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Chapter Text

The wizard Nishun was tall, shabbily-dressed and striking, with eyes that gleamed like stars when he was amused; or went dark as storm-clouds when sorcery was afoot. In his pockets there were always sweets for the children, an old key or two, coins from distant lands, and his favourite battered old pipe. He never stated his profession outright, but of course everybody knew that he was a wizard, because the town always knew these things, even if no one ever said them.

- Stars’ Descent (Ash Mountain #1)

❆

“And who might you be, lad?” the old voice said gruffly. 

Frodo blinked. He was standing on the doorstep of the lodge with two extremely heavy duffle bags—the straps of which were cutting into his hands, in a way he might have minded if the cold hadn’t already numbed all his extremities.

On second thoughts, he should’ve put the bags down after ringing the doorbell… Only, he hadn’t expected all the shuffling and bolt-latching on the other side to take quite as long as it had. It felt like he’d been standing there in the snow for several minutes. For forever.

Now the heavy wooden door had been opened a fraction, enough for him to see two piercing eyes under heavy grey brows, made more protruding perhaps by the thick woollen beanie jammed over the rest of the forehead. This—the beanie—was also grey, only a few shades darker than the rather magnificent beard that Frodo could glimpse through the door crack.

“I—I’m Frodo Baggins,” he said, clearing his throat. Was it an air of suspicion that he was imagining, or was this simply how they did things in the village? “I’ve got a room for the season…?”

“Ah.” The door opened wider, enough for Frodo to take in the tall figure, who could have been anywhere between sixty and a hundred—it was hard to tell, looking past the lined face, into the keen gleam of those eyes. “You’re Bilbo’s lad. Yes, yes, come in.”

“Oh. That is—yes, Bilbo’s my uncle.” Feeling rather ruffled and not exactly sure why, Frodo lifted his bags another centimetre and took a hurried step into the doorway before the man could change his mind and bolt him out again.

“On you go, down the hall, only one direction to it,” the gruff voice said, though rather more kindly than before, and Frodo edged his luggage past a short but intense scuffle that seemed to involve multiple keys, several bolt latches and a heavy door-chain for good measure. 

He took his shoes off in the drying room, noting that they were one of the very few pairs. Then he was hustled along down a long wood-panelled hall, so blessedly warm in contrast to the snowy evening that he could feel his fingers thawing out, and his cheeks beginning to sting. 

“Room number nine for you, Frodo Baggins,” said his mysterious caretaker, unlocking a heavy wooden door after the second turn.

Frodo stepped into the room that, if all went smoothly, he was to spend the next three months in, and switched on the light to determine what he’d gotten himself into.

It was a nice room, certainly. Not here were the crowded bunks and plasticky mattresses of other lodging rooms—this room, bless his dear uncle for knowing Frodo’s tastes, was entirely his own. A king-sized bed in navy blue took up most of the space, tucked in a crisp, almost military fashion. It only slightly clashed with the maroon carpet that seemed to mould under his socks.  White walls continued above the wooden panelling that came to the height of the bed; making the room feel both smaller and more cozy. A window on the left wall, and the prospect of a view—although this was hidden by the shuttered blinds. 

Moving as though he was alone, Frodo crossed to pull aside these shutters and inspect the natural surroundings. All was black outside, bar a few ghostly shapes that he supposed might be trees, or could simply be the furniture’s reflection in the glass. 

By the bed, a small dressing table of adequate height. Yes, Frodo thought—he could certainly pull that over to the window, to make a desk of sorts, and here he could write. He could picture it, with the snow eddying against the window and perfect, blessed silence, and his toes curling in the carpet.

Yes, he could certainly make something of this. In fact—

There was a rather startling throat-clearing from the doorway. Frodo’s escorter was still looming there by his bags, scrutinising him with eyes that still had a strangely piercing effect, even from across the room. 

“To your liking, then, Mr. Baggins.” It wasn’t so much of a question.

“Yes. Very much so. You must be, er…” Bilbo had told him Gandalf, although he couldn’t remember if that had been the first or the last name, suddenly.

“Gandalf,” said the man, which did not clear up the question exactly. It could be a last name…“Your uncle and I have had quite some adventures together, back in the day.”

Unsure how to respond to this ambiguous statement, Frodo said, “I’m very grateful that you could fit me in. Especially with the season coming on so soon.”

There was another bout of throat-clearing, which might have been a from of acknowledgment, or simply a stubborn clogging of phlegm. Although Frodo was sure he saw a twinkle in Gandalf’s eye as he said a moment later, “Bilbo tells me you write books.”

Wrote books, Frodo thought. “Yes.”

“And you’ll be doing that while you’re here, I gather.”

“I hope to be, yes.” 

“Hm.” Gandalf’s beard quivered again before he hawed and said, “Well then. You’ll need settling in before anything else, I’ll warrant. Come find me in the common-room if it’s supper or a tour you’re after. I keep late hours.”

And then he was gone before Frodo had fully stammered out a thanks, the door clicking softly shut behind him. 

And Frodo was alone in his new quarters. He did another slow turn of the place—window, bedside, carpet, bags—and nodded in a private satisfaction. Yes, this would be the place.

It seemed too late for dinner, yet too early for sleep, so Frodo busied himself unpacking his bags, finding dry socks, and laying out his books by the bedside. The bathroom was across the hall; the place was eerily silent except for the heating system going somewhere and the sound of his own footsteps.

Frodo looked at himself in the mirror, hair still slowly drying from the damp cold outside, and attempted to see himself like a profile on the back inside-cover of one of his books—confident, purposed, a touch removed. Smiling a little, like he had the story under his grasp, and knew the plot-twists to come. 

“The story ends here,” Frodo told himself in the mirror, and then went to locate his toothbrush.

❆

Snow had fallen through the night, though not enough to get the early-season skiers truly excited—still, a crystalline dusting greeted Frodo as he opened his window latch next morning, and the ground outside glittered under a pale eggshell sky. The cold air felt tight on his face, bracing, and he experienced a thrum of something like anticipation.

A new setting, that was all he needed—a change in bed and board, and a good few quiet snow-days. The book would write itself in no time.

Finding himself ravenous, Frodo proceeded to the shared kitchen of the near-empty lodge—it was, still, very early in the season—and discovered to his dismay that food was something the lodgers had to provide for themselves. Shelf after empty shelf greeted him, marked with numbers corresponding to each unoccupied guest room. The fridge contained nothing except an expired milk carton and what appeared to be a couple of hemp protein bars.

There was nothing for it but to venture out into the unknown for his breakfast. Taking only his notebook and wallet from his room, Frodo paused to finger-comb his hair and, as an afterthought, pull on one of Bilbo’s truly atrocious knitted beanies. Thank heavens his uncle’s yarn-crafts phase had been short lived, he thought, for it was one of the few artistic endeavours for which the Bagginses evidently had little talent. Or taste.

Still, it would hurt his uncle’s feelings if Frodo didn’t keep the beanie, scarf and matching mittens he’d been gifted, and he didn’t much mind what the people here thought of his fashion sense. In fact, the odder he seemed, the less likely people were to bother him, and the faster he could finish his accursed book.

Frodo donned his coat and snow-boots in the drying room, toasty warm from the night they’d spent in there, and fussed around with the door for a solid minute before taking his first steps out into the snow. 

Everywhere was white, so blinding in the morning light that he had to squint his eyes. Even his breath came out in a puff of white, and it felt good in his lungs—clean. Down the slope from the lodge, the road was still visible under a sheen of snow, framed by dark trees that appeared shiny black against so much brightness. 

Frodo picked his way along the path, lifting his feet high after every step, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. The ground was icy, and it’d be a hard landing if his feet went out from under him. 

It became clear to Frodo rather quickly that he had no idea where breakfast was. He was on a street that barely seemed to constitute the word—so scattered were the lodges, so buffered with trees and sparkling slopes, that each one seemed to be its own private oasis seperate from the rest. There was not a coffee shop to be seen.

No shops on the next street, either, and after twenty minutes of crunching along like the village’s only inhabitant, Frodo was forced to admit he’d done a great loop and was still no closer to finding so much as a supermarket. 

The village stretched out below him, bowl-shaped, and he could see the ski-lifts framed in the distance, eerily still against the pale sky. If he could just get down somehow, he was sure to stumble upon someone sooner or later.

Frodo was cold and famished by the time he discovered the (in hindsight quite obvious) descent down toward the ski slopes, which led him past steadily accumulating lodges and still-dark equipment hire shops, until he reached a wide and snow-heaped centre square.

Here, he guessed, was where the ski slopes began, and already small groups of people were bustling around in preparation, some carrying ski poles and others great hiking backpacks. A small girl was strapping into her ski-boots in a well-practiced sort of way, while her mother held her arm to keep her steady. Immediately the girl shot off on the snow into a pile of muddy slush. Conditions were not yet perfect for ski travel, it seemed. 

A delicious frying smell wafted toward Frodo where he stood at the square entrance, gazing round at the banks of half-frozen snow and pretty coloured Christmas lights that were strung up around the place. 

His stomach rumbling, he quickly traced the scent to the base of the centre stairs that seemed to lead up to more equipment hire shops. (Really, how many did these people need?)

A cheerful, bunting-clad stand had been set up here, under a red painted sign that proclaimed jam doughnuts. 

Immediately Frodo started forward—it was not the breakfast he’d been envisaging, but it was the breakfast he was going to get, by all means—but the auburn-haired girl behind the stall did not immediately notice him; she was busy chatting to a boy in front, a blue-jacketed boy that Frodo guessed might be one of the staff.  

“You know I used to think he was a complete airhead—unlike his sister, she’s lovely—but anyway, Éomer asked me if I’d thought about signing up to teach this year…”

“Why don’t you?” asked the boy, sandy-haired, leaning one elbow against the stand where several doughnuts were being rolled through puffs of sugar.

“Because, Sam, as I’ve told you a million times, I can’t stand the kids.”

“They’re not so bad,” the boy said, a smile in his voice.

“They’re either snotty or sticky or too full of themselves to think they need lessons, even though they can’t brake without their skis crossing and nearly jabbing their poles into someone’s eye, or worse, catching you in the—”

“Customer!” the boy interrupted suddenly, having glanced over his shoulder and given a great start to see Frodo. 

Frodo cleared his throat, as both the blue-jacket boy and doughnut-stand girl stared at him, the latter with her silver tongs still in the air. “Sorry to interrupt… I was hoping to buy a half-serve of doughnuts?”

❆

Sam blinked at the boy. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, and was—Sam couldn’t help noticing—quite handsome, with startlingly blue eyes and a dark jacket pulled right up to his chin, and his curls flattened underneath what had to be the most hideous baby blue, pompom-clad knitted beanie that Sam had ever seen.

The overall effect was still quite adorable, though, especially with a few flakes of snow catching in the dark hair that curled over the boy’s ears. 

Sam was aware he and Rosie were both staring and said hurriedly, “Oh no, sorry to keep you waitin’—we’ve been jabb’ring away so. I’ll, er, just get out of the way then.”

He took his elbow off the stand and took a step back, careful not to skid in the slush. 

Rosie said with interest, “here for the slopes, then?” She didn’t take her eyes off the boy as she swept doughnuts into a paper bag, sizing him up.

“Er—no,” said the boy apologetically. Sam thought privately that he couldn’t look any less like a skier—you could usually tell, with people. The way they stood, their sense of ease on the snow. And he suspected no skier would be caught dead in a hat like that.

“Not skiing?” Rosie asked, now waving the paper bag at him.

The boy located his wallet and then a crisp ten-pound note, after first pulling off his (also baby blue) mittens. “No,” he said, smiling now. “I’ve never been on a pair of skis, actually.”

“And you’re not a snowboarder, either,” Rosie said, assessing him narrowly. Sam knew that she, just as he could for skiing, tell immediately whether someone was built for a snowboard.

This boy seemed too… delicate, somehow, for any of the usual sports that brought people up to the village this time of year. He was strong enough, Sam supposed, only he seemed too finely carved for the roughness of the slopes—not with twenty thousand visitors of every age and skill-level buffeting for space alongside him.

He’d be more at home at one of those fancy lawn sports, Sam decided—croquet, or whatever that one with the little mallets was. Probably with knitted vests and a glass of champagne in the hand that wasn’t batting. Something about those pale and slender hands as they handed over the money, and accepted the paper bag with red jam-stains already soaking through. 

The boy shook his pom-pommed head, still smiling.

“What’re you here for, then?” Rosie asked bluntly.

Sam shot her a look, but her eyes were intent upon the stranger. 

“Er,” said the boy—young man, really, he was about Sam’s own age—“well, a bit of a… getaway, I suppose.”

“A what?” Rosie was staring at him, quite having forgotten about the change she owed. The boy had paid enough for about four bags of doughnuts. 

“Nice place you’ve chosen,” said Sam, trying to sound friendly, at the same time as Rosie continued, “why on earth would you choose a skiing village for a getaway? If you don’t even ski?” She seemed quite genuinely confused. 

“Oh, well.” The boy shrugged elegant shoulders, clasping his paper bag close as though for warmth. “I’m hoping to get some writing done, actually.”

“Writing?”

The boy seemed to have had enough of this line of interrogation however, and he said instead with his eyes turned on Sam, “I don’t suppose you could tell me where they serve breakfast here, could you? A plate of eggs or even just a bakery—I’m not fussy.”

Sam seized on this chance to be useful, even as he could sense Rosie’s eyes boring into the stranger from next to him. “Well,” he said apologetically, “nothin’ much is open yet, this time in the season. There’s a diner of sorts—”

“Whereabouts is that?”

“It’s shut til evening,” Rosie interrupted. 

“There’s a little supermarket, though,” Sam said helpfully, for the stranger looked quite genuinely depressed at the thought of the closed diner.

“And there’s a showy little tourist pub,” Rosie added. “Wouldn’t trust their food, though. Now when you say writing—”

“Surely there’s at least coffee or something,” the boy said, half-desperately.

“Nope,” Rosie said cheerfully. “Only doughnuts.”

The boy continued to blink at them in a confused, slightly tragic manner until Sam said, taking pity on him, “per’aps you’d like another bag of them then, to tide you over.”

“I—alright, yes. Thank you very much.”

Rosie triumphantly scooped out another six doughnuts bubbling in their pot, and began rolling them in sugar. Both Sam and the stranger watched her for a moment, until she reached for another paper bag and remarked, “so, you’re a writer.”

The boy seemed resigned to the interrogation, now. He nodded his head, pom-pom wobbling. 

“Wow,” said Sam, impressed.

“Are you famous, then?” Rosie asked.

The boy’s face was carefully blank. He politely watched sugar being shaken off the doughnuts and said, “Oh, not particularly.”

“What’s your name? I might know you.”

The boy did not look as though he particularly thought that was likely. “Frodo Baggins,” he said.

The name did not mean anything to Sam—although he thought it was rather pretty—but Rosie suddenly gasped. “My brother reads you,” she said, pausing once again with her tongs. “Big books, aren’t they—got mountains on the cover and that…?”

“That sounds right,” the boy—Frodo—agreed.

Sam tried to picture Tom reading by the fireplace in the lodge, and thought that Rosie’s description did sound vaguely familiar. “That’s amazing,” he said. 

Frodo shrugged again, but he was smiling a little. “Oh, you know. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

“So you’ve come here to write another book then?” asked Rosie. She seemed to have completely forgotten about the doughnut order. “Wait ‘til I tell Tom about this, he won’t believe it!”

But Sam had seen the sudden tightening of the boy’s face at this comment; the slight wince at the words another book, and decided that he was not the sort who would appreciate being flaunted as a new village celebrity. 

“Rosie,” he said quickly, “his doughnuts.”

Rosie scoffed, as though this was a ridiculous request. “You should come meet my brother sometime,” she said generously to Frodo. “He teaches when he’s not helping out round the village, lots of odd jobs. He’d love to ask you all about the next instalment in your ridiculously long series—”

“Rosie, the change,” interrupted Sam, seeing the panic in the boy’s eyes, and swooping behind the stall counter himself in order to dish out the necessary coins.

“Alright, alright, I’m doing it, calm down, Sam,” said Rosie irritably, and rolled up the next bag of doughnuts before handing them over to Frodo. He looked as though he half wanted to take them and run, but waited dutifully for his change as Sam held it out.

“Sorry about that,” Sam felt the need to say. “It’s a small place at heart, you know, and everyone ends up getting in everyone’s business if you’re here for the season.”

Frodo’s blue eyes met his, and it was like being pinned by the sun on bright snow. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said quite solemnly, though he was smiling a little. “Thank you, er… Sam?”

Sam swallowed. “That’s right,” he said automatically, “Samwise Gamgee. I’m one of the ski instructors—if y’ever do feel like a lesson while you’re here, just give me a shout.”

Shut up, he thought internally, what are you saying, you ninny, he obviously doesn’t want—

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said again. He grinned. “I can’t imagine descending to that level of desperation, but I’ll see how the writing goes first.”

He pocketed his change, nodded politely at Rosie, and turned back into the snow before either of them could say anything else, clutching two paper bags of doughnuts that were steadily sweating more jam. 

Sam stepped back out from the stall before Rosie could swat him with the tongs, and thoughtfully watched Frodo’s progress back across the snow-carpeted square.

A writer… He’d met all sorts of folk over the last fifteen odd seasons he’d spent here—first only weekends, then six years of teaching—but not one of those. There was something engaging about the young man, though; something charming in his slight and deprecating manner, though he seemed like the sort who lived worlds away from the rest of them, in lands and fancies of his own.

Away with the fairies, that one, Sam’s gaffer would say. He wouldn’t mean it as a compliment, either. Sam, however, thought it was a very admirable quality.

The bubble of more doughnuts frying brought him out of his reverie, and he turned to see Rosie turning them over with her tongs. “He’s got pretty eyes,” she remarked, her gaze also on the retreating figure. 

Sam hmmed noncommittally. 

“Sure he’s not your type?” Rosie asked, her tone still casual.

She turned to find him frowning at her. “Lay off with all that, will you?”

“I’m just saying… not every day you pick up a rich, famous author who’s interested in your skiing lessons…”

“He’s not interested in my stupid lessons,” Sam retorted, “and anyways, what’s to say he’s rich?”

“You can just tell,” Rosie said wisely. “I bet he’s loaded. I swear my brother has stacks of his books at home, and those big hardbacks don’t come cheap, you know. Not when you have to get him one every birthday—”

“Oi! Any jammy doughnuts for us poor labourers, or do we have to stand here in the snow all day?” came a familiar voice.

Sam turned to see Éomer, standing tall in his instructor’s jacket with a full ski mask and goggles perched high on his blond hair—it wasn’t even properly snowing yet, the prat—surrounded by a gaggle of his friends, and his sister Éowyn, who smiled familiarly at Rosie and Sam.

“There might be,” snapped back Rosie, “but you’re paying full price for them. No discounts—” she raised her voice over the resulting moans and interjections “—except for the lovely Éowyn here. She can have a bag for free.”

“Why her?” Éomer crossed his arms, while his sister laughed and shoved at his shoulder. “We’re all snowboarders here, and that seems like blatant discrimination—”

“Because I said so,” said Rosie, firmly, and Sam smiled to himself.

It looked like it was going to be a good season.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know how to go on, after all this,” said Maura.

The wizard watched her stirring a spoon through her tea, and was quiet.

”I mean, it seems so foolish—to be sitting here, having breakfast, while battles are being waged and half the world is covered in snow.”

Steam rose from the teapot. Nishun’s voice was gentle. “You start here, lass. With the little things. One at a time, that’s all it is.”

- God’s Grip (Ash Mountain, #5)

❆

The next morning found Frodo in a completely useless mood.

He’d spent the previous afternoon organising himself: locating the supermarket for bare essentials, calling his uncle, texting Merry, and sending several emails to his editor confirming his plan to essentially go off-grid until he had the skeleton of a draft worth showing. The same thing for his instagram—a single picture of his desk and the snowy window beyond, captioned off to get some work done. Back in a couple of months. 

He hadn’t, however, managed to switch off his phone in time to avoid seeing the comments already popping up—FINALLY. can’t wait to get my hands on the new book.

when’s book 9 coming then??? dying with these cliffhangers

pls pls pls don’t let sorcha die in this one, also LORKAN AND YVONNE ARE ENDGAME I SAID WHAT I SAID

omg guys im so scared I KNOW this one’s going to rip my soul out 

#morganxcircannforever

And so on until he locked his phone in the desk drawer. Then he’d pulled out and carefully arranged all his notes, lined up his pens, cleaned out his email inbox, and stared at the blank document on his laptop until deciding that today, surely, was a write-off, and anyway it was almost dinner-time.

This morning, Frodo woke to his alarm at an hour much earlier than he would have liked, and seriously considered rolling over back to sleep. 

But—it wasn’t a holiday he was here for. He had a job to do, so he dragged himself out of bed, washed his face, and had a rather depressing breakfast of cheese-on-toast alone in the lodge kitchen. Gandalf seemed to be absent, although he could hear an occasional thump as though furniture was being moved somewhere upstairs. 

Then, with the same level of resignation he felt before sitting down to read a tax invoice, he started up his ancient laptop—it groaned to life in its usual throat-clearing way—and once more stared down at a blank white screen. 

The fact was, book nine—or Hell’s Fire, as was the working title—was already mostly planned out. Frodo had been planning this story with every book that he wrote, the past ten odd years. He’d been thinking about this story; this world, for longer. Almost his whole life he’d been working towards this particular moment—the conclusion of his internationally-beloved Ash Mountain series, in whose pages were lands he’d meticulously mapped, characters that felt more real to him than most people did. And he owed it to them to give them their ending.

Only lately, this last year, really… Frodo couldn’t shake the feeling that the whole thing was slipping out of his grasp. The book was too big for him to hold, to make sense of. It had become more than the final volume—it had become the grand finale to a lifetime of daydreams; the big magic trick he had to pull off, so that every character got their ending, every fan of the series was satisfied, and he could lay the world of Ash Mountain to rest at last.  

And he was no longer sure that he could do it.

It had always been easy to fall into his writing, as though the Seven Nations lingered on the other side of a curtain between reality and infinity. It was always close to him.

But these past months, it had become a sort of effort that Frodo had never before felt. Like the world—mountain peaks, forests of malicious intent, iron-grey seas lapping against white city gates—was getting further and further away from him, until writing felt like looking down the wrong end of a telescope; the scenes grey and dim, the characters contemptible and flat. 

He’d deleted the weak drafts he had. It was time for a clean slate, and he had to start chiseling. Even if the work felt like work in a way it had never done before.

Frodo typed PROLOGUE into the empty screen. He was good at prologues. All his previous novels had them, mostly featuring the enemy hard at work behind the scenes, but occasionally a prophecy or two. A significant birth. He was particularly proud of the opening scene in Eyes of the Lord, where a dragon had waxed poetry about the stars; it being his first time laying his (eight) eyes on them for several hundred years.

He knew what this prologue was supposed to be. A panoramic description of the evil armies forging their weapons, preparing for war. Some ominous imagery of the smoke columns in a dark sky; grey pillars that could be seen for miles. 

He began to write, and each word felt like pulling teeth. Outside, flecks of snow hit the windowpane and left smears of condensation. The sky was white, white as the half-empty page on his laptop.

Forty minutes into this gruelling exercise, Frodo scrolled back through the few paragraphs he’d written and had to resist the urge to delete the whole thing. There was no lying to himself—it was rubbish. Not only had he apparently fallen into clichés worthy of a young adult novel, but he’d used the colour grey three times in a paragraph. 

Deciding that it would only get steadily worse unless he gave himself an intervention, Frodo pushed out of his chair, sent his notes scattering across the desk and went to locate his jacket and scarf. 

He was still grumbling to himself as he fought with the laces of his snow-boots in the drying room, and then had to battle with the bolts and locks on the front door, finally throwing it open in such a fury of annoyance that—to his horror—there came a sudden oomph and the sound of several heavy objects dropping into the snow.

The door now swinging wide, Frodo found himself staring at the doughnut-stand boy—Sam, he remembered dumbly, Sam Gamgee—who was fumbling with an armful of firewood, a few logs of which had been sent flying by Frodo’s stupid theatrics with the door. 

“Bollocks,” Frodo blurted out, one of his uncle’s (fairly mild) favourite curse words. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise anyone was—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Sam Gamgee cheerfully, who seemed to have recovered his balance and was now stooping to pick up the wood he’d dropped. “I was just about t’knock.”

“Still, that was stupid of me,” Frodo said, bending to help, but Sam waved him off with a mild, “don’ worry about it. You’ll get splinters if y’don’t have yer gloves.”

Both of them straightened again, Sam holding such a heavy armful of wood that Frodo wondered how he was able to stand there looking so serene. “Er… what are you doing here?” he asked, a little bluntly.

“Oh, I’m jus’ dropping off some firewood for Mr. Gandalf. I help out a bit with the lodges on this street, since there ain’t much to do until people start arrivin’.” 

“Mr. Gandalf,” Frodo repeated, seizing on the first bit of this statement. “Is that his last name, then?”

Sam blinked. He had large, hazel eyes under a fringe of sandy hair, which was catching flakes of snow. “Erm, Gandalf? I… don’t really know. Always been a bit scared to ask, to be honest.” 

“Fair enough,” said Frodo, and then realised how foolish he must look blocking the door. “Here,” he said hurriedly, “I suppose you want to get past me and put that load down.”

He began to back up, but Sam said easily, “oh, no, it’s not so heavy.” He shifted the bundle in his arms slightly and asked, “how’s the writing going, if you don’ mind me askin’?”

Frodo paused with a hand on the doorframe. “It’s, er…” 

He looked into the warm, interested eyes and then sighed. “It’s going pretty terribly, to be honest.”

“Oh, well.” Sam said, shifting the firewood again and looking sympathetic. “It’s early days yet. I’m sure you’ll get into the swing of it.”

“Thank you,” said Frodo, and meant it. “One can only hope, I suppose.”

Sam seemed to consider him for a moment, and Frodo was about to back up out of the entrance way again when he said, “you know, if you need to get your head away a bit, so to speak, you’re welcome at the pub this evening. It’s openin’ night, though there won’t be a lot of people yet—anyway, might be a change o’pace for you, if it helps…” he trailed off, looking unsure. 

“Oh,” said Frodo, surprised. “That’s very kind of you. I mean—”

“You’ve prob’ly got a whole host more important things to be doin’,” Sam said quickly, shaking his head a little. 

“If you mean staring at a blank word document all evening, then yes,” Frodo said, smiling at him. 

He couldn’t decide how he felt about the concept of walking alone into a pub no doubt full of ski instructors, but he was touched at the offer. 

“You’ll be there?” he asked, rather stupidly.

Sam nodded. “It’s sort of a tradition for us early-birds,” he said, smiling back. “The Prancing Pony, it’s called, just past the centre square lookin’ down over the village. You’ll likely hear it before you see it.”

“Rowdy crowd?”

“Oh, you know.” Sam shrugged, an impressive feat with an armful of logs. “Mostly decent folk. Rosie and her brothers’ll be there, they’d love to see you. If you feel like it.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Frodo said. “I’ll, er, see how I go this afternoon…”

“Yes, an’ don’t worry about it if you’re busy—”

“…but I’d love to come—”

“—we’ll be here all season anyways,” Sam finished. They grinned apologetically at each other, and then Frodo remembered once again that the other boy’s arms were still full of firewood.

“Here—” he took a few steps back to let Sam through, just as Sam stepped back in the snow to let Frodo past. 

Frodo laughed when it seemed that Sam wouldn’t move, and then stepped out to join him. “You’re much too polite.”

“You’re a guest,” Sam responded promptly. “Enjoy your walk, Mr. Frodo.”

“Just Frodo,” Frodo corrected automatically, before realising that Sam—now pausing in the doorway with his firewood—was grinning at him. “I…” he felt himself flush. “See you around, then, Sam.”

“That you will.” Sam disappeared into the lodge with his load, and Frodo turned back to the snowy path in front, tugging securely at his scarf and suddenly feeling more optimistic than he had all morning.

❆

Two hours and a twenty minute bus-ride down from the skiing village later, Sam reentered his bunk room and found it no longer empty. 

Tom was out, likely still helping with the firewood deliveries, but two familiar persons were in the process of unpacking their things, both having claimed the top bunks.

