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Frodo slumped back on the outcropping of rock. Around them, lava flowed as quick and merciless as the waters of the River Anduin. Over their heads, Mount Doom spat its fiery rage out across Mordor, like giant flaming stars falling back to earth. The Great Eye’s tower on the horizon was gone, but the sky was still unnaturally dark.
“It’s gone,” Frodo murmured, breathless and disbelieving. “It’s done.”
“Yes, Mister Frodo, it’s over now.” It was over- even Sam could admit that now. They were trapped on the little raised island of rock, as boiling lava flowed around them. No iron boat to make their way, no allies to come and rescue them, no enemies to snatch them away. Just Sam and Frodo and the harsh landscape of Mordor around them, finally ready to swallow them up.
But the ring was gone. For all the sacrifices they’d made- they’d done it. Frodo had done it, and Sam’s faith hadn’t faltered til the last. He’d always hoped they’d be able to make it back home again to the Shire; but Sam saw now what he guessed Frodo had known for a good long while- there was no going back.
“I can see the Shire,” Frodo mumbled, as though he was thinking the same things Sam was. He was laying on his back, staring up with bleary eyes at the dark clouds overhead, the explosions sailing past like fireworks. “The Brandywine river. Bag End. Gandalf’s fireworks. The lights in the Party Tree.”
Sam remembered that night- the night of Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday. Looking back, it felt like the last night before the world turned dark and dangerous around them. The last moments before someone struck a match and suddenly they were adventurers bound to the most important quest in living memory, the fate of all Middle Earth laying squarely on Frodo’s narrow shoulders.
“Rosie Cotton dancing,” Sam added, “and Pippin and Merry stealing the fireworks early. And you-” his voice died in his throat. He could feel Frodo’s eyes on him, but Sam kept his gaze steady on the far-off horizon. Somewhere, he hoped, the armies of Rohan and Gondor and all the kingdoms of men were gathered. He hoped that he and Frodo hadn’t been too late. Sam hoped a lot of useless things. He remembered his mother once telling him as a child, taking his face in her work-rough palm, my dear boy, you see so much good and possibility in the world. You see gardens where there is only rocky earth; and I love that about you, but I worry one day you are going to realize that just because you can see something lovely happening up here- she tapped him on the forehead, just between his eyes- does not mean that it will happen out there. And I don’t want you to break your own heart with all your hopin’ Sammy.
“Your laughter, Mister Frodo.” Sam’s voice was rough from smoke and the building tears in the back of his throat. He closed his eyes, and tried to remember the sound of Frodo’s laugh. The shape of his smile- how it formed dimples in his cheeks and made his eyes crinkle up into little crescents. It had been so long, the memories felt faint and dreamy, like something Sam had imagined long ago. Once, a lifetime past, Frodo’s smile was Sam’s favorite thing in the widest world. More beautiful than any flower he could grow in the garden, brighter than any of Gandalf’s fireworks cracking open in the sky. “I loved to hear you laugh, sir,” Sam whispered, and he felt a tear trace down his filthy cheek.
Frodo sat up, and without thinking Sam turned, steadying them both atop the warm stone protecting them from the lava’s flow. Frodo leaned in, pressing their shoulders together and leaning his head against Sam’s collarbone. His hair brushed Sam’s face, and it smelled of smoke and blood and filth. What a shame, he selfishly thought, that it was only now that he would get to finally touch Frodo’s hair. Not when it was soft and smelled of the herb soap Bilbo kept at Bag End, but now as Frodo trembled in Sam’s arms and they were caked in dirt and blood from their weeks of travel.
Sam pressed his face into the dark curls, anyway. There was no one to see, and surely Frodo would allow him this brief moment of greedy weakness, after everything.
“I’m glad to be with you, Samwise Gamgee, here at the end of all things.”
It was an understatement, to say that Sam was glad to be there with Frodo, but he nodded anyway. He felt Frodo’s arm wrap around his waist, and slowly Sam let his arm drape over Frodo’s shoulders, pressing the two of them closer. It was stiflingly hot, this close to the eruption of Mount Doom, but Sam would not let go of Frodo for the world. Not now, not ever. Maybe it took Gandalf telling him for Sam to realize he’d follow Frodo anywhere, he’d give everything to keep him safe and whole- but the realization was made. And Sam would stay as close as Frodo would let him.
“I’d follow you anywhere, Mister Frodo,” Sam whispered into his hair. It was so hot, and Sam was so tired; like all the weeks of travel were finally catching up to him all at once. He was sinking under the waters of the Anduin river again, and taking Frodo with him this time. Frodo’s body grew slack against him, finally losing the fraying strength he’d been holding onto for so long. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get us home, sir,” Sam said, cradling Frodo closer.
