

“Samwise?” They repeat, and if Sam didn’t know any better, he’d say they look worried. “What’s wrong?”

“A-are you not a God?” Sam asks, cursing the way his voice shakes. Is that too impudent a question? Has he taken too demanding a tone for such a creature so obviously more powerful than himself? Oh, curse it all, that’s why they’d looked so uncomfortable when he asked their name – how could he be so stupid?!

Before Sam can properly panic any more than this though, they laugh.

They laugh, and it sounds like every noise that has ever sounded across Middle Earth all at once. It sounds like music and silence, like trees rustling and metal striking flesh. Sam feels like if he strains his ears he might hear his own voice in the cacophony.

“No, I am not a God.” They reply easily, leaning down and offering Sam a hand. After a moment’s reluctance he takes it and allows himself to be helped to his feet. “To be a God implies reverence and worshipers. I have none, and little desire to gain any.”

Sam looks at them doubtfully – the Big Folk have some Gods that are illegal to worship, and it does not seem to him like that stops them from being Gods. His doubt must be obvious because they laugh again; this time it sounds like the movement of mountains. Sam might have a heart attack if they do it again, yet he also wants nothing more than to hear it, one more time.

“I can see you do not believe me, which is fair enough! Hm… how might I convince you…” With a hand on their chin they look up at the sky, right into the sun. There is no squint to their eyes, like they do not burn at the sight. Sam can’t help but peek into the sky, wondering if perhaps the sun has gone out. This being does not look like any God of the sun, but perhaps they are – Sam doesn’t know enough about Gods to tell. But the sun is still there when he looks up, and he gets sunspots dancing in his vision for his trouble.

“Ah!” They suddenly exclaim, startling him. “To be a God also implies one has a hand in creation, which I most certainly did not. I didn’t create life; life created me. And I am more than glad of that.” They smile, like the two are sharing an inside joke. “Life is a tricky business – I’ve always found it best to leave it to those whose hands are more talented than mine. Just as a sculptor and a painter are not the same, I am not a God.”

Though Sam still does not quite follow their reasoning the confident grin they shoot him is enough to silence the last objections on his lips. It’s not his business what they are or aren’t, he tells himself, just as their name or where they came from isn’t his business. They’re a God, they have more than a right to their privacy!

Besides, there’s something soft about them, something warm and familiar like the feeling of a fireplace on a cold winter’s night, even as looking upon them causes a shiver up his spine. As long as he doesn’t anger them, and as long as they seem to want him around, there’s no harm in talking to them, right? There’s no point in worrying about doing this right seeing as the Hobbits haven’t had a proper, physical God in years – Sam just has to not get things wrong.

“You may ask more questions if you’d like.” They say after a few moments of silence, raising a curious eyebrow. “I think most would.”

“It’s just… I don’t rightly understand what a God is doing in the Shire.” Sam says hesitantly. “Meaning no offence, of course!”

“And I have taken none, Samwise.” They reply with an easy grin. For a moment their eyes almost look troubled but when Sam blinks it’s gone, so it must have just been his imagination. “I don’t quite understand what I’m doing here either.”

“Sam.” Sam says impulsively before he can bite his tongue. Thankfully they don’t look annoyed, just a little confused and a lot amused. “I mean – the only ones who call me Samwise are my mother and Ol’ Gaffer. All my frie- all the Hobbits my age know me as Sam.”

The small grin on their face grows wide and loose with warmth. Something akin to fondness shines in their eyes.  

“Sam.” They say, like they’re testing the syllable on their tongue. It sounds so different coming from their mouth, not plain at all. “Sam, then. I don’t mean to impose, but might I have a tour of your home? I’ve never seen anything quite like it before.”

Sam nods before he’s even fully thought about it.

“Of course!” He exclaims, promptly leading them out of Mr. Baggins’ garden. Bag End is as good a place to start a tour as any – one has a wonderful view of Hobbiton from here.

“This is home.” Sam says, gesturing to the rolling hills dotted with colour and smoke. “That Hobbit Hole down, there just a bit to the west of us-“ he points down the hill “- is mine. Well, the Gamgee’s. And, of course, one mustn’t forget the Party Tree! All Hobbits gather there for festivals and celebrations. The last one was for the equinox, if I remember correctly. It’s a pity you couldn’t have come earlier, as I’m afraid there’s not much excitement to be had around Hobbiton these days-“

Sam’s sure he’s rambling but his companion never stops him or complain even once as the pair begin their way down the path. Instead, they look at everything he points to and listens intently, nodding every once in a while. It’s more attention than Sam’s received in years, possibly ever, and he doesn’t know quite what to do with himself.

Everything continues in a similar vein until they reach the first main path of Hobbiton – the look of wonder on their face (that Sam had been not so subtly staring at) drops at the first sight of company. It’s only the Shirriff, and while Sam is wary of him, he has his own reasons that they have no reason to share. Introducing them would probably be for the better, before anyone sees them wandering around and assumes them to be an intruder. But before Sam can even think of calling out to the other Hobbit he's being dragged quite unceremoniously behind the nearest hedge, a cold palm pressed against his lips.

Maybe it’s the shock, but he stays in their grasp, pressed to their front until the Shirriff is passed. He’s entirely too distracted to struggle even if he wanted to – all Sam can think of is the space between them, or rather, the lack of it. Though their body is cold where it’s pressed against his back rather than warm, Sam has no doubt about how close the two of them are. The palm against his lips is somehow even more distracting. The situation feels entirely too intimate for Sam’s liking (or, that’s what he tries to convince himself).

Finally, after the Shirriff’s footsteps fade into nothing, they release Sam.

“Sorry.” They apologize before he can get a word in. Sheepishly they rub the back of their neck, but there’s no corresponding blush on their cheeks. “I realize that I should have asked first, but I may have panicked, a little.”

Sam’s eyes grow wide – them? Panic? Those two concepts don’t seem like they belong in the same sentence together, or even the same paragraph.

“I-it’s quite alright.” Sam reassures quickly. “I was just a little surprised, is all. Though I’m afraid I don’t quite understand – that was only the Shirriff.”

“Would you think terribly of me if I said I wanted my presence here to remain a secret?” They ask hesitantly. Sam hurries to shake his head, so hard and fast he almost gives himself a headache.

“Oh no, of course not!” He exclaims, already thinking of the best routes to avoid other hobbits. “Here, let’s go this way instead.”

Without thinking Sam reaches out to grab their elbow, and only barely catches himself at the last moment, when he snatches his hand back like he’s been burned. Trying to make up for his mistake (and the embarrassing flush on his cheeks) he hurries ahead, avoiding their eyes as he leads the way.

The path they take is one of Sam’s favourites. It leads out and away from Hobbiton, tagging back towards Bag End for a ways before looping around one of the few uninhabited hills.

It’s uninhabited for good reason, and not for lack of trying. The Gamgees had even tried to settle there once, according to Sam’s Gaffer, but to no avail. While it looks like a normal hill from the outside, it’s set well away from the rest of the Shire, and its insides are pure rock rather than dirt. Many have tried to carve out a home in it and all have failed, leaving the grassy mound untouched. Sam likes to nap on it sometimes, like a cat in the sun. The river nearby is nice, too, clean and clear in a way the Brandywine River isn’t.

If their face is any indication, they seem to like it too – they take in the sight with a wide smile and bright eyes.