“‘Lo, Strider,” Sam said cheerfully. “Just drove up, did you?”

The first man turned from what seemed to be a very modest duffel bag, his camera already unpacked and sitting gleaming on the top pillow.

“Samwise!” he said in greeting, coming over to give Sam a very strong cuff on the back; one that almost made his knees buckle. “Look at you, I’d almost swear you’re taller.”

“Ha,” said Sam, who had been the recipient of this same joke going on six years. 

He looked away from Aragorn (dubbed Strider because of his unsettlingly-efficient technique on cross-country skis), stubble-jawed with his dark hair back in a careless bun; up towards his equally tall looming friend.

Legolas looked expressionlessly down at Sam from where he was sitting on the top bunk, ski goggles in one hand and a shampoo bottle in the other. “Hello, Sam.”

“Legolas,” said Sam amicably, being well-used to the other’s rather spare conversation style. “Had a good year?”

Out of all the instructors in their quarter of the lodge, Legolas was the one most likely to go radio-silent over the long months between ski seasons. He now frowned and threw his unpacked items down on the duvet cover. “It’s been terribly boring. Never know what to do with myself in the summer.”

“Well, maybe next time you’ll say yes to canyon hiking when I ask you,” said Aragorn mildly, clambering up on to the bunk above Sam’s like a six-foot spider monkey. 

“Pfft, hiking. There’s no finesse to hiking, Aragorn. You’re just stomping round in boots eight hours a day.”

“Either of you seen Tom yet?” Sam asked before Aragorn could retort.

Legolas looked confused, and Sam sighed. “Tom Cotton. Who’s been rooming with us the last three years out of six.”

“He hasn’t come in yet, mate,” Aragorn said. “Éowyn and his sister are together in the mess hall.”

“Cheers.” Sam went to get his phone charging at his bedside. Passing Tom’s bunk, he felt a jolt as he saw the rather battered paperback that had been left alongside a beanie and pair of socks on the duvet—Devil’s Keep, it read, in swirling orange letters, over what looked like some sort of blue-tinged forest fire, and there in letters nearly as large as the title: FRODO BAGGINS.

Sam resisted the urge to go pick up the book, as he knew this apparent snooping would not go unnoticed by the others. Instead he located his phone, and saw that he’d missed a call from his sister Daisy. 

Wanting somewhere more quiet to talk, he made his goodbyes to the others—who were now arguing comfortably about the merits of different summertime adventure sports—and went back out to the snow. Reception was dodgy in the instructors’ accomodation at the best of times, but Sam would have taken his calls outside in any case—though the lodging had many perks, privacy was not one of them. 

He stood on an old stump in a thin drift of snow, a little back from the main road. He called the Gamgee household phone, suspecting that Daisy would be the one to answer it anyway. 

Instead, it was his gaffer.

“Hamfast Gamgee speakin’.”

“Da, you still don’t recognise my number?” Sam asked, exasperated. 

“Oh—Sam-lad. Good t’hear your voice. You’re all settled in then?”

“Yes, da. I would’ve called yesterday,” Sam said, zipping his jacket up to his chin in the cold, “but it’s been a bit crazy here already…”

“That’s alright, lad. No need to make excuses.” There was a grunt and the sound of crackling, as though the phone had gone through a sudden wind-tunnel (his dad had never been much good with technology), and then Hamfast said gruffly, “yer sister’s wantin’ to speak w’you. I’ll hand her over.”

“Oh—alright then. Bye, da.”

“Look after yourself up there, son.”

There was even more shuffling, a heavy thumping sound as though the phone had been dropped, and then Daisy’s voice, sounding very close like she was cupping her fingers round the handset. “Sam?”

“Aye. Sorry I missed you before.”

“That’s alright. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Ski runs should be openin’ the next few days, if we’re lucky w’the weather, and then I’ll be startin’ lessons.”

“Good,” his sister replied, sounding distracted. “That’s great, Sam.”

“How’s dad?”

There was a sigh. “Well. No doubt he’s to proud to say anything to you, but he’s not well, Sam. The work’s gettin’ too much to handle on his own, an’ now with you gone—”

“Daisy—”

“I’m no’blaming you.” Her voice sounded more weary than accusatory. “Heaven knows I’d be gettin’ away myself if I could. He won’t listen to us girls, and Hamson and Halfred are barely in touch. You’re usually the only one who can talk some sense into ‘im, tell him to leave off the work an’ that.”

Sam felt guilt clench his insides. He was the youngest of the siblings excepting Marigold, and had always looked up to his da, but he’d also lived with him nearly the longest. He knew Hamfast, like any self-respecting Gamgee, had only dealt with the loss of their mother through work—and that he’d only find peace by gradually handing control of the landscaping business over to Sam; the one canditate he’d trust for the job, and for carrying on the Gamgee name. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “We talked before I left, an’ I offered to delay going, but he said he’d be alright since we get so quiet in winter anyways—”

“Of course he said that, Sam!” The first thread of irritation had crept into Daisy’s voice. He heard a door shut and gathered that she, too, had left the house in order to avoid their father overhearing. “Do y’think he’d ever tell you honestly he’s not as young as he was, he’s got that condition, and that he’s taken on too many clients to manage without you? If the men o’this family could talk about their feelings properly, I would’na have to mediate so many phone calls, now, would I?”

“No,” Sam said, chastened as he only could be by his elder sister. “I mean, aye. You’re right.”

“Well, at least one of you thinks so,” she said, a little more gently. “I’m not askin’ you t’come back, Sam. And Da’s much too proud to request it neither. Only… I don’t think we can keep doin’ this, year after year. An’—well…” he heard her sniff, and felt the same guilty tug in his gut. 

“I’m not Ma, as you know, Sammy, but—she’s not here to say it, so I’m gonna say it for her.” She paused, and he could picture her leaning against the porch; blond hair pinned back, breathing out through her nose in that way she did when trying to gather her thoughts.

“Say what?” Sam asked quietly, squinting hard into the white sky ahead, wishing with all his heart not to have to hear the answer. 

“Maybe it’s time you thought about what you want to be doing, from now on. Where you want to be. And maybe that’s not four months every year away from your family.” He heard her voice catch a little. “I’m not askin’ for me. I’m askin’ for Da. And for you.”

And he heard the words she did not say, clear as though they’d been hurled down the telephone from a hundred miles away. 

Maybe this should be your last season.

❆

In the end, Frodo wasn’t sure he’d accept Sam’s offer right up until leaving. 

Even as he located his coat and scarf, he wondered whether he mightn’t simply go for an evening walk, clear his head, and return back to try boost his abysmal word-count for the day. 

Half of the prologue had been written, only for most of it to be deleted again after a bad start had steadily dissolved into incomprehensibility. His brain hurt from the mental battle of writing, as though he’d overworked some muscle that gone stiff from disuse. 

Then the anxiety had worked its way to the surface, like iron bands around his chest as he sat there, at his desk, until all the word seemed to be compressing in on him like a bubble, and he decided the last decade of writing must have been some sort of bizarre fluke; that only an idiot would have let him publish anything in the first place.

Then Frodo decided that some fresh air was in order.

The sky was darkening as he stepped outside, opaque and cloudless so that everything seemed to have soft, purple sheen, even the snow. Lights were coming on in the icicle-crusted lodges, and the trees would have been rustling if they’d had leaves; as it was, Frodo pulled his scarf up as the wind seemed to burrow itself down in his collar. He could hear laughter a little ways ahead as a group of teenagers slipped their way over the icy road, hands clasping for each other. 

Frodo felt his thoughts quieten. He picked his way along the road, heading downhill—deciding that he’d at least walk past the pub, and see what sort of a crowd was there before he committed himself of an evening. 

Sam was right—Frodo could hear the place by the time he reached the village square. Passing beyond the supermarket and a row of darkened shop windows, he spotted a swinging brass pony, dusted in snow, which directed him to the pub’s entrance. 

It was an old brick building, through whose windows he could see a gleaming low-lit bar, and indistinguishable tables of people scattered throughout the room.

There was nothing for it—he’d have to go in if he wanted company. 

Frodo wiped his boots on the mat, then pushed open the glass-panelled door, the bell tinkling merrily as he set foot into The Prancing Pony. 

Before his eyes had even adjusted to the place, he heard a voice calling his name. 

“Frodo! We’re over here!”

Frodo pulled off his beanie and stuffed it into one of his coat-pockets, just as Sam appeared out of what seemed quite a sizeable crowd, given the season hadn’t properly begun yet.

He was not in his instructor’s jacket, but rather a grey fisherman’s sweater that—Frodo thought stupidly—every male lead from a ‘90s rom-com would have lusted over. His sandy hair looked gold in the assortment of lights and reflective surfaces in the bar. 

“I’m glad you could come,” Sam said, reaching Frodo and smiling at him. Frodo thought for a moment he was going to be clapped on the shoulder, and was almost disappointed when Sam’s hands stayed by his sides. “Are you up for meeting everyone?”

“That depends who you mean by everyone,” Frodo said, trying to pull his thoughts back in order. The sweater was distracting him. 

“Oh, not so many,” Sam said, pointing over towards a table closer to the bar. “There’s Rosie and Tom, like I said, and then two other instructors lodgin’ with me, an’ I’m sure more people will come past to say hello. Tom can’t wait t’meet you.”

“Oh. Alright then,” Frodo said bravely. “I’ll follow you over.”

Sam led him through a maze of tables, many filled by people their own age—some in the jackets that marked them out as instructors or staff, others dressed up as though for a night out. Sweating pints of beer left rings on the tables beside small piles of discarded snow coats, mittens and scarves. Frodo could hardly hear the music playing over all the chatter.

He drew up at one of the populated booths close to the bar.

“Everyone,” Sam said, at his side, “this is Frodo. Frodo, you already know Rosie…”

Frodo saw the girl from the doughnut stand in a denim dress, her red-dark hair pulled up into two short pigtails. She grinned at him, the light catching a delicately-spoked septum piercing that he wasn’t sure he’d noticed the first time round. “It’s the resident writer! Honoured to have you, Frodo.”

And she scooted to make room for him, jolting with one elbow what could only be her brother; tall and lanky with the same reddish hair, staring in Frodo in apparent awe. 

“And this is Tom,” Sam introduced him.

“Hello,” Frodo said politely.

Tom nodded, gulped, and then mumbled, “I’ve read your books.”

What he thought of them, though, he did not elaborate, and Sam quickly introduced the other two members of the table. 

“These two I’m lodging with as well, they’ve heard about you already…”

“How are you?” said a tall, strong-jawed man with dark hair reaching to his shoulders. He reached over to shake Frodo’s hand with a firmness that cramped his fingers. “I’m Aragorn. Love what I’ve read of you.”

“Oh—thank you. Pleasure to meet you,” Frodo managed, retrieving his hand. He was slightly stunned by the raw power of Aragorn’s white-teethed grin, directed fully at him. 

“And I’m Legolas,” said the man next to Aragorn, closer to the wall. He had long hair too, hair that hardly looked real—straight and nearly white-blond, it fell neatly past his shoulders in two even partings. His eyes were blue and considering, and Frodo began to feel properly intimidated.

“He doesn’t bite, despite what you may be thinking,” said Rosie. “Here, come sit down.”

Frodo sat next to her; opposite Sam, who had retaken his seat beside Aragorn. Legolas was now frowning at Rosie. “Of course I don’t bite,” he said, offended.

“No, you just looked permanently annoyed about something,” she retorted.

“I think mostly he’s confused, and just doesn’t want to admit it,” said Aragorn cheerfully. “For instance, do you know who this is?” He gestured at Frodo with a silver-ringed hand, still looking over at Legolas.

Legolas considered Frodo again, brows drawn together. “No,” he admitted.

“Honestly,” Rosie exploded, “we were just talking about him. Were you completely ignoring us?”

Frodo shifted uncomfortably. “Really, there’s not much to—”

“He’s the youngest fantasy writer ever to win the British Fantasy Awards,” said Tom, and then immediately went red and ducked his gaze as everyone turned to stare at him. 

“Are you really?” Aragorn asked with interest, looking back at Frodo.

Frodo was about to answer, sure he looked as embarrassed as he felt, when Sam suddenly shot up from his seat. “I’m getting another drink,” he said. “What would you like, Frodo?”

“Oh—” Frodo stammered, looking up at him, “you don’t have to—”

“S’no trouble.” Sam waved a hand. “Only one beer on tap anyway. Or there’s wine, cider…”

“I’ll have a cider,” Frodo said gratefully. “Thanks, Sam.”

Sam was already going, hammered by drink requests from the table which he waved away as though he knew them all already. Frodo would have quite liked to join him and get away from this newest interrogation, but he was held back in his seat by a new flurry of questions. 

“Whereabouts are you staying?” Aragorn asked promptly, followed by Rosie’s; “how’s the newest book coming along?

In between reservedly answering their questions, and trying to avoid talking about the newest book, Frodo managed to extract more information about them—Tom, Aragorn and Legolas were all ski instructors in the same accomodation as Sam; one village below the ski resort. Rosie was a snowboarder, who came up every season with most of her family—four brothers, including Tom—and worked a little to fund her lodgings. 

All four of them seemed vastly more athletic, world-experienced and comfortable here than Frodo himself felt, and he felt a touch of envy at their familiarity with each other; particularly when Sam returned with an armful of drinks and they were passed around the table without any apparent guidance.

Aragorn in particular was an enthusiastic nature-lover. He pulled out his sizeable camera from somewhere below the booth table, in order to show Frodo a few shots of rare alpine bird species that he’d taken only that morning. Legolas rolled his eyes. 

“And none of us can keep up with’im on the cross country,” Sam said grinning. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his jumper and was rubbing his thumb along a half-drunk pint of beer. “Believe me, I’ve tried—usually drenched in my own sweat while Strider’s hoppin’ around, pointing out larks.”

Strider? Frodo wondered. Aragorn waved his arm dismissively. “I’ve got longer legs,” he said, as though that explained everything. “Nothing compared to this one—” he elbowed a stony-faced Legolas—“who hops over the snow even when it’s nothing but slush…” 

“Even in the middle of a blizzard,” added Sam. 

“I don’t hop,” said Legolas smoothly. “I glide.” He took a sip of his wine. 

“He glides.” Aragorn threw an arm over the other man’s shoulders. “Why didn’t the rest of us think of that?”

“Still, neither of you would last a minute on a snowboard,” Rosie said dismissively. “I’ve seen Sam flat on his face ten seconds in, the baby.”

Sam—for some reason—grinned at Frodo. “Don’t believe it til you’ve seen it,” he said confidingly. “I’m very qualified.”

Legolas snorted into his drink.

“Like you could do better,” Rosie fired at him. “You and me, tomorrow. Centre square. I bet you ten pounds you can’t do a proper spin.”

“I wouldn’t take that bet, mate,” Aragorn said gently, patting Legolas on the shoulder before he could open his mouth.

Sam saw Frodo looking lost and hurriedly began to explain the differences between skis and snowboards—only to be corrected by Rosie, who pulled out her phone to show Frodo videos of her tricks on the slope. This led to Tom pulling out his phone, and talk of an infamous video of a young Sam getting his skis crossed and falling on his face—“filmed by me,” Rosie said proudly—who Sam would not let them actually show to Frodo; despite having to repeatedly bat Tom and Rosie’s phones away. 

And Frodo realised somewhere between the second round of drinks and Rosie telling him he’d be a good snowboarder if he bulked up a bit, between Tom shyly asking for his autograph when he next bought a copy of Devil’s Keep with him, between Aragorn leaning over to ruffle his hair and Sam ordering three bowls of chips—which Rosie assured Frodo was the only safe thing on the menu—that he’d almost completely forgotten about the fact that he had a book to write. And a deadline.

❆

An hour or so later, Sam found himself sitting opposite Frodo in the booth corner. 

Seating had undergone a deliberate reshuffle as Tom had gone to meet some of his brother Jolly’s friends nearby, and the siblings Éomer and Éowyn had pulled up stools at the booth. 

Éowyn was chatting mainly to Rosie, although Sam could see her eyes slide occasionally over to where Aragorn sat, on the opposite side. He was deep in conversation with Éomer and a couple of friends. Legolas had disappeared a little while ago, though no one could say where. 

Which left Sam looking across the table at Frodo Baggins, Britain’s star fantasy author, currently clutching a bottle of cider with both hands. He’d removed his jacket to reveal shirtsleeves under a fawn-brown sweater vest, and his hair was curling and slightly damp—either from the humidity of the pub or from flecks of snow outside, Sam couldn’t tell. 

“So,” Sam found himself blurting, “how many books have you written? Rosie said it was loads.”

He thought this was probably the stupidest question one could find oneself asking a famous writer. 

Frodo smiled. “Eight. Going on nine.”

“Nine?” Sam echoed. “But you’re—” He broke off. He’d been going to say young, but he didn’t suppose Frodo could be younger than him, which made him at least twenty-six. 

“Nine’s not so many,” Frodo said, still smiling. “Robert Jordan did twelve to fourteen—death didn’t really stop him. Le Guin did over twenty. Pratchett did at least forty—”

“Alright, alright,” Sam said hurriedly. “You’re still young, though.”

“I suppose. Anyway,” Frodo took a swig of his drink, “we’ll see if I make it to nine.”

“‘Course you will,” Sam said, trying to be encouraging. He sensed that Frodo did not want to talk about this newest book of his, so instead asked, “how’d you get into it? Writing, I mean.”

“My uncle,” Frodo said immediately. “He taught me to love stories in the first place. He’d read to me until well after I was old enough to read on my own… he had a great flair for dialogue.”

“I see,” said Sam. He could hear the fondness in Frodo’s voice. “You must’ve been close with him, then.”

“Yes.” Frodo looked down, brushed a curl of hair out of his eyes. “I lived with uncle Bilbo ever since my parents died, when I was quite young. He’s not my uncle, precisely—I think he’s my cousin once removed—but he was the one who raised me.”

Oh, thought Sam. He wanted to say he was sorry, but Frodo didn’t give him the chance. Smiling, he continued, “Bilbo never set much store by formal education, either. He let me accompany him on most of his business, and believed in raising me on the greats. Owned first editions of The Chronicles of Narnia…”

Sam smiled too, gently. “I’d be scared to touch those.”

“I was told several times his library was more than my life’s worth,” Frodo said, grinning back at him. He had a particularly engaging smile, one that Sam couldn’t help being drawn into. “That didn’t stop me reading my way through it, though. And Bilbo always encouraged my writing… nor was he afraid to be a blunt critic if he had to.”

Sam snorted. “But he’s your uncle.”

“He said that was the reason he could tell me straight what no one else could,” Frodo said reminiscently. He was peeling at the label of his cider bottle. 

“Well, that’s fair of him,” Sam conceded. “How old were you, when it—well, when you first got published? If you don’ mind me askin’,” he added. 

“Eighteen,” said Frodo, looking almost embarrassed. “I… got lucky. I was putting some of my novel up online—any way I could get it out there, you know—and it… blew up. I decided to publish, and…” he spread his hands as if to say, there you go. “Somehow, they got eight books out of me.”

“And now the ninth?” Sam asked, impressed.

“And now the ninth.” But Frodo didn’t elaborate. 

After a pause Sam asked, “how long ago was that? When you first published.”

He received a smile in answer. “Trying to find out how old I am? Twenty-eight. I’ve been doing this among other jobs for a decade.”

“Oh, I weren’t—”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m curious too, how old are you?”

“Twenty-six,” said Sam.

“And you’ve been skiing since…”

“Since I was ten. Been wantin’ to ski ever since I knew people could strap boards t’their legs and glide down slopes. I reckoned it was the closest thing to flyin’ you could do.”

Frodo gave him a warm look. “I don’t suppose you’re wrong. I must say… I’m a little jealous.”

“Why?” asked Sam curiously. 

“Oh, well… it sounds so intrinsic, what you do. You’ll never forget how to ski, because it’s not just stored in your mind. It’s there whenever you need it.” Frodo was waving his hands again; Sam noticed he looked a little flushed.

“I suppose…” he said, slowly. “Just practice, is all. Is it not like that with you and writin’?”

Frodo sighed. “Well, if you want the truth—” he gave what seemed to be an ironical smile—“I seem to be suffering a bit from writer’s block.”

“Ah,” said Sam, who gathered this was why Frodo had been so reluctant to answer questions on his new book. “Well, that’s got to be common. I’m sure it’ll pass.”

“Mm.” Frodo ran a hand through his messy, curling hair. “The worst is always starting. Once I—build up momentum, I suppose—it gets easier. Some days all I can do is write, it feels like. It hurts to step away from it. Those are the good days.”

“Hm,” said Sam, who was fascinated both by this description of writing, and the way Frodo’s long fingers looked so pale against the inky colour of his hair, and his pink flushing cheeks. “Well, that sounds a little like skiing, actually.”

When Frodo blinked at him, he hurried to add the only bit he’d really understood of Frodo’s words—the part about building momentum. “You get faster the further down the slope you go.”

Frodo stared at him a moment longer, and then smiled. “I suppose it is,” he said. “And sometimes, it feels almost as scary… I mean, I’ve never actually skied,” he amended, “but I can imagine how terrified I’d be.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve had more of a think about those lessons, then?” Sam asked.

Frodo laughed—a perfect laugh, loose and unconscious from the cider, or the bustle of the room, or maybe Sam’s company. “Not a chance, I’m afraid,” he said cheerfully. “You’ll never get me on a pair of skis.”

“Hm. Well, we’ll see yet,” said Sam, and wondered if they were on the way to becoming friends. 

He hoped so, at least.

Chapter Text

The mountains were tall, jagged spires of rock, standing like sentinels at the pass. Silhouetted at dusk, they resembled nothing so much as a mouth of broken teeth, crumbling away under the endless swallow of sky. 

And yet there was something pulsing there, alive—something with intent. Vardrud could feel it as he always could, as the dwarves had been taught to sense the earth around them.

Things were inside those mountains; reptilian, many-eyed things, stirring in slumber. Things ready to wake.

- Stone Halls Standing (Ash Mountain, #3)

❆

Frodo woke late the next morning, and took a moment to wonder at the cacophony of noise banging past his door. 

He could hear voices—children included—talking excitedly, parents scolding gently, and what sounded like a half dozen suitcases being dragged down the hall of the lodge, bouncing off the panelling.

He rose and crossed to the window, where the world gleamed white and clear as crystal, under great mounds of snow. It had snowed heavily all night—Frodo was lucky to have gotten back from the pub when he did, or he might have been buried in the midnight shower—and it looked as though conditions would be perfect for skiing. 

He dressed with a thick sort of fog in his brain. Lightweight that Frodo was, two ciders last night had been enough to send him into a deep sleep; one that even now felt hard to shake off. 

In the lodge kitchens, he was mildly surprised to see a bustle of activity—new families or groups of friends were loading their supplies into the numbered shelves, while those who had arrived last night were now sitting down to a leisurely breakfast. Gandalf was nowhere to be seen.

Frodo made his way blearily to the kettle, relieved that this side of the kitchen was quiet, at least. There was a tall, well-built looking man standing in woollen socks by the stove, stirring at a pan of sizzling bacon.

He nodded cheerily in Frodo’s direction as he passed, and broke an egg into the saucepan with a great crackle.

Frodo leant by the bench as the kettle slowly came to life, and after a few moments of companionable silence, the newcomer at the stove asked, “here for the skiing too?”

This seemed to be the standard greeting in this village, Frodo was quickly finding. “Oh… not really,” he said, pulling the sleeves of his jumper down over his cold hands.

The man considered him. “Well, you’re missing out on a beautiful day for it, if you’re not. Can’t believe how lucky we got with the conditions—first day the runs are open, too.”

Oh. So that explained the new influx of lodgers. The season was officially underway. 

“Well, I’ll take your word for it,” Frodo said, smiling.

“Hah!” said the man, cracking a second egg into the pan. “Don’t be satisfied with my word—you’ll be out trying it soon enough. Nothing more beautiful than the slopes under a blue sky. You staying long?”

“Most of the season,” said Frodo. “Until March, I hope.” 

Until my deadline, he did not say.

“Ah.” The man gave Frodo another appraisal. “You’ll be seeing a lot of me, then. I’ve got a season pass. Hoping to be up nearly every weekend.”

The kettle whistled as the man—without looking—cracked yet another egg into the pan. “Sounds like the good life,” said Frodo, slightly distracted by the delicious smell of crisping bacon.

“Oh, it will be,” said the stranger. He had a strong, stubbled jaw and hair that fell past his ears. “I’m Boromir,” he added, and reached out to shake Frodo’s hand.

Frodo, surprised, accepted the handshake. “Frodo,” he said. “I’m—Frodo Baggins.”

“Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you, Frodo.” The man turned back to his fry-up, and then to Frodo’s mild concern, cracked a fourth egg into the pan. “Would you like any of this, mate?”

“Oh—no, I’m sure you’ll need it. Er, thank you though.”

Frodo rather regretted turning down this tempting offer of breakfast, however, after the sub-par tea and stack of toast that was all his own meagre food-supplies had to offer.

He’d have to top up his groceries today, but he wasn’t going to let himself go outside before he’d made a good dent in the day’s word-count. 

As he progressed morosely through the kitchen space—past the cozy-looking central hearth, past families playing cards and young people munching cereal; past all of it back to his room, Frodo wished that he could have at least had his usual cup of chai. 

Instead he gulped down the dregs of his lukewarm tea and sat down to work.

❆

It had been an early start, for Sam. 

He was up early to use the showers before the hot water ran out; the air so cold in the mess hall that his hands felt pink and frosted. The bus came past at seven thirty, and they all piled sleepily on—Sam beside Tom at the window, Aragorn and Legolas sitting right up the front as usual while Aragorn chatted with the driver. 

The view was spectacular as they trundled up the hill. Anticipation built throughout the bus as fragments of white were seen glimmering beneath the rising sun, pink streaks of light crowning the snow-drifted trees. The sky was clear, and conditions seemed perfect.

Sam breathed in deep, and out, anxious to be up on the slopes already. The bus seemed to be crawling up toward the village. Tom was buried in a book, but he seemed to take pity on Sam after a while, and offered one of his earphones for Sam to share.

Obscure folk bands. Typical. 

There was a great stampede to get off the bus and unload gear, as was usual. Thirty-something of them all crushed through the snow to the staffroom, which had its usual locker-room smell of rubber and wet wool, and Sam jittered on his feet all through the main briefings, too hot in his instructor’s jacket to stay indoors.

He was taking two beginner classes and then one group on the black runs. He wanted to get out.

Aragorn ruffled Sam’s hair before he could pull on his beanie, and Legolas beat him out the doors as they were dismissed. 

The chairlifts were just churning into motion for the morning session, and already people were congregating in the central square, slipping around on skis or in snow-boots. The slush from the past week had been buried by mounds of powdery, perfect white. 

Strapping on his own skis and gliding forward was like falling into a perfect ocean dive—or stepping out to dance to a familiar song. Sam’s body relaxed, and he felt truly content for the first time since his sister’s phone call. For the first time all year. 

He weaved his way through to the meeting cones to await his first lesson. The beginner groups were easy to spot—most of them still carrying their skies awkwardly in both hands, apparently afraid to put them on. 

Sam waved them over with the thrill of anticipation that only November could bring.

The morning slid away beautifully under freshly buried slopes, and the whole world seemed to be blue skies. Sam met Tom at the restaurant at the bottom of the chair-lifts, which was already packed with newcomers. 

They split a cheese toastie into two mugs of the soup special, as was their custom. 

“How long’s your day?” Tom asked, his hair sticking up everywhere from the damp, and the red-rimmed indentation of ski goggles still on his cheeks. 

“Only one more class,” Sam said through a mouthful of hot soup. He swallowed. “Best one—on the black runs.”

“Lucky. I’m stuck with the kiddies all afternoon.”

“You’re good with kids, mate.”

Tom shrugged as if to say, I tolerate them. In reality he was much softer than his sister, and got on even with the shyest of children. 

They sipped at their soup in companionable quiet, until Tom asked, “talked to your family recently?”

Sam nodded, stirring at his mug. “Yeah. They’re alright.” He could feel his friend looking at him. “Daisy… thinks four months is too long to be away.”

“Mm. Our ma says the same, you know.” Tom smiled a little. “Though I dunno that she means it. Having the five of us siblings away from home must be a restful change, in many ways.”