“No, I’m sorry, Sam,” Frodo tried to say, but Sam shushed him. His voice was thin and weak, and he was still shaking in Sam’s arms. He didn’t need to hear Frodo’s apologies, Sam didn’t want him to waste his precious breath on something like asking Sam’s forgiveness for saving the world.
“There’s nothing to forgive, sir,” Sam said as gently as he could manage.
“Sam-”
“I’m here, Mister Frodo, I’ve got you.”
“It’s very dark.”
“I know, sir.” Sam was crying in earnest, now. Tears shone in Frodo’s dirty hair like little gems in the red glow of the lava. “Just close your eyes, I’ve got you,” he said again. He wondered if someone, hundreds of years from now, would find them like this. Some other adventurous young Hobbits forging into Mordor and finding the lost bodies of Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins, holding onto each other ‘til the last.
There were worse ways to go, Sam thought. Worse ways to be remembered.
“I love you, Mister Frodo,” Sam whispered. Voice raw, eyes blurring, arms shaking with the effort of holding Frodo close. He didn’t know if Frodo was still awake, or if the exhaustion and grief had finally tugged him into the dark like it was trying to drag Sam.
He said it again, anyway. “I love you, and I’m sorry for saying it now, and I’m sorry for not saying it earlier. You’re the bravest Hobbit I ever did know, Frodo Baggins, and I’m as glad to be here with you as I would be back in the gardens of Bag End.”
Sam closed his eyes. The air around them was thick and hot with the fumes of Mordor, and it was becoming hard for Sam to pull air into his lungs. He felt Frodo’s thready breath as his ribs shifted slightly beneath Sam’s palm. He wondered, eyes closed and face still tucked against the top of Frodo’s head, if any two Hobbits had ever been as close as this. If there had been two beings twisted as close as Samwise Gamgee and his Mister Frodo.
And in his last moments of lucidity, falling into the darkness behind his eyelids, Sam imagined laying on his back like this in the green grass of the Shire. The sky bright and blue above them, and Frodo’s head pillowed on his shoulder. The sweet smell of his hair- soap and grass and sweat- and a bottle of ale sweating in a basket of sweet breads and fresh strawberries from the fields. Sam held Frodo close, focusing on the slow lift and fall of his ribs beneath Sam’s fingers, and imagined them safe again back home.
And then the darkness swallowed him up.
When Sam opened his eyes, the world was blindingly white. He was buried in a sea of soft white cloth. His body ached and his mouth was dry and his eyes burned as he squinted around. Was this the next great lands? Was he alone in death? Sam sat up, though every muscle in his back complained heartily at the movement. There was a window, and outside it he saw the sky, for the first time in ages. It was blue, nearly blindingly so, with little fluffy white clouds slowly blowing across it. Sam hadn’t seen a sky like that since they left the Shire.
It was hard to look away from the window, from the fresh green things he could barely see growing outside of it, but the sound of a door opening yanked Sam’s attention away.
Standing in the doorway was an older woman, pitcher and rag in hand, who looked just as startled to see him as Sam was to see her.
“Hullo,” Sam managed. He was raised with courtesy to be his first instinct, despite his voice sounding like he’d drank his weight in old Mister Whitbottom’s homemade white liquor. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, Mister Gamgee, you’re- how’re you feeling, sir?”
Sam blinked at her. “Sir?” He echoed, feeling awfully silly. He would’ve thought she’d mistaken him for someone else- a gentlehobbit like Mister Frodo or Mister Bilbo, for instance- if she’d not said his name. “I’m- I’m just a gardener, ma’am, I’m no-”
“You’re the special guest of our returned king,” the lady said, firm as Sam’s mum on washing day, “and one of the ringwalkers to boot. Sir.”
Sam’s face felt very hot. “Returned king?” He asked, instead of continuing to argue with her. “Does that mean- Strider- and the others- are we in Gondor?”
“Aye, we are. And if you’re well for the moment, Mister Gamgee, I’ll go and tell that you’re awake.”
“Yes, no, go please, I’m fine- thank you.” She nodded, dipped into a brief curtsy that made Sam blush redder, and started back towards the door when he remembered. “Wait. Wait- there was a-” Sam realized he didn’t even know how he’d gotten to Gondor from the edge of Mount Doom- “another Hobbit. With me. The ringbearer himself. Is he- did he-” the words died on his tongue. Sam couldn’t bring himself to form the thought.
The woman hesitated by the door, eyeing Sam with something close to pity. “Aye, yes, he’s here. But he hasn’t woken yet, and I’ve heard tell that he’s worse off than you are, sir, which is saying something if you’ll forgive the slight.”