“Your home is so beautiful, Sam.” They say, turning to him. Their smile makes his knees weak. “Is there a home in this hill, too?”

“Ah, no-“ Sam hurries to explain, glad to help, “- this hill’s stood empty since the start of the Shire. Nobody can hollow it, you see. Supposedly it’s because of the rock, but I reckon it just wants to be left alone.” He’s never said that last bit to anyone – it sounds stupid, now that it’s out there, but it’s true. Sam’s always felt a strange sort of kinship with this hill, just as far from most of Hobbiton as he is.

They nod, like this makes perfect sense, and continue onward. For a while the two wander the area, though they never leave sight of the hill. The silence makes Sam antsy, for more reasons than one.

“Is there something you wish to say, Sam?” They finally ask, eyeing the way he fiddles with the buttons on his vest in amusement.

“Do you think you could do that again?” The words burst out of Sam in a flood. “The – the miracles, I mean, if it’s not too much trouble.”

In the time he’s had to think since they’d brought that tulip back to life, Sam has realized just how amazing that is. He wants to see it again, just once more, and see if he can feel something. Because, surely, a magical so beautiful must feel even more so.

“Miracles, are they?” They chuckle. “I’ll see what I can do!”

Taking a step backwards they widen their stance and eye their surroundings like they’re looking for a challenge. When their gaze falls upon the hill they practically light up, and with one small, sly look back at Sam, they step up to it, reaching out with a hand.

The instant their palm meets the green grass it parts beneath them, leaving an opening so clean it’s like it had always been there. It doesn’t look hobbit-made in the slightest – if Sam hadn’t seen that with his own eyes, he would’ve thought he’d simply missed seeing it in all his time around the hill. Unfortunately, he doesn’t feel anything different while this happens. He’ll have to settle for the beauty of only witnessing it.

“What do you think?” They say, stepping back with a wide and proud grin. “A miracle, just for Samwise Gamgee.”

Sam blushes, and tries not to focus on the fact that they’d done this for him… Surely, they’d do it for anyone else who asked, like any good God would.

“Impressive!” He hurries to exclaim, clapping politely and returning the smile. Try as he might, though, he can’t bring himself to be as excited about this as the tulip. He’d rather liked the hill as it was, and he doesn’t want to have been the one to ruin its solitude.

Just as Sam’s mood starts to drop there’s a hand on his shoulder, and he jumps in surprise.

“I don’t think it will mind.” They say comfortingly, like he’d spoken aloud, squeezing his shoulder. His skin feels like it burns where their hand makes contact with his shirt. “Especially not if it’s you.”

That’s more than enough encouragement for Sam to venture forth into the cave, and he does so with less trepidation than before.

It’s a small cave, dark and earthy but not damp or claustrophobic. More like a cave for sleeping bears or a family of deer than anything nasty. It’s nice, in a way Sam never thought caves could be. Hobbits live underground, of course, but they live in homes, not caves.

“Do you like it?” They ask from behind Sam, voice soft like the dirt under Sam’s feet. They seem to fit right in here, like they are part of the rock surrounding them. If Sam were to let his eyes unfocus, he’s sure they would disappear.

“It’s brilliant!” Sam replies, smiling. “Absolutely brilliant.” They return his smile tenfold.

“I’m glad – it’s yours, after all.” Sam nearly chokes on his spit.

“Mine?” He exclaims. “You’re surely mistaken – how can I own a cave?” They laugh (and it sounds like the groaning of trees).

“You’re right, we must do something to show everyone that it’s yours.”

Before Sam can tell them that that’s not really what he meant they’re turning around and considering the cave wall before them with a hand on their chin.

“I noticed some of your Hobbit Holes have letters on the front - what are those for? What do they say?” They ask, and Sam blinks, a little confused.

“Some of the folk closer to the river use them so the Big Folk can find their homes easier, for deliveries and such.” He replies. The Gamgees don’t have one, and neither does Mr. Baggins – it’s really only for those with business outside of the Shire.

“Can it be anything?”

“Well, it’s usually numbers but yes, I suppose so-“

“Perfect!” They exclaim, cutting him off with a clap of their hands.

Without another word of explanation they learn forward, steadying themselves against the wall with both of their hands on either side of their head. They take one great breath in and then they let it out slowly, like a child would on a cold window in winter. Then, in the same manner, they reach out with one finger and slowly write on the rock. To Sam’s shock, the drawn letters do not just sit on top of the rock – instead they sink in, like they’re being carved.

“That’s amazing!” Sam breathes reaching out to touch but stopping inches away from the wall. More than anything he wants to leave his own mark, too, but he couldn’t stand the embarrassment if he reached out and it didn’t work.

“Thank you.” They reply, sounding pleased as they finish their word.

It’s not in an alphabet Sam can read – in fact, looking at it makes him quite dizzy, as the letters blur in front of his eyes. They swim in and out of focus frustratingly, leaving Sam feeling like if he just looked harder he’d be able to read it…

“It’s my name.” The God elaborates, watching Sam squint harder and harder with amusement. “To answer your earlier question. I doubt you’ll be able to read it, no matter how hard you try. Our letters were not made for your eyes.”

Sam sighs.

“That’s alright.” He lies. “It looks pretty, anyways.”

For a moment the two just stand in the cave, looking at each other, until they look at Sam with a raised eyebrow and nod towards the wall.

“Well?” They prod. “Are you going to write something? This cave is yours, not mine.”

With a not insignificant amount of trepidation, Sam steps up to the wall. He can’t help but give one last helpless look over his shoulder, but they’re no help. They just grin happily at him, unaware or uncaring of his turmoil.

Sam’s not a scholar, nor a writer or even a reader. Oh, he can read and write, but he’s not fond of either. Mr. Baggins sometimes lends him common books on elves, but that’s about it, and Sam struggles to understand the prose on the best of days. There’s no way his shaky letters are good enough to grace these cave walls forever, certainly not alongside the name of a God. So, in a compromise, Sam slowly reaches out and sinks his palm into the wall. It’s a strange feeling, like he’s putting his hands in warm water rather than stone. After a few seconds he pulls away, instinctively wiping his hand on his trouser though it’s just as clean as before.

When he looks back at them he’s afraid, but he quickly sees the grin on their face and calms. They look positively gleeful at his choice of signature.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” They exclaim, stepping up and pressing their own hand print into the wall, just inches away from Sam’s. “What a splendid idea, Sam.”

“Thank you.” Sam says bashfully, ducking his head.

They step back from the wall and for a moment the pair just stand in silence – they look at their handiwork, but Sam can’t help but glancing at them out of the corner of his eye. He feels a little antsy, a little restless, but he doesn’t dare move before they’re done.

Finally, they speak.

“This has been the most wonderous day.” They say, a gentle smile on their face. Rays from the sun fall in through the entrance and around their face, so low it can only be the last light of day. Time has flown by so quickly, Sam has most certainly missed dinner by now. “Thank you, Sam.”

“I- It was no problem, no problem at all!” Sam exclaims. “I was happy to! And anytime you’re in the Shire, I’d be more than happy to act as your guide again. Assuming you need one, and all.” He adds bashfully, unable to help himself. If there’s any chance to guarantee that Sam will see this being again, he plans to take it.

Slowly, their smile grows, until a grin beams ear to ear. It shows off their dimples spectacularly.