Sam laughed. “Ah, I dunno about that. She misses you all.”

“Yeah.” Tom was quiet for a minute. “They understand why,” he said slowly, after a time. “You know, Sam. They know that you love it. Same with Rosie an’ me. This is our place.”

“Yeah.” Sam looked wistfully out of the condensation-smeared windows, to the sky beyond. 

“How’s, er, Mari?” Tom said awkwardly, after another pause.

Sam turned back to him, raising his eyebrows. “She sends her regards,” he said, smiling. 

“Oh. Er. Tell her that I, er—send my regards too.” Tom ran a hand through his already spiked-up hair.

“Tell her yourself, y’spineless dolt.”

“Shut up.”

Tom began pulling things out of his bag as Sam stole the last quarter of the toastie—gloves, goggles, a wallet which he began rifling through for change. 

Sam spied the cracked spine of Devil’s Keep nestled in his friend’s belongings. “What’s that series about anyways?” he asked on a whim. “Ash Mountain or what’s-it-called.”

Tom pulled his bag protectively closer to his side. “Read it yourself. Or go on Wikipedia.”

Sam huffed out a breath, already somewhat embarrassed that he’d asked. Revealed his interest, maybe. “Just summarise it, can’t you? We’ve got the whole chair-lift back up, you can tell me the plot an’ everythin’.”

Tom looked gravely back at him. “I would never give spoilers,” he said, sounding affronted at the very thought.

“Course you wouldn’t,” Sam grumbled, and drained the last of his soup.

❆

Frodo had decided to skip the prologue. 

He was starting with chapter one, in the hope that it would get him into the story faster. If he could only get some sort of flow going, he might pull himself out of this mess.

He shuffled through the papers on his desk, eyes scanning the list of characters that were currently spread throughout the Seven Nations; considering each one and how their story was to begin. He knew where they would end—half a dozen seperate quests all at last combining, for the final struggle against the powers of the Faceless King. 

The problem was getting them there.

Frodo ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the front curls as though it would spur his brain into action. He decided to start with Maura. Her voice was easiest to get into, he’d found—after eight long books he’d spent the most time with her. 

What would she be doing, after the finale of Midnight’s Torch? 

Maura would be… making tea, Frodo decided. Yes—starting small after the grand scope of the prologue he’d yet to write. He closed his eyes and pictured the scene in his mind—the steam of the kettle over the fire as Maura collected mulberry leaves… and the wizard, Nishun, would be there. They would be talking about the war.

Yet the threat of this impending conflict, spelling doom, would not be enough to disrupt the mundanity of routine—hence the tea. And the plate of biscuits on the table. The kettle in the fireplace.

Thus inspired, Frodo set his laptop groaning to life, and began to type. 

He really wished he had a chai with him. Even just breathing in the spiced steam would have warmed him; his fingers felt stiff and slow in the frosty room. 

He kept at it, though, until his eyes began to tire and the flow of vision left him. He’d written nearly four pages. 

It was a start, if a poor one. Maura was left, staring vacantly into the dregs of her teacup, her thoughts far away… and Frodo did not know where to go next. Also, he was starving.

The lodge was a lot quieter in the post-lunch hours, and somewhat lonely. Frodo could hear more banging sounds from upstairs, which he suspected came from Gandalf. Sounded as though somewhere a typewriter was taking quite a beating. 

An inventory of his food supplies was short and unappealing, consisting of one leftover microwaved doughnut. There was nothing for it but to make an expedition to the supermarket, even though Frodo feared leaving his desk for too long would make him lose his—however brief—feeling of progress.

He had not bargained on the extra foot of snow. The path down to the square was completely buried under white, and with every step Frodo felt his boots sinking down into the icy road. Also, there were people now, and the crowds of skiers, boarders, snow-jacketed children and even, bizarrely, people driving what looked like tiny two-seater snow-ploughs only intensified as he got closer to the centre square. 

Frodo tugged his knitted beanie further down over his head and tried not to get trampled on. A child hurtling past on skis nearly took out the back of his shins, and even with the near miss, snow sprayed right up his back and down the inside of his jacket. 

He was already in a bad mood by the time he reached the tiny supermarket, which had a picked-clean appearance. People were racketing baskets around, stocking up for week-long lodge stays, or even just buying hand-warmers and sunscreen.

Frodo passed over the ready-cooked meals with distaste, and stared down at the only two kinds of pasta in the whole store—spaghetti, or alphabet soup letters. 

He nearly lost it in the tea and coffee aisle, upon discovering that they didn’t stock chai in any form—not even the instant powder or tea bags.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he said aloud.

“Afraid not. It’s grim, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind him.

Frodo spun around to discover Sam, smiling at him in his blue jacket and snow-boots, shopping basket in one hand. 

His first thought was to say, we’ve got to stop meeting like this, but he decided against it.

Instead he said, “I thought you’d be—teaching. Hello. By the way.”

“I had a half-day,” Sam said cheerfully. “Place looked a bit overrun when I finished up, so I thought I’d use the kitchen back at our lodge.”

“Oh.” Frodo stepped back from the disappointing shelves of tea. “Do all of you cook for yourselves, then? That must get a bit competitive.”

“Oh no, meals are provided most nights.” Sam shrugged his arms, smiled. “Wouldn’t trust most of ‘em to cook for themselves,” he added as an afterthought. “The fare’s not bad, either, but it’s not home cooking. I like to cook for a few of us, keep my hand in, when I’ve got the chance.”

“So you’re a dab cook,” Frodo said, somewhat charmed by this news. He’d half expected that someone so athletic would not have many other hobbies.

“Well, if I can say so about myself, then yes,” said Sam with a grin. “Tell me, what exactly were y’complaining about in this aisle?”

“Oh. It’s stupid, but—they don’t have any Masala chai. Not even the powdered version.”

“Like… chai tea?” Sam asked.

“Yes. I can’t work without it. If I’d known how small the selection was, I would have brought my stockpiles from home.” Frodo waved a hand at the shelves. “It can hardly be that niche. They’ve got Lady Grey here, for heaven’s sake.”

Sam’s mouth was twitching. “That is an oversight,” he conceded.

Frodo sighed. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Am not,” Sam said hastily. “Everyone knows this supermarket is barely a metro. It’s the downhill one you need, in Lower Village. Likely closer to what you’re used to.”

“Oh. I see.” Frodo frowned. He’d left his car in the lower village, before taking the night shuttle up to his lodge. “How do I, er… get down there?”

Sam stared at him. “You take the shuttle bus,” he said, slowly. “Same as how you got here, surely?”

“Oh.” Frodo felt foolish. “Yes, I—” It hadn’t actually occurred to him that he’d need to take the bus again for any reason. “I didn’t know how often it ran,” he finished lamely.

Sam looked like he was struggling not to smile again. “Tell you what,” he said, lifting his basket, “if you’re happy to wait for me t’buy all this, I’ll walk with you to the stop. The bus’ll be runnin’ pretty regularly this time of day.”

“Alright then,” Frodo said, grateful. He’d also forgotten where the bus stop actually was. (In his defence, it had been dark and freezing when he’d first arrived in the ski village, and his main thought had been getting straight to the lodge.)

Outside, Sam said he needed a minute to drop off his skis back at the staff lockers. They were propped up against the supermarket wall, battered and striped with melting snow and obviously loved, with Sam’s helmet perched on top. 

Frodo accepted the bag of Sam’s shopping only to watch, with interest, as Sam snapped himself into his ski-boots, then his skis, his normal snow boots with tied laces dangling over one shoulder. In his other arm he hoisted his helmet. “Fairly manageable, eh?” he said to Frodo. 

Frodo huffed. “You make it look easy.”

“It is easy,” Sam said with a grin, and then disappeared off toward the staff building near the square. Frodo thought he was probably showing off somewhat, as he wove between the crowd at great speed, barely using his poles. 

When Sam returned a few minutes later, walking normally in his snow boots, Frodo was determined not to look impressed. He handed Sam his shopping back and said mildly, “took your time.”

Sam of course had been twice as fast as Frodo could have been, walking the same distance. He merely smiled, affably. “Should be good for the next bus.”

They set off through the snow in a companionable sort of way, their steps leaving deep footprints in the path. 

“How did your first classes go?” Frodo asked after a minute, trying not to make it seem as though he was out of breath. 

“Great,” said Sam. “I love bein’ straight back into it. Had a lot of young’uns in my first class, all complete beginners—one girl got all teary and refused to put her skis on.” He grinned. “First I thought she was nervous of skiing downhill, but then, after five minutes, I found out she was scared it would hurt strapping her feet into the skis. Poor little thing.”

“Well, I can’t blame her for that,” said Frodo.

“They’re all great, though. Most of ‘em get it within ten, fifteen minutes, and are shooting around on the flats no problem. Overconfidence ends up being trickier to deal with.”

“That’s a problem I can’t say I ever have.”

Sam laughed. “Just you wait. We’ll get you on skis yet.”

They reached the great snow-drifted corrugated box that passed as a bus shelter. Already a small group of people were waiting there; two children passing the time by building a family of tiny snowmen. 

Both Sam and Frodo appreciated this scene for a minute, before Frodo said, “I don’t think I asked, last night. How did you get into this sort of thing in the first place?” 

“What, skiing?”

“Yeah. I mean,” Frodo amended, “I know you said you always wanted to try it. But did your family use to come with you?”

Sam tilted his head to the side. “Well, it was mostly my mum. She always loved it—more for the view and the mountains than anything else. The family came up nearly every year for a while. Me, my older brothers and sisters…”

“How many?”

“Six of us, now,” said Sam. His cheeks had gone flushed from the cold, and flakes of snow were catching in his hair. “Three brothers, three sisters. I’m the second youngest.”

Frodo shook his head. “Must have been a busy household.”

“Oh, it was chaos. ‘Specially after Ma died, when Mari and I were still quite young. But we made do. Most of us are good on the skis, but I was the only one who wanted it as a job.” Sam ruffled his gloved fingers through his hair, expelling the snow. “I’ve been an instructor every season since I was nineteen. Best decision I ever made.”

“It suits you,” Frodo offered. And it was true. He couldn’t imagine someone who seemed better with people, patient enough to teach, and truly joyful about what he did.

“Thanks,” said Sam. He huffed out a breath of air that was almost visible. “I do landscaping work in the summers. I’ve always said I love good earth and a garden, but something about these mountain ranges—” he paused, gesturing out at the snowy road. “I don’t know… the majesty of ‘em. It always got me ever since I was little. I used to want to live here.”

Frodo felt a sort of warmth, looking at him. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I know what you mean. This place is beautiful.”

“You should see it at sunrise,” Sam said, smiling at him. “First time I saw dawn over the slopes, after fresh snow, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

Frodo thought, oh. “I’d love to see that. Only, I suppose sunset’s more likely for me. The village looks beautiful by night, too, all lit up.”

“That as well,” said Sam, as the bus finally trundled up the road. 

A handful of tourists with luggage and heavy coats piled out of the open doors, and one of the kids began to cry as, during the exodus, a baby snowman was accidentally stepped on. 

Sam’s hand came very lightly to Frodo’s back, guiding him forward. “Best to get on before there’s no seats let,” he said hastily. 

Frodo let himself be shepherded onto the bus amidst a flow of people. “I see what you mean,” he muttered.

❆

Sam had barely gotten a seat beside Frodo before the doors slid shut, and the bus rumbled off down the snowy road. 

They were quiet for a time, Frodo gazing out the window at the last lodges of Upper Village, framed by a blue sky, and banks of snow so dazzling at the glare hurt Sam’s eyes. 

It was not an uncomfortable silence, and Sam reflected that Frodo seemed to be one of those people that you could be quiet with, who didn’t rely on conversation to be at ease. 

But, because he was curious, he found himself speaking after a few minutes of bumpy downhill progress. “I hope you don’ mind me askin’ this, but… well, how’d you choose this particular village to come write in?”

Frodo looked around, squinting slightly; Sam suspected his eyes were taking a minute to adjust. “You mean,” he said, smiling a little, “why I chose a ski town of all places?”

“Well… yeah,” Sam said, gripping onto the seat as the bus gave a sudden rattle. Behind him, some children were playing a very loud game of Twenty Questions. “I mean, you could have gone anywhere, really, without having to put up with a bunch of tourists in the middle of the skiing season…”

He’d been curious about this for a little while, but had wondered if—as Rosie had said—rich folk tended not to consider such practicalities as inflated seasonal pricing. 

(Assuming Frodo was well-off. Though he had written eight best-selling books…)

“Well, it’s mostly thanks to my uncle,” said Frodo. “He used to be great friends with Gandalf, and knew he owned a lodge that I could fit into. It was sort of a… last minute decision, you see. To be honest, I wasn’t having much success researching other accomodation.” He shrugged. “Hard booking anything before Christmas, and even harder trying to find somewhere that would let you stay for three months on short notice.”

“So now you have to put up with all the loopy skiers,” said Sam.

Frodo laughed and tugged at his ridiculous knitted beanie. “Yes, well, an unavoidable side effect. It’s not all bad, though. I think… it would be hard trying to write in complete isolation. I’d find myself going a little mad.”

He smiled, but Sam got the sense that there was more to the story here; more that had made Frodo come so suddenly to this particular ski village, leaving everything familiar behind. 

He didn’t push. He didn’t get a chance, for a sudden jolt from the bus sent everyone bouncing in their seats, and Frodo went a little white. “Are you sure this is—safe?” he asked Sam, gripping onto the base of his seat with both hands.

Sam tried to look reassuring. “Don’t worry, Hans is a great driver.”

“Hans?” Frodo’s eyes were very wide as the bus jolted again, and his shoulder knocked hard into Sam’s. “Oomph—sorry—you know him?”

“I know most of the drivers,” Sam said with a grin. “Jamie’s the only one you have to watch out for, he takes a blocked road as a challenge. Once had him drive straight over a fallen tree.”

“Oh,” said Frodo weakly. The pom-pom on his beanie appeared to be vibrating. 

The kids behind them had gotten into a loud argument about game rules, and Sam hastily pulled his shopping up onto his lap before the whole of it spilled out onto the floor. 

When they finally reached the bus stop in Lower Village, Sam and Frodo extricated themselves from the crowd of people in one piece. Frodo still looked a little pale, but was staring round with interest. “So this is what it looks like in the daytime,” he said, impressed.

“There’s a lot more proper houses here,” Sam said, gesturing at the snowy street they were on, which had a definite homey appearance. Slender, snow-dusted pines lined the front drives, some with Christmas lights spun through their branches. Hardy snow-chained cars were parked beside shovelled driveways, for those who made the regular commute down the mountain. “Lots of people live here all year round—it’s a little more mild.”

“It’s lovely,” murmured Frodo.

They crunched a little ways down the street before Sam pointed out the instructors’ lodge; a great brick building whose rise they could see from one street over. “Sixty or so of us live there—you wouldn’t think so t’look at it, but we bunk in alright.”

“Hm,” said Frodo, who looked as though this style of rooming did not really appeal to him.

“The supermarket’s just up this street,” Sam added. They took in the cottages as they passed, many of them older than the ski resort itself; triangle-roofed and heavy stoned as through they were hunkering down into the snow. Paned windows glinted in the afternoon sun. 

Sam tried to keep Frodo entertained with a running commentary on all the neighbours on this street he’d gotten to know, either by teaching their children, shovelling their drives, or because they were friendly enough to sometimes give him lifts down the mountain to the base village.

The street widened to boast a handful of shops—including coffee, snow supplies, and an all-in-one newsagent’s, bookstore and gifts shop. 

“And this is the supermarket,” Sam said. “A mite more impressive, isn’t it?”

Frodo looked vastly relieved at the sight of it. Sam just hoped they had Masala chai, or otherwise he’d feel somewhat responsible. 

He’d got most of what he needed for the beef stew he planned to make—a celebrated Gamgee recipe—apart from the meat itself. Vegetables tended to be better priced in Upper Village, to Sam’s eternal confusion. 

To get the last things on his shopping list, he accompanied Frodo into the supermarket—which, although it was modesty village-sized, could at least boast more than three aisles.

Frodo disappeared immediately into the tea and coffee section, so Sam was left to make his last purchases, give his greetings to Mrs. Rumble at the front checkout, and collect his bags.

He found Frodo in the sauces aisle. His basket was full, and Sam saw what looked like half a dozen boxes of chai tea stacked in the bottom. 

Frodo looked immensely pleased with himself. “I’m stocking up,” he said in answer to Sam’s look. 

“I can see that.” Sam tried not to look amused. It was as though Frodo was living in a bunker. “I’ll, er—leave you to it, then.”

❆

Frodo was about to pay for the last of his quite substantial grocery orders when he saw movement out the corner of his eye. Sam was tapping at the front window from outside the supermarket, carrying his bags in one hand. 

What coffee? He mouthed. It took Frodo a few seconds of staring blankly before he realised what Sam was asking, only after he’d mimed drinking from an imaginary cup.

“Er…” he said aloud. 

“Looks like he wants your order, dearie,” said the lady at the cashier desk, who made up one of the three checkouts total. 

It was too hard for Frodo to gesture a polite refusal, or offer to pay for his drink instead, so instead he mouthed back latte and smiled in gratitude.

Sam made the thumbs up with his one free hand and disappeared from the window.

“You’re a friend of our Sam, then?” asked the lady, carefully packing the last of Frodo’s biscuits into a bag for him. 

“Er—sort of. We met a few days ago, but he’s been helping me get around.” 

“‘Course he has,” the lady said fondly. Her grey hair was swept up into an impressive bun, and she exuded a grandmotherly appearance. “Helps more than my own children, that lad. Brings me firewood occasionally, gets things off the tall shelves when I need them.”

“That sounds like him,” Frodo agreed, impressed. Did Sam know everyone in this village? 

He used his card to pay for the shopping. “Thanks very much, Mrs…”

“Mrs Rumble, dearie. I’ll be seeing you again, though—” she looked pointedly at the three heavy bags as Frodo struggled to lift them—“maybe not for a while.”

Outside, it took Frodo a minute to locate the coffee shop he’d seen on their way past—he arrived just as Sam was accepting two takeaway coffees, which he carried stacked on top of each other in one hand.

“Latte’s on the top,” he said cheerfully, seeing Frodo. “And sugar’s in my pocket—wasn’t sure how sweet you liked it.” Slipping his shopping bags onto one arm, he retrieved the sugar packet as Frodo accepted the coffee.

Frodo put his own bags down on one of the outside shop tables, lightly dusted in snow. “Thanks very much.” He was touched by Sam’s thoughtfulness. “I can pay you back—”

“Don’t be silly.” Sam watched Frodo pry the lid off his cup and add half a packet of sugar. “So you do like it sweet,” he noted. 

“I’m afraid so.” Frodo cradled his fingers round the warm cup, as the cold flushed his face. “You keep buying me beverages. I’m starting to feel like I’m exploiting you.”

Sam laughed, a surprised laugh. His hair appeared even more curly in the crisp wind. “You’re not exploitin’ me,” he said in his easy, gentle voice. “I like doin’ it. Besides, not often we get a writer in these parts.”

Frodo narrowed his eyes, then took a sip of his coffee. It was strong and sweet, hot enough to scald his tongue. “I’m not that interesting,” he said finally. 

“You’re plenty interesting.” Sam grinned. “And you’re here for the long haul, so lots of time to pay me back.”

“True,” Frodo conceded.

A mischievous light came into Sam’s eyes. “Speakin’ of… have you changed your mind about skiing lessons yet?”

Frodo sighed, retrieving his shopping with his coffee balanced in one hand. He pretended to consider. “Alright. I’ll—think about it. When I’ve got the time.”

Sam looked as though Frodo had just offered him a holiday. He properly beamed. “You won’t regret it, I promise. Just tell me when you’re feelin’ up for it.”

And it was around that time that Frodo began to wonder exactly what he’d gotten himself into.

Chapter Text

The traveller who had been eyeing Morgan now cleared his throat, spinning a penny over the grimy bar-top. “You’re not thinkin’ of going out into that there forest, lad.”

Morgan tensed. “And what if I am?”

Behind the old man, the windows were white with frost, and a line of trees stretched out into shadow beyond the snowy road. 

 The silver fell flat with a clunk, and another drink was poured. The traveller fixed Morgan with hard eyes over the lip of his tankard. “That ain’t no normal forest. The trees’ll try talk to you—don’t listen. And if you get the feelin’ they’re watchin’ you, you’d better not look back. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

- Eyes of the Lord (Ash Mountain #2)

❆

The ski runs had been open for two weeks, the snow was plentiful, and Frodo was starting to—tentatively—form a routine.

He’d miss his first alarm, but wake up properly for his second. The lodge was freezing in the mornings, so that Frodo often wore thermals under jumpers just to go out to breakfast.

He’d also gotten into the habit of eating with Boromir. As two solo lodgers, they’d naturally gravitated to the same table in the mornings, and—despite his rather excessive interest in ski equipment, which made up a lot of the conversation—the man was good company. He fried the bacon, while Frodo was best at mushrooms and buttered toast. The few days they collaborated on breakfast, it was a good morning.

However, Frodo found himself once again alone when Boromir went home for the week, promising to drive back next weekend since his pass ran all season.

“I might even convince my brother to come, next time,” he’d said brightly. “You’d like him. Also a bit of a nerd.”

“Thanks,” said Frodo.

On days when he breakfasted alone, he’d call Bilbo. If Frodo left Bilbo to call him, he’d be getting calls at all hours of the night. Much as his uncle boasted about keeping civilised hours, he was even more of a night owl than Frodo was, and was often known to go down scholarly rabbit holes when left alone in the house for too long. Another thing Frodo worried about. 

“I’m fine, lad,” his uncle kept saying, his voice down the phone sending a physical ache of homesickness though Frodo. “You’re where you need to be, and so am I. Now write that damn book of yours, and hurry home.”

Merry said things along the same lines, but there were a lot more anecdotes about the stupid people at his office job in there too. He’d also bought a boat and was apparently ‘doing it up’—the latest thing in his craze of brief obsessions. 

Pippin wasn’t much for talking on the phone, but he had sent Frodo an inexplicable reel of a dog being blow-dried in a pink bathtub. Frodo had sent back a question mark. 

Two days later, he got a response—

oh, forgot to say

this looks like u when we ask u to come out w us on weekends. same expression

hope mountain retreat is going well!!

And a lot of little snowflake emojis. From Pippin, that was likely all he was going to get.

During the days, Frodo wrote. And wrote. And wrote. It felt hard in a way it rarely ever had before, like he was already at the dreaded revisions stage, except the only critic was his brain and no first draft would ever be good enough.

He went through his notes. He traced each of his characters across the slopes of the Seven Nations, and set them on the starting board. On the good days he managed five pages, the average days—more common—only three. 

He emailed his publisher, and his editor—the former to keep her off his back, the latter because he thought he’d go mad and delete his whole draft if he didn’t get some positive feedback.

He went through a lot of chai teabags. And hot jam doughnuts…

In the evenings, Frodo would rug up and go walking in the snow. Sometimes, he’d drop in at the pub.

It turned out that Sam and his friends did not often make the journey up to The Prancing Pony excepting special occasions. Instead they frequented one of the local places in Lower Village known as the The Blue Dragon, which had a great mural of a dragon expelling icicles from its snout and jaws. 

When Frodo was feeling up to it, he caught the bus down in the early evening and, hesitant about overstaying his welcome, would often find Sam at a table somewhere before or after supper. 

Not having the energy to cook most nights after such brain-intensive work, Frodo would happily order his own supper at The Blue Dragon, which, unlike the food at The Prancing Pony, Sam’s friends actually approved of. Aragorn confided that he’d once spent a whole season living off the stew there every evening, so Frodo took his advice and tried it. It was tasty and warming enough that he decided not to ask what the meat in it was. Perhaps it was better not to know.

What surprised Frodo the most was how much the others seemed to like him, or at least tolerate his presence as an outsider—and not even a skier, at that. Tom actually talked to him, now. Aragorn was full of stories about the mountains, Rosie would tease him like he was one of the rest, and Legolas finally seemed to acknowledge he was one of the group. That was as much as Frodo could ask, he thought.

He met Éomer, a physically-intimidating yet friendly snowboarder, and his sister Éowyn, who looked like she could bench-press Frodo with a single hand. 

And Sam—he made Frodo feel welcome with no effort at all, it felt like. He was simply Sam; cheerful, endlessly generous, though not someone who vied for attention. He was quiet when others spoke, and he always listened to Frodo with his full attention, which often made Frodo feel oddly self-conscious. 

And yet, the chance to be with real people after days of imaginary ones, to have proper conversations instead of constructing them on the page, to hear voices that weren’t his own as he read out paragraphs of dialogue… Frodo felt it was more important than he was able to confess. It kept him from spiralling. 

He had Sam to thank for that. So in his gratitude—and, perhaps, in the grip of one too many ciders—he finally set a date for a skiing lesson. And hoped he wouldn’t regret it.

❆

“Right then,” said Sam. “So I’m gonna strap in first, so you know what it looks like.”

He’d laid his skis out on the flat snow at the edge of the square, in an area of relative space. Frodo stood opposite; a snow helmet in place of his usual beanie, which trapped a few dark curls above his eyes. He’d laid his skis down too, but was still holding onto the poles—more for comfort than anything else, Sam suspected. 

They’d spent a half hour in the equipment hire shop, finding ski boots in Frodo’s size, with Sam guiding him through the strange first sensations of feeling like he was going to tumble forward with every step. It had taken quite a while to find the perfect fit, as Frodo had complained with every pair he tried that it was unnatural to box his feet up so tightly. One would have thought he’d never put on shoes before.

“You’re goin’ to twist an ankle if they’re not tight enough,” Sam had to keep saying. “Do they hurt?”

With the final pair, Frodo considered. “No,” he admitted. “But I can’t walk in them.”

“You’re not supposed to be walkin’,” said Sam with a grin. “You’re going to ski.”

With complete beginners, he liked to start his lessons in the square, focusing on equipment familiarity and good posture. This was evidently a good idea with Frodo, who had watched Sam click into his skis with great concentration, but did not seem to be able to mimic the action.

Awkward in his snow boots, he kept sending his skis sliding backwards in the snow, or else flipping over under his feet.

“Hold on,” Sam said patiently, clicking his feet free. “You’ve got the heel piece snapped wrong now.”

As Frodo, with several muttered oaths that Sam couldn’t help overhearing, straightened his skis, Sam used a pole to click down the heel pieces again. “They snap up, yeah? Like mine did.”

He held out an arm that Frodo latched onto with a grunt as he re-attempted to strap into his skis, giving a little huff of triumph as the click sound signalled he had been successful.

“An’ now the other one,” Sam said, trying not to smile to himself as he thought how much Frodo resembled a beginner from one of his under 12s classes.

Frodo clicked into both skis and immediately started skating backwards, grappling for Sam’s arm in order to hold himself still. “And I suppose this is the easy bit,” he said distastefully. 

Sam had to laugh, then. “Depends who you’re askin’.”

It was the end of his teaching day, and they had a good half an hour before the ski runs closed up for the evening. Despite this, the place was still packed with people—shouts and laughter and conversations in every language drifted back to them by the walls of the square. 

The sky had a late-afternoon haze, the snow sparkled, and Sam could smell the ever-delicious aroma of frying doughnuts over where Jolly Cotton was now manning the stand. 

He felt more happy and relaxed than he had all day, though whether this was due to the perfect weather conditions or to Frodo’s presence (and amusing ineptitude) Sam could not say. 

His new friend (could he say that? He supposed he could) had tried to pay him in full for a private lesson, but Sam had refused point blank. It was a favour between friends, he’d maintained. Besides, he suspected he was going to enjoy it as much as—if not more—than Frodo did. 

“Think you’re right to stand now?”

Frodo grimly dug his poles into the snow. “I’ll manage.”

“Alright.” Sam backed up a step, examining him. Frodo looked like he was using pure willpower to stop himself sliding backwards on his skis.

“Next thing is your posture.” Sam faced him, and put his arms out demonstratively. “Slightly bent knees, arms forwards, an’ your hips should be directly over your feet, see?”

Frowning, Frodo copied him. Sam wondered if this was the same concentrating look he usually had while writing, and couldn’t help finding it endearing. “You can relax your legs a bit more,” he said, tapping his own knee. “let ‘em sink forward into your boots. See why they’ve got to be tight?”