Sam nodded. Frodo was alive. Unconscious and hurt, but alive and close. They’d made it off the volcano, out of Mordor, against all odds. Strider was going to be king, and a nice woman was calling Sam sir. The sky was blue through his window, and maybe he’d be able to go back home to the Shire again.
“Is there anything else, sir?”
“No, no,” Sam cleared his throat. He felt overcome, all at once, by the impossibility of what’d happened. “Thank you, I’m alright.”
“Get some more rest, sir, if you please. I’m sure your fellow ringwalkers will be along soon once they know you’re awake.”
“The other-” Sam started to say breathlessly, but she was already out the door, closing it softly behind her. Sam was alone in the white room again. In the kingdom of Gondor, after the end of the world. “The others,” he repeated; only to himself. And grinned like a silly little fool as he settled back in the rich white linens of the bed he’d been given.
“They’re here, Samwise Gamgee,” he told himself. “You did it. Mister Frodo destroyed that ring, and you’re all going to go back home.” And Sam let himself settle back into the dark embrace of sleep with a smile on his face.
It took some convincing, but eventually Sam badgered Gondor’s royal healer into letting him rest and recuperate at Mister Frodo’s bedside, instead of sequestered alone in his own room. Sam could count the days of his life on one hand that he’d spent laying about and not doing anything, and even the victory against the lord of all evil in Mordor wasn’t about to change who he was. He was someone who worked and who helped people; and the thought of laying alone in his too-large, too-soft bed while Frodo was unconscious and weak down the hall was enough to make Sam want to start clawing at the sturdy stone walls of the castle with his bare hands. But Aragorn- soon to be King Aragorn, which made Sam stumble over his words with regularity (King Strider, sir, was a particularly memorable fumble)- compromised that Sam be able to stay at Frodo’s beside, but also that he had to allow the healers and servants to be the ones to take care of the ringbearer. Your health and recovery is important, too, my dear Samwise, Aragorn had said, placing his hand on Sam’s shoulder. You’re no good to any of us, Frodo included, if you don’t allow yourself to heal.
And so he did. He let the healers replace his bandages, and he ate the food they brought from the kitchens and he waited for his Mister Frodo to wake up again.
Sam wasn’t alone in his vigil at Frodo’s bedside, though he was the most constant visitor. Somehow, Gandalf had survived his fall into the depths of Moria, and Pippin and Merry had survived their fights against the armies of orcs. Boromir’s brother Faramir paid visits at Aragorn’s side, as did Gimli and Legolas. Sam supposed that there was lots to do and rebuild and recover in the kingdom of Gondor and beyond, and that many of his friends- Merry and Pippin included, as they now stood with sworn fealty to the kingdoms of Rohan and Gondor respectively- had duties in helping all of Middle Earth recover.
But Sam’s world was held safe and quiet in the white bedroom in the Western wing of Gondor castle. Sam’s world was slowly rebuilding and recovering on its own- so the healers told him every day, when he asked why Frodo had still not yet awoken from his unnatural slumber.
His finger was gone- a misshapen stump on Frodo’s hand. A constant reminder of what had happened, and who they’d become. A constant reminder that the ring was gone, and could never be put on again. Every day, Sam wiped Frodo’s forehead with a cool cloth and watched carefully as the nurses spooned broth into his lax mouth and cradled the mangled hand in his own. He pressed kisses, feather light, to every knuckle and watched Frodo’s face for any sign of awareness.
Sam was patient. It took time and care to help gardens grow lush and strong; he was used to sitting still and looking for the small changes that showed that things were growing. And he would sit and watch for as long as it took for Frodo to come back to himself.
Sometimes, in the evenings after Gandalf and Pippin and Merry had all gone, Sam held Frodo’s hand tight and wondered if he’d heard what Sam told him up on the mountain. The memories were unclear, even in Sam’s mind, and he wasn’t the one who was plagued by the presence of evil incarnate inside his mind for months on end. He couldn’t remember whether Frodo was conscious in his arms, those last few moments before the world grew dark around them. Before Gandalf swooped in on eagle back and rescued their unconscious bodies from the summit of Mount Doom. Sam didn’t remember that last part at all, only waking up after the fact safe in Gondor, but he’d heard the tale many times over, sitting with the others at Frodo’s bedside.