“I shall most certainly take you up on that offer.” They reach out their hand and Sam grabs it without thinking. Luckily, they just want a handshake, which requires minimal thought on his part. “Take care, Sam.”

Then they’re gone, and Sam is alone in the cave. For a few minutes (or maybe an hour) he can do nothing more than stand there, flexing the hand they’d grabbed. When he finally does leave it’s much darker than he’d imagined it would be, like they’d taken the light with them wherever they’d gone. Who knows, maybe they had!

Sam sleeps more soundly that night than he has in months, exhausted from such a day. In fact, he is rather more exhausted than he should be. While his digging had been passionate, his muscles still shouldn’t ache they way they do. He sleeps so soundly he is very nearly late for work, something he has not done in years. In the end, though, there is no explanation, so Sam simply puts it down to the excitement.

They don’t reappear that day but that’s alright, because a God is surely busy, and must have better things to attend to than Sam’s boredom. He goes about his day as usual, though perhaps with more of a skip in his step than usual. No one but Mr. Baggins even notices – the older Hobbit simply gives Sam a wink on his way out the door, a knowing glint in his eye. It’s enough to take some of the wind out of Sam’s sails, as the last thing he wants to do is look suspicious. He takes care to mask his excitement for as long as he’s able.

If he treats those tulips on the farthest corner of Mr. Baggins’ garden with a little more devotion than they probably deserve, well, there’s no one around to call him on it.

Sam spends his evening reading, and convincing himself that he doesn’t need any more than that.

This evening is no different than the one before last, he thinks, reading the same paragraph for the seventh time, and I’ve no reason to want anything different. In fact, I don’t want anything different.

Oh, Sam has gotten very good at that – the not-wanting. Most days he goes about his business with no thought to anything but his and his own. He sleeps, he eats, he gardens, he eats some more, and then he sleeps again. That is the way of things. Sam has long since promised himself not to want so much anymore.

But around them, he just can’t help it.

Within a week the God is back, arms open and peculiar grin on their lips. They tell small tales about their travels and beg Sam to take them on another tour of the Shire, certain they had forgotten all the little, important details. Sam is more than happy to acquiesce.

They talk and they laugh and they sing and it is all so wonderful until the God must leave again. They wave goodbye to Sam as he rounds the corner to Bag End, and again he begins the arduous task of minding his business and not-wanting.

But then, the most wonderful thing happens – they come back.  

Sam begins to tell time not in the rise and fall of the sun, nor the daily habits of the folk around him, but in the ebb and flow of his time with them. Some days they come at night, suddenly appearing in his bedroom and tugging at his hand until he follows them out to lay in the damp grass and look at the stars. Other times they arrive during the day, when Sam is tending Mr. Baggins’ garden or running errands for his Gaffer. These are Sam’s favourites – there’s nothing he loves more than showing them the Shire, his home, even if they don’t want to be seen by the other Hobbits. Or maybe especially because they don’t like being seen by the other Hobbits – Sam is ashamed of how selfish it is, but he likes having them to himself. He’s not so foolish to think their arrangement is any sort of permanent, but he likes to imagine that the time they spend together is his to keep forever, nonetheless.

Unfortunately, his favourite times are few and far between. While their eyes take in Hobbiton with amazement, and they eagerly listen to tales of Hobbit history, they are ever uncomfortable when surrounded by civilization. They are most themselves (or, as far as Sam can tell) when it is just the two of them, out in the natural world.

Slowly, Sam starts to collect every fact about them he can. He hoards memories like a dragon hoards gold. Only in his mind, of course, but that’s enough for him. The smile on their face the first time they try blackberries, the way their hair feels against his cheek when they lean in just a tad too close, the way droplets glisten on their cheeks the first time they share a drink from his hands – all these moments and more Sam keeps close to his heart.

Though he never can quite remember their image between visits, or the cadence of their voice, he can remember the touch of their skin and their favourite places in the Shire. These are details that his Hobbit mind can understand, the details that he allows himself to remember over, and over, and over again. Surely, if this wasn’t allowed, he would simply forget it – this is the rationale he feeds his greedy heart.

Their hands are his very favourite – the way they brush against everything he shows them, even the bugs and the dirt, like they see through their fingertips rather than their eyes. Sam is no exception to the rule. As the pair walk together the God’s hands wander on his arms, his sleeves, his shoulders. Eventually the wandering touches grow more bold, and more than once Sam finds himself with their hands up the back of his shirt.

Their touch is emboldening and intoxicating and every other word Sam doesn’t know yet, and it’s terrifying.

Sam doesn’t want to think about the way his bare skin buzzes beneath their fingertips or the way his mind wanders when they cling to him. So, he focuses on something else – namely, the temperature of their hands. Because, to be quite fair, it is extremely hard to ignore the icicles they call fingers when they’re pressed against Sam’s warm belly. It doesn’t matter what the pair of them have been doing or what time of day it is – despite it being the middle of summer, the God’s hands are ever cold.

“And what do you do when you’re cold? Why, you put on a scarf, of course!”

Sam’s mother has only told him this refrain a thousand and one times. Every year when the frost first comes knocking it’s the first thing she says to him, and it’s the phrase ringing in his phrase right now. It becomes so loud and persistent a thought that eventually Sam has to give up the pretense of sleep in order to venture out for a ball of yarn and some knitting needles.

It's still summer, and much too hot for a scarf in Sam’s opinion, but he knows better than to judge someone for something they can’t control. If this being (Sam’s being, his traitorous mind utters) gets cold in the summer, then Sam’s going to make them a scarf, and that’s that. Everyone deserves to feel warm.

It takes him two and a half weeks to finish it, as he doesn’t dare ask his mother for help and only knows the basics of knitting himself. While he wishes he could use the nice, expensive yarn, because they deserve that and more, Sam could never afford it, and instead uses the leftover strings of yarn he knows his mother won’t miss. As a result, it’s a clashing, stripey mess, with no colour repeating more than once. The smallest stripe is a pale blue, left over from some baby booties his mother had made – the largest stripe is a mustard yellow, matching to Sam’s own scarf and not looking too far off from the straw colour of his hair.

He doesn’t tell them when he’s making it, of course, much too embarrassed about the whole thing, so Sam spends those two and a half weeks on edge, hiding his work from both them and his mother. Every noise has him flinging the scarf and his needles under the nearest pillow or piece of furniture. Twice he comes close to being caught, both times by his mother, who simply gives him a suspicious look before slowly moving on. This is almost enough to stop Sam in his tracks, but then they press their colds hands to his shoulder, or their cheek presses to his in a hug, and he perseveres.

Finally, though, he’s done. Now all he needs to do is give it to them – easy enough, in theory, but nearly impossible in reality. He takes to carrying it around with him, because there’s no way for him to predict when they’ll arrive, and the strange looks from the few hobbits he sees are never-ending. It feels like there’s a permanent flush to his cheeks during the three weeks it takes for them to appear again.

When they finally return it’s one of those visits, the ones where one minute he’s alone and the next minute they’re there, standing outside his window. It’s late evening when they arrive, and Sam’s long done his work for the day. He’s almost put out by the lateness – he’d carried this scarf around in public for no reason!