Frodo hmmed. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” Sam grinned. “You’re perfect. Ready to start moving?”

Frodo began to slide slowly backwards again, poles dragging through the snow. “Looks like it, I suppose.” 

Sam showed him how to push forwards along the flats; first by straight-lining with the aid of his poles, and then using a skating motion, which was a little harder to coordinate. Frodo was better than he’d expected, which made Sam feel a little guilty for doubting him. He watched every move Sam made and copied it, sliding his feet down and backwards in order to skate with each step. 

They circuited the edge of the square, avoiding the crowds, and then Sam showed Frodo how to fall safely—bending down and onto his side. 

“Isn’t this a bit pessimistic?” Frodo asked, pulling himself up from the snow with a grunt. Snow dusted his shoulders, and his cheeks were flushed. 

Sam laughed. “Every beginner has to know how to fall.”

“And how about when you’re an advanced skier, like you?”

“Then it’s even more important.” Sam decided not to mention the several toes, wrist and one rib-bone he’d once broken; not wanting to put Frodo off when they were making so much progress.

Frodo was agreeable to Sam’s suggestion of going to the edge of the slopes, and they made their way out onto wide, open snow, where poles indicated the direction of different levelled runs, and the chairlifts trundled up in the distance, sending new waves of careening skiers out onto the plains with every turn. 

The wind stung Sam’s face. He hadn’t yet pulled his ski goggles down, for the snow wasn’t so glaring as it had been that morning. 

“Right.” He turned in a smooth spray of snow to face Frodo. “Now you’ve got to know how to brake.”

Frodo looked a bit pale at the sight of the slope descending into the first blue run, twenty yards away. “That sounds useful,” he agreed.

Sam made a V-shape with his poles in the air to explain the shape of the snowplough, which he then demonstrated with his skis. Frodo mimicked this until his skis could move smoothly over the snow.

“So it’ll look like this.” Sam let himself glide forwards, then turned his skis outward to brake. “Now you have a go.”

Frodo needed a push to slide himself forward through the banks of snow, where he progressed very slowly and wobbily, before finally performing an extremely wide snowplough that looked as though it was going to get painful unless Sam intervened.

“Careful, or you’ll be doing the splits there—” He skied forward to guide Frodo’s arm back to straight.

“Oh, holy—where’d you come from?” Frodo looked shocked to have had Sam cross the distance so quickly. He attempted to straighten his skis, crossed them, and promptly pitched forward, saved only by Sam’s hand on his elbow. 

“Don’t you worry, that’s quite normal,” Sam said sympathetically, trying not to laugh at Frodo’s expression.

“I feel like a toddler learning to walk,” Frodo grumbled.

“That’s sort of the idea.” Sam made sure he was balanced, let go of his arm, and skated ahead to watch Frodo progress. “You’re doing amazingly.” He smiled in encouragement. “If you keep your knees apart, you won’t let yourself spin too wide.”

“Bet that’s what you say to everyone.”

“The knees part, aye.” Sam grinned. “I don’t call everyone amazing.”

“Well, it’s an honour.”

Frodo practiced and perfected his snowplough, and then learnt to turn with Sam skating a few feet ahead; pointing his toes in the direction he wanted to go, and leading them in smooth curves along the flats. 

“You’re lookin’ very good,” Sam said finally, turning back so he could watch Frodo skate toward him. He did look good, in a healthy sense—flushed and happy, with his eyes very vivid, and… well, he did look very good on skis. 

“Ready for a bit of a nicer run?” Sam asked. He told himself to stay professional, but couldn’t help smiling as Frodo reached him. “Follow me.”

❆

Frodo was rather pleased with himself as he skated behind Sam toward the first blue-run sign. 

Almost enough not to be scared, although he did feel a niggle at the sight of the downhill slope as they approached. “Are you sure I’m… ready?”

“Oh, we won’t be going down there yet.” Sam slid his ski goggles back off onto his helmet. His hair was a fringe over his eyes. “There’s a more quiet path I like to take with beginners, it’s a mite flatter. We’ll be headin’ toward the tree line.”

“Oh.” This looked more approachable to Frodo, as they would be skating sidewards along the slope, rather than down. “Perfect. Lead me there.”

He took his time following Sam, however, gliding cautiously and braking often. There was a little too much momentum on this slope for his liking. 

Yet beyond the fear there was something else. The mountain felt infinite, rolling downwards in a carpet of white, dotted with figures here and there that sped down its banks. It rolled right out to the sky, a blue that had gone dark like sapphire as the afternoon drew on. It looked unreal—and yet it was, and Frodo could feel the cold whipping blood into his face. His legs already felt sore, and his arms were stiff from gripping onto his poles so tightly. 

But it was good. Using his body, being aware of himself again after a day spent entirely removed in his writing. As he followed Sam he saw a well-skated path of snow between the thin banks of trees; a path that flattened out a little as it wound its way comfortably downward.

The trees, heavy with snow, splintered the sky around them. Someone had shovelled up what were quite obviously meant to be jumps at intervals along the path, which Sam curved to avoid, though Frodo was quite sure he would have taken them if he wasn’t in his role of guide.

As it was, it took most of Frodo’s concentration to follow Sam’s lead, even without throwing jumps into the mix. 

The path widened out into a circular clearing, where Sam braked with a dramatic sideward sweep of his skis and turned to face Frodo.

“How do you do that?” Frodo asked, once again pulling himself to a stop with a very wide snowplough. 

“I’ll teach you parallel turns whenever you like,” Sam said, smiling. He was so clearly in his element that Frodo couldn’t help being jealous—watching him from behind, Frodo had marvelled at the control and grace at which he could turn, break, or even turn backwards to watch Frodo while he skied. 

“No thanks, I don’t particularly want to break my knees.”

“Always the pessimist, aren’t you?” Sam said lightly. “Now, how’re you feelin’? There’s more of the track to go—if we can get you down the slope you can try the chair lifts back up!” 

He beamed as though he supposed this was Frodo’s greatest wish.

Frodo found himself encouraged. “I’m up for it.”

“Right.” Sam looked proud, and Frodo wondered why this filled him with such a sense of accomplishment. “Well, I’ll be just ahead of you. We’ll keep it slow.”

And as he followed Sam onto the downward path—his momentum increasing despite himself—Frodo began to think he was getting rather good at this, right up until one of his skis clipped a mounded ski jump, immediately crossed over his other foot and sent him pitching forward into the air.

He only had time for a brief gasp of surprise before he crashed into Sam, who, not realising Frodo had sped up, was only a yard ahead, and the two of them tumbled down into the snow.

“Oh my—” Frodo gasped, completely winded. “Oh my—god, Sam, are you alright, I’m so sorry—”

Sam, who had half-turned at the first noise of Frodo’s distress, had fallen mostly on his side, and seemed more surprised than anything else—they were cushioned in snow, and both helmeted, but Frodo by virtue of having his arms out had just managed to stop their heads clacking together. 

His poles were cast away in the snow. His skis had miraculously stayed on his feet, which were bent sideways and felt supremely heavy with the weight of his boots. He attempted to push back on his arms in order to scramble off Sam, but hadn’t expected them to slide right through the snow and send their faces even more close together. 

“Oh god, I’ll get off—” he began, attempting to move again, but Sam’s gloved hands came up to his elbows and held him still.

“Easy,” said Sam, “you’ll snap an ankle if you do that. Are you hurt?”

Frodo stared down at him. Some of Sam’s hair was wet from the snow, and his cheeks were red, and his eyes were more brown than hazel up close, though the light sometimes made them look green. “I—” he panted, “I fall on top of you and nearly crush you to death… and you ask me if I’m hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said, and now he grinned, and god, that was a little too much for Frodo to handle up close. (Get a grip, he told himself.) “M’used to it. It’s not a lesson unless one of my students attacks me out of nowhere.”

“I tripped off one of those infernal ski jumps,” Frodo said hotly, saw Sam was laughing, and immediately felt himself go red. “Oh, shut up.”

He began trying to pull himself up again, Sam’s grip loosening on his elbows, and managed to sit up whilst wriggling his feet back round so that his skis were upright.

“Frodo, wait—” Sam said, lifting his head from the snow, but it was too late for the danger he’d sensed. Frodo had been thoughtless enough to have his skis pointing downhill, and as soon as his feet were straight he immediately shot off across the snow, still on his arse, hands grasping at nothing. 

His stomach dropping out of him, Frodo didn’t have enough time to scream, but he did have enough time to think, this is humiliating, before he shot straight into a bush. 

He heard Sam scrambling upright from somewhere behind him, calling, “don’t move, jus’ keep your skis flat!”

“Stop laughing,” Frodo grumbled. He found himself lying backward, looking up at the fragments of sky with most of his body submerged in leaves. At least he wasn’t going anywhere.

“M’not laughing,” Sam said, and he skied to a neat stop by Frodo’s head, bending down to help pull him out of the bush. “Bit overeager though, aren’t you?” he said, his eyes dancing as he set Frodo to rights. 

“Shut up.” Frodo’s cheeks were flaming. “We’re never speaking of this again, by the way.” He dusted snow off his neck and shoulders. He’d have to go back uphill for his ski poles—or, actually, he’d send Sam to do it. 

“Hm. Bit hard not t’speak of it when I can still feel my tailbone,” Sam remarked. 

Frodo narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you making that up? Because if not, I’m really sorry, but if you are, I already feel bad enough…”

“Don’t worry,” Sam said with another grin. He was clacking his skis together to shake off the snow. “You’re not that heavy anyways.”

For some reason, this made Frodo flush even more.

❆

One very hot, long shower later, Frodo felt recovered enough to hobble out into the lodge kitchen and make himself a cup of tea. 

His phone beeped. There was some special event at The Prancing Pony that night, which Sam assured him he couldn't miss, although when questioned he’d admitted that there wasn’t too much too it beyond a little extra dancing and free drinks. 

“But everyone’ll be there for once,” he’d said. “You’ve got to come.”

This was before Frodo fell on him and—potentially—caused injury to his tailbone, however, Frodo now saw that no offence had been taken, for his phone displayed the message: we’re bussing up at 6. no pressure but rosie says wear dancing clothes

And there was a smiley face that Frodo felt he didn’t deserve.

He was breathing in the fumes of his chai, aching all over and wondering how he’d possibly be up for the walk to the pub, let alone dancing, when someone clapped him on the shoulder and a familiar voice said, “Frodo, my man. Just who I was hoping to see!”

Boromir was beaming down at him in slippers and a puffer vest, his hair spiky from a shower and curling up past his ears. 

“Oh, hello.” Frodo winced at the jolt to his shoulder. “Er—did you have a good week?”

“Ah, it was pretty lousy. But that’s no matter, because we’re back here. Now, what are we doing tonight?”

“Well, actually,” said Frodo, who made up his mind in a split second, “how do you feel about pub fare?”

This was how Frodo found himself strolling through the snow with Boromir at dusk, while the other man listened sympathetically to Frodo’s account of the highs and lows of his first ski experience. 

“In short, I’m not made for it,” he finished, his breath coming out in a little cloud as he crunched over the snow; two steps for each of Boromir’s long strides.

“Hm, the bug’ll get you yet,” his companion said knowledgeably. His hair was now flattened under a beanie, and he’d changed his vest for a patterned shirt under his parka. “It burrows its way in slowly for some people—that’s what happened for my brother. Before you know it, you’ll be dreaming about it.”

“I don’t know about that,” Frodo said, half laughing, but he quietened as he thought of that brief moment on the mountainside, and again on his back staring up at the branch-webbed sky. No air in his lungs, and already sore, but well—he had to admit it had been fun. And it had been a long time that he’d done something simply fun, purely and thoughtlessly enjoying himself. 

Had that been the skiing, or had it simply been Sam?

Frodo huffed out another breath as this occurred to him. “I don’t know,” he said again, quieter.

“Trust me. This is how it starts.” Boromir grinned over him, his teeth a flash of white in the gloom. “You’ve got something of the wild in you, Frodo Baggins—I could tell when I first laid eyes on you.”

“And how could you possibly tell that?”

Boromir shrugged. They were approaching the square, the warm lights of The Prancing Pony in the distance. “A lot of folk here have it. A sort of… restlessness, I suppose. That’s where the skiing comes in.”

Frodo thought of Sam, turning to face him in a spray of snow. His eyes green, then honey-brown.

“Well, I’ll be sleeping well tonight in any case,” he said, quickening his pace to keep up with Boromir. “I can feel every single muscle in my legs, and not in a good way.”

He received another affectionate clap on the shoulder for this, as Boromir steered him toward the entrance of The Prancing Pony. 

There was, in fact, somewhat of a change inside. The lights were low and sparkling in confetti-like colours, and most of the tables were pushed right up against the wall-booths, which left room for a great rubbery-looking carpet by the speakers that was evidently meant to be a dance floor.

The music hadn’t started in earnest, but already a good congregation of people were taking up the space, like a wave swelling to fill its container. 

“Frodo.” Before Frodo had taken her in properly, Rosie was hugging him, then punching him on the arm. “Heard you did well in your lesson today,” she said, smiling, and moved onto Boromir before he could say much of anything. “Who’s this?”

“One of Frodo’s fellow lodgers.” Boromir extended a large square hand. “Boromir. And you are…?”

Rosie appeared to be assessing the size of him. “Rosie Cotton,” she said briskly. Then; “skier or snowboarder?”

Frodo sighed and moved off to see if he could find Sam. 

He found a group by one of the pulled-back tables—Éowyn leaning her elbows on one of the grimy stools, listening to Aragorn, who had not taken off his parka even in the steamy room. Legolas was sitting on the table looking bored, and Tom was reading under the strung-up Christmas lights—not one of Frodo’s books, he was relieved to see. 

Éomer, passing, clapped Frodo so hard on the back that his already-sensitive knees buckled. He was gratefully drawn into Aragorn and Éowyn’s conversation—about one of the less-known mountain trails that had a great lookout over the bowl of Upper Village—and then Sam appeared out of nowhere carrying several glasses and a jug of blue liquid. 

“I don’t know what this is,” he said cheerfully, “but early-bird orders get to sample it for free.”

“Looks like cleaning fluid,” remarked Legolas. 

“I think it’s supposed to be a sort of snow-themed cocktail… hello, Frodo. How’re you feelin’?”

Sam had noticed Frodo and gave him an entirely angelic smile that did not at all suggest he was sorry to have dragged Frodo out for a disaster of a first lesson. 

“Stiff,” said Frodo. He regretted this choice of word however when Aragorn promptly snorted, and Éowyn gave him a shove in the shoulder. Legolas raised his eyebrows.

“I recommend a cold bath,” Sam said, oblivious, and began pouring out drinks. They tasted like icy, alcoholic bubble-gum, which Frodo supposed wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

There was a bit of a commotion as what appeared to be an actual DJ—a rare sight in Upper Village—set up near the speakers, and then the music really started. To Frodo’s surprise, a great number of people immediately migrated to the dance-floor. Young people from all over, and quite a few older couples, too, dancing together without paying much attention to the bass. 

Frodo soon found himself sitting with Aragorn on the bench stools, watching the proceedings. Aragorn had his camera out and was idly sifting through photos. 

“Well, I’ve got enough material to blackmail Éomer with,” he said thoughtfully. “In a moment I’ll go out there and get a few more shots.”

“Are you going to dance?” Frodo asked. His head felt sort of light in a very pleasant way, as though it were bubbling towards the ceiling. “You’d be a good dancer. Though you’re a bit… tall.”

Aragorn laughed. In profile he was all sharp angles, and the lights of a hundred Christmas lights reflected in his dark eyes. “Alas,” he said. “The one I wish I could dance with isn’t here.”

“Oh. You have someone at home, then?”

Aragorn sighed, and lay down his camera. “Do I have her, Frodo?” he murmured, as if to himself. “Does anyone have anyone? Or do we only possess ourselves, cast along in the winds of fate… doomed to always tread alone, like the solitary souls that we are?”

Frodo blinked. “That was quite good,” he said. “I wish I had my notebook with me…”

“You should dance,” Aragorn said, abruptly. He turned on his stool to Frodo and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “I think it’d be good for you.”

“Oh—dear, no. I’d better not.”

“Come on, be a man.” Aragorn smiled. “I’ll come with you.”

“To be clear… what do I have to gain from this?”

Frodo found himself being shepherded off the safety of his stool. Aragorn slung his camera over his shoulder and then ruffled Frodo’s hair. “Well. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

Frodo then found himself detached from Aragorn somewhere in the centre of the dance floor, where the bodies became an unpredictable mass of ebbing and flowing space.

A lusty pop-song was playing over a hypnotic sort of beat, and around Frodo in the dimness everyone seemed lit up in flashes of colour—glints of earrings, snow-white shoes, tan skin and red lipstick. An elbow knocked into his back. 

He found himself encircled briefly by a group of laughing French girls, one who stopped to dance with him—Frodo, not being much of a dancer at the best of times, merely tried to stay on the beat with her. 

She said something to him that he couldn’t hear, so he shook his head, and then her friend dragged her away by the elbow into the crowd. 

Frodo could see Sam dancing with Rosie a little closer to where the DJ was, so he attempted to make his way over. There was a flash of camera-light—somewhere, Aragorn was taking more photos. 

Rosie was twirling, laughing, in Sam’s arms. She was starkly pretty in a flowing skirt, with her muscled arms and short, curly hair worn free, glowing red in the sparkling lights. 

He’d wondered when he first met the two of them if they were a couple, but Sam had never mentioned anything about it—he always called Rosie a friend when he talked about her; with obvious affection, but never the happy self-consciousness of someone in love.

The music changed and became faster, and Rosie caught sight of Frodo over Sam’s shoulder. She grinned at him and said something to Sam, then turned and joined the siblings Éowyn and Éomer, who were in a larger circle of mostly-familiar faces. 

Sam turned as the dance-floor seemed to surge forward, roused by the change in beat. His hair was sticking up in all directions, he was flushed and the collar of his polo shirt was inside out. 

Frodo didn’t know later how he found the boldness to step forward, only that he was half-sloshed and still thinking of the way Sam felt under him in the snow, the way his hands had settled round Frodo’s elbows as if it was the most natural thing in the world, to hold onto him. 

He smiled, tilting his head, trying to look ironic as though he was inviting Sam in on a joke. “Want to dance, then?”

❆

Sam did not quite know how it had happened, but he was dancing with Frodo. 

He did not know, either, whether Frodo was taking it seriously, or what he meant by it, but he did suspect that the other had sampled rather a lot of the blue cocktail jug. Otherwise… why would they be doing this?

The music had been fast and directionless, and they’d been mostly swaying as one with the crowd, but then it changed into what Sam thought might be an old Mary J Blige song; he could remember one of his sisters listening to it once, and people began to holler. 

They were knocked into each other briefly, and then Frodo tilted his chin up and all his usual polite reserve seemed to have evaporated—he had a strange small half-smile, like he was daring Sam into something, and his eyes were rayed with lights as he held Sam’s gaze without the slightest trace of awkwardness.

Sam felt something in his stomach shift. More often than not it had been girls that did this to him—sent his world a little off-kilter—but when boys did it… 

Well. It was usually worse.

Now they were dancing close, each accomodating the other’s movement. Sam barely had room to move his arms, but Frodo raised his his own so that they were above his head, and didn’t break eye contact.

He wasn’t in anything special, really—a dark t-shirt over a turtleneck sleeve, loose slacks that were a little more academic professor than twenties-something at a party, but that was okay because Sam wouldn’t expect anything less of Frodo. And they way he moved made up for it.

On instinct, Sam raised his own hands and took hold of Frodo’s, lacing their fingers together. At this, Frodo’s smile widened. His hair was dark and curling everywhere, and his brows were lifted slightly, and he looked as though he were saying, you don’t know what you’re getting into, do you?

Sam didn’t. He was trying not think of what Rosie had said to him before she’d left his side, which he thought had been something like, about time you two got a move on.

He didn’t want to think like that, because if he even entertained the idea, than it was doomed to blow up in his face. He was dancing with Frodo Baggins, famous fantasy author with a net-worth bigger than Sam’s whole family combined.

And he knew that Frodo liked chai tea and was a nervous skier, that he favoured his right foot and that he hated talking about his new book—but what else did he know?

That he was kind, and good company. That his hands felt perfect laced in Sam’s. 

That they were still looking at each other as the beat of the music throbbed around them; in Sam’s chest and up through his feet. 

The beat changed and went upwards. Sam set Frodo’s hands on his shoulders and tried to smile. The blue of Frodo’s eyes was endless.

“You don’t seem like you’re mighty sore,” Sam observed—he had to half yell over the dozens of people who had decided to start singing the lyrics. 

“I’ll feel it later,” Frodo said half in his ear. Sam had never seen him so loose and laughing. He was nearly stepping on Sam’s toes.

They kept their eyes on each other right until the song ended, with great cheers and jostling from all around them, and Sam was acutely aware of Frodo’s hands still perched on his shoulders.

He thought—this would be the moment. To say something. To do something that addressed the strange bubble of tension between them. 

He couldn’t read any clues in Frodo’s face. Sam opened his mouth, and—

The flash of white light startled both of them as a camera went off next to Sam’s face. He whirled to see Aragorn, who had the grace to look apologetic. “Just trying to get some candids…”

Something ABBA came on, and people began shrieking and crowding together on the dance floor. 

“Really,” said Sam, both annoyed and embarrassed to have been caught on film with goodness knew what expression on his face.

Beside him Frodo swayed suddenly, his hands gone from Sam’s shoulders. “That’s it,” he announced loudly, “I’m getting the most god-awful leg cramps. Have you seen Boromir?”

Aragorn pointed somewhere across the room and before Sam could say anything, Frodo had wobbled off into the darkness of the crowd.

This left Sam not knowing to do with himself, and Aragorn looking down at him shrewdly. “I’m sorry to have… interrupted anything,” he said quite seriously. 

“You didn’t,” mumbled Sam. He felt abruptly exhausted and sick of everyone in the room. And confused. 

Aragorn gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Wait til you see the shots I’ve got tonight. I think you’ll like them.” He smiled. “A few of them in particular.”

“Oh do you.” Sam followed Aragorn as he turned to make his way out of the crowd, back to the safety of the tables.

He’d had enough of dancing for one night. 

Chapter Text

The elven halls were full of feasting and merriment, just as Circann had always imagined them to be. Long tables wound with vines were heavy-weighted with golden fruits, pillowed bread, chestnut-glazed roasts kept warm with leaves and sparkling bottles of wine. A heady aroma of sweetness, wet earth and flowers filled his head, so heavy it was almost a shimmer in the air, blurring the many shades of fabric and the shining hair of all those laughing faces around him.

Morgan met his eyes across the room, and raised a thin fluted glass, the wine red as blood and gleaming jewel-bright. 

Tonight, they were guests here. Tonight, perhaps for the first time, Circann would sleep easy.

- Devil’s Keep (Ash Mountain #6)

❆

Frodo was in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea when he received an unusual summons.

Gandalf, who was not usually to be seen in the communal area, was sitting by the lodge fire, in his usual grey beanie and fisherman’s sweater. He waved Frodo over and introduced him as the Baggins lad to a stranger sitting on the couch opposite Gandalf’s armchair.

Well, not a stranger, exactly—Frodo recognised him from the lodge and also a couple of nights at The Prancing Pony. He was short and stocky, perhaps a little older than Frodo, with a friendly face and wild hair, and a close-trimmed dark beard. One of his ears was pierced with a silver ring. 

“So you’re Bilbo’s nephew,” the stranger said in a deep but friendly voice, and stood to wring Frodo’s hand. His grip was firm, and his fingers were also heavy with rings. “I must have last seen you when you were a little’un, with my father—don’t suppose you remember me, eh?”

Frodo blinked. “Er—”

“This, Frodo,” said Gandalf from his armchair, where he reclined with an absurdly small-looking coffee cup and saucer, “is the son of one of your uncle’s old friends. Bilbo and Glóin were part of our old travelling group—and I take the credit for introducing them.”

“I’m Gimli,” said the stranger. He grinned at Frodo. “Dad always spoke highly of your uncle. He wouldn’t believe you’re all grown up now…”

“Oh. It’s a pleasure,” Frodo said. The name Glóin rung a bell, and he’d seen enough pictures in Bilbo’s old travel scrapbooks to think that Gimli’s features looked rather familiar. “Bilbo will be thrilled to hear we’re lodging together.”

“So will my dad.” Gimli waved Frodo into a seat on the couch. “I’m here for the snowboarding, myself. Gandalf always gives my family a good deal.” He beamed over at the lodge-owner, who hummed noncommittally. 

“And you, Frodo?” Gimli turned to face him. “Skiing? Snowboarding? Bit of both?”

“Oh, neither. I’m actually… doing some writing.” 

This was close to becoming a lie, Frodo thought to himself—he’d done not a drop of work all morning; procrastinating by emailing back-and-forth with his editor and scrupulously resorting his notes. He was already on his third tea break.

“Writing?” echoed Gimli, looking as though he’d never heard of the concept before.

Frodo sighed. 

He was pinned onto the couch for the next several minutes by questions from Gimli and reminiscences from Gandalf. Frodo did not mind so much once the initial examination was over—he was as interested in Gimli as the other was in him, and he was grateful for any chance to step away from his laptop that morning. 

It was warm sitting by the fire, with snow beating on the windows across the room. Gandalf drew out an old pack of playing cards for some game that he and Gimli had agreed on, and Gimli poured Frodo a very strong cup of coffee. 

One sip from his espresso cup and Frodo’s eyes started watering, until Gandalf thoughtfully passed the sugar pot where it rested on the card table.

They dealt Frodo into some game that he found quite incomprehensible, and he was doing his best to catch up with them when his phone beeped.

It was Merry. 

Frodo-lad

guess what

there’s a fun surprise for you coming on the next plane from london! 

Frodo, taking advantage of Gandalf’s solid minute of concentration before he played his turn, texted back. 

Is the surprise going to be you?

Immediately there was a reply. 

no

course not

the surprise is….

pippin AND me 

bet you can’t wait to see us :D

Frodo stared at his phone with mixed reactions. He missed his second cousins (or rather, his best friends) terribly, and some mornings he was homesick enough that he’d do anything to see a familiar face.

On the other hand—the thought of his worlds colliding was a little strange. What would Sam make of them, for starters?

Sam. He had not seen Sam one-on-one since his embarrassing episode at The Prancing Pony dance party, where he’d somehow got it into his head to—well, not seduce him exactly, for Frodo didn’t know how to go about seducing anyone—but to do something… He couldn’t think of it now without wanting to cover his face.

What was he thinking, dancing with Sam who had friends aplenty and could probably be with anyone he chose—who had been a friend to him in those first confusing days?

Not to mention that the Frodo whom Sam was happy to dance with was not the same person as the Frodo who had forgotten how to do the very thing he was good at; the Frodo who had started having panic attacks before talk-panels and lying on the floor of his apartment far more often than was strictly healthy… In short, the Frodo who was a complete mess, who had gotten into such a state two months ago that his uncle had had to organise an intervention, i.e. sending him to Scotland. 

What would Sam say to that—and indeed, what would Merry and Pippin think if he revealed the full extent of it?

No… the thing with Sam, it had to end before anything much began. 

Frodo told himself he had a book to write and couldn’t afford any distractions. This was, of course, before he picked up his cards to choose a play that wouldn’t completely embarrass him. 

His phone beeped again.

assuming u r so overcome w joy rn and that’s why ur not replying

i get it!! love u too <3

The worst thing of all, Frodo thought as he selected a card, would be if Merry or Pippin were to ask him anything about his new book—for they’d assume he was making good progress, of course. What else would he be doing, shut up in the mountains like this?

Frodo couldn’t lie to either of them, just as he never could to Bilbo. This thought made his stomach twist with guilt as he played his measly five of hearts.

“Ah, that’s a pity,” Gimli said with a twinkle, immediately playing a Jack and claiming the whole deck. “It’s your first time playing, of course,” he added. “You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”

If only, Frodo thought, writing would be that simple.

He replied to Merry after gulping down the last of his bitter coffee.

Perfect surprise. Can’t wait to see you both. Keep an eye on Pippin on the plane, won’t you?