Sam didn’t know whether to hope that Frodo remembered or not. On one hand, if Frodo woke up with those last moments on the mountainside wiped away by the horror and exhaustion of the moment, the two of them could move on. Sam could keep quietly loving his friend from afar, and Frodo would be none the wiser; neither of them would ever have to hurt each other again. But Sam would spend the rest of his life wondering. Wondering what Mister Frodo would have said, wondering if he would have understood or if he would have sent Sam away or if he even might have- no. Sam daren’t even think Frodo could ever return his feelings.
On the other hand, if Frodo did remember Sam’s attempted deathbed confession, he could politely let Sam down after he woke up, and they could both find a way to move on. He wouldn’t have to spend the rest of his life trailing at his Mister Frodo’s heels and stuck wandering the path of what if’s. Sam had survived Gollum and Mordor, he could survive a broken heart.
Either way, Sam would take the path before him once Frodo woke up, and until then he would stay at his bedside every hour until then. He didn’t want Frodo to wake up alone.
Technically, Frodo wasn’t alone when he finally woke. Gandalf was there, standing quietly at the foot of his bed, and told a page to run across the castle grounds and gather together the rest of the Fellowship party to Frodo’s bedside. But Sam wasn’t there. He was in Gondor’s royal gardens, talking to a handful of gathered gardeners about helping the plants and crops recover after the death and destruction that the war brought to their doorstep. He was only gone from Frodo’s side for a quarter hour, and yet that was when Frodo finally roused from his stupor.
Sam was the last to race down the halls and burst through the doorway into Frodo’s familiar room. Gandalf was still standing there, smiling proud and quiet. Gimli and Legolas were standing close at the right hand of his bedside, and Aragorn tall and grinning beside Gandalf. Even Merry and Pippin were already there when Sam stepped through the doorway, piled and laughing on top of Frodo in the man-sized bed.
For a moment, Sam stood still and quiet, hand on the wooden doorframe. His heart felt very still in his chest as he looked around at the bravest and best men he’d known, all gathered back together again. Frodo, pale and with hair wild from sleep around his head, grinning and laughing brighter than Sam had seen him in months.
And then Frodo’s eyes landed on him. The breath was punched out from Sam’s chest as Frodo’s smile grew even bigger. Sam had refused, for all the days and hours he’d spent silent at Frodo’s bedside, to even consider the possibility that he might not wake. But now, with Frodo finally conscious and smiling and talking again- lighter now with the burden of the ring burned away- Sam was forced to reckon with the reality that he was almost made to live in. A different reality wherein Frodo didn’t wake up. Where he went back to the Shire alone, and walked past the empty hill on Bag End for the rest of his life.
But Frodo was alive. And someday, after everything has been settled, they’ll go back home together. And Sam will be able to see him through the wide clear windows of Bag End again, Frodo waving to him as he tends the garden. And no matter the rain or the grief or the darkness of a quiet life spread ahead of them, Sam would take it on happily. Because he had his dear Mister Frodo back again.
“Sam,” Frodo breathed, audible even over the laughter and chatter of all their gathered friends. And Sam was moving across the room towards him on sheer instinct. He thought maybe he’d follow Frodo anywhere he asked- they’d already gone through all the kingdoms of dwarves and men and elves together, gone through the ruined lands of Mordor- Sam thought maybe he already had.
“Mister Frodo-” Sam started to say, and then there wasn’t anything else. Just his name, just the disbelief thick on his tongue like old honey. Just Frodo’s hand warm and squeezing tight around Sam’s. He looked down, remembering all the times he’d held Frodo’s limp hand between his own, and sniffled back his tears as he looked up to Frodo’s dear and smiling face again. “Oh, Mister Frodo-”
“I’m here, Sam. We’re here.” He looked around, putting his other hand- the one that wasn’t still holding Sam’s- on Merry’s shoulder. “We’re all here.”
“Nearly,” Pippin murmured, and stopped bouncing on the mattress at Frodo’s side.
Boromir’s presence loomed like a great dark shadow over the room, an empty hole at Aragorn’s shoulder where he should have been. Sam blinked, holding on tighter to Frodo’s hand as the silence spread thin between all of them, drawn taut by the memory of the one of their number that did not make it back home.
“Thank you, Frodo,” Aragorn said, breaking the silence. He reached down, placing one wide hand over Frodo’s ankle through the covers. “For doing what none of us could.”
The tips of Frodo’s ears were red, and he ducked his head away from Aragorn’s proud, sad smile. “Thank you for getting Sam and I down from the mountain, after- I don’t know-” he looked up, meeting Sam’s eyes with a look of confusion and fear so sharp that Sam half expected to see ash and blood smeared across his face again. “How did we get here? I thought for sure that- that-”
“Gandalf rode the giant eagles up to Mordor, after the great tower fell,” Merry explained quickly. “And the healers have been making sure you’ve recovered after- everything.”