Originally Sam plans to simply thrust it into their hands when he sees them, but now that they’re actually here he realizes there’s no way he can do that. Despite having known them for months now their presence is somehow always startling to Sam. It’s like his mind can’t grasp onto all the strange intricacies and little details of them from one visit to the next – the memories of their eyes or their laugh slip away like water between rocks, until all he truly remembers is the time they’ve spent together. This leaves Sam overwhelmed and amazed every time they meet, just like the first time, and it’s hard to remember that this being is something like a friend (only something, because there’s no way a God needs friends).

So, Sam hides the scarf. It leaves a strange bulge in the front of his overalls where he’s stuffed it, but they don’t seem to notice. They’re preoccupied with Hobbiton, as they always are, on the walk to the clearing they’ve taken to watching the sunset in, not far from the cave they’d marked way back on that first day.  

It takes Sam over an hour to gather up enough courage – the sun has long set and the moon risen by the time he manages it.

“Here!” He says hurriedly, thrusting the scarf into their hands like it’s burning. If he doesn’t do it quick and at once, he’s afraid he won’t do it at all. Sam always has been a coward. “For you!”

They look at him for a long moment before staring at the scarf with wide eyes. Holding it awkwardly, like they’re not sure what it is or what to do with it, they poke it with one finger. Their mouth opens and closes like a gaping fish. It would be funny, to see them so off-put, if Sam wasn’t so terrified.

“Why?” They finally ask, voice full of wonder.

“Well, I- I just-“ Sam stammers, blushing so hard it feels like his face might explode. “Your hands are always cold, you see, and my mother always makes me wear a scarf when it’s cold out so I thought you might… want one.” He finishes, utterly defeated – it sounds even more ridiculous the more he tries to explain it. Sam expects to be laughed at, like he usually is when he’s being awkward.

“Did you make it?” They ask instead, still staring at the scarf with wide eyes. Their fingers rub along every inch of it, like the next stitch might feel different from the last. They hover especially over the path of yellow in the middle, the one that matches Sam’s hair.  

“Yes.” Sam admits bashfully, unable to watch any longer. “Took me a couple of weeks, but I got it done.”

“Weeks-“ They exclaim, before cutting themself off. “Samwise, thank you!” The gratitude in their voice is so stark and overwhelming Sam has to look – surely, they’re taking the mick out of him, it’s only a scarf after all…

But when he turns back, he can only see a pair of smooth, rounded ears. They clutch the scarf close to their face, hands fisted in the fabric, hiding their expression from him. Suddenly fearful that they’re lying, though they’ve done no such thing before, Sam creeps closer, and closer, until he’s practically standing on top of them. Still, he cannot see their expression.

Trying to be quiet, and stealthy (and failing at both), Sam gently tugs at the scarf. He’s so gentle in fact, that his actions don’t move it an inch. The jump of surprise they give at his touch, however, moves it more than enough. Now all he can see is their face, filled with more emotion than he’s ever seen them express, and Sam is trapped in their gaze.

Blue eyes stare up at him, wide and sparkling with something unspeakable. If they could cry Sam’s sure there would be tears in their eyes – there’s no other word for the emotion on their face. It’s only the lack of tears that tells Sam they cannot. It’s a little disconcerting, to be honest, but Sam is much too distracted by the power of having all of their attention on him to pay much mind.

“Oh, none of that Samwise nonsense.” He replies with the only thing he can think of to say, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I wanted to, so it was no trouble at all.” They look like they want to argue, but simply nod along to Sam’s words instead.

The night is changed, after that. Sam is always caught up in them, every moment the pair are together, but tonight it’s almost unbearable – it’s like when he looks away he’s still thinking of them, counting the seconds until he can look back. They, too, are different. The scarf never makes its way around their neck; instead, they clutch it like a stuffed toy, bringing it up to their face again and again, a small smile so intimate on their lips that Sam has to look away (but only for a second).

By the time they reach the river (that Sam has shamefully started to consider ‘theirs’) Sam knows he’s been gone too long. Small absences here and there his mother won’t notice, but he’s been gone for hours now, and she’s sure to be angry that he missed supper. This knowledge pulls at Sam, some small voice begging for him to go back home before anything else changes, but he can’t. Not when they look like this, standing in the moonlight and looking up at the stars. It’s bright enough that Sam can see almost everything perfectly – everything, that is, but their reflection in the water. It wavers and ripples like an unfelt breeze is moving the surface, preventing a clear image from ever reflecting true.

The silence, too, is almost as perfect as they are. Rather than suffocating him, like Sam knows most silences to do, it envelops them both. It feels like it’s just the two of them in the whole world. Sam’s almost sad when they break the moment by speaking – almost, because he’s always happy to hear their voice. Though he can’t quite remember it when they’re gone, he misses it much like he would miss the wind, he imagines, if it suddenly stopped blowing.

“I’ve always wanted to look like the moon – her light is ever so soft and subtle, yet still she shines in the night sky larger than any of the distant stars. I’m afraid I look more like the sun when you look too long and too close. I want to shine, not blaze.” They say, a wry smile on their lips and eyes full of melancholy. They look at the moon, but Sam looks at them.

“Begging your pardon, but I don’t think you look like the sun.” Sam interrupts before he can stop himself, emboldened by their reaction to his scarf. When their head swivels to look at him they’re shocked, but Sam somehow gets the feeling it’s more at his words than his impudence.

“Why, what do I look like to you?” Their head tilts, curls falling softly to the side.

In a flustered moment, desperate for his words to mean something, Sam searches for a metaphor, or a turn of words that might come close to the poetry that falls past their lips. They deserve something beautiful. But Samwise Gamgee is a Hobbit of the Earth – he does not know the feeling of words flowing from a pen in his hand, he knows only dirt.

“Pretty.” He finally says, eyes resting softly on their form as he tries hard to bring it into words. “Your hair is a dark, rich brown, and your skin is paler than any I’ve ever seen on a creature before, like a pearl.” Sam takes a hesitant step closer. “You’re short, about my height, not anything like the Big Folk at all. It’s a good height, a sensible height. There’s naught to be done about those round ears, but just one look at your fetching dimples and any Hobbit would forgive you. Especially when you smile.” As Sam talks their eyes grow rounder and rounder but Sam doesn’t think he could stop himself now – all he can do is take a deep breath and barrel on.

“And you do shine, you do! I’ve never seen a pair of eyes with as much light in them as yours. Like the stars they shine, but prettier than any star I’ve seen. And I once snuck out to the Brandywine Bridge at midnight just to gaze, so I know what I’m talking about. Besides, I- I looked into the sun too long once, when I was just a fauntling, before I knew any better. Colours danced behind my eyelids like a vision, and I had the worst headache. You don’t give me a headache – I could look at you forever.” The last is said as soft as a confession, for only their ears to hear.

Silence falls in the clearing, and it feels thick and dark and so unlike it was just moments ago to Sam, who just wants to know that he hasn’t ruined whatever this is. The air becomes heavy for a moment, so heavy it feels like the leaves and flowers should be bowing under its weight.

“That’s so peculiar.” They finally reply, a loose grin filled with something like awe on their face. “I don’t believe anyone’s seen me quite like you have. What a gift your eyes are.” Sam blinks and suddenly there they are, their hands gently cupping his cheeks and thumbs resting on his eyelids. A warm, lingering kiss is pressed to both before their thumbs migrate upwards slowly until they’re smoothing Sam’s hair away from his forehead.