Merry responded instantly. will do. no fizzy drinks for him 

i remember last time too well 

…burned into my brain actually 

Frodo smiled. Despite it all, he felt a sudden warmth at the thought of seeing them both. No matter what they thought of him once they got here.

❆

Sam was on form, and he’d missed the feeling. 

After lessons had wrapped up for the day, he and Tom had decided to make use of the last of the afternoon light by taking one of the black trails, known locally as the Arrow Shoot for its many zig-zagged slopes.

It started out straight and wide, opening out before them in untouched snow, and Sam was ahead, feeling his knees bend without conscious thought as he turned his way down the slope. His stomach felt light and the wind rushed at his face; cold, vicious, invigorating.

The mountain was harsh and it could take away as much as it gave, but that would never mean he didn’t love it. Fiercely and without explanation. 

The trail had an abrupt turn and now they were in the trees, skiing over a narrow path that steepened abruptly.

Now Tom was in front, steady as he always was, and he took the first jump ahead of Sam—bending forward, his skis going airborne in a smooth arc seconds before Sam took the jump himself.

He went weightless. The first time he’d tried this jump he’d landed badly with his skis pointing outwards, and nearly straddled a tree. Now it was over in seconds, his body knowing what to do without the help of his brain. 

This was when Sam’s head felt clearest, when he could push aside thoughts of his life back home—worries about his gaffer, guilt about Daisy. Tendrils of anxiety that clouded in on his mountain oasis, like, what he would do when he got back, and what was he really good for, except for this?

The trail dropped down so steeply that Tom braked ahead of him, and Sam slowed too. They broke out into the open again, where they could see chair-lifts moving against the white sky, and tufts of what could have been cloud, or maybe chimney-smoke from over the rim of the slope. 

Sam sped ahead, and Tom shouted something after him that was mostly lost to the wind, but sounded like, show-off. 

He grinned over his shoulder. “Beat you to the second jump…”

They raced. The sky was endless. A couple of figures in the distance were re-entering the forest part of the trail; Sam saw a flash of blond hair, and suspected that Legolas had beaten them to the black run. Perhaps Aragorn was with him—or more likely he’d gone off on his own as he usually did, not to reappear again before dark. 

The second jump was trickier than the first. Sam stayed locked in tight and narrowed his focus; he landed hard enough to knock a gasp out of his lungs, but his momentum kept him onwards. 

Steep, then flat, then the infamous turns. They saw flashes of pine, sky, old cross-country trails, and occasionally a coloured blur from a skier taking the switchbacks ahead. Occasionally they’d glimpse what seemed like the whole mountain opening up before them—white slopes down into green; an entire world, a universe, that seemed cut off and floating above the rest. 

Sam thought, this could be my last season.

Just as instantly came the reply, defiant in his ribcage. I can’t lose this. 

The mountain was in him, and it couldn’t be taken from him. It was all his memories; his mother and his friends. And a peace he never found anywhere else. 

This thought had slowed him down, though, and he soon saw Tom speeding ahead of him, which had to be remedied, and quick enough they found themselves rolling down the final slope into the cusp of the village.

There were chair-runs positioned where some of the other runs convened, near the cafe where they’d shared lunch with Rosie a couple of hours before. 

Tom gave Sam a mild shove on the shoulder. “Not bad on the jumps back there.”

“And you.” Sam grinned. “Didn’t jar my kneecaps, so I’m sayin’ it went better than last time.”

“You’re improving, young Sammy.”

“We’re the same age, Tolman.”

“Don’t call me that,” Tom grumbled, and glided off ahead of him.

They approached the canteen-slash-cafe, which was still doing a good trade even in the later hours. A line of skis were stacked up against the outer walls, and various groups were standing round with coffees in the snow. A curly-haired English tourist was talking into a phone and gesticulating wildly by the cafe entrance.

“Do you need a pick-me-up, or shall we have a last run?” Sam asked, catching up to Tom.

“I hope,” his friend said neutrally, “you’re not insinuating I couldn’t handle the Arrow Shoot.”

“I think you handled the Arrow Shoot mighty well. M’just sayin’ you look a bit blue.”

“No I don’t.” Tom pulled up his ski goggles and touched his face self-consciously. 

“You an’ Rosie both go the same kind of colour after a while. Us Gamgees are more tan.” Sam shrugged, grinned. “I have a more natural glow.”

“Sammy. You’re deludin’ yourself.” Tom shoved him again.

“Excuse me,” said the stranger they were passing, who had previously been talking so animatedly into his phone. “You’re not by any chance Sam Gamgee, are you?”

Sam looked round in surprise. The stranger was rather short, around his own height, and curly haired, his cheeks pink from the cold. He was dressed quite smartly in a mustard-yellow suede jacket. 

“Erm… yes, that’s me,” Sam said, confused. “How’d you know my name?”

“Oh, because I’ve heard so much about you in the last…” the stranger checked his phone, “oh, six hours or so. Really, my cousin gave you quite a good review and I was looking forward to meeting you, when I heard your name just then.” He was looking at Sam with interest.

“And who are you?” asked Tom, with a directness that only a Cotton sibling could pull off—not rude, but simply to-the-point.

“Oh, well, I’m Merry,” said the stranger promptly, as though this should have been obvious. “Meriadoc Brandybuck.” He held out a hand to Sam, who founded it difficult to shake with his damp gloves and ski poles still attached to his wrist. “Second cousin or thereabouts of Frodo. In fact… follow me.”

He led them a few paces to one of the windows on the long-side of the building, tapped on it, and two persons immediately turned to look at them through the glass.

Frodo looked surprised and then pleased to see Sam and Tom—he waved at them from over a mug of tea; dressed warmly in an old university jumper, his hair big and curling from the indoor warmth. Opposite him sat another youthful stranger with a pointed face above a knitted blue scarf. He leant close to the window and stared unabashedly at Sam; asking an unheard question to Frodo, who nodded his head.

“We scraped together lunch at the lodge,” Merry Brandybuck explained, “but Pippin and I convinced this one to come out with us for some proper afternoon tea. You’re both welcome to join us if you’re not, er—busy.” And he looked with a sort of curiosity down at their skis, as though examining an unfamiliar technological contraption. 

Indeed, Frodo was gesturing at them through the glass to come in, and the other boy—Pippin—was knocking on the window to get Merry’s attention, then pointing at the hot chips that had just arrived. 

Sam and Tom looked at each other, and Tom raised his shoulders very slightly. 

“Alright then,” Sam said, still rather confused. “We don’t want to intrude, o’course…”

“Don’t be silly.” Merry waved them along back to the entrance with him. “Just pop your, er—gear down, that’s right, and we’ll all squeeze in… and I’ll order another round of chilli wedges.”

❆

They crowded in at the window booth, and Tom went with a nod to go and get coffees for him and Sam.

Once Sam had greeted Frodo and Pippin—the latter of whom was still looking at him with great curiosity—he asked the newcomers, “did you both arrive just this mornin’, then?”

“Well, yes. We got to the airport last evening, but didn’t realise it would be so tricky getting up the mountain so late,” said Merry, opposite him. “Frodo only met us at Lower Village this morning.”

“I gave them as much as a tour of the place as I could remember from you, Sam,” Frodo said, smiling. He was pouring himself more tea.

“It was tiny,” said Pippin through a mouthful of chips. He swallowed. “Then Frodo took us up to his lodge, but didn’t trust us to entertain ourselves while he was working, apparently—”

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” interrupted Frodo.

“No, the real problem is that you don’t want to work on your book,” said Merry. “Tomorrow though, you’ll have no choice because I’m taking Pippin skiing.”

This got mixed reactions. Pippin said enthusiastically, “I can’t wait,” and Frodo gave a great sigh. 

“Have you done much skiing before?” Sam asked Merry with interest. 

“Oh no, never. But I’ve watched a ton of YouTube tutorials over the past week, and it looks easy enough.” Merry grinned at him. “I know Frodo says you do great lessons. But I’m feeling pretty confident, so I’ll see how Pippin and I go first, right?”

“Well then, er.” Sam was slightly taken aback. “Sounds like you know everythin’ you need t’know already.”

“Yes, I’m sure your job is soon to be made redundant, Sam,” Frodo said with heavy irony. “Why haven’t all the other kids taught themselves off YouTube, I wonder?”

“Ha,” said Merry without offence, at the same time as Pippin interjected, “what do you mean by other kids? We’re all adults here.”

“I’ll have to see it to believe it,” said Frodo.

Sam ducked his chin to hide his smile. “How long are you both stayin’ for?” he asked. 

“Just the weekend,” Merry said with a sigh. 

Tom returned to the booth with a waiting number. His shoulder bumped Sam’s as he squeezed into a seat next to him, and Sam introduced him to the table. 

Frodo explained, in answer to Tom’s silent question, that his cousins were lodging with him for a few days. 

“Skiing’s just a bonus,” said Merry. “Our main purpose is to convince Frodo to come back for Christmas with us.”

He slung an arm around Frodo’s shoulders at this, which Frodo attempted to shrug off while drinking his tea.

“I see.” Sam was smiling. “Is that the plan?”

“Yes, probably,” Frodo conceded. “I’ll be staying at Uncle Bilbo’s. He was determined to see me before the new year, so he sent these two.”

“It’s a nice weekend for Pippin and me,” Merry added. “And we get to see our favourite relative.”

“Agreed,” said Pippin. He’d already managed to eat most of a bowl of chips completely by himself, before Sam and Tom’s coffees (and the extra potato wedges) arrived. 

They passed a happy half-hour sharing the bowls of chips between them, and Sam’s coffee warmed him from the inside out while condensation steamed the window-panes. 

Merry wanted Sam’s opinion on which ski runs were the best of the place, while Pippin asked both him and Tom what the worst injuries they had sustained on the slopes were.

Frodo did not want to hear this, apparently. “Pippin. Why on earth would you ask that?”

“Well, I’ve seen so many fail videos, I thought people must just be falling over all the time… have you ever done a backflip, Sam?”

Sam, who was hoping Frodo would one day consent to go skiing with him again, was determined not to discourage him with skiing horror stories.

But Frodo, to his surprise, said lightly, “well, I nearly broke Sam’s tailbone once, so I suppose that’s one for the list of memorable injuries.”

Tom snorted out a laugh into his coffee—Sam had not told him that particular story. Merry’s head spun between Frodo and Sam. “What? When was that?”

“Mpmph—I wish I’d seen that,” said Pippin, chewing. 

Sam stared at Frodo, who was resolutely looking down into his teacup. 

“He didn’t break my tailbone,” he said to the table, with half a smile.

“Well, it certainly put me off skiing,” said Frodo. When he finally met Sam’s eyes, it was with a smile half-apologetic, half-confiding, as though acknowledging something of an inside joke between them.

“I mean, we always knew Frodo had no hand-foot coordination,” said Merry. But he still had an odd look in his eyes as he glanced back at Sam, as though scrutinising him. 

“Hand-foot coordination isn’t a thing.”

“Of course it’s a thing. Ask Sam. And Sam’s friend Tom.”

Sam noticed although Frodo’s cousins (maybe-cousins, he couldn’t quite keep the relations straight in his head) teased him mercilessly, there was a lot of affection too—in Merry’s frequent looks sideways at Frodo, or Pippin stealing sips from his teacup.

And there was a new ease to Frodo, too, in being surrounded by people who evidently knew him so well. He looked tired, Sam thought, as though he’d had several late nights recently, but his smiles were genuine and there was a relaxed set to his shoulders.

Sam watched him drinking tea and wondered when he’d learnt to read Frodo this quickly; when a single scan could tell him most details about Frodo’s mood.

Maybe since he’d started looking. Only once had he thought Frodo had been looking back, and that was when they were dancing together a few days ago, in an unreal sort of moment that seemed now like it might never be repeated. 

It was possible that Frodo had changed his mind about Sam, or perhaps more possible that he’d never been considering him that way in the first place. Sam may very well have made up the whole thing. 

But that was alright, he thought firmly, because he was lucky to be sitting with Frodo and his cousins even now. Lucky to be his—sort of, maybe—friend. And most of all he was glad that Frodo had people close to him, who were looking out for him and keeping him well, even if that was something that Sam found himself now worrying about without reason.

Frodo set down his cup and met Sam’s eyes and smiled, although the others were still talking around them, and Sam felt just as he had an hour before as he looked down into unfolding snowscape of the mountain and thought, I could stay here.

❆

Frodo took his cousins to The Blue Dragon, because he didn’t really know what to do with them otherwise. 

On a whim, he suggested the idea to Gimli, who was making his usual strong coffee in the common room, and to Boromir, who had turned up again for the weekend like clockwork. 

Both were amiable, and so it was a little group that ended up taking the bus down to Lower Village. 

Pippin was as excitable as Frodo could have expected, but Boromir seemed to have taken well to both Frodo’s cousins. He was explaining to them the importance of buying their own equipment rather than using the cheap hire skis. “It’ll save you money, lads, I promise. I can’t emphasise enough how good of an investment a good pair of skis’ll be. You’ll never want to use anything else.”

Merry asked in a knowledgeable tone what skis Boromir himself had, and they heard a good three minute piece on the Blade Optic 96 which he swore by. 

Frodo managed to get Gimli talking about something else, at least, by asking him about the engineering course he was currently doing online (which sounded completely incomprehensible to Frodo).

“S’not so bad,” said Gimli, leaning back into his seat. His earring glinted in the swinging lights of the bus. “Frees me up to do things like this, eh?”

Then Pippin leaned over the seat in front of them to ask if Gimli would show him how to snowboard the next day. Frodo heard exaggerated groans from both Merry and Boromir. 

He sighed and looked out the dark window, seeing his reflection and that of those around him in the glass. 

He was more grateful than he could say for Merry and Pippin being here, now of all times.

They were a lot, especially together, but they felt like being home again, and their conversation had always settled him. Merry had not even asked too much about his book—which, though Frodo supposed the conversation was still coming, he was grateful not to have to think about for one day, at least.

It was easier to push the twist of guilt down when his cousins were talking over him, demanding that he stay in the present.

They stomped through the foot-deep snow to the frosted door of The Blue Dragon. Inside it was warm and dried-out in a way that stung at Frodo’s cold face. Merry pulled off his coat to reveal his suede jacket, of which he was very proud, and Pippin tugged off his scarf. 

Boromir spotted the table they were aiming for first. It was a Friday night, so most of the group was there, and someone—likely Sam—had already ordered several hot pizzas which crowded for space amid the drinks and jackets on that particular long table. 

Merry and Pippin bounded forward to make their introductions. Rosie and Aragorn, predictably, were the most interested, while Tom merely nodded in recognition of Frodo’s cousins and looked confused at the sight of Gimli, and Legolas somehow took offence to Gimli being another snowboarder, and didn’t do more than nod at them all stiffly. 

Sam came up in one of his knitted jumpers, looking the same as a few hours ago except that he’d combed his hair. There was a red shine to his cheeks that indicated he’d been out on the slopes most of the afternoon.

He clasped hands with Boromir, greeted Merry and Pippin—and Gimli—and then turned to Frodo. 

“I’ll buy the drinks this time,” Frodo said, smiling, before Sam could open his mouth. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you paying for your own coffee at the table this afternoon.”

Sam looked touched. “There’s no need to buy everyone drinks,” he said.

“I’ll buy a couple of jugs of something. Then I can say I’ve done my part.”

Sam accompanied Frodo to the bar, and when they returned, Merry hurried over to tug at Frodo’s sleeve. “Frodo. Who is that beautiful goddess, standing over at the table next to ours?”

“Don’t look now,” he added in a hiss as Frodo turned his head to look. 

“You’re going to have to give me some more details, then,” Frodo said wearily.

“Tall. Beautiful blond braids. Looks like she could throw me to the floor with her pinky finger. And I would enjoy it.”

“Oh, for heavens sake, Merry.” Frodo turned his head, ignoring his cousin’s warnings. “That’s Éowyn. She’s a snowboarding instructor, I think. And you’re not going to have much of a chance with her because—”

“Oh no,” Merry said, running his fingers through his hair and not seeming to hear Frodo. “A snowboarder. But I know nothing about snowboarding, I only watched skiing tutorials! What am I going to talk to her about?”

Frodo tried to breathe patiently through his nose. “I’m sure she’ll understand you when you talk about skiing,” he said, slowly. “But Merry—I don’t think she’s available.”

“Why? Has she got a snowboarding boyfriend?” Merry look struck. “Don’t tell me it’s him…”

Éowyn was chatting happily to Aragorn, who was pouring a drink from one of the beer jugs. Frodo had to admit, looking at the latter’s disarrayed dark hair and long-limbed athletic grace, that Merry didn’t stand much of a chance against him. 

“Well, no, I don’t think so,” he admitted, “but she’s… I think her heart’s somewhere else.”

“Ah.” Merry narrowed his eyes. He seemed to be assessing Aragorn. “Well,” he said quite seriously, “perhaps the lady would appreciate knowing her options are open. Bit of a confidence boost if nothing else, eh?”

“Er—” said Frodo. 

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Merry squared his shoulders, patted Frodo on the shoulder and then marched over to pull himself up on one of the table stools, in order to join Éowyn and Aragorn’s conversation.

Frodo had to tell himself not to worry. It was not Merry’s first time of deciding to fall in love with a stranger, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Worst thing to happen would be Éowyn gently letting him down.

And Merry’s head, Frodo thought privately, did sometimes need some deflating. 

He turned toward their original table and saw Boromir sitting with his legs pulled up on one of the stools, apparently teaching Pippin how to arm-wrestle. 

Frodo shook his head wearily. He found that Sam had materialised again after setting the drinks down, and said with a gesture towards Pippin, “tell me about your family. Any eccentric cousins?”

Sam looked amused. “Well, not so many cousins as I can say, but all the weirdness is mostly in our immediate family.”

“Ah. Your siblings, then?” 

Sam had bought him a glass of foaming beer from the table, and Frodo accepted it. They made their way towards free seats, near where Tom and Rosie were talking to Éomer, and Legolas and Gimli seemed to have gotten into some sort of argument about the merits of skiing versus snowboarding. 

“Well,” said Sam over the noise, “Daisy’s the sensible one, and my brothers are hardly home—but May’s always been one to take a ski jump before she’s learnt how to brake, and Mari… well, she’s alright, really, but don’t ask her about her favourite bands. I suppose,” he added thoughtfully, “Da’s probably the weirdest one of the bunch. Still stuck three decades ago, and doesn’t think there’s anything he has to pay for that he can’t just make or fix himself.”

“That’s quite admirable,” said Frodo—thinking of Bilbo, who was the opposite. 

“Well, not when he’s liable to break his back over it.” Sam shrugged, setting his glass down on the table. “My da’s not so well, actually. Got a heart condition. I help him with his landscaping business, I don’t know if I’ve said… he expects me to take it over eventually.”

He suddenly looked gloomy enough that Frodo was surprised, he hadn’t seen Sam as anything but cheerful in the weeks that he’d known him. 

“He’s not so close to retiring, is he?” Frodo asked cautiously. He tried to tune out the sounds of Gimli declaring that of course snowboarding was a real sport, it was in the Olympics, wasn’t it?

“Well,” Sam said with what looked like an attempt at a grin, “not if he has anything to say about it. Won’t give in easy, my dad. I’m hopin’ it’ll be a while yet.”

Frodo nodded, watching Sam’s face as he took a sip from his glass; his throat bob as he swallowed. “That said,” Sam began hesitantly, as though not quite sure why he was telling Frodo this, “I’m not sure how much longer I can get away with bein’ gone so many months of the year.”

“Just over the winter,” Frodo said, surprised.

Sam made a face. “Aye, well. Seems that’s more than enough time for Da to get it into his head to overwork himself. I… I don’t know.” He rubbed a hand over one eye, back through his gold-brown hair. “Probably not the right time t’be tellin’ you all this, eh?”

Frodo looked at him thoughtfully. He was struck suddenly that he was not the only one here with a deadline, the only person clutching at the slipping days before the new year and the changes it would bring. 

Sam was holding onto these days, too. 

“No,” Frodo murmured. “I mean—no, I’m glad you told me.” He wanted to ask more—to find out whether Sam actually wanted to take over his father’s business, the answer to which he was pretty sure was no. 

He wanted to say, your father should be proud of you for everything you’re doing now. Or perhaps, he’d understand if you said you weren’t ready. But Frodo didn’t know that, did he?

There was so much he didn’t know about Sam. The thought made him suddenly sad. 

Instead, he said, “well… you’ve got this season.” And then cringed slightly at the uselessness of this statement. 

Sam took another sip of his drink, smiled. “That’s true. An’ we’re making somethin’ of it already, aren’t we?”

“I suppose we are.” Frodo determined not to think about his book. 

He held out his glass, and Sam clinked it gently. 

They drank looking at each other, and Frodo felt a warm sort of shiver in his chest, though the  moment was soon interrupted by Gimli slamming a hand on the table so that the whole surface shuddered, and exclaiming, “of course we can bloody go fast, have you ever tried a snowboard?”

There was a sudden and unrelated chorus of cheers—Pippin had just won his first arm-wrestle. 

Merry had drawn Éowyn deep into conversation and didn’t seem to be aware of anything else. 

“Frodo!” Pippin called. “Did you see that? Ask Sam if he wants to come try the reigning champion… me.”

Frodo raised his eyebrows at Sam, who set down his drink. “I’m up for it.”

Frodo grinned. “Let’s see it, then.” And he followed him.

Chapter Text

Yvonne had always thought Lorcan’s smile like a blade of ice. That was no doubt how they did things in the Highfell court—courtesy a veiled weapon, every jest edged in menace. Still, she saw warmth in him in other ways. His hands, gentle as he plucked the white buds of yarrow-herbs. His voice softening when he talked of his sisters, now lost to him in exile. The moments—just moments—when his eyes seemed to change when he looked at her.

Not a smile, perhaps, but something like it.

- Two Turrents (Ash Mountain, #4)

❆

Sam went home for Christmas, even without Daisy asking him. 

He nearly always made the trip back for a few days at the end of December, getting a lift with one or other of the Cotton siblings if they happened to be doing the same. It was something he’d never miss. 

The family house (affectionately termed Number Three for its prominent brass sign) was where he’d grown up all his life, until he moved in with Tom and a couple of others not far away. 

He and Tom had rented out their small rooms in the share-house the past few years, an imperfect arrangement that at least meant Sam had somewhere to go when he was home for the summer; somewhere he could live on his own two feet. 

Marigold and Daisy were still at home, but Hamson and May were making the drive from London, Halfred and his family from up near the Scottish border, and Sam came the furthest—all the way from the Highlands. 

His gaffer greeted him with obvious affection as he piled his luggage amongst his siblings’ in the hallway. Hamfast was a little older, a little frailer, perhaps, but his hands were steady on Sam’s shoulders, and his old beaten hunting-cap hat was set at a familiar angle. 

“Welcome home, son.”

“Thanks, da.” Sam breathed in the smell of the house—of polish and carpet and whatever delicious aromas were coming from the kitchen. His eyes met Daisy’s at the end of the corridor, over their father’s shoulder, and she smiled at him warmly, and it was almost—almost—enough to dislodge the prickle of guilt that he’d been away so long. 

However, Sam was very good at making up for his absences. In two days, he’d helped in the kitchen to prepare a Christmas dinner for at least fifteen people (the Gamgees were known for their appetites), brought in a tree with Hamson to arrange the presents under, and seen to Daisy’s great list of neglected jobs, which included fixing a roof leak over the laundry, re-hinging the yellow foyer door, and dragging enough mattresses up the stairs to fit everyone more or less comfortably. 

He was sharing the living room quarters with Hamson; Halfred, with his wife and small child, was granted the only spare bedroom.

On the first day, Sam entered Marigold’s room to drop off a mattress and saw her at her desk, a couple of massive uni textbooks propped open against her stationary pots. 

“Thanks, Sam. Just shove it anywhere—I’m not sure why May’s not carrying her own things up,” his younger sister said with half a glance at him. 

Sam took in the sight of Mari’s room, which always seemed to be changing—band posters moving across the wall over her bed, which was burdened with throw pillows, and a bright array of winter coats and scarves scattered over the remaining surfaces.

He stepped forward to see the book on her nightstand, whose cover had caught his eye. Stars’ Descent, it was titled against a midnight background, with a strange golden crest embossed under the words. 

Sam read Frodo’s name and realised he must have recognised the book unconsciously, his eyes taking in the words before he’d actually stopped to read it. It was the first book in the Ash Mountain chronicles.

He picked it up, noting his sister’s bookmark was at the end. “How d’you know this series?”

Mari looked over her shoulder at him, reading glasses perched on her nose. “What do you mean, how do I know it? Hamson leant me the books ages ago.”

Before he really thought about it, Sam found himself asking, “can I borrow this when you’re done?”

Mari was giving him a strange look. “I didn’t know you were much one for reading,” she said.

“I’m not against it,” Sam said defensively. “I, er—heard this was a good one. From Tom.”

“Oh.” His sister pinked slightly at the mention of Tom Cotton. “He’d never said anything to me about it.”

“Well, it’s something else you have in common,” Sam said innocently. He was surprised at how hard his heart was suddenly beating—as though he’d run into Frodo himself standing in Marigold’s room, rather than simply one of his books. 

Mari sniffed. “Hm. You can take that one now, if you want.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I was just rereading it anyway.”

“Thanks, Mar.” Sam thumbed over the book’s well-worn pages, and tucked it under his arm. He nudged the mattress closer to the wall with his foot, and then, suddenly affectionate, came over to Mari’s desk to ruffle her hair, until she slapped his hand away. “I’ll give it back t’you before I go.”

“Yeah, well.” She’d already turned back to her study notes. “Don’t go turning into a bookworm all of a sudden. We’ve enough of those in the family.”

That was debatable, Sam thought, but he didn’t stay to argue the point. Mari was absorbed in her work again, and Sam was suddenly anxious to get back to his room and examine the prize he’d been given.

He stayed up that night, reading. 

It was true that Sam had never been that much of a reader, mostly because it had never been encouraged of him. Instead he was playing football, skiing, tramping in mud and in snow and getting into trouble because his clothes were a mess.

He had memories of his ma reading to him, May, and Marigold when they were very small, and Daisy had been allowed to stay up later with homework or talking with friends on the phone.

Reading Stars’ Descent, now, felt a little like falling into one of his mother’s old stories. Comforting because it seemed ever so slightly familiar, with the sort of fantasy logic that felt like a fairytale. 

At first, Sam was confused by the different characters, the endless names and towns of what he found made up the Seven Nations. He kept reading until his eyes stung, though; kept pushing through it, mostly because he was thinking of Frodo more than the actual story. Picturing every line in his voice. Wondering what a young Frodo, only eighteen years old, would have been thinking when he’d written it. 

Certain lines of dialogue made Sam smile, because he could picture Frodo so clearly. A particular paragraph about a young girl making tea was so particularly, lovingly described, that he was sure no one else could have written it but Frodo. 

He reread the paragraph twice. 

Around a hundred pages into the book however, Sam found himself becoming fully absorbed by the tale in a way that hadn’t happened to him in a long time. He could see everything—the snowy taverns, the great elvish halls. Poisoned forests and villages staving off the dark. Mountains rumbling with dragons in their depths.

He was tired on Christmas Eve morning, but he got up anyways to help with the great affair that was breakfast. Last-minute presents were wrapped and added to the tree. Daisy made up a huge cooking pot of mulled wine. 

In the few moments that Sam had to himself, he retreated upstairs for another couple of pages of Stars’ Descent. He felt as if he were on a time limit to read it, before Christmas was over and he’d be heading back to the mountains. 

When Elfred died at the base of a dragon-cave, near the end of the book, Sam was surprised to feel his eyes were wet. Maybe because the dying man’s last words—even in death, my soul follows you—reminded him of things Daisy had told him about their mother. 

When Bell Gamgee had first gotten sick, she’d promised to watch over her children for ever and ever; at least, that was what Daisy used to say. Sam wondered if Frodo had ever been told something similar about his own parents, and then felt terrible for wondering about it.

Would Frodo want Sam to be reading his books, now that he knew him?

Sam couldn’t help it. He was so close to the end. The words were starting to blur before his eyes, but he kept on, his phone torch in one hand and his blanket pulled over his head, so he wouldn’t disturb Hamson who was snoring softly on the couch nearby. 