Frodo was still staring at Sam. “How long…?”
“‘Bout a week and a half, sir.” Sam answered, as gently as he could. “You were awful hurt, after everything.”
“What about you, are you-?”
“Mister Frodo, please, I’m fine. Your Sam is fine, sir, please lay back down-”
“Right, right,” Frodo muttered, leaning back into his pillows. He seemed dazed, the weeks of unnatural sleep and months of bearing the ring all catching up to him at once. Sam distantly heard Gandalf murmur something in an undertone, but he kept his focus on Frodo. “We made it out?” He repeated, peering up at Sam like he held the answers to the world in his calloused palm.
He was still holding Frodo’s hand.
“We made it out, sir.”
“Please, Sam,” Frodo shook his head, greasy curls sweeping against the soft pillowcase. “You needn’t call me sir anymore, or mister, either. You’re a better man- the best man I’ve ever known- and especially now we should be as equals, Sam, please.”
“I- uh- alright, Mister Frodo, if you say so.”
“Sam-”
“We’ll leave you to your rest,” Gandalf interrupted gently, and Frodo’s eyes slid off of Sam to look over his shoulder towards the door. Sam turned, and watched as the rest of their gathered fellowship trailed after Aragorn back into the hall.
“Oh, right, o’course, I should-” Sam couldn’t bring himself to say it aloud, but slid off the edge of the bed anyway, making to follow Gandalf out the door. But Frodo didn’t let go of his hand, and it stopped Sam from making it more than a step away from Frodo’s side. “Sir, Mister Gandalf was right, you need- you should get more rest-”
“Sam. Stay with me? Please? I’m sure you’ve got your own room, and your own-”
“No, no. Mister Frodo, if you’d like me to, I’ll stay right here.”
“Please,” Frodo repeated, little more than a breath. Sam wrapped both his hands carefully around Frodo’s.
“I’ll not go anywhere, then.”
They sat out in the gardens. They were different from the ones Sam tended back in Bag End, of course, nothing could be as lovely as those; but there was something comforting about the familiar way the wind softly blew through the tall grasses. The chirping of the insects and birds as the sun slowly started to set. Even with the sun laying an orange blanket over the horizon, it was calmer and brighter in the private garden of Gondor’s castle than Sam had seen in months. He’d forgotten how bright the world could be, without the darkness of Sauron overtaking every inch of the sky. He didn’t know if he’d ever take this kind of quiet loveliness for granted again.
Frodo was sitting at his shoulder, his weight slumped warm and heavy against Sam.
He didn’t think he’d ever take Frodo’s presence for granted, either.
It had become a habit for the two of them, to go out and sit in the gardens after dinner. Frodo was still weak and tired more often than not, but he agreed that it was good for them to take the short walks and breathe the fresh air every evening. And Sam always walked with him, regardless of the weather, ready to catch and steady Frodo’s arm if he needed it.
Flowers were beginning to grow amongst the tall green grasses around them, and it reminded Sam of the gardens back in Bag End. He wondered whether the tulip buds he’d planted years ago were rearing their brightly colored heads again. He wondered if someone had taken over the caretaking of Bag End and the surrounding lands in his and Frodo’s absence, or if the house had been left to dust and the gardens overgrown by weeds with no one there to notice.
“Sam?” Frodo said, voice small and tired. They should head back to their rooms soon, Sam thought.
“Yeah, Mister Frodo?”
“Do you think it'll ever be... better?”
Sam looked down at Frodo’s head leaned against his shoulder. “I don't know, Mister Frodo. Things always change, the seasons and the growth and the death and all. And sometimes it doesn't grow back the same, after a storm, and sometimes it doesn't grow back entire. But we're here, aren't we? You and me, and Merry and Pippin. We made it out the other side of that storm, sir. And it's different, o’course. I think it might always be different, after everything that happened to us; and you most of all, Mister Frodo.”
Sam remembered the tremble in Frodo’s hand around his cups at dinner. He remembered the rough red skin weaving together across the stump of his lost finger. He remembered how Frodo would wake in the middle of the night, his screams and wailing audible even from Sam’s bedroom down the hall. “But different isn't always bad. The flowers will grow in the arbor again come summer, and the strawberries in the fields, and Merry and Pippin will have their pipeweed, and there will be good things along with the bad and the new.” Sam hesitated, “I- I don't know."
"No, you're- you're right, Sam." Frodo sat up, turning his head to look at Sam. “Sometimes it just feels like it’ll always be… this. Like I’ll always be this.” Frodo lifted his hand between them, three fingers and thumb spread wide. “But you’re- you’re here, aren’t you, Sam?”