 “And your mind, to perceive such a thing.” A kiss is place there too, and now that Sam can open his eyes, he can see their gaze fixed solidly and intensely upon him. A moment stretches between the two, their breath warm against his lips, a juxtaposition to the chill in the thumb they gentle smooth over his mouth.

“Your lips, too, are a gift to be able to tell me so.” They finally say, leaning in ever so slowly, giving Sam more than enough time to pull away.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t pull away, and they taste like nothing at all, just the cold press of their lips to his, and Sam doesn’t mind a bit. Slowly, unsure if it’s allowed, he brings his hands up to their waist. They lean into the touch and soon Sam has a God pressed up against his chest. The thought is so startling that his knees give out beneath him, and the pair collapse in a pile of limbs on the cool ground.

Before Sam can even think to be embarrassed, they’re laughing (it sounds like the call of every bird Sam’s ever heard and some he hasn’t), and then he’s laughing, and then they’re kissing again. Eager, quick kisses, over and over again until Sam starts to grow lightheaded, and his kisses start landing on their cheeks rather than their lips. If their grin is any indication, they don’t seem to mind.

Still, Sam is only a Hobbit, and eventually he must pull away for a rest lest he genuinely pass out (which wouldn’t be romantic in the slightest). They pout for a moment, a terribly cute little expression, before they return his amused smile. There’s a strange look in their eye, a depth that Sam can’t quite put a name to. He doesn’t get much time to analyze it before they lean away.

“You make me feel real, Samwise Gamgee.” Their head rests softly on his shoulder, hair tickling his nose and breath traveling softly down the front of his shirt.

It’s funny – Sam has never felt more like he’s in a dream.

Sam never is sure where the scarf he made ends up – he never catches them with it wrapped around their neck, but it never turns up in town or caught in a tree, so he supposes they must have taken it. Or disposed of it elsewhere, but at least they’re kind enough to spare his feelings on the matter.

From there on out the two spend less time exploring the Shire and more time exploring each other, cold hands mapping warm rolls and warm hands memorizing cold ribs. Oh, they still lie in the grass and they still admire the stars but this time there’s kisses in between awed smiles and free laughter, both Hobbit and God alike.

While Sam misses showing his lover his home, he’s glad to be free of the worry and paranoia that comes with this kind of relationship. Out here it just feels right, like him and his lover get to create the rules, and no one else. Like maybe what they’re doing isn’t wrong, like he isn’t wrong. It’s impossible not to remember once he returns to Hobbiton, not to feel the guilt crawling on his skin and the paranoid need to continuously look over his shoulder and check the mail. But out here? Out here everything is right.  

Sometimes Sam can’t help but feel like this is all a dream that he’ll soon wake up from. Like their touches on his skin aren’t real and are that of a ghost or, worse, a figment of his imagination, proof he’s gone mad. But then they smile at him from wherever they’re sitting, and Sam watches their chest rise and fall, looks at the colour he put in their lips, and thinks that if this is madness, then he never wants to be sane again.

At the beginning of the end they’re sitting together at the bend of the river, pleasantly tired from a day of exploring Farmer Maggot’s fields. It had taken a moment of coaxing but now both their feet and Sam’s mingle together in the cool water. Well, cool to Sam, anyway – it’s welcome, after a long day of dry summer heat. They talk, for a while, but Sam laughs at one of their jokes and then suddenly he has a lapful of god, their lips pressed against his neck. As his hands sneak under their shirt, he can’t help the insecurity that creeps into the back of his mind – they look like they’ve never sweat a day in their life, while he’s damp all over just from a day under the sun. He doesn’t voice these thoughts, though, because what space is there in the world for Sam Gamgee’s woes? Instead, he focuses on kissing the God in his lap thoroughly, so thoroughly they’ll never forget the taste of him.

“Why were you digging?” They eventually ask on the breaths between kisses, breaking the warm silence, so close that Sam can feel every word on his lips. Despite the breath he can feel them taking into their lungs, they’ve never once had to gasp for air like Sam does.

It takes him a moment to put the words together in an order that makes sense, although he still doesn’t understand the question.

“What ever do you mean? I’m a gardener – I do a lot of digging. It’s my job.” Sam replies, pulling back a little to catch his breath, because kissing is rarely conducive to a good conversation. They huff a little in frustration but lean back with a small smile anyways. The power that small grin has – Sam feels lightheaded at the sight.

“Yes, I know.” They slip their fingers between his and bring their lips to the back of his hand, eyes glimmering sharply. Sam blushes, both at the kiss and the subtle jab he knows they’re making at the dirt that he can never get to fully scrub away. “I mean the day you found me – why were you digging?”

“I- I found you?” Sam asks, feeling like all the breath as been stolen from his lungs, question already forgotten. He remembers that day well, of course he does. He’d sooner forget his own name than that moment. But he’d never dared to think that he’d found them, because Samwise Gamgee just isn’t important enough for that kind of thing. Maybe a Took would be, or even a Baggins (like old Bilbo who’d gone on his adventure), but never a Gamgee. Honestly, it felt more like he’d disturbed them than anything else.

“Of course, you did!” They exclaim, laughing (like the babbling of a brook). “Don’t you remember? I doubt I’ll ever be able to forget that day – I can still remember how you looked, all agape and covered in dirt.” Sam blushes even harder as he remembers how nervous he’d been. To think the being he was so afraid of would later end up in his lap; to think he’d have the privilege of reddening their lips!

“I think,” they say suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. They lean forward until their forehead is pressed to the skin of his chest bared by their tugging on his shirt, muffling their words. “I think, Samwise Gamgee, that you created me.” They say this simply and plainly, like it’s not the most impossibly important, impossibly beautiful, impossible thing Sam’s ever heard.

“It’s hard to remember what I was like before you pulled me from the Earth, but I’m quite sure I wasn’t like this. All my memories of the time are darker, and colder – I didn’t feel quite as much. Now, though, I feel everything. Sorrow, fury, happiness like I’ve never known… I feel your skin, too. Look,” they whisper, bringing their entwined hands up, “was my hand not made to fit in yours?” They look back up at Sam in wonderful awe, eyes asking for an answer he doesn’t know how to give.

“That’s not possible! You’re the one who can create life, not me! I’m just – just a gardener, nothing more.” Sam stammers when it becomes clear they’re waiting for a response, falling back on the only mantra he knows as his words fail him. I’m just a gardener.

“…Maybe.” They respond quietly, inhaling deeply once before leaning away from Sam’s body.

The mood is changed after that, and no more kisses are shared. Sitting together with their feet intertwined and kicking in the river is more than enough for Sam, but he can’t help but feel like he’s done something wrong.

They ask the same question again, almost a week later. This time the two of them are lying on a hill in a meadow that belongs to a farmer whose name Sam would normally know but now escapes him. The feeling of their hair on his shoulder is much too distracting to even fathom thinking about such mundane things.  The summer night is clear and blue and warm, the wind only a small breeze that is delightful rather than chilling.

“Why were you digging?” They ask to the sky, the words floating up to the clouds that can be seen as they pass in front of the stars. This time Sam knows what they’re talking about.

“I – I told you already, I’m a gardener. I was digging a hole to plant Mr. Baggins’ new tulips, that’s all. Nothing exciting.” The lie sounds convincing enough to Sam’s ears, but they just look up at him with a placid smile. He expects them to call him on it, maybe demand a better answer, but the words never come. Instead, they close their eyes and nuzzle closer to him, bringing their hand up to rest on his chest and play with the buttons on his shirt.