When he finished—the words of The Faceless King still burning in embers over the dark mountain stone; a warning—he felt simultaneously breathless, and annoyed to be left on such a cliffhanger, and shocked that he’d gotten through the story so fast. He wanted to stand up and pace around, or to go into Mari’s room and see if she had the second one on her shelf, but it was two am on Christmas morning, and the house was quiet. 

Sam put the book by his mattress pillow, and slept.

He woke up hours later to carols playing somewhere, and feet pattering up and down the stairs, and—more insistently—Halfred’s two-year-old bouncing on his mattress.

Christmas morning was a happy blur of wrapping paper and coffee mugs, scrambled eggs and toast burning in the toaster, while the tree sparkled with the cheap and gaudy Christmas lights that May had strung around it two nights ago. 

Daisy commented that Sam looked tired, but she also smoothed back a curl of his hair with a resigned, motherly expression as though she somehow had expected it of him. Meanwhile May and Hamson were busy pulling Christmas crackers, so that the whole table jolted every few minutes. 

Sam’s gaffer drew him into a long and half-intelligible conversation landscaping supplies, made somehow less serious by the paper crown he was wearing lopsided over his grey hair. 

“Da,” Sam said quietly, “you know you don’t have t’be takin’ on so many clients this January. Daisy’s working, and I’d saved up over last summer—we’ll be okay.”

But it was like talking to a brick wall, for all the good he did him. Gamgees were a stubborn stock, and Hamfast was the stubbornest of the lot. Not once did he say he wanted Sam home, either—it was all, “we’re doin’ just fine without you, lad,” and “I’ve bein’ doing this forty-odd years, you tell your sister I know mighty well how much I can handle.”

“But Da, if you just had a talk with Tolman, you know he’d be more than happy to help out with the orders, he knows a dozen people…”

“Sayin’ I can’t do me job!” his gaffer thundered, crown slipping. “I’ll remind you, Sam-lad, who taught you everythin’ you know—and I won’t hand over the work until I’m good an’ ready neither—”

“More coffee!” Daisy said hastily—Sam knew she’d been listening anxiously to most of their conversation, hoping Sam would be able to talk some sense into their father. “Here, da, give me your cup, and you’ll be wantin’ some of the mushrooms before May picks out them all.”

Sam simmered with guilt, not knowing whose word to trust—his gaffer’s or Daisy’s. How much was too much work, for Hamfast, and when would he ever admit it?

After lunch, which was just as big as breakfast, Sam and Marigold tramped over to the Cottons’ property in the frost, which was the same five-minute walk it had always been.

Rosie was hanging over the front gate, seemingly waiting for them, her short hair braided under a tassel beanie. She waved Sam over and hugged him with a, “merry Christmas, Sammy.”

They hadn’t meant to stay, but Rosie’s mother, Lily, invited him and Mari in for tea, and they exchanged presents at the Cotton table. 

Tom and Rosie had chipped in to buy Sam a truly atrocious Christmas jumper—bobbles, cross-stitched reindeer, the lot—and he couldn’t help but like it. 

“It brings out your colour,” Rosie said, leaning over to tug at his hair as he pulled the jumper on. 

Mari was chatting to Tom about what books she’d gotten for Christmas, seemingly unconcerned by his monosyllabic answers, and the fact that he was looking at her as though star-struck.

Jolly, Nick and Nibs were having a snowball fight outside the front window, which was getting steadily more splattered until their mother went out to yell at them about breaking the glass. 

Sam spent Christmas afternoon listening patiently to his gaffer going through accounts and fighting with gravel-supply websites. All the lines were shut for Christmas, which Sam couldn’t help but be grateful for. Otherwise he suspected he’d have been roped into conducting phone orders all evening. 

He was dismayed to find that Marigold did not have book two of the Ash Mountain series, having already lent it onto a friend. Sam was only just too proud to run back over to the Cottons’ and ask if Tom had a copy. 

Instead, he downloaded the audiobook of Eyes of the Lord, and listened to it while he washed up in the kitchen. A narrator with a deep, peaceful voice was reading, who sounded like nothing like Frodo.

Sam lay awake on his mattress, earphones in, until the story lulled him to sleep. 

A day later he made his goodbyes to the family, guilt twisting its blade ever deeper into his stomach. His gaffer’s lined face; back bent from work. The proud glint in his eyes as he said, “we’ll be seein’ you in April, Sam-lad.”

Daisy hugged him, and with her face close to his, whispered, “call us a lot, alright?”

“I promise.” He wrapped his arms around her, then Mari, then May.

“I might come up later this winter,” the latter said cheerfully. She’d cut her hair short and blade-sharp, and it tickled Sam’s cheek. “I miss the slopes. Look out for me!”

Tom and Rosie were driving Sam back to the ski resort; it would take them most of the day. Sam had determined he wouldn’t listen to any more of his book while the others were there—it felt somehow too private.

Only, after three hours, when Rosie had fallen asleep and Tom was driving quietly, seemingly as lost in thought as Sam, Sam finally found himself asking, “mind if I play something?”

Tom, to his credit, did not ask Sam his reasons for reading Frodo’s series. He was good like that.

Instead, he hmmed and said, his gaze still on the road, “Eyes of the Lord? That’s a good one. Devil’s Keep is my favourite, though.”

And they listened to the narrator in companionable silence as the greens of England slid away before them into winter. 

❆

Frodo had spent the few days at Bilbo’s. He’d decided it was not worth going all the way into London to check his apartment, trusting instead that Fredegar would text him if there were any such problems.

He was anxious to be home—to his childhood home, to Bilbo’s beautiful and over-decorated cottage an hour out of town. 

There were several Baggins relations that had nearly beaten him to it, relations Bilbo was having over for Christmas lunch the next morning (a task that he groaned over many a time, though Frodo knew his uncle would trust no one else to do the hosting). 

It was strange—in the short time that Frodo was not supposed to be thinking about his book, he kept feeling the urge to retreat to his room and sort out the plot points that were crowding his brain.

So far, the final novel had felt like wading through dark marshland for days upon days. It was a job that had become almost repulsive to him, sitting down each morning and struggling through another few pages. The fire that had kept him burning for eight long books had gone out, finally, so close to the finish line. 

“Your problem, dear boy,” Bilbo said to him distractedly over several bubbling stove-pots and a hot oven, “is that you’ve made it into work again. Writing was always where you retreated—for fun, I mean—ever since you were a little lad.”

He gave Frodo the edge of a wooden spoon to lick. “Here, try this. The sauce is too thick, confound it. I could add another splash red wine…”

Frodo sucked at the spoon and thought, when did I last have fun?

The answer came to him immediately, though it didn’t have anything to do with his book. He was filled with the memory of a blue, branch-webbed sky, lying on his back in the snow with his legs aching and his breath knocked from his chest. Hearing Sam’s voice as he skied over to him. The edge of a laugh bubbling up his throat. 

Why had that been different?

As he helped with the washing up, Frodo thought of the mountains again—white-frosted and wild, so that everywhere you looked you felt as though you’d been transported into a fantasy world.

He’d lost that feeling, with his writing. He’d been so caught up in the schedules, tours and deadlines—and more than that, the drafts and revisions, the skeleton of a rigid and unbending plot-line that would carry him through to the finish…

He’d missed that feeling. As though he was a nine-year-old falling into a story for the first time.

Frodo paused with a dishcloth in one hand and a soapy lasagne tray in the other. “Ice caves,” he said aloud.

“What’s that, lad? Here, no time for dilly-dallying—they’ll be here in another half hour, blast the lot of them…”

But the idea had already formed like a bright, perfect crystal in Frodo’s mind. The questing path could open into an ancient, tunnel-like web of ice caves; framed in frozen panes like glass and quite clearly magical. That would lead Maura and Nishun to the other duo—Circann and their lover Morgan. Which would mean… 

The strands of the story felt like glittering threads in his mind, bending towards each other. He wished he could dry his hands and get his notebook, but Bilbo’s stress was reaching new heights and it looked like it would be all hands on deck until lunch was over.

But that was alright, because Frodo nursed his new spark of inspiration all through Christmas and over the next day.

“You don’t have to go back,” Bilbo told him, seriously, in the doorway of the cottage, with Frodo’s luggage resting on the front step. “If it’s time away from the city you need, then my dear Frodo, this place is still yours. I’ll stay out of your way; you can have the library if you require the space—”

“It’s alright, uncle.” Frodo kissed his cheek. “I know what I’m doing, now. I think—” he drew back, trying to look confident. “I need to be there. Up in the place that I’m trying to write about.”

“You’re not writing about a ski resort, lad.”

“No.” He grinned. “But I am writing about fantastical mountains, and the Highlands is as good as you can get for that sort of thing.”

Bilbo muttered something about ruddy skiers and handed Frodo an extra tea thermos for the drive, as well as a pack of turkey sandwiches. 

Frodo took his time driving back, turning over the pieces of his story in his mind and stopping in little wintery towns every couple of hours.

He called Merry somewhere over the border into Scotland, a white sky over slopes of brown rock. 

“I’ve sold the boat,” Merry said early into the conversation—Frodo had almost forgotten that he’d bought one in the first place—“and got myself a pair of skis. Pippin told me he wanted some too for Christmas, but I told him I couldn’t afford it. His pa’s loaded anyway, don’t know why Pip doesn’t ask him straight up for some cash.”

“Merry… don’t take this badly, but, are you sure you’re going to be committing to skiing that regularly?” Frodo asked, eyes on the horizon line.

“Course I am. Got myself a season pass, didn’t I? You heard what Boromir said about it—the rubbish equipment they hire out to you is nothing compared to the Blade Optic 96.”

Frodo sighed. “Alright, do what you will... Tell me about your Christmas. How was Brandy Hall?”

Merry made a vomiting noise. 

After a detailed recount of exactly which relatives had made offensive comments about how Merry should be getting his life together and taking up the family mantle, Frodo’s cousin seemed to have exhausted himself. He said, “enough about me. I assume you’re driving and have time to chat.”

“Yep.” Frodo checked his GPS. “At least three hours, in fact.”

“Well.” There was a pause, and the sound of a door swinging shut. “In that case, can I ask if there’s anything between you and that Sam bloke?”

Frodo felt a jolt go through him that made his hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I—what—Merry… why are you asking that?”

“Oh come on, Frodo-lad, don’t say it’s the first time you’ve thought about it. I may give myself the compliment of saying we can read you better than that. And,” Merry added—Frodo heard a rustling as though he was sitting down somewhere—“I just wanted to say I’m happy for you if so.”

“You just wanted to say…” Frodo repeated under his breath. Merry was like a bloodhound with sniffing out secrets, flirtations, and anything that Frodo or others had ever wanted to keep private.

“So?” Merry prompted.

“So, it’s none of your bloody business what I may or may not have thought about. And no, nothing’s happened.”

His cousin gave a great sigh. “Look. Frodo. I’m saying this because I’m your friend, because we’re distantly related, and because I love you. If you don’t talk to me about this sort of thing, I worry you’re more than likely to just… bottle it all up inside and never talk about it. Which, correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that your usual approach to romantic relationships?”

“I—” Frodo huffed out a breath through his nose. “Merry, I’ve been driving for five hours today, and I really do not feel like being cross-examined at this particular juncture.”

“Fine, fine, have it your way. What do you want to talk about, then?”

Frodo kept his eyes on the road, squinting slightly at the white glare from the sky. He was quiet, thinking. He knew Merry was letting him think, and this made him annoyed.

But also—he was tired of bottling up this particular thought. And though Frodo was scared of trying to extricate from a knot of feelings what he truly felt, about Sam, he was even more scared of doing it on his own, and descending into panic. 

“Look,” he said, slowly, finally. “The whole thing’s stupid, Merry. I’m—I’m too old.”

Merry let out a great splutter-laugh. “Too old? You’re not even thirty, Frodo. He’s your age, what’s the problem?”

“No, listen, I’m…” How could he put it? The feeling when he was with Sam—of easiness, of laughter, of excitement just tipping into nerves. Is it, Frodo wondered, that he makes me feel young again? 

It was stupid, but they were simply in different worlds—Sam was in the height of youth and Frodo was… how did Pippin put it? Like an old grandpa in a twenty-something body. 

Sam’s idea of excitement was a day of dangerous skiing over the trickiest slopes the mountain had to offer, ending up at the pub with all his friends and acquaintances. Frodo’s idea of excitement was more like curling up in his bed with an old Pratchett novel. Or watching a really good movie with his uncle. 

“Don’t ask me to try explain it, Merry,” he said heavily. “Besides, chances are he isn’t even into men.”

Merry hmmed thoughtfully. “Maybe not—generally speaking. But I’m pretty certain he’s into you, so I’m just putting it out there.”

Frodo felt a little thrill down his spine immediately followed by guilt, and resolutely changed the subject.

He got his snow chains on at the base of the mountain, a tedious process, and joined the slow crawl of cars making their way up the winding mountain roads. He felt himself settle, looking out at the emerald firs sparkling like iced-cake toppers, and carpets of white as yet unsullied by human feet.

Frodo drummed his hands softly on the wheel. An awe that felt almost like sadness had seized his heart, and was gone again before he could properly catch onto it. He felt that his eyes would never be enough to drink in this place, as it was, just slipping into violet-tinged dusk.

He thought of Sam—again—and frowned, and turned up the radio a little louder. 

At the lodge, Frodo set down his bags in his room—his room, it really had become his over the last month or so—before remembering that he had a particular assignment to carry out.

He could hear a strange tapping coming from upstairs again, so he followed the sound, creaking over floorboards to a door marked OFFICE in bronze.

Frodo knocked.

The tapping ceased abruptly, and Gandalf’s gruff voice said, “come in.”

Frodo stepped over the threshold, and was first amazed at the amount of stuff the lodge-keeper had managed to fit into such a small room.

It was definitely an office of sorts, with a great oak desk piled in books, papers, and an ancient-looking typewriter (whose rock-hard keys looked to be the source of all the tapping) and several dangerously low-burning candles that dripped wax onto the wood. But there were also boxes stacked everywhere, and file cabinets, and shelves of curious-looking items that glinted at Frodo in the dull candlelight, alongside grainy photo frames that, if they had not been so covered in dust, Frodo suspected he might have recognised a few faces in. His uncle’s, perhaps.

He noticed a strange and rather pungent, herby smell that did not seem to be coming from the candle smoke alone.

“Er,” Frodo coughed, “good evening.”

“Is it?” said Gandalf. He’d spun around in his office chair, a couple of half-typed papers in his hands, and gave Frodo a quizzical look from under his brows. 

“Erm, yes, it is,” said Frodo, firmly. “It’s lovely out. I’ve, er, just come to deliver Christmas greetings and a package from uncle Bilbo.”

“Ah!” Gandalf looked pleased, and waved Frodo over. “Sit down, sit down.”

It became quickly clear that there was nowhere for Frodo to sit except perhaps on a stack of boxes, so he leant himself against the desk instead. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Frodo set a paper bag from his uncle down on a free inch of desk-space, “what exactly are you doing in here?”

“Well, I’m archiving, of course,” said Gandalf, as if that were obvious. “I don’t suppose your uncle has made any more of his famous onion chutney…?”

He pulled a jar from out of the bag, and made an approving noise. “Of course, he remembered I’d taken a particular liking to the recipe. Oh, and berry jam…”

Frodo waited politely while Gandalf lined up his new collection of condiments and a tiny wax-wrapped Christmas pudding. 

“Your dear old uncle,” the lodge-keeper said reminiscently. “I wish he’d consider coming up and staying with you, lad. You’d have your family close, for one thing, and I’m overdue a good chat, for another.”

“Well, I did suggest it—for a weekend or so,” admitted Frodo. “Only Bilbo said something about how he’d already waded through enough Scottish snow to last a lifetime, and wouldn’t elaborate.”

“Ah.” Gandalf leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “He’d be referring to the Cairngorms incident, of course. Those were the days…”

Frodo was anxious to get back to his desk that evening, but he also felt it would be rude to leave a friend of his uncle’s so hastily. Seeing Gandalf was now lost in reverie, he began tentatively, “I was just going to put some tea on in the common-room… I don’t suppose you’d like to join me?”

Gandalf blinked at him over his long beard, apparently touched. “Why, thank you lad. It’s about time I got out of this mess for a bit.”

He unfolded himself from his chair—which was quite an event, as he seemed to tower over Frodo at his full height, and there wasn’t really room in the cramped office for one so tall.

Frodo backed up to the door and waited as Gandalf collected up his jars and reshuffled the last of his papers. “Now, lad,” he said as though he’d only just remembered, “how are you going with your book?”

“Oh,” said Frodo. “Alright, I suppose. That is—” Gandalf had turned to give him a surprisingly piercing look for one holding so many jars of chutney—“well, I think I… lost my way a bit, originally. But I’m remembering what I’ve got to do.”

“At least,” he amended as Gandalf continued to examine him, and now feeling slightly uncomfortable, “I think so. As long as this feeling lasts… which I’m hoping will be enough to get me through the first draft.”

Gandalf looked contented at this answer, and he came out into the hall after Frodo, who shut the office door behind them. “You’ve got it in you, boy,” he said, with gravity. “And remember to take your time about it.”

“Oh?” Frodo was surprised to hear this bit of advice. 

“Your uncle used to say something similar, after one of his particularly long-winded—though, might I say, quite entertaining—recounts of something or other.” The lodge-keeper’s eyes seemed to twinkle. “He said, a tale that doesn’t ramble somewhat isn’t a story worth telling.”

“I see.” Frodo blinked. “That’s—fairly good advice, actually.”

He thought of his image of the ice-caves, and then the snowy otherworld he’d driven up through only that evening. He thought of Sam skiing in front of him over an endless slope of white. 

Sometimes, Bilbo did had a point.

❆

Not everyone had gone home for Christmas—indeed, many of the instructors had come from too far away to leave again during the season. But towards the new year, those who had left began to slowly trickle back.

By New Year’s Eve, they were back to full numbers, and Sam and Aragorn had been tasked with holding a table at The Prancing Pony from early in the evening. This was because, come New Year’s, everyone had the same idea of holing up there for drinks and a proper TV countdown. The only way of being ensured a spot was to stake it out, as experienced lodgers knew. 

Sam was now sitting at the table with Rosie, who was sucking at the lime from her gin and tonic. Aragorn was talking to Boromir, who they’d all gotten to know through Frodo, and beside him was his girlfriend, Arwen, who had apparently been convinced to come up for the weekend. 

Not only was she beautiful enough that Sam personally thought (and Rosie agreed) Aragorn was rather out of his league, but Arwen was also a talented cross-country skier, despite the fact that she was completing her nursing training and almost never had time for the snow. 

She had turned her dark head to talk to Legolas, who, surprisingly, was answering her quite readily. Sam could see Gimli across the crowded room with his other snowboarding friends—seemingly ignoring their table, likely because Legolas had snubbed him. 

Tom and Frodo were at the bar, selecting drinks. Sam could see Frodo’s green velvety jacket from far away, which he thought was some kind of blazer, but looked soft enough that he sort of wanted to rub his fingers over it. 

He had not told Frodo that he was reading his books. That would be… more than Sam was willing to admit. 

Still, Frodo sat down opposite Sam at the table with his elbows tucked in, squeezing in amongst the crowd. He pushed a frothy glass towards him with a smile that gutted Sam like a fish on a hook. “Here. My shout. For the sentinel who keeps doing his duty.”

“What d’you mean, my duty?” Sam asked in surprise. 

Rosie tilted her head, bumping into Frodo’s shoulder. “He means, watching over the rest of us in case we get sozzled. Don’t you, Frodo?”

Frodo was looking straight at Sam. “I know you don’t like to drink when everyone else is,” he said, still light, but in a quieter voice. “Try it. It’s a specialty mocktail.”

“Oh.” Sam accepted the drink, embarrassed yet touched that Frodo had noticed this small detail. “You didn’t have to do that… thank you, I mean.”

“Don’t thank me til you’ve tried it. I might have gone out on a bit of a limb.”

Sam took a sip, creamy and sweet on his tongue. “Oh! Pineapple.”

“Nice?” Rosie prompted, leaning over to steal his straw and try it herself. 

“Something new for the new year,” said Frodo, trying and failing not to look pleased with himself. 

“It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted in this place,” Sam said, truthfully. 

Frodo beamed at the same time as Rosie muttered, “that’s not saying much though, really…”

Around eleven-thirty a change came over the room, as people began to jostle for where they wanted to be come new year. 

Aragorn came over looking as excited as Sam had ever seen him, and beckoning the rest of them to follow. “Come on, come outside; we’ll see the fireworks!”

And that was how a great group of them—alongside other ski-instructors, weekenders and young folk from across half the world—found themselves standing out in the cold, crunched up snow, breathing thick plumes of air into the darkness as they looked down the bowl of into Lower Village. 

Sam saw young Jolly hanging off Tom’s back, and Éomer trying to talk with Rosie, who was ignoring him. Arwen, in a dark, fur-lined coat, had started a conversation with Éowyn nearby about black ski-trails, both of them talking very intensely until Aragorn came up and put an arm around Arwen’s jacket, and Sam heard Éowyn’s voice falter, slightly. 

Legolas’ hair shone white and easily recognisable in the beams from various flashlights and phone torches. Equally distinctive was Boromir’s loud, booming laughter. The cold, and the lights glinting in the houses far below, made Sam feel more vividly aware of himself then he had all night. 

Frodo was with him, shifting his feet in the banks of snow. Sam was once again amazed that out of all these people, some known to him but many strangers; all of them surely vastly more interesting than himself—out of all of them, Frodo still chose to stand with Sam. 

They were talking about New Year’s resolutions. 

Frodo, pulling his familiar blue beanie further over his head, grimaced. “I’d happily do nothing for the rest of next year if I could just get my damn book finished.”

“You will,” said Sam with conviction. “An’ just think of all the time you’ll have afterwards, relaxing in the sun… not having to write or ski.”

“Yes. What will I do with myself?” Frodo laughed. “And you, Sam?”

Sam thought of his gaffer, hugging him goodbye. Daisy’s pale face over his shoulder. “I… I dunno. Not sure I want next year to come, if I’m bein’ honest.”

“Oh. Me neither, really. But isn’t that always the way?” 

Frodo’s cheeks were pink from the cold, and people kept knocking into him and Sam, and Sam kept thinking how strange it was that he was talking to the author of Ash Mountain—it hit him in a way he’d hadn’t felt before. 

Frodo kept stamping his feet, too, in order to keep warm, and Sam felt an urge to just pull him forward and hold him still, which he resisted. 

Flashes of phone screens bobbed eerily around them as people began to to prepare for the countdown. Rosie and Tom appeared again on Sam’s left, and Aragorn hustled them forward so they could see better into the village below. 

Sam knew the approaching fireworks would be spectacular; they always were. “They’ll set ‘em down by that steeple near the edge of town,” he said, pointing, to Frodo, who was up on his tiptoes to see better. 

“If it weren’t for Strider’s bloody great head in the way,” grumbled Rosie. 

The countdown began, picking up voices instantly. Ten. Nine. Eight. 

Sam felt the crowd shift around him in anticipation. Arwen leant into Aragorn’s arm. Éomer had found a girl that was more sympathetic than Rosie. So, apparently, had Boromir. Of course—many would be preparing for a new year’s kiss; that tradition long favoured by the lodgers of this ski resort. Sam felt his stomach drop.

Seven. Six. Five.

Frodo was leaning into Sam’s side—unconsciously or not, he couldn’t tell—and it struck Sam suddenly. I could kiss him, he thought. 

It was the first time he’d consciously considered such an idea—at least, the first time since that moment on the pub dance-floor—and yet it was not strange at all. Indeed, it was almost as though Sam had been ruminating on the thought for a month. 

Frodo would turn his face toward him, and it would be so easy. Did Sam dare to do it?

Four. Three.

He was not sure that his action would be welcome. Because, new year’s magic and fireworks aside, Frodo was Frodo Baggins, and Sam was, well… Sam. He’d be shooting too far above his ground, he’d known that for a while. Perhaps he’d always known that. 

Two. One. 

Frodo’s arm was warm against Sam’s side. The sky was inky black and clear.

BOOM. 

The first of the fireworks—brilliant red and gold, shooting up like stars into the darkness—cracked loudly over their heads, and the rest of the night was split by the cheers and screams of the gathered crowd. 

Sam saw Aragorn sweep Arwen up into a great swirling kiss, like so many of the couples around them, and he turned to Frodo and… and he was still. 

Frodo was staring at the fireworks, shimmering into nothingness before immediately being renewed, and Sam could see the gold flecks of fire in his eyes. He turned a moment after Sam did, and smiled. 

“Happy new year, Frodo,” Sam said quietly, attempting to smile back. His heart was jackrabbiting in his ribcage. 

He did not say, I hope it brings you everything you wish for. 

Frodo lent a little more into his side, and, on impulse, Sam put an arm around his shoulders. It was friendly enough not to be unnatural, he hoped. The warmth of another body seeped into him.

Frodo looked at him a moment longer. “And to you, Sam,” he said, even more quietly. 

Sam had gone as far as he dared, and no further. He exhaled a breath as they turned their heads back to the lit-up sky, and the fireworks erupted into brilliance before them. 

Chapter Text

The Faceless King, they called him—or rather, It, Maura thought, for whatever It was, it had long ceased to adopt a human form. Its eyes were like burning coals in the void, an ever-widening chasm as ice melted and glaciers sank down into blackness.

“You think you can resist him?” She remembered the Wizard’s words, from what seemed lifetimes ago. “You think anyone can?”

“The King’s power is simple—he reverts us to what we truly are. For what are we, if not fragments of clay waiting to return to dust?”

- Here Dragons Be (Ash Mountain #7)

❆

Frodo was once again stocking up on tea. 

It was a few weeks into January, and supplies had run low as his writing picked up again. He found himself getting through eight thousand, nine thousand words a day as though they were cheap, as though he’d finally, finally, tapped into the source of vision that had kept him going for all his other books. 

Indeed, Frodo was starting to feel as desperate as his characters were. He was halfway into his three-month retreat, and the March deadline loomed. He was gaining lost ground, and quickly, but the urgency that seemed to keep his fingers typing as fast as his brain had not yet lost its hold on him. 

He wrote about snow, of course, lots of it—and sparkling ice, and a world on the edge of hibernation. One last great struggle, and spring would thaw. Or fire would burn. Frodo was still shaping up the ending in his mind, chiseling away at it like fine-sculpted marble. 

He kept remembering his uncle’s words; each morning after waking, before sitting down to his desk. You’ve got to have fun with it, lad. 

Fun wasn’t quite the word, perhaps… but he was definitely invested. He ignored his socials and three-quarters of his emails. As far as he was concerned, the outside world didn’t exist. His fear of the finished product, and what he would do with it, didn’t exist. It was simply day by day, page by page, word by word. 

He stood in front of the shelves of tea boxes and considered his options. Maybe he should try the new hibiscus blend that Merry swore by. He had enough chai in his basket to be going on with anyways.

As Frodo passed through the aisle he noticed, dimly, how quiet the shop was—it was not quite five-o’clock, the sky just darkening outside. The weather had been dull and peppered with snow-flurries for the past few days, and Frodo didn’t blame people for staying indoors to avoid the slush banks… still, though, it was odd.

Old Mrs Rumble was unusually subdued as she scanned through Frodo’s groceries, listening to the radio that crackled next to her monitor screen. 

“You’d best hurry home, dearie,” she said to him, boxing his tea in a paper bag. “The weather’s been threatenin’ something awful this past week—I can feel in my knees it’s about to turn on us. Blizzards an’ worse, I’d bet.”

“You can feel that in your knees?” Frodo asked, too surprised to stop his question.

The grocer tapped her leg authoritatively. “That, and the radio said so.”

Frodo collected his bags. “Thank you, Mrs Rumble. I’ll be heading straight back to the lodge, and I’m sure I won’t notice a thing once I get working again.” He smiled. “You take care of yourself too. Will you be home safe before the change?”

This seemed to amuse the older woman. “I live right above,” she said, pointing. “Won’t be a problem unless my knees give out on the way upstairs, I’d suppose!”

Frodo tried not to appear concerned by this as he thanked her and took his leave. 

Outside, it was darker than he’d expected; the sunset obscured by a roll of dark cloud. Flecks of snow were spitting down on him as he pulled up the hood of his jacket, over his beanie, and held the paper bag of groceries close to his chest. 