“Aye, sir,” Sam breathed.
“We’re here, together.”
It had been days since Frodo woke from unconsciousness, days of Sam waiting to see if Frodo would bring up that last conversation on the mountainside. The confession he made in the stinking, ashen air. Frodo had not yet brought it up, and Sam was almost sure that he never would. That the two of them would go forward in life as in a brotherhood, nothing more nor less- and Sam accepted that. He would accept any life with Frodo in it.
But there, sitting with Frodo’s face painted gold and hopeful in the light of the setting sun, Sam felt his heart beat in the back of his throat. He barely dared to wonder if now was the time that Frodo would bring up Sam’s confession. Drag it up from the unspoken trench between them and lay it at his feet.
“I-” Frodo hesitated, then shook his head slightly, looking down at his hands clasped together in his lap. “Thank you, Sam. For everything.”
Sam smiled. “Of course, Mister Frodo.”
Frodo didn’t know how to bring it up. The memory was fuzzy, like an old elvish painting trapped behind too many layers of warped glass. Frodo wasn’t even sure whether it was real, or whether it was another awful nightmare created by Sauron and his ring, planted in Frodo’s mind in the last moments before Smeagol went tumbling over the side into the lava.
Frodo didn’t know how to ask, he didn’t know if he wanted to know whether it was real or whether Sam loving him was only something that could exist in the darkest shadows of his mind. He didn’t want to bring it up, only to see Sam’s face bravely fall and falter before he tried his best to let Frodo down easily. He didn’t want to see Sam’s worry when he brought up their journey through Mordor, and Frodo’s near failure in the last moments.
But Sam’s voice lingered in Frodo’s head. He could not shake the warped memory any more than he could shake the weight of the ring around his neck. Two different nooses, ever tightening.
I love you, Sam’s voice said in his head. A hand, rough and dry against Frodo’s shoulder and dampness in his hair. I’m sorry for saying it now, and I’m sorry for not saying it earlier. You’re the bravest Hobbit I ever did know, Frodo Baggins, and I’m as glad to be here with you as I would be back in the gardens of Bag End. Frodo remembered fighting against the sucking darkness, fighting to open his mouth and his eyes- to say or do anything to let Sam know he wasn’t alone. That he had nothing to be sorry for, and that he was easily braver and stronger than Frodo by any count. But the next thing Frodo remembered was waking up in the clean white bedroom in Gondor, with no certainty whether the dream of Sam was any realer than the dreams of darkness and Sauron’s fiery eye peering into the depths of his being.
So Frodo swallowed back the questions and the uncertainty and the sugar-sticky hope that maybe Sam could care for Frodo the same as he did Sam.
He knew Sam cared for him- they were old, dear friends, even before Sam started caretaking the gardens of Bag End for uncle Bilbo. He knew Sam cared, or else he would not have followed Frodo out of the Shire- even on Gandalf’s command- and furthermore would not have followed him into Mordor without the guidance of the rest of the fellowship. He knew Sam cared, but caring was not the same as love. It was not the same as the kind of breathless devotion Frodo felt inside his own chest.
He could never repay Sam for his kindness and loyalty on their journey. For his unwavering faith in Frodo, even when Frodo couldn’t bring himself to believe in anything but the inevitability of darkness and fire before him. He loved Sam before they left the Shire- a quiet, fond kind of love that always brought an easy smile to Frodo’s face. The kind of love he wrote about in the margins of his books after walking through the gardens Sam tended to with gentle hands and gentler eyes. But the trials of their journey- hand in hand, foreheads pressed close, feet worn raw- had fired Frodo’s simple love for Sam into something iron-strong and unwavering. Terrifying in its constancy.
Terrifying, because Frodo couldn’t imagine Bag End or his life without Sam there by his side. His Samwise, as Frodo found himself saying more and more. So often that Sam would even use it to describe himself, causing Frodo’s weak heart to squeeze itself in his chest.
Frodo didn’t deserve someone as good and strong as Sam. He was selfish and uncertain and weak- things that their journey through Middle Earth, Mordor, and up Mount Doom had only proven. The ring brought out the worst in Frodo, and had pushed Sam to his best in the same measure. How could Sam ever look at Frodo with anything more than pity or disgust after seeing how corrupted he became by the power of the ring?
But no, Sam was too good even for that. Frodo could not believe Sam capable of disdaining him- no matter how much he may deserve it.
The journey back to the Shire was quick and uneventful, not long after Aragorn’s coronation. The new king of Gondor sent them with carriages and horses back to the Shire, and Frodo spent most of the trip staring out the window. Sam sat across from him, humming under his breath; and Frodo thought that maybe he could settle into a life like this: with the beauty of Middle Earth out the window and good books and fresh food close at hand, and dear Samwise Gamgee sat across from him, humming.