“I think tulips are plenty exciting.” They finally reply. “Especially if they’re what brought me to you.”

The way they talk like this, like fate is why Sam is lying here in this field, makes him feel strange. He’d like to believe it’s true, that he was meant to find them, but in his experience the world just doesn’t work that way. Not for him.

“Would you introduce me sometime?”

“…Introduce you to who?”

“Mr. Baggins. You do talk about him all the time.”

“Of course! Name the date and I’ll bring you there! I’m sure Mr. Baggins would be glad for your company, and Bag End is a fine sight when she’s all dressed up for guests.”

The time for tea never comes – Sam sees them only twice more after that.

Two weeks later, one of the longest stretches they’ve ever gone without a visit (and just long enough that Sam is starting to get anxious) he finds them at the edge of the Brandywine River, on the side closest to Hobbiton but staring ominously into the Old Forest. It’s the first time he’s ever found them, and for a moment Sam thinks the distant being is merely a figure of his imagination.

Normally Sam doesn’t venture this far from Hobbiton, but Mr. Baggins had fallen ill rather suddenly, and couldn’t make it to meet one of his old friends like they’d planned. He’d sent Sam in his absence, to pass on the message and a few letters to disperse amongst her family.

Sam is on his way back from the finished task when he sees them - it’s such a strange shock that he almost doesn’t approach. Ever so slowly he creeps up the hill behind them, trepidation dogging his every step until finally he comes to a stop a few feet away. Though he hadn’t exactly been stealthy, there’s no indication that they are aware of his presence.

It’s never fallen to him to start anything between them before. Usually, they are the one falling into conversation, into his house, into his lap. Now that Sam’s the one in charge, he’s not sure what to do. In all honestly, he’s unsure if he should say anything at all. Their attention is dreadfully focused on the Old Forest, face intimidatingly impassive.

For a several minutes he stands behind them in silence, hopeful that they will turn around and say something, that it will not fall to him to start things after all. But nothing comes – the silence merely stretches.

“…Are you alright?” Sam finally asks, aware it’s a foolish question, but lacking anything else to say. They answer promptly, the pause between question and answer unnervingly short.  

“There is a great evil growing in this land, closer to the Shire than you might think. It’s pervasive, and perverting – though your Shire is good in the way most things truly aren’t, even it will fall. Truthfully, I… I am afraid.” They turn to him with blue eyes wide– a pit forms in Sam’s stomach. Though they don’t quite look scared as Sam knows the emotion, it’s as close as he’s ever seen them.  

When Sam fails to come up with a response they turn back to look into the Old Forest, face unreadable. A large wind blows through and they sway with it, back and forth, like their legs are aching to run into the dark shadows. With it comes the groaning and whispering that always comes from the Old Forest – the secrets of the trees sound more ominous than ever. Sam is almost afraid that his lover will return the eerie call.

“I could protect you.” They finally murmur, breaking the cold silence that has fallen. “There are ones who I would call friends that have more power than I, far from here – you would be as close to safety as I could guarantee.”

For a moment Sam can’t even answer, as taken aback as he is.

“Do you truly think me so weak?” He asks, and doesn’t even get a twitch in response. Though he can’t even be sure they’re listening, he barrels forward anyway, past the nerves in his gut and the shake in his hands. “I am not some lily-livered coward that needs to be minded like a child – if trouble comes to the Shire I would stand and fight, not secret away before danger even arrives!”

“You know not of what you speak, Samwise. This danger is more than you, more than this place.” Finally, they turn back to Sam. The fear, though, is gone, replaced by a nothing-ness that shakes Sam all the same.

“The Shire is my home, I cannot simply leave! I know these people, these hills – I was born here, it is my right to die here, and yet you ask me to abandon it for a danger you will not even describe! If I know not of what I speak it is only because you will not tell me beyond vague riddles I don’t understand.”

“…You’re right, Sam, you’re right.” Their tone is mournful, eyes wide. “I have spoken on matters that I do not truly understand – I don’t have a home, not like you do. There is no way for me to understand your attachment to the Shire, it was folly of me to suggest you so carelessly throw it away.”

Silence falls between them, Sam so lost as to what to say that he doesn’t even try.  

Slowly, he reaches out to grasp their hand in his. It is no more bold a move than pressing his own lips to theirs, but this being and his lover do not feel the same. Even this hesitant contact could be an overstep.

Luckily, they allow the gesture, loosely holding his fingers in return. As always, their fingers are freezing to the touch. In a move so sudden Sam nearly jumps, they turn to grab his other hand, pulling him so they face each other. Their grip is tight and unforgiving.

“Yet, I cannot stop myself from asking that you consider my offer. Please, Sam, consider it.”

Their tone leaves no room for argument – Sam must nod, and though he tells himself that he truly will consider it, he thinks his answer is already clear. For a few minutes the pair stand in silence, warm and cold hands entwined.

The tighter Sam holds, the colder his hands burn. Eventually, he has to let go.

He lingers for a moment more, naively hopeful that they might turn to him, give some indication that they wish to see him stay. But, as the sun starts to fall beneath the trees, nothing happens. There is just silence, and Sam standing behind his lover like a fool.

So, Sam leaves, feet sure but heart tumbling with confusion and insecurity. The lack of a goodbye burns – they’ve never been so impassive to his presence before. Meeting in as strange a setting as the Old Forest had only made it all the more discomforting.

Sam is used to the rolling hills and gentle Hobbit Holes of Hobbiton, and thus is all too glad when, three days later, his lover appears in Mr. Baggins’ garden again. He nearly pitches over in his excitement as he rises from a crouch to great them.

“Hello!” He says sheepishly, wiping his hands off on his trousers. They don’t reply or look him in the eye – instead they merely stand beside him, head hanging.

“…It’s good to see you.” Sam continues. Finally, a reaction.

“It is always good to see you, Sam.” They reply quietly, a small, sorrowful smile on their face. It looks totally and utterly wrong upon their lips – Sam’s lover’s mouth is made for laughing and kissing, not sorrow!

“Why, what’s wrong?” He asks, stepping closer to brush their bangs out of their eyes. Leaning into the action, their head tilts up towards him with the movement. For a moment Sam forgets that he was saying anything at all, so distracted by their shining eyes. No matter how many times he sees them, he is always blown away.

“…Though I wish it were not so, I must go.” They murmur into his palm, so quietly Sam almost doesn’t hear them.

“But you’ve only just got here!” He replies, baffled. “Surely, you can spare an hour or two.”

“I don’t mean right this instant, Sam.” They reply, sounding faintly amused. “For you, I always have time to spare. But soon. I must leave soon.”

“Is that not always how this goes?” Sam asks, head tilted. He doesn’t take his hand back. “I know that you cannot stay, and I would never ask that of you –“

Before he can finish, they wince harshly, and Sam cuts himself off.

“No, Sam.” They answer, voice suddenly cold. “This is not like always. I must go someplace far away from the Shire, away from you.”