It was a grim walk back to the bus stop, for Frodo’s boots kept sinking into snow, and the flurries were wet like rain against his exposed face. He was again struck by the fact that no one was out on the empty, snow-covered street—and, now slightly unnerved, attempted to hurry his steps. 

By the time Frodo reached the bus shelter—fifteen minutes that would have been ten on a normal day—the sky was quite black, as though it was deep night rather than only five-thirty. 

Snow fell in white streaks in the gloom, and it seemed to Frodo that they were gathering size and speed. He took shelter under the thin metal frame of the bus stop, and checked his phone with hands that stung as soon as he took off his gloves. 

The next bus would be about ten minutes, with his timing. Frodo was not yet worried about delays, for he knew the last bus wasn’t til well after ten o’clock, and he and his groceries were safe enough for the time being. 

A quarter of an hour later, however, he was beginning to have doubts. It had only just occurred to him that they might stop running the buses entirely, if there were projected blizzards—although Frodo couldn’t understand how the fact hadn’t been mentioned to him at the lodge, or on the bus he’d taken down here that very afternoon. And how could anyone check to make sure?

By now the snow was falling thick and fast, and a wind had picked up so that the streaks swept slanting down like arrows. They stung when they caught Frodo’s face, accompanied by a low and ominous whistling. The trees looked like dark sentinels in the gloom. 

Another few minutes, and Frodo reconsidered his options. He was growing quite cold, despite his layers, jumper and heavy jacket. The first stirrings of what could be panic were rising in his chest.

If there were no buses, did he dare try to walk back the way he’d come, to the supermarket and the shelter of Mrs Rumble?

Looking out into the blackness that had once been the path into Lower Village, Frodo dismissed this option. The supermarket was much too far, and more likely he’d be blown into a snowbank before he made it down the street. A better option would be to seek one of the closest houses, and ask for shelter until the storm died down—if it was going to. 

Frodo instinctively recoiled at this idea. Throwing himself on a stranger’s kindness did not come naturally to him, although he suspected many of the villagers would be more than happy to put him up for the night. Still, they would all think he was a complete blockhead for venturing out in such bad weather…

But no one told me, Frodo found himself thinking, childishly. 

He’d begun to shiver, feeling very alone. He could call Gandalf, or someone else at the lodge—Gimli, perhaps—and they’d perhaps be able to tell him about the buses. But there was no way they could get down here easily, and Frodo didn’t think he could ask such a thing of them. 

Which left someone who was in Lower Village already. Which left… Sam. 

Frodo fumbled with his phone screen, his fingers red and stinging from the cold. Any embarrassment he might have felt had been swallowed up in snow, and in fear. It had begun to dawn on him that he could freeze to death out here, if he didn’t do something now.

The phone rung unbearably long, in the whipping howls of wind. The bus shelter had begun to rattle around him as snow hit its frame. 

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Frodo whispered through numb lips, one hand protecting the phone held tightly to his ear.

Sam’s voice came suddenly, the only point of warmth in that wasteland. “Frodo? Are you alright?”

“Sam.” His knees went weak in gratitude. “Look, I—I feel like such an idiot, I don’t mean to bother you, but—”

“Where are you?” Sam’s voice, at first curious, was now alert. 

“I’m… at the bus stop. Nothing seems to be running back up the hill, and I’m not sure I can find my way…” He trailed off. 

“Stay where you are. I’m coming to find you.” There was the sound of a door slamming, and the rattle of keys, and Frodo heard Sam’s voice, louder and more urgent than before. “Frodo? Did you hear me? I’m walking out now, I won’t be five minutes.”

“Thank you,” Frodo breathed, ashamed yet more grateful than he could say. 

“Keep talking to me—stay on the phone, if you can.”

“It’s not so bad, really,” Frodo said into the phone, ducking his head against the wind. “It’s just—” he had to half-yell, now—“it’s only the beginnings of a storm, but I get myself lost at the best of times, and…”

“It’s shaping up to be the worst blizzard we’ve had all season!” Sam’s voice was accompanied by a dull roar; Frodo knew he must have just left the lodge. “I can’t believe anyone let you come down in the first place!”

Frodo felt a stab of guilt. He’d begun to shiver, jumping up and down to keep himself warm. “It was my fault, I—I didn’t think,” he said. “Sam. I feel terrible making you come out to get me.”

“Don’t be thick… I’m glad you called me. I’m a block away, alright? You’ll see my torch in a few minutes, just hold on…”

“Alright.” Frodo made his way to the edge of the shelter, abandoning his shopping as a lost cause. He knew the direction Sam should come from, ideally, although he could see nothing much except blackness amid the swirling eddies of snow. 

The roar of wind was so loud it seemed to be in him now, rattling right through to his bones. Frodo could barely feel his fingers around his cold-slick phone, pressed to his ear. It struck him just how thin a layer of lodge-comforts had surrounded him these past few months, when all it took was one missed bus and bad weather to have him at the mercy of the mountain. How close nature pressed, at all times. 

The air felt thick and solid in his throat, like he was breathing in shards of ice. 

“Frodo? Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Frodo managed. All was darkness. He could feel his heart beating hard in his chest as he peered into the distance. “I can’t see you…”

“I’m just a minute—I’m walkin’ straight towards you. Just hold on—hold—”

Frodo realised with terror that Sam’s voice was breaking up; the storm was interfering with the reception. 

“Sam? Are you there? … Sam?” his voice sounded thin.

“I’m—just…” Only fragments of Sam’s voice came through. “Frodo—the light—”

The call disconnected then, and Frodo was left alone in darkness. 

He stood there, shivering; pressed his phone into his pocket and tugged at his hood with numb hands. It didn’t do much to protect him from the beating snowfall, now blown horizontal by the wind. 

He imagined being swallowed up by the snow. All he could hear, beyond the howling wind all around him, was the pounding of his own heart.

Had Sam gotten swept off course, or fallen, and perhaps even now was being buried by snow…? Minutes had passed, and there was no sign of him, though Frodo squinted his eyes for a flicker of light amidst the storm. 

Unable to bear it, he started forward with his boots sinking into the snow, body bent against the weight of the gale. He’d have to find Sam. He couldn’t stand the idea of anything happening to his friend on his account. 

Frodo gritted his teeth and continued into the darkness, a hand over his eyes and the other tight at the collar of his jacket. Snow was wetting his hair, dripping down the back of his neck. Worse was the terror threatening to overtake him.

The thought of Sam, out there, all in darkness—

And suddenly, just as he lost all sight of the bus stop behind him, and knew he was truly alone, Frodo saw a light ahead.

A torch was waving slowly side to side, and as Frodo hurried forward with suddenly renewed strength, he saw the dark outline of a figure approaching. 

“Sam!” His voice was swept away by the wind. “Sam! Here!”

“Frodo!”

The light came closer, faster, and suddenly he could see Sam; first only paces away, then in front of him, and then hugging him so tightly that Frodo felt for one instant protected from the gale. 

“Sam,” he said through numb lips. He was fairly sure he was still shivering in Sam’s hold, but had ceased to feel it. “I’m sorry...”

“I’ve got you,” Sam said in his ear. He was in his blue instructor’s jacket, the hood pulled up over his hair, a few wet curls of which were plastered to his forehead. His phone was lit up as a torch in one hand, and it shone a weak beam into the darkness. “I’ve got you, Frodo. We’ll make it back together.”

“Alright. I’m ready.” 

He wasn’t really—he felt as though his knees were about to give way. Still, walking slowly with Sam’s arm around his back, guiding him forward, Sam’s torchlight shining a path ahead of them, Frodo managed to keep moving. 

Their boots sank entirely into snow; at some points it was shin-deep. Snow blew into their faces relentlessly, and if Sam was saying anything to him, Frodo had no chance of hearing it.

He trusted instead to the warmth of Sam against his side, their arms supporting each other, and to Sam’s infallible sense of direction.

It was only a block or so to to the instructors’ lodge, but it may as well have been miles for all the effort it took. Frodo lost track of the minutes, and his head seemed to only have room for one thought, which was, shelter.

Finally, after an age, he saw a light through squinted eyes. The lodge loomed out of nothingness, solid brick and seemingly indestructible, with a faintly-illuminated front entrance. 

They half-ran, half-fell the last few paces. Sam had evidently left the door unlocked, for he merely pushed through it, and then suddenly they were in a hallway, Frodo falling back against the wall to catch his breath as Sam slammed the door behind him. 

A dull light cast over them, and inside it was so impossibly warm that Frodo felt his face stinging from the change. Snow puddled off him and his soaked clothes—as well as Sam, who had turned to look at him, reaching automatically to touch Frodo’s shoulder and tug back his hood. 

“Are you alright?” 

Sam’s hair was drenched, and his face was whiter than Frodo had ever seen it. Two isolated spots of colour burned on his cheeks. 

Too many words burned through Frodo; I’m fine and are you alright, and I’m so sorry, and he felt the bizarre urge to laugh, for if he did not he thought he would cry. 

“Sam,” he said instead and fell forwards from the wall, and Sam wrapped his arms around him again and they held onto each other, shaking with a mixture of nerves and laughter—in Frodo’s case, anyway, he could feel it manically building up his throat—until finally, their breaths began at last to slow. 

❆

Frodo was led to the shower stalls, which were brightly lit and—for now—quite empty, and Sam told him firmly to go straight into one of the cubicles while he went to find them both clothes.

Frodo did not much protest. He turned the water on nearly hot as it would go, so that at first it stung his freezing skin, but almost immediately thawed the tension from his shoulders. 

He tilted his face back in the spray, eyes shut, waiting to feel warm from the outside inwards. There was no soap or body-wash provided, so Frodo made do with water, combing his fingers through his streaming hair. 

He must have still had his eyes closed when Sam returned, for he found a towel hanging over the door of his cubicle when at last he turned off the water, and, stepping cautiously out, discovered a neat pile of clothes waiting for him on the edge of the sinks next to his phone. 

Frodo returned to his stall to shake out his hair and get dressed. Another shower was running in a further stall from his—he could only assume it was Sam. He changed into a soft pair of tracksuits that were rather too big for him, until he pulled the drawstrings tight, and a long shirt and jumper that smelt like fresh laundry. The jumper was soft wool, a light grey colour that he was sure he’d seen on Sam before. 

Frodo examined himself in the mirror. His hair was damp and curling past his ears, and his skin had gone pink from the hot water. He had a distinctly dishevelled appearance—Bilbo would probably say he looked like he’d been dragged backwards off a horse-cart, if he were here. 

He missed his uncle. 

Frodo felt strange talking to Sam while he was showering, and even stranger waiting for him, so he ventured out into the corridor in search of a common area to pass the time in.

He was wearing thick socks, and all his wet clothes were wrapped up inside his borrowed towel. The corridor was long and empty, but Frodo could hear voices behind the closed doors as he passed aimlessly up the hall. He saw that it emptied out into a wide kitchen space at the end, most of which was hidden from sight, and the shadows of people moved across the open floor in front of him.

Before Frodo could reach the kitchen, however, he heard a familiar voice from one of the rooms he was passing. 

“Sam said we weren’t to ask anything when they come back. Not sure if he even knows himself what happened…” 

He was pretty sure that was Aragorn, talking. 

There was a low rumble of an answer, and then someone else, saying, “—never seen him look like that before.”

“Not since his da had a funny turn two summers ago,” came a girl’s voice. 

Frodo, with a flicker of nerves, knocked on the closed door, which had a brass number seven on its front. 

There was the thump of feet hitting the floor, and a moment later the door was opened by Aragorn, who did not seem at all surprised to see Frodo, and immediately ushered him inside. 

“I’m… sorry to barge in on you,” Frodo said, before he’d properly taken in who was in the room. 

It was a narrow space but nonetheless homey, with two bunk-beds on either side and an assortment of cases, clothes and winter gear. A few coffee mugs were steaming on an improvised milk-crate nightstand, and pairs of shoes stacked neatly by the back wall. One of the bunks leant against a wall peppered with photos. 

“Frodo!” exclaimed Rosie, jumping up from the lower bunk where she’d been sitting with her brother, Tom. She hugged Frodo tightly, and for a moment he could only smell her sweet perfume. 

Legolas was leaning against the other bunk, brows creased in what looked almost like concern, and Aragorn came to Frodo’s side after closing the door behind them.

“Are you alright?” Rosie asked, pulling back to examine Frodo with her hands on his shoulders. 

“Yes—I’m fine. Though I probably wouldn’t be if Sam hadn’t had to come out and find me,” he said, attempting a smile, though his insides were churning. “I’m honestly more embarrassed than anything else…”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Aragorn swivelled round to face Frodo as though examining him for signs of concussion. He had to duck slightly to look into Frodo’s eyes. “Exposure’s a serious business. How’re you feeling? Drowsy? Any muscle aches?”

Frodo felt uncomfortable under such scrutiny. He was surprised when Legolas came to his rescue, pulling Aragorn gently away from him. “He’s alright, Strider. Let him breathe.”

Tom, quite silently, pulled Frodo’s bundle of clothes away from him, deposited them on a pile by the door that seemed to be the de facto laundry basket, and then pulled a spare blanket from his bed. “Put this round your shoulders,” he advised Frodo.

Frodo obeyed, more because he was too worn out to argue than because he really needed it. It was ever so marginally warmer, though. 

“I feel completely alright,” he said, trying to sound firm. “It was my fault, being out in such weather. I didn’t realise the buses had stopped. But Sam got to me before any harm was done, so…” he shrugged his blanketed shoulders. “I hope he didn’t worry any of you.”

Rosie laughed a humourless laugh. “Scared the living daylights out of us, actually,” she said, steering Frodo over to one of the lower bunks so he could sit down. “Came barging in, saying you were in trouble and he had to go immediately—was out the door before any of us could ask a question.”

“Quite reckless, in my opinion,” said Aragorn, beginning to pace. “I should have gone with him. I’m sure I would have been faster…”

“Sam had Frodo on the phone,” Tom said patiently, sitting by Frodo’s side. He was in a faded hoodie and fuzzy socks—all of them, in fact, looked dressed for a night in; they had obviously gotten the memo about the blizzard. Legolas was managing to look well-put-together in a dressing gown. “There wasn’t time to lose; he had to go, didn’t he?”

Aragorn didn’t look convinced. 

“Can we get you anything, Frodo?” Rosie asked, bending down to look at him. Her hair was done up in short plats. “Hot drinks? Dinner? Do you need to call anyone?”

As Frodo’s physical discomfort had begun to ebb, he felt shame creeping in to take its place. He wondered what they all must be thinking of him; Sam’s adventurous friends, and he, Frodo, too thoughtless to have checked the forecast before setting out for groceries. His cheeks were probably burning. 

“Thank you, Rosie, I’m alright.” He wouldn’t mind tea, or something stronger, but he didn’t want to set them to more trouble. 

“You still look peaky,” Aragorn remarked, arms folded.

“Really, I’m—”

“Here,” said Legolas, rummaging for something on the upper bunk-bed.  

He handed Frodo a small, silver hip-flask, and said gruffly, “you could probably use a sip.”

“Legolas, I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” Aragorn began, but Rosie interrupted him. “Oh no, that stuff works magic. Try it, Frodo.”

Frodo once again did as he was told. Whatever the substance was, and it tasted lighter than he’d expected, smooth as water and yet sweeter—it seemed to burn through him, leaving a trail of fire down his throat and heating his stomach from the inside.

He coughed and wiped his mouth. “Er—thank you, Legolas.”

Legolas mutely accepted the flask and once again returned it to what appeared to be its usual place—under his top-bunk pillow. Frodo decided not to enquire after the contents of what he’d just drunk.

Instead he leant himself against the wall of the bunk-bed, only to turn when he felt something scratching against his back. There were photos down here, too—film prints stuck to the wall with Blu Tack and spreading ever-outwards from the bed towards the opposite walls.

“That’s quite the collection,” said Frodo, more to turn the conversation away from himself (and his idiotic endeavours) than anything else.

He could see images of snow trails, icicle-crusted lodges, and familiar cottages from Lower Village, their windows lit up cozily in the gloom. There was also quite a lot of photos of shrubs and birds, one or two interesting insects and a few startled-looking squirrels. 

And then there were the people—Rosie posing next to a disinterested highland cow, Tom reading with his feet up in the cafe, Legolas in a helmet and ski goggles, lifting a pole in greeting from further up the slope. Sam holding a full pint of beer, halfway through saying something, his hair standing on end as though he’d just come in from the wind. Frodo’s heart warmed at this photo.

“Those are mine,” Aragorn said, not quite casually enough for Frodo to miss the hidden pride in his voice. 

“He’s filling up the whole damn place with them, apparently,” said Rosie.

“You don’t even sleep here,” Tom pointed out. Then in a quieter voice, so Aragorn wouldn’t hear; “my bed’s the one getting plastered.”

“They’re lovely,” Frodo said. He could see the care in each and every shot; the affection Aragorn had for his friends, and the love they all felt for each other caught in each frozen moment. 

“Come and see this side,” Aragorn said, pointing over to the far wall. “I got a new set printed after Christmas. You’re even in a couple of them.”

Frodo agreeably stood up, still holding his blanket, and came over with Rosie and Legolas to see the wall. Tom stayed sitting on his bed, yawning. 

“Wow.” Frodo traced a finger over the outline of a deer, peering through charcoal trees in the dawn light. “Some of these are incredible…”

He paused as he took in a set of photos from the December dance party at The Prancing Pony. Rosie with glitter on her cheeks, Éomer making devil horns while Boromir waved in the background, Éowyn dancing with her arms over her head and… Frodo was in one, too. 

He was dancing with Sam, in the photo. Neither of them had noticed Aragorn yet, and Frodo was not as struck by how close they were (indeed he remembered that bit, and Sam’s hands on his shoulders, quite clearly), but instead by the way they were looking at each other. 

Past-Frodo, at least, looked like he had eyes for no one else, and he flushed at the thought that it was that obvious, for anyone looking at the pictures—that anyone might come to the conclusion that…

His hand fell away from the wall. He was looking at Sam, who seemed so vivid even in the light-haze of the photograph, with his hair all big and his shirt glowing white and his perfect, flushed cheeks… and the way he seemed to be looking at Past-Frodo, which made something twist in Present-Frodo’s stomach. 

That’s a complication, boy, and no mistake, he could imagine Bilbo’s voice saying. 

Rosie must have seen where he was looking, because she said quietly, “that’s a nice one of you two. Sam looks really happy.”

The door opened at that moment and Frodo took several steps back from the photo-wall, still trailing his blanket. 

Sam appeared with a towel over his shoulders, his hair damp from the showers. His eyes found Frodo’s immediately. Frodo was still thinking about the photograph, and so when Sam asked, “how’re you feeling?”, it took him a minute to remember that they’d both been out in a snowstorm a short time ago.

“Oh—alright. I’m alright,” he said hastily. “Everyone’s been looking after me.”

Sam seemed to squint at everyone in the room suspiciously as though confirming that Frodo was telling the truth. 

“He’s alright, Sam. No signs of harm,” Aragorn said, coming over to ruffle Frodo’s wet hair. 

“I’d say he needs food in his system,” Rosie said meaningfully—on Frodo’s other side, she seemed to be communicating something to Sam with her eyes. 

Sam nodded, looking back at Frodo. “I’ll make you dinner, then.”

❆

There were a couple of people in the lodge kitchen already—making tea, burning toast in the sandwich press; all the usual things. Sam largely ignored them. He led Frodo over to some stools by the countertop, and began to rummage in the fridge. 

“Everyone’ll be eating in the mess hall, in a bit,” he said over his shoulder. “But I didn’t want them all botherin’ you. I know it’s not much, but I think I’ve some soup left over…”

“Soup is perfect,” said Frodo, now perched on one of the stools with Tom’s padded blanket wrapped round his shoulders. He had tried to return it, but Sam had refused to let Frodo take the thing off until he was sufficiently warm again. (He still thought Frodo looked a little pale—but his lips weren’t blue anymore, so that was something…)

Sam found a saucepan that didn’t look too questionable, and poured in the remainders of the five-bean soup he’d made yesterday. The stovetop crackled to life. “Are you alright with a bit of chilli? Rosie likes this one spicy when I make it.”

“I’ll like anything you make.”

When Sam turned, Frodo was smiling at him as though nothing was wrong—as though they’d simply arranged to meet for dinner, rather than having survived a snowstorm a half-hour ago. 

“What happened to leave you out there?” Sam asked, before he could stop himself. 

“Oh.” Embarrassed, Frodo dropped his gaze. “I had no idea about the weather. I’d just come down at four to do some shopping and get a few errands done. By the time I got back to the bus stop, the blizzard was starting up. It never occurred to me that the shuttle buses would stop running…” He shook his dark head. “Like I said, you must think I’m idiotic.”

“No,” Sam said quickly, “no.” He reached for a spoon to stir the soup as it heated. “I just can’t believe no one told you about it… the ski runs were shut this afternoon an’ everythin’. There was a whole announcement.”

As if on cue, thunder rumbled suddenly outside. The kitchen-space had no windows, but Sam could imagine what it looked like out there well enough. 

“I guess I didn’t really… speak to anyone today.” Frodo’s brow was furrowed, like he was trying to remember. He dragged the blanket further over his shoulders. “I got a little wrapped up in my work. Mrs Rumble warned me at the supermarket, of course, but by then it was rather late…”

Sam shook his head and stirred at the soup. Something that felt like anger was simmering within him, but he wasn’t sure who it was directed to—not Frodo, he knew that. 

“I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly,” Frodo said in a quieter voice. It was a small space; he was only a foot away from where Sam stood by the stove. Sam could reach out and touch his knee, if he wanted. “That was… more than I could have asked, you coming out after me. You could have sent anyone in the lodge to do it.”

“Of course I came.” Sam turned from the soup to stare at Frodo, surprised to hear him say such a thing. He tried to search Frodo with his eyes, willing him to understand it had never been a choice.  “You called me, Frodo. Don’t—you don’t have t’thank me for that.”

Frodo held his gaze a moment longer. “I suppose you won’t let me apologise either. For getting you all cold and wet.”

Sam nodded approvingly and turned back to his soup. “That’s right. I won’t let you.”

He heard Frodo huff a laugh. Then; “can I do anything? Make the toast, or…?”

“No, you’re alright. I’ve got it.” 

The soup had begun to bubble by the time Sam toasted bread and cheese in a seperate pan—liberal with the butter, of course—and he filled up two mugs for them, topping it off with a few shaves of the special-brand parmesan he bought for himself as an indulgence. 

He sat at one of the stools opposite Frodo, ignoring the conversation and laughter going on from the opposite end of the kitchen. Together, they were quiet, except for Frodo’s remark; “this is the best soup I’ve had in forever.”

Sam dipped toast into his mug. “M’sure you wouldn’t be saying that if you hadn’t been so in need of warmin’ up.” But he was touched all the same. 

Frodo’s spoon clattered against the side of his mug as he adjusted his blanket, and Sam assessed him through lowered eyes. He looked alright—a little warmer; a little more colour in his face. Sam supposed he seemed animated enough. 

Ever since New Year’s, though, the feeling of wanting to be closer to Frodo was stronger. To touch his hand or to feel his cheek. To hold him. 

Sam tried not to think about this. The strange, simmering feeling building in him didn’t feel like anger, anymore. Perhaps it was protectiveness. When he thought about how long Frodo must have been standing in the snow, alone…

“The storm won’t be clearing anytime soon,” he said finally, in a tone that brooked no argument—not that he supposed Frodo was going to offer any. “So you’d best stay. We’ve got a unofficial spare-room of a sort, here, and no one will come askin’ if we put you up for the night. That’s alright with you?”

Frodo nodded, holding his mug in both hands. “Yes.” He paused. “Thank you, Sam. For the room, and… everything else.”

Sam ducked his eyes, suddenly unable to meet that warm gaze. “No need to thank me,” he reminded.

“I know.” Frodo was smiling. “But I want to.”

❆

The spare bedroom turned out to comprise of twin beds pushed into opposite corners, with a cabinet and a couple of lamps and not much else. There was a big poster of Mont Blanc over one bed, peeling slightly at the corners.

“Sancho’s supposed to sleep here, with an extra bed that wasn’t yet filled,” Sam explained. “But he’s usually over at his boyfriend’s, so, erm, everyone knows his room is sort of free. It’s made up new an’ everything.”

Frodo had not caught much of this except for Sam saying boyfriends in his slight West Country accent, but nodded all the same as he dropped off his blanket on the neater-looking bed, sans mountain poster. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He turned his head to see Sam still hovering in the doorway, bracing an arm against the frame. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to—I mean, to keep me company.” Frodo felt himself stumbling over his words a little. “I’ll probably settle in for an early night, I’m pretty well done in.”

Sam shrugged. “I won’t miss much. There’s card games in the mess hall, and Strider wants to watch Into the Wild. Again. I thought you might want t’make a few calls or summat, though.”

“Oh. Not really.” Frodo thought he probably should leave a message with Gandalf, to explain his whereabouts if anyone asked, but he found at that moment there was only one person he really felt like talking to. “You’re welcome to sit here for a bit, if you like. I can’t promise I’m more interesting than a card game, but I’m sure I’ll be able to prattle on about something…”

What am I saying, he thought.

Sam hesitated, then said, “alright.” He came over and sat on the bed at the furthest end from Frodo, giving him space. They leant back against the wall, and Frodo drew his knees up together.

For a moment there was only the sound of the gale roaring outside. 

“It feels much later than it is,” Frodo murmured. He checked his phone—not even seven-thirty. His battery was just about flat. 

“Aye. Well, you’ve done a lot for one day.”

Sam’s tone was dry enough that Frodo snorted. “Yes. Quite a busy one, for me.”

He got the sense that Sam was thinking about something, so he fell quiet, tilting his head slightly against the wall so that he could see Sam’s expression; the way he was tugging at the drawstrings of his jumper. 

“You know, I sort of lost my head, thinkin’ of you out there,” Sam said finally, in a quiet voice. He was not looking at Frodo. “So close to us, but not knowin’ where you were.”

This was not what Frodo had expected to hear. “I—” he began.

“Promise me you won’t be in that situation again,” Sam interrupted him. 

I thought you’d said it hadn’t been my fault, Frodo thought. 

“I promise,” he said, slowly.

Sam had turned his head towards him now, Frodo had rarely seen him look so serious. His eyes were very large and dark in the lamp-lit room; darker than the hazel colour Frodo knew they usually were. “I just—I hate to think of you alone,” he almost whispered.

Frodo shifted his legs to face Sam. He felt that they were talking about something important, though he did not yet know what. Striving for lightness, he said, “well, I am sort of here alone. I don’t exactly have a room full of ski instructors to lodge with…”

“You have me,” said Sam.

Frodo stared at him. He was definitely missing something. Sam looked almost pained—no, that wasn’t the right word. He was digging into Frodo with his eyes, willing him to understand something. His hair was darker when it was damp, and curled into ringlets around his ears. His mouth was a little open when he breathed. 

Oh, Frodo thought, and suddenly it clicked into place. So he’s waiting for me to say something. 

They had each been unsure of the other, and where Frodo thought Sam would take the first step, it was clear that he needed a signal to do so. 

Frodo leant forward, dropping his hands from around his knees. Quietly, he asked, “how do I have you, Sam? … Is it any way I want you?”

Sam exhaled, and Frodo knew his intuition was correct when he saw him shudder, slightly. “Aye. However you want.”

Frodo felt a heady rush of surprise, anticipation, and something like tenderness. They were too far away from each other, so he dropped his knees down and shuffled across the bed, stopping just in front of Sam. 

Sam was looking at him, lost. Frodo was not used to being the one managing the proceedings in such a way. He knelt on the covers, his heart in his throat as he touched Sam’s cheek—warm—and leant their foreheads almost together. 

Sam tilted forward to meet his mouth as the gale howled outside. The moment they were kissing, Frodo couldn’t believe he’d lasted this long without bowling Sam over. Good lord, but he was a good kisser. His mouth was sweet and slow and one of his hands had come up, ever so gently, to cup Frodo’s neck. Heat radiated off him, even better than a hot shower after a snowstorm. 

Frodo touched Sam’s damp and curling hair, then the collar of his hoodie, then held onto his shoulders. 