And then they returned to Bag End, dusty and abandoned. Merry and Pippin went off to see their families, but Sam stayed at Frodo’s side that first afternoon. Helped him replace fresh linens and clean out the pantry of the stale and rotting food he’d left behind. Bank up the fireplaces with new wood and bring the house back up to some kind of life again. They had cold bread and cheese left from their traveling fare from Gondor for dinner, as well as some of the wine Bilbo kept in the cellars. By the time it was full dark out the old familiar windows, Frodo forgot that Sam did not, in fact, live in Bag End with him.
“Well, I oughta be headin’ back to my old gaffer’s for the night, sir-”
“What?”
Sam stopped, standing with his hand on the back of the chair he’d been sat in. “Sorry, sir?”
“What do you-” Frodo shook his head. “Right, no, sorry, of course. You’d want to- to go back to your home. I’m sorry, Sam I completely- I’m sorry.”
“Mister Frodo-”
“No, truly, of course you should go back to your mother and father- you haven’t seen them in- goodness. I’m sorry for keeping you so long here, dear Sam, I- I- of course. You should go.”
Sam was staring at him, with those wide sad eyes that always stopped Frodo in his tracks. For a moment, an uncertain silence stretched between them, broken only by the occasional crackle from the fireplace.
“Mister Frodo,” Sam started, voice slow and careful, “did you want me to stay here? With you?”
Frodo opened his mouth. Yes, please, I’m terrified to sleep in this big old house alone, I don’t know how to be so far from you anymore, please don’t leave me here, please- Frodo shut his jaw with a snap, swallowing back the words on his tongue. He shook his head, unsure how to answer Sam appropriately. Of course he wanted Sam to stay, but he didn’t want to make the dear man uncomfortable, didn’t want to presume upon his good and generous nature.
“I-”
“Can I stay, sir?” Sam asked, ducking his head bashfully- as though he had anything to be embarrassed of, when Frodo was the one foolishly enamored and desperate for Sam’s presence. “Would that be a bother to you?”
“Not at all,” Frodo managed, speaking around the words lodged in his throat. “If you don’t mind, I would- I would greatly appreciate that, Sam. You. I appreciate you.”
Sam blushed red, visible even in the dim firelight, and then nodded again, dropping his gaze away from Frodo. “I don’t mind at all. I- I’d like it. To not be so far from you yet.”
“Me too,” Frodo whispered.
And so it was that Sam moved into Bag End with Frodo- quietly, and yet all at once. He settled into a large guest room adjacent to Frodo’s, and they had breakfast and tea and supper together every day, at least. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, to have Sam so close. Frodo knew it only gave the neighbors more fodder for their gossip- that queer mister Baggins, just like his uncle, away for so many months on some odd adventure, telling no one where he’s going or where he’s gone, and now taken up with his gardener! Those Bagginses- but he did not much care. He was used to their odd looks and passing whispers, and more importantly, it didn’t seem to faze Sam either. He came back from his parents or from the market or from visiting his friends with a broad smile and would share the odds and ends of the newest gossip he’d overheard from the busybody Hobbits along his way. And they would laugh and eat and talk together, Frodo with his books and Sam with his gardens, and it was almost what Frodo had dreamed of.
But of course, the darkness didn’t leave Frodo so easily. It clung, like mud on his boots and cape hem, leaving trails across the house from where Frodo had tracked it with every step. He had nightmares nearly every night, half mind’s invention and half living memory, and more often than not Sam heard his yelling and flailing and came into Frodo’s room to help calm him.
They sat by the fire with warm mugs of milk as the sun started to rise, Sam’s worried eyes resting on Frodo like an itchy woolen blanket. It chafed, Sam’s concern, because Frodo did not know how to carry it. He did not know how to tell Sam that he’d be better off somewhere other than Bag End, because Frodo was too selfish and too desperate to send his singular solace away.