“…Into the West?” Sam asks curiously, because the true meaning of their words has not yet sunk in, and because the West is the farthest thing from the Shire he can possibly think of. They turn to him with an inquisitive look, and he blushes, used to being mocked for the way his fascination with Mr. Baggins’ stories has carried into adulthood. “It’s just, I’ve heard that’s where the elves go, you see, and though I’m not quite sure what’s out there I’m sure you must be more than worthy of the journey.”

“Thank you for thinking me so worthy, but no, I will not journey into the West. I do not yet know where I will go, only that I must leave. And this time I’m afraid I will not return.”

“N- not return -!” Sam’s heart drops, but they don’t let him get a word in.

“I need an answer, Sam.” They continue, face determined. “Will you come with me, or will you stay in the Shire? I know I have not given you much time to ponder, but I’m afraid time is something I have very little of, these days.”

“Well, I – it’s… I’m, I’m in the middle of work!” Sam stammers, desperately clawing for an answer. To simply reject them seems too harsh, too final. Like it will bring the end upon the both of them, right here, right now. Sam is not ready for that, not in Mr. Baggins’ garden, not feet from where it all began. “I cannot simply up and leave – look, I’ve got a hole dug and everything, I cannot simply leave it!”

They nod, like they have heard the answer he did not intend to give nonetheless.  

“… I admit, I hoped your answer would be different.” They respond, eyes downcast. Their feet shuffle and their body leans, like they intend to leave, right this moment. Sam’s heart drops at the very thought – is he not even to get a goodbye?

“Oh, why must I answer this question at all? Can you really not stay?” Sam asks plaintively, because try as he might he can’t keep the desperation from his tone. He doesn’t ask (or, heaven forbid, demand) them to stay – in what world could a mere Hobbit from the Shire convince a God to stay? He would get down on his knees and beg if he thought it would make a difference, but he is sure it would not.

They stare at him for a moment, parsing his words. In the silence they reach up to his forehead and ever so softly push back his bangs, their fingertips cold against his skin. Their touch lingers for a long moment, and Sam wonders – is this caress to be their farewell? Will they not even allow Sam one more kiss?

“Why were you digging?” They finally ask, brow furrowed, and Sam almost wants to bang his head on a wall in frustration – why this question, why now?! The words ring in his ears, and though he can hear a deeper meaning behind the question he cannot for the life of him parse what it is. Sam feels like a fool.

“Why does it matter?” He exclaims, arms going wide in his anger. They pull back, startled, and the look on their face practically drowns Sam’s heart in guilt. Futilely he tries to reign in his expression and calm his mind, but it does no help because still Sam is angry. Not at them, never at them, but at this whole godforsaken world that just won’t let him be happy.

“It matters.” Is the reply when it finally comes, and it sounds like thunder. There’s no explanation or room for more questioning in their words – for the first time in a while Sam is reminded that he is talking to a God, and that no matter how many times he may press his lips to theirs they will never be anything else. Their face is shuttered closed, and though they are not yet gone they feel farther from Sam than they ever have before. In that instant, Sam is sure – he was never going to be able to make them stay.

“…Fine.” Sam mutters, hanging his head and staring resolutely at the ground. If they are to leave, then what does it matter?

“I wasn’t planting no tulips, and I wasn’t tending Mr. Baggins’ garden. And I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t mean to find you, I didn’t mean to pretend I was something more than I am! I was - I was burying a letter that night, sent from the Thain to my Gaffer about the time he’d caught me and Adalolf Sackville together. My Gaffer probably wouldn’t have cared but I know my mother would’ve – I was scared and alone and I just wanted to pretend for one more day that everything was alright. I wasn’t digging to find no one, I was burying myself.”

Just as Sam thought, his words have brought them no closer. Instead, they have been pushed farther away, one shaky step at a time.

“I suppose I knew all along.” They whisper, and the sound is carried on the wind to Sam’s ears. “I have no place here – I was not made to have a place here.”

“Then why did you stay?”  

But the words fall on empty air.

Sam Gamgee is alone.  

Futilely he searches the garden, like the God might be hiding behind the rose bushes or under Mr. Baggins’ bench. But the garden is as empty as it was before the God appeared – though there is a hole in the ground it contains nothing but dirt, and it is like the God was never there. The sun rises high in the afternoon then comes back down again in the evening and still, Sam searches. It’s only when the stars start to appear in the sky that Sam returns home – he wants to cry but it’s hard to let these emotions out silently. It hurts his chest to try.

It is on these tears that the day ends and, impossibly, the next one begins. Life is much the same around Sam that day, and again, the sun sets and rises again. Sam is given no answers to his lover’s cryptic last words, and he receives no comfort. A gaping loneliness tears it’s way through him – this burden has only his shoulders to fall on, but he fears it is too heavy for him to carry alone. How ever did he manage before he met them?

Still, the days keep moving on, unaware or uncaring that Sam has been dealt such a blow. Perhaps time itself always knew such a thing was coming – perhaps it is not callousness that keeps it flowing, but mercy. That is what his mother says, after all. Time heals all wounds. Sam has no choice but to trust her, as he goes about his days. He spends most of them in a haze, exhausted and heartbroken.

It matters not how long or how much he sleeps – every morning he wakes more tired than he was the night before. Aches and pains spring up from nothing, and it takes everything out of Sam just to travel to Bag End and back. The romantic part of him, the piece of his soul that is both buried deep in the garden at Bag End and hidden with a God who knows where, wants to believe that these are the signs of a broken heart. That he will continue this pattern until he wastes away, and the pain is no more.

The more sensible part of him, the piece that sounds like his Gaffer, says that it is in all likelihood just a cold with bad timing.

Either way, it is a poor excuse for lazing around in bed all day, so every morning Sam gathers himself and gets up. First there’s breakfast with his family, where he smiles like nothing is wrong, then work for Mr. Baggins, who always has a kind word for Sam no matter how often these days he simply tilts his head down and ignores the older Hobbit.

Work, at least, is mostly the same. The flowers still need tending, as they always do. Other than the tulips, which Sam avoids like the plague,

He doesn’t want to water them, because those flowers belong to the God that grew beneath it, and that God belonged to the tulips they grew beneath. Not with Sam. Never to Sam, no matter how much he had wanted them to belong with him.

And yes, Sam wanted – he wanted more than he’d ever wanted anything his whole damn life, promise be damned. Anything and everything he’d wanted from them. He’d have taken the breath from their lungs had they offered it, though he’d probably have returned it eventually. Now, Sam only wants to see them one more time.

Still, he avoids these thoughts during his waking hours for the most part. The only time Sam faces them is at night, when he has no other choice. For the first couple nights he hopes the reoccurring dreams are only a fluke, pushed into his mind by the stress and heartbreak he’d endured. But then they continue into the next week and the next, and the next. Perhaps it is due to them that Sam wakes so exhausted.

The dreaming continues on and on, like a damning punishment Sam just can’t escape. Eventually even work is only a momentary reprieve from a mounting insanity that follows him no matter how where he goes. Each passing dream feels more real than the last, until Sam struggles to remember what time with them is memories and which only dreams. Perhaps they are all memories, coming back to him now – or perhaps it was only dreams all along.

They all end the same way, back at that damned cave where they’d parted the ground for him. Back at Sam’s miracle, standing in front of the dark and open hole. The air around Sam is silent save for one, single, solitary sound – a breath, inhaled and exhaled and inhaled and exhaled. It echoes through his mind as he wakes each morning, heart pounding with an emotion he cannot name, and a word on his lips he cannot pronounce.