“You are- how are you so untouched by everything?” Frodo burst out, all of a sudden; as much a surprise to himself as it was to Sam. “We waded through darkness and muck and the worst of ourselves- the worst of myself- and somehow you were your same self throughout all of that and you’re still your same self now and- and- how can you do it, Sam? I look up at the Hobbiton sky I’ve known all my life and it’s like- like- I cannot breathe, for the brightness of it. I can still feel the chain around my neck to this day- to this moment-” Frodo grasped at the collar of his shirt- “the weight so heavy even in its absence that I think I’ll never be rid of it. And even the others- you know Merry carries his sword on his hip every day, even when we go to the Green Dragon, and he holds onto the hilt like he’s still waiting for another orc to come around the bend. How can you- how are you so untouched by all of it? Does it not haunt you? Are your hands not stained as mine are by the muck and mire of death and horror? I-I-” Frodo was breathless, his eyes and the back of his throat burning with tears he did not know how to shed. “Sam, please, I cannot bear to be alone in this-“
“Mister Frodo,” Sam’s voice was as gentle as it had ever been. “Of course I am touched by it. Of course I am shadowed and haunted by- by- I nearly lost you, sir. More times than I can think to count, I saw and felt you slipping out of my fingers, and I can still- I still feel you slipping away, Mister Frodo, even when you’re right here in front of me. I feel it, all of it. Maybe not as much as you do; but by golly I am haunted. I just- I didn’t want to burden you with it, sir.”
“Oh, Sam.” How was Frodo supposed to respond to all of that? How was he supposed to say, burden me, burden me with all of it- I would happily carry you clear across the Shire as you did for me, if it means we are not alone in our horror but carry it together. How was he supposed to say, I wish you would not still call me sir and mister, anymore, I am not your master or your better- not that I ever was- and I cannot bear that you think it, when you are the greatest Hobbit- the greatest personage- I’ve ever known. How is he supposed to say, how do you get up every morning, anyway? How can you smile at the sky and the flowers and our foolish nosy neighbors when you know what death feels like under your nails and between your teeth? How can you get up every morning if you’re still as haunted and scarred by it as I am?
“It’s never a burden. You- you must know that. I rely on you more than I can put to words, more than is fair to either of us, but Sam- you could never burden me.” Frodo looked down, staring into the dregs of honeyed milk left in his mug.
Sometimes, quiet moments like these felt too good to be true. Like this moment was the dream and soon Frodo would wake up to be burning and buried to death on that gods-forsaken volcano again. The ring burning into the skin of his finger and the great Eye searing into his soul from afar. Sam screaming distantly, but not close enough to help him anymore, because Frodo pushed him away.
“Frodo,” Sam’s voice was quiet. He reached out and placed a hand, warm and calloused, on top of Frodo’s narrow wrist. “D’you mean that, sir?”
“Of course I do.” Frodo put his hand on top of Sam’s. “And I wish you would stop calling me sir, Sam, please. You live here, you saved Middle Earth as much as I did- more than I did, in keeping me sane and safe as much as you could. I’m no more your master than Aragorn is your king.”
“Well, but I suppose-”
“Sam, please.”
“Alright. If you’re sure.”
“I am,” Frodo breathed, and it was perhaps too gentle, too soft, because he saw something slow like realization creep across Sam’s face.
“You said that to me, before, in Gondor. Do you remember? After you first woke up, you told me not to call you sir and such but I- I didn’t know if you meant it, then. If you’d remember.”
“I remember. I meant it- I mean it, now.”
“Right,” Sam mumbled, nodding slightly. He did not look away from Frodo, did not let go of his wrist, and Frodo could not bring himself to look away either. “Alright.”
“You’re the bravest Hobbit I ever did know, Samwise Gamgee,” Frodo whispered, wrapping his fingers tight around Sam’s hand. His stomach was tied up in knots- uncertainty, exhaustion, fear, and hope all in one.
Sam grew pale, staring at Frodo like he was some unnatural ghost before him. Almost as though he recognized the phrase Frodo repeated back to him. As though it wasn’t a dream Frodo’s mind had concocted, but something real that neither of them knew how to put to words.
Frodo drew all his remaining courage up around him. “I’m as glad to be here with you as I would be-”
“Back in the gardens of Bag End,” Sam finished, barely breathing the words aloud. “Frodo you- I said that- you remember?”
“I do. I- I-” Frodo’s hair flopped against his forehead as he nodded- “I remember, I didn’t know- I thought maybe it was another dream, I didn’t know how to ask- I didn’t want to hope-”
“Hope what?”
“That it could be real? That you would stay?”
“Oh, my Mister Frodo.” Sam carefully lifted his hand from Frodo’s wrist and pressed his palm to the warm apple of his cheek. “I’d stay so long as you would let me. I told you once already- not to go where I can’t follow, right?”
“You mean it, then? You’ll stay? You- you-”
“I still love you, aye. I think I will so long as I live, if you’ll let me.”
“Sam. My dear Sam. Only if you’ll let me love you in return?”
Sam’s eyes widened, as though that were something he’d not yet considered a possibility. “Oh, for true? Aye- yes, yeah, I’d like that awful much, Frodo. To be your dear Sam.”
“You are. You are.”