For three months he resists the urge to return to the cave, though it feels like denying his body the very air it needs to breathe to do so. But the dreams get worse, and Sam grows ever more tired, so, eventually, he cannot stay away any longer.

There is someone in that cave, his heart tells him, and whether it is Sam’s soul or them he will find, he must go look.

It’s a soft evening when he finally brings the dream to reality – the sunset paints the clouds a deep golden yellow-pink, and the grass is finally starting to turn green once more.

It smells like Spring, Sam thinks, and with that thought he steps into his cave. It looks, of course, the same as the last time he was here, and disappointment strikes Sam like a sword through the heart. There are no new markings on the wall, no new words to discover – there aren’t even any leaves on the ground, which would be strange if Sam were aware enough to notice it.

As it is, Sam’s eyes are glued to the handprints. He’d almost forgotten that they’d had hands, real ones that could hold him and touch him in return. In his dreams they are only ever a presence, a taste, a smell.

The hand on the wall looks just right but also much too small to be his lover’s hand. Though they had always looked about his size, Sam knew they were truly more vast than he could ever imagine.

For a minute that feels like a lifetime he stars at their print, trying to remember what their hand had felt like in his. The more he grasps at the memory, the faster it slips through his fingers, until Sam is left questioning if it ever really happened at all.

A strange wind blows through the enclosed space, almost like a breath, waking Sam from the trance he’s fallen under. Shaking his head Sam draws his attention to the writing above the handprints, to the words he cannot read. He’s memorized the letters despite this and is already repeating them in his head when he goes to read it but there’s something wrong.

These aren’t the letters they’d written.

For a moment Sam thinks someone has come in here and desecrated the writing, invading their sacred space. The thought fills him with an anger he’s never felt before, an anger most unbecoming of a gentle Hobbit like himself. Sam has never seen a battle, or a fight, not even death, but in that moment his mind strays darker than even he had thought possible.

“Those brats!” He seethes, thinking it to be the young Took fauntlings he’d sometimes seen playing by the creek outside, “When I find them I-“

Frodo

That’s what the wall says.

Frodo

With a shaking breath Sam falls to his knees in front of the wall, like a man genuflecting, and runs his fingers along the letters. There’s no doubt about it – that which had once been unreadable is now written clear as day in the common alphabet. Sam is sure of his pronunciation. It is a simple name, after all, one he’s heard called back and forth across the river a few times before. Not plain like Sam, but common, still.

Over and over he breathes their name, like an echo on repeat in his head. Finally, he has something solid, something real to remember them by. How could Sam ever forget such a name? It would be like forgetting his own.

But, in the end, it means little more than this. Frodo is not here; they are not these letters or this handprint in the wall.

Why had Sam thought they would be here? Why has the voice that had whispered the idea into his head now disappeared?

Sam leans forward and breathes warm air onto the rock, though even as he reaches up to drag his finger along the surface, he knows it hasn’t worked. He is not magic, not like Frodo. When no words appear following the movement of his fingers it feels like a blow has been dealt to Sam’s heart – he’s not sure why he was so certain this would work, but now that it hasn’t he’s devastated.

Without thinking Sam’s hand drifts slowly down to rest in the space his lover’s hand had carved out what feels like so long ago. The indentation somehow fits him perfectly, his fingers sliding in like the final piece of a puzzle. For a moment there’s nothing but cool stone and then –

A hand, grasping his, like someone is standing on the other side of the wall.

Sam jerks back with a gasp, almost falling over in his fright. Though he can no longer quite remember he’s sure the palm he felt against his was theirs. The way the hand had held his, soft and gentle with power had been so familiar. But when he looks back there is nothing in front of him but stone and dirt.

Great tears well up and fall slowly down his cheeks, blurring the world around him. Of course he’s alone. He’s always been alone, hasn’t he? In the end, it is just Samwise Gamgee and the dirt – as it always has been.

Sobs wrack his body as Sam cries like he never has before and never will again. The force of them hurts his chest, but they are nothing compared to the feeling of his heart breaking. He stands in their cave until there are no more tears left for him to cry.

“How could you?” Sam breathes through gritted teeth, then louder again, a second time, harsh in the silence that has fallen.

“How could you? I can’t move stone or shift the world as you can, and you know that! Yet you’ve left me here, alone, a world between us. I thought – I thought I was doing it right. I didn’t ask where you came from a-and I didn’t ask your name, because I knew you did not want me to! If you would have just told me what answer you wanted me to give then I would not have wasted a moment in telling you, you must know that!

“Was I to love you some other way? I don’t know if I could but for you-“ Sam’s voice breaks pathetically. “- for you I would have tried. Is that not enough? Am I not enough?” Despair overwhelms him, and for a moment Sam can do nothing but sob into the rock. There’s a pounding in his ears – Sam imagines it is the sound of his heart breaking one last time.

“Please.” He whispers into the now damp stone - one final plea to his lover, to the sun, to the dirt under his feet, to anyone who might listen. “Just let me try again.” 

There is still a pounding in his ears, so loud it sounds like it could have been coming from someone on the other side of the wall rather than his own body - no, that’s not right. Though close to his heart, that is not the source… Sam pulls away from the wall, holding his breath, hoping beyond hope, when he hears it -

A pounding, low and deep from the wall, like someone is standing on the other side.

“Oh, Samwise Gamgee, you great fool.”

The digging is hard, at first – Sam can only pound at the solid wall until his fists ache. But as his breath gets louder and his arms grow tired, something starts to shift. The rock flakes, then it cracks, then it starts to crumble, until Sam can start pulling it away in chunks. The work is hard, and dirty, and leaves his skin grey and his clothes dusty.

Though, it’s not like Sam’s hands have ever been clean. There is already dirt under all of his nails, and blisters on his thumb from his trowel. If there’s a job they were meant for, it’s this.

Because Samwise Gamgee is a Hobbit of the earth, and he knows dirt.

Where before the wall had been solid stone, hard and immovable, it now falls away like the ground Sam moved the night he found his lover.

Dark curly hair emerges, with gently pointed ears poking out from beneath the tangles. A blush dusts his cheeks and brings out the rosiness of his happily tan skin, interrupted only by smudges of dirt on his face. Sam doesn’t mind the mess one bit, and only adds to it as he gently caresses his lover’s face.

This is his lover, his God, his Frodo.

“You found me.” Frodo whispers, shivering in Sam’s arms. Dirt falls in small clumps from his mouth, more tumbling past his teeth with every word. A single ray of light from the setting sun falls into the cave and shines gold on the hairs settled between his eyebrows – Frodo squints as it falls across his eyes. “I think I have wanted you to find me since the start.”

Without warning or delay Sam swoops down to press their lips together. As the kiss opens dirt falls onto his tongue but not even the greatest evil could drag Sam away right now, so the dirt stands no chance. Instead, Sam keeps his arms around Frodo until the very last possible moment before he must breathe, memorizing the taste of it all. His lover’s arms come up around him in return – Sam has never felt a warmer embrace.

“Why were you digging?” Frodo gasps against Sam’s lips, out of breath for the first time in his existence. The kisses must stop for him to speak and Sam aches to chase his lips as they draw apart, but this time he won’t be distracted from the question. Not when he finally knows the right answer. Because just as Frodo wanted to be found, Sam wanted -

“To find you, of course.”