He didn’t want to throw his weight into Sam and actually bowl him over, but Sam did not seem to approve of Frodo’s restraint; he somehow managed to gather him up and pull Frodo onto his lap in one fluid movement.

“Oomph,” said Frodo.

“Sorry,” Sam said quickly. He pulled back with his head against the wall, anxious. “Is this alright?”

“Of course it is.” Frodo braced his knees on either side of Sam’s, tucked a curl of Sam’s hair behind his ear. “Try me again?”

When he got breath to speak again, a little later, he murmured, “you should know, this wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind when I asked you to stay for a while.”

“Oh.” Sam looked surprised. His hands were back in Frodo’s hair. He seemed to like Frodo’s hair quite a bit. “I didn’t mean to take advantage—”

“No, what I meant to say is… I’m glad. I just didn’t want you to think I was planning to jump on you or anything,” Frodo said somewhat awkwardly. 

He looked at Sam’s flushed, beautiful face and thought, I can’t rush this.

“Oh, that’s alright then,” murmured Sam. He was looking into Frodo’s eyes as his fingers stroked back his hair, and it was strangely intense for such an innocent gesture. “It’s just… now that I’m holdin’ you,” he added, almost apologetically, “I sort of don’t want to let you go again.”

Frodo’s heart thudded in his ears. He didn’t know what to do with the feeling that was bursting up inside him. Take it slow. He deserves slow. “Well,” he said, “perhaps you’d consider letting go of me just to go make some tea, and we can stay here and watch something that isn’t Into the Wild. If you like.”

And you can keep holding me, he wanted to add.

Sam considered this. “Alright. That sounds well nice.”

Frodo kissed his forehead. He felt drunk, he was so blown away that he got to do this with Sam. That Sam was letting him. “Alright. I’ll see you in a minute.”

So, while the snowstorm slowly blew itself out, they curled up in the single bed with mugs of tea—we didn’t have any chai, Sam had said apologetically—and watched a baking show with Tom’s borrowed computer balanced on Sam’s chest. Frodo enjoyed hearing Sam’s commentary more than seeing the actual pastry creations. He had his head on Sam’s shoulder, Sam’s arm around him. He kept wondering if he was dreaming. He couldn’t remember feeling so calm in so long. 

They talked each other to sleep before the wind quietened.

That was the first night. And every night afterwards, Frodo would remember to be grateful for the snowstorm. 

Chapter Text

The dragon shook its great serpentine head disdainfully. “Mortals have no understanding of the ancient laws—codes of honour. Bloodline ties. Punctuality.”

- Devil’s Keep (Ash Mountain #6)

❆

Sam’s first memories of the mountain were also of his mother.

Bell Gamgee—on her fifth child, then—was as strong as ever, and just as wicked on the slopes. She taught Sam the basics of skiing, just as she’d taught his brothers and sisters before him—first by demonstrating with forks and spoons at the dinner table, then with stick-figure drawings that he’d scribbled over, and at last, when he was old enough, with the real thing.

He learnt how to stand with her arms over his elbows, supporting him. He learnt how to turn following in her trails, the imprint of her skis in the snow. 

When he fell, or—as happened more often—grew frustrated and flopped down in the snow, his mother fell with him. And she’d smile with her blond hair all spread around her like a halo, and taught him how to make snow-angels, right there where he was. 

Sam barely minded the snow that got down the back of his collar, and melted down his neck. He wanted to stay out on the mountainsides forever. 

You’re improving so fast, Sammy. I’m so proud of you.

She’d been so healthy, then, his ma. But even so, she’d chosen family over her passions—leaving the mountains for a life with six children in a country-suburbs cottage; settling for mud and sleet over frost and snow. 

The few trips his mother had gotten to make back to the mountains—in his memories, at least—Sam never knew her to be more vibrant. She might have gone professional, once. How could she have left that all behind, every winter, for the sake of her family?

How could Sam?

Now more than ever he felt the impossibility of leaving this life in the snow, not when he was so completely, selfishly happy.

He was taking a morning class of under-fourteens, all of whom were individually a handful and together an unpredictable disaster-zone, and Sam didn’t even care. 

“Mr Sam!” One of the kids was grinning at him with gapped-teeth. “Can you take us on the Black Cobra at the end of this lesson?” 

“You’re too young, Zachary!” a smaller girl—the boy’s sister—flared, wobbling forwards as she practiced her snow plough. Sam caught the girl’s arms before her skis could cross and send her flopping over. 

“Easy there, Lucy, remember you can use your poles to help you balance? No, they’re not to hit your brother with.”

He confiscated the right pole. In his opinion, children shouldn’t be allowed to have them until they were well over fourteen.

“Scaredy-cat, scaredy-cat,” Zachary chanted, before falling over backward as one of his friends—a red-headed boy Sam had forgotten the name of—skied straight into him. Sam had to leap forward to stop the lot of them falling like dominoes.

Twenty minutes later, when he’d gotten the whole group comfortably braking and turning—a small miracle in itself—he felt his phone buzz from inside his jacket.

It took all of Sam’s self control not to immediately pull it out in the middle of a lesson. Frodo. He waited patiently until he’d at last seen the kids off to their parents, and then tugged off his gloves to open the message. 

hey - sorry I didn’t see you off properly this morning. I know you’ve got lessons, but I’ll be at the cafe during your lunch break if you’d like to meet then. F 

One text was all it took to make Sam’s heart flip. He had to laugh at himself, carrying on like a lovestruck teen. Only… Frodo had been mostly asleep when he’d gotten up that morning, and Sam had felt as though half his mind had stayed in bed with him; on the early bus-ride, during morning notices and the lessons that followed. 

He’d wanted to give Frodo a proper good morning. Make him breakfast and everything. See if what they had in the daytime was as good as… whatever they’d had last night. 

Sam hoped it would be. He kept smiling at nothing as he replied to Frodo’s text, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic. 

amazing, ill be there at 12:30, save me a seat? 

His stomach was flipping over with nerves as, a quarter-hour later, he dug his skis into the snow by the cafe entrance, and pushed inside to the warm and bustling room. 

It took him a few moments to locate Frodo—a dark-haired figure over by one of the window benches, near where he’d taken his cousins that time before Christmas. Sam shrugged off his jacket, stuffed his beanie in the pocket, and attempted to comb his hair back to straight before he made his way over. 

It’s just Frodo, he told himself. His heart was going fast as a rabbit’s.

“Hey,” he said, reaching the table.

Frodo had been looking out the window. He turned, and his face lit up to see Sam. “Hello yourself,” he said. “In fact, I believe I owe you a ‘good morning’.”

Sam took in Frodo’s navy pullover and shirt-collar, the way his hair curled down over his neck at the back. It was a near-physical punch, seeing Frodo in the daylight, in a public place—having been so close to him last night, and now standing far away again. 

“I think you already said good morning earlier,” Sam said, sliding into the opposite chair.

“Did I?”

“Well. If I remember, it sounded a bit like mm mmhm, but I gathered that’s what you were tellin’ me at the time.” Sam grinned. 

Frodo looked a little embarrassed. “I’m not much of a morning person,” he admitted.

“I gathered.”

“Yes, well.” Frodo ducked his head. “I assumed you didn’t have much time, so I’ve ordered something already. The cottage pies looked good—I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” 

Sam felt a bit calmer. Frodo was acting naturally, so he felt that he could, too, even though he was sure it was only a matter of time before the big questions began to come up. Questions like, what are we, exactly and how do you feel about commitment and should we do this again? It was not too late to abandon the new, tentative road they’d taken and return to the solid paved main-streets of friendship and brotherly camaraderie. 

Not that Sam wanted to go back. 

“How were your lessons?” Frodo asked, before they could lapse into proper silence. 

Sam immediately went into detail about the little terrors he’d had to teach. He’d be taking some one-on-one classes in the afternoon, but he’d miss the kids all the same. 

Their food arrived—golden, crispy potato-topped pies, with thick-cut chips for sides and heaping salads, and a jug of house-made lemonade to wash it down with. 

The cold air had made Sam famished as usual, and he was not so tense as to avoid digging into his lunch with enthusiasm. They both agreed it was delicious. 

“I’m taking an advanced class next,” Sam said after a pause. “Going to show them some of the black runs. One of my favourites is the Ring of Fire—it’s less popular than the Cobra, but still a great trail.”

“The ring of fire?” repeated Frodo. “That sounds… dangerous.”

“Not sure where the fire part comes from,” Sam admitted. “But it’s a neat track that sorta loops back on itself, so there’s parts where you’re just holdin’ a horizontal turn for minutes at a time—that’s why so many people bowl over sideways. I’d show you someday, if you like.”

Frodo ignored this last bit. He had a distant sort of look in his eyes, and had begun patting his pockets as though looking for something. 

“Damn, I left my notebook. One second… that gives me an idea.” He produced a pen from somewhere, scribbled something down on a napkin, and then looked back at Sam with full attentiveness. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

Sam dismissed this as a novelist’s quirk. “Oh, just that one day we should do the trail together,” he said innocently.

“Not a chance.”

“You don’t have much faith in me, do you?” Sam teased.

“Oh, no, it’s not you,” Frodo shook his head. “It’s myself I’ve absolutely no faith in.”

“We can work on that.”

Frodo snorted and stole one of the last chips from Sam’s plate.

“How’s your writing going today?” Sam asked after a—slightly more comfortable—pause. He was beginning to feel very full. In the back of his mind, he knew he only had about twenty minutes before his next lesson, but he was reluctant to rush Frodo.  

“Alright, actually. I spent a lot of the morning looking up different types of moss. I’m halfway through a scene about an elven council...”

“Wow,” said Sam, impressed. Before he’d thought it through he blurted, “don’t give me any spoilers. I’m actually—well. I might just have started readin’ your books.”

Frodo looked stunned. Sam struggled to determine the exact expression on his face—whether he was pleased, or perhaps wary. “Have you really? Wow, Sam. I didn’t think you were really…”

“No one thinks I’m much of a reader,” Sam grumbled. “If you must know, I’ve been listenin’ to the audiobooks mostly. I’m only up to Stone Halls Standing… it helps me get to sleep at night.”

Frodo blinked, then shot him a smile. “They’re that dull, are they?”

“What—oh, no,” Sam felt himself go red immediately, “that weren’t what I meant—” 

He cut off as he saw Frodo laughing. “I know what you mean, Sam.”

“They’re plenty interesting!” Sam hurried to say. “I can’t imagine how it’s goin’ to all wrap up with the Faceless King—don’t tell me, I know I’ve so much to go. The dragons are my favourite,” he added, deciding that he may as well tell Frodo everything now he knew his secret. “I thought Astorr was brilliant.”

Frodo grinned. “He’s my uncle’s favourite character, too. Based him a little off Bilbo, actually.”

Sam ducked his head, wondering if he could explain to Frodo how strange it was; knowing him in person, and then getting to see the worlds he’d created before they’d even met. It was like he’d gotten a look inside Frodo’s head, somehow—albeit a younger Frodo, who had never yet skied or met Sam or walked through a snowstorm with him.

Instead he said, “surely you must’ve had people recognise you, while you’re here. I don’t think I properly realised how—well, how big you are. Sounds silly, but…”

Frodo shrugged, a little self-consciously. “No one knows me here, really. That’s the advantage of all these sporty types, I have to say—I doubt many of them are cut out for fantasy.”

“Well, you’d never know, would you,” Sam said gravely, gesturing to himself.

Frodo laughed and reached over and touched Sam’s hand. “I’m glad you’re reading them, Sam,” he said, more quietly. “It makes me happy to think I can talk about it with you.”

Oh dear, Sam thought, feeling his mouth go dry under Frodo’s look. He nodded.

Later, when their plates had been cleared and Frodo went to go order them tea (Sam’s as a takeaway), Sam stole a look at his scribbled-on napkin, weighted down by the salt-shaker. 

The writing was half unintelligible, though he caught the phrase ‘cursed jewellery?’, a few pointing arrows, and a hasty ‘thousand years later - lost to memory. idea for HF epilogue.’

This made no sense to Sam, but he was content to let it lie. 

When Frodo came back with a new table number he seemed more serious. He slid into his seat opposite Sam and said, “before you go… I wonder if we should discuss our—well, our terms. If you like.”

Sam tried not to smile at Frodo’s choice of words; he could tell the important moment had arrived. “Terms, eh?” 

Frodo swallowed as if steeling himself for something. “I really like you, Sam,” he said, leaning forward on his elbows. “And—last night as well, of course. Whatever you want… I’d want, too.”

Sam couldn’t believe Frodo was saying this to him in the middle of the same cafe he’d been having lunch at for years. He felt as though he were dreaming. 

“I like you, too,” he said, somewhat roughly. “An awful lot, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Frodo looked—gratified? relieved? His eyes were the clear colour of a sky over freshly fallen snow. Sometimes, Sam didn’t think he was real. 

“So, you think… we should take this as it goes?” 

“Aye,” said Sam. “I don’t mind what we call it. Or if we don’t call it anythin’, for now. I just want to keep seein’ you.”

“Oh.” Frodo’s lips were parted. He had perfect lips, too, and his mouth was a little red—Sam was overcome with an urge to lean forward and kiss him, worse now because he knew how it would feel. Drat Frodo for deciding to have this conversation in a cafe. “Goodness, Sam. I feel the same.”

“So we’re agreed then.”

“Yes. We’re agreed.”

Their tea arrived, but Frodo left his for the moment to accompany Sam to the door. He held Sam’s cup for him as he retrieved his skis, looping his helmet strap around one wrist to carry it. Sam was very aware of Frodo watching him as he did so.

“I’m sorry I’m off so fast,” he said, accepting his tea. “Will you be alright?”

“Oh, yes. I might stay and write here for a while, just for a change.” Frodo smiled at him, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. The snow glimmered in the afternoon light. “Have fun with the black runs.”

“Have fun with the elf council.” On an impulse, and because no one around them was watching, Sam pressed a light kiss to Frodo’s forehead, just over the fall of his hair. His heart thrilled as he did so; that it was allowed now. “I’ll see you later.”

Frodo beamed at him so brightly, he quite outstripped the gleaming snow. “Yes. You will.”

Sam’s heart was so light all the way up the chairlift, he forgot even to think of his mother when he saw children making snow-angels in the fresh paths below him. 

❆

Frodo never thought he’d actually ski down an entire slope, but it turned out he wasn’t half bad. He made it down the beginners’ trail in one piece, albeit slower than the several children that had whizzed past him on the way. He’d also taken many rest intervals to check in with Sam.

Sam had been the one to talk Frodo into it—hiring ski gear for another day, and taking a break from work. He’d said he would guide Frodo through it all, and he had, initially… only now Sam evidently felt that Frodo had found his feet (or his skis, so to speak), for he was skiing ahead of him, and, in Frodo’s opinion, rather showing off. 

While Frodo was going as fast as he could reasonably stay in control for, Sam seemed to find the pace quite cruising—he was doing wide, curling sweeps down the slope, going near horizontal with each turn; a gloved hand stretched out as though to touch the snow. With each cut of his skis, great sprays of snow plumed out behind him like clouds. It was quite a sight.

Occasionally he would brake sharply and wait for Frodo to catch up, and Frodo would say, “I thought we were meant to be skiing together,” and Sam would reply innocently, “we are! I’m just givin’ you somethin’ to aim for.”

“If you cut in front of me one more time, I know what I’ll be aiming for,” Frodo threatened.

Sam grinned. Frodo could see his own reflection in his tinted ski-glasses. “You’ve already tackled me once and I survived.”

“Yes, but this time I’ll mean it.”

“Ah—that’s if you can catch me.” Then Sam sped off again. 

He certainly managed to make Frodo go a lot faster than he would have expected, and Frodo was surprised to find that he felt okay—more than okay, good. 

The beginner trail was one of the most popular ski runs, and as such the slope was dotted with skiers and snowboarders of every age and a (quite limited) range of abilities. Sam stuck out like a cheetah amid the buffalo, or something similar—Frodo was struggling with metaphors at the moment. The air was cold and crisp, moving past them like currents in an invisible tide.

Frodo could feel his heart pumping, the burn in his legs, the wind whistling past his face, and all of it was good—even better with Sam.

He’d agreed to come skiing again mainly because of difficulty they’d had in spending long periods of time together—so far, in the past week, they’d snatched little intervals between Sam’s classes and Frodo’s word-count goals. Rushed lunches and pub dinners (breakfasts were an impossibility for Frodo, not when Sam had to get up so damned early), and card games at the instructor’s lodge, where Frodo had not been able to stay now that Sancho was back to using his room. 

In reality, they spent just as much time together as they had before everything had changed; just as many evenings and drinks and bus rides between the villages, only perhaps they now called each other more often, in the evenings and whenever they could not physically meet up. There were other perks to the new arrangement between them, too.

Frodo was impossibly happy. When they finally reached the bottom of the run—Frodo a couple of seconds after Sam—Sam caught him and pulled him into a hug, and probably would have swung him round if not for the danger of their skis impaling each other. 

“Look at you, you talented little naysayer. You did it.”

Frodo could not stop himself from smiling; he had not been able to for days. “I suppose I did, yes.”

They caught the ski-lifts back up, which were still a novelty to Frodo. He got spooked by the chairs spinning towards them on endless rotation—which, if you weren’t prepared for, could knock you over to the icy ground. Worse was the bit where they had to get off again, and avoid skiing straight into the paths of the other passengers. 

He and Sam were squeezed in next to two friends talking animatedly in what sounded like German. They pulled their goggles up onto their helmets, the better to see each other, and Frodo squinted into the sudden brightness.

They were drifting over snow-mounds that looked as though they could swallow someone whole, and black-trunked pines still holding their leaves. The sky was a frozen blue against the poles of the chairlift, and Frodo could see the lodges of Upper Village, many of them triangle-roofed and dusted in snow. A mist clung over the trees behind them; the rest of the mountain descending into forest.

It was beautiful. 

“Up for the same run again?” Sam asked. His thigh was pressed gently against Frodo’s, and their skis hung below them. The chair-lift rattled slightly. 

“Yes. I’m sorry if that one bores you.”

Sam shrugged. He took his poles in one hand, and put the other arm round Frodo, who leant into him immediately. The novelty of it was almost as good as the feeling itself—someone else’s warmth. “S’no problem. There’s plenty of room to have fun with it.”

“Yes, I saw you making the most of the space,” Frodo said drily. 

“That? That was just a warm up. I’ll throw in some jumps this time.” He could feel Sam’s shoulder shifting slightly as he spoke. 

“You will not. There aren’t any jumps.”

“If you say that, then you’re not goin’ fast enough,” Sam returned. 

“God, Sam.” Frodo pulled back to stare at him. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No.” Sam grinned. His cheeks were red in the cold light, and his eyes were shining; he looked beautiful. “Just tryin’ to keep you interested, maybe.”

“Well, you’re certainly making an impression.” 

Frodo leaned forward, careful so that their helmets didn’t clack together—and when Sam didn’t pull away, he kissed him, never mind the two Germans sitting next to them.

Sam looked surprised and also pleased when Frodo pulled back a moment later. “Hang on,” he said, “that weren’t somethin’ proper.” And he put his gloved hand on Frodo’s cheek.

They kissed again, gently, and it seemed to warm up Frodo from the inside better than any hot drinks or extra layers. He’d just closed his eyes when he heard a young voice yelling from the chairlift behind them, “oi! Mr Sam! Good afternoon!”

Frodo pulled back, bemused, to see Sam rolling his eyes. “It’s an old student of mine, Zachary. He’s a menace.”

Frodo could see a little boy of maybe ten, dressed up in a red puffy jacket, waving frantically, next to another girl and what were probably his parents. 

“Don’t look, it’ll encourage him,” Sam advised.

Frodo laughed and leant back into his arm again. “Hard to get much privacy around here.”

“And I’m not even the one with the bestselling series.”

“Well, looks like you’ve got fans anyway,” Frodo said lightly. “Zachary seems very devoted.” 

As am I, he thought, and pressed his gloved hand over Sam’s where it was resting on his shoulder. 

“Hmph,” said Sam. “Well, maybe he’s not the one whose opinion I care about…”

He was looking ahead, out at the snow, but Frodo didn’t miss the tone in Sam’s voice nor the slight deepening flush to his cheeks. 

He felt warm all the way through.

❆

Sam leant against the countertop of Frodo’s kitchen—funny, he’d thought of it as Mr Gandalf’s lodge for so many years, but now it was Frodo’s—and watched with interest as Frodo poured hot milk into a saucepan. 

“What are you making us, exactly?” he asked, with slight concern as he noted what Frodo had pulled out of the pantry shelf he was rummaging through—instant coffee, cornflour, chocolate bars, and a small bottle of Baileys Irish Cream. 

“You’ll see,” said Frodo, looking over his shoulder at him. “Is it enough if I tell you it’ll warm you up?”

“As long as that’s all it does,” Sam muttered, now eyeing the jar of chilli flakes that had joined the pile of ingredients. 

“Oh good, it’s coffee hour,” said Gimli—Sam was ninety percent sure his name was Gimli, at least—appearing in the kitchen and tugging his headphones down round his neck. “I’ve been catching up on bloody lectures all afternoon. Hello, Sam, isn’t it?”

They made their greetings while Frodo assembled his ingredients by the warming saucepan. Gimli shot a look at it, then back at Sam with his eyebrows raised. He had the same reddish-colour brows as his beard and thick dark hair, which was swept back to display a ruby-studded earring. 

“Er, I don’t think Frodo’s making coffee,” Sam said. At least, not just coffee…

“Ah, well. I’ll make my own.” Gimli went to go find his specialty strainer. 

The kitchen opened into a largely-empty common room, with Mr Gandalf himself sorting through what looked like ancient newspaper clippings by the fireplace. He had an old pipe in his hand, but Sam had not seen any actual smoke from it—Gandalf kept putting it to his mouth, tapping it thoughtfully against his chin, and then sighing as though forgetting he hadn’t actually lit the thing. 

“These accursed new smoke regulations,” Sam heard him mutter. “It’s my lodge, by God.” Then, in response to Gimli’s question; “ah, yes, Master Gimli. I’ll have a coffee. No sugar, mind.”

“He’s been having it the same for five years,” Gimli grumbled. “Don’t know why he thinks I’d forget it…”

Sam moved over to where Frodo was stirring the milk. To Sam’s horror, he proceeded to snap a dark chocolate bar in half, and add the entire thing to the pan. 

“It’s a hot chocolate, then,” Sam said, staring at the chocolate disappearing under the milk. 

Frodo stirred a spoon through, creating a marbled effect. “Not just any hot chocolate,” he said proudly, dark hair falling over his eyes. “This is uncle Bilbo’s recipe. There’s nothing quite like it.”

“Ah.”

“The secret,” Frodo continued, now reaching for the chilli, and—to Sam’s mild relief—adding the merest half-pinch, “is adding a bit of everything, in moderation. You’ll be surprised how well they come together.”

“I’m prepared to be shocked,” Sam said gravely. Frodo knocked a socked-foot gently against his leg. 

They were one week into—whatever exactly this was, between them, and Sam found himself constantly amazed by it. How good it had been. He hadn’t had anything this immediately easy with anyone… not for a long time, if ever. 

It made him nervous that it could not last. Conditions had lined up so perfectly, in this little world up in the mountains, split from reality. Sam wondered if that’s why neither of them had wanted to put a word or a label to it—because what would it be in a month or so, when Frodo finished his book and went back to his life, and Sam did the same a month after that?

He pushed these thoughts down, the only bitter note to his otherwise amazed contentment. He was determined to appreciate every part of Frodo making his uncle’s strange concoction… it was the first time Frodo had cooked anything for him, and Sam would take it. 

Other voices were moving in and out of the common room, through the lodge. The smell of bitter coffee came over from Gimli’s stovetop. Frodo was now adding a half-teaspoon of coffee powder to his own saucepan. 

“Which offsets the sweetness,” Sam guessed.

“And balances out this.” Frodo showed him the Baileys bottle. “An essential ingredient.”

“You know, I’ve only ever seen my Da drink that stuff,” Sam mused. 

“Are you implying what I’m making is an old person’s drink?” Frodo pointed a chocolate-coated spoon at him. “Dip your finger in. I’ll convert you.”

Sam did so, and was not exactly surprised at the sweetness that burst over his tongue. “That’s rich,” he said. “Oh—but I can taste a hint of the chilli, I think…”

“You like it?”

Sam would have lied even if he had not, but he’d always—perhaps luckily—possessed a sweet tooth. “It’s delicious,” he said.

Frodo beamed. 

Just as the milk was on the edge of bubbling, he switched the stove off and poured two thick, steaming mugs of dark chocolate out for him and Sam.

Before Sam could reach out to take his, however, Frodo dusted both drinks with cinnamon and then, finally, nodded his approval.

They clinked mugs. 

“I’m sure this is goin’ to go right to my head,” Sam murmured. 

“You can’t handle your hot chocolate? That’s rather embarrassing.”

“I can’t handle your uncle’s hot chocolate.”

Frodo grinned and took a sip. Sam saw his eyes close in pleasure. “Not everyone can.”

Sam’s first mouthful near burned his tongue, and he felt it fire in his stomach. A hot chocolate that bit back, he thought. It was, quite truthfully, delicious. 

❆

They took their drinks to Frodo’s room.

Sam had not been in here much, yet, and he took a moment to appreciate how Frodo had already made the space his own. Books were spilling out from the bedside table, and piled next to it on the floor. The improvised desk-table was scattered with papers, a still-charging laptop, and what seemed to be several fantasy maps taped up below the windowsill for reference. Frodo’s blue scarf was draped around one of the bed-poles, and his suitcase—already serving as a table for more books—lay in the corner. 

Frodo perched on the end of the navy-duvet bed, stretching his legs out. Sam felt suddenly rather awkward about about joining him, so he sat on the the desk chair instead (which had been stolen from the kitchens), taking care to cradle his drink away from all the papers. 

“So… this is really where it happens,” he said stupidly. 

“Only the writing part,” Frodo said, balancing his hot chocolate on the book-covered bedside table. “The actual thinking I do just about everywhere else. Walking, driving, taking a shower…”

“Where’d you come up with the dragon eggs plot?” Sam asked with interest. He’d been listening to Stone Halls Standing most nights, which at least was a more interesting way of staring up at his bunk ceiling and thinking about Frodo. That happened regardless.

“Probably during a lecture in my first year,” Frodo admitted. “I wasn’t the most attentive student while I was there.”

Sam now knew that Frodo had only managed two years of liberal arts, before working at a bookshop for two more years in between writing. Then the touring side of the business really took over. Sam was still sometimes caught off guard by Frodo mentioning his time in America, Australia, Japan… (mostly only to tell Sam about the food, but still). 

“Quite a time ago,” Sam murmured. He drank another hot, rich mouthful of chocolate and cast his eyes over the desk. 

“Gollum’s probably had enough charge by now,” Frodo said absently, standing up to unplug the cord from his laptop.

“What’d you call it?” Sam asked, startled.

“Oh.” Frodo laughed and picked up the ancient Macbook Pro, hefting it in both hands. “I forgot—this is Gollum. I’ve had him ever since I first started writing the series.”

The laptop had once been white, but it had faded to a chalky-looking grey over the years; not to mention its size, which was bulky enough to knock out a man with. 

“Listen to the sound it makes when I start it up,” said Frodo, setting the laptop back down on the desk and pressing the power button.

Sure enough, a rather phlegmy throat-clearing sound arose from the computer as it struggled to life—not a noise that Sam had ever associated with technology, by any means.

“Aren’t you worried it’s goin’ to die on you?” he asked, staring at the thing.

“It’s lasted this long.” Frodo patted the keyboard affectionally. “Got me through eight whole books. I’ve made a vow that we’re going to make it through the entirety of the Ash Mountain series together, or die in the attempt.”

Sam struggled not to express his thoughts at this statement. “Tell me you’ve got backups, at least,” he said instead.

“Oh, yes.” Frodo pointed at a stack of printed papers weighed down with a dictionary at the end of his desk. “In the cloud and printed. Gandalf’s been very kind about letting me use his printer, provided I change the cartridges and bring him tea once in a while.”

“I see,” Sam said doubtfully. He drank more of his chocolate to avoid asking more about Frodo’s precarious storage systems. Surely his editors wouldn’t let him be too blasé about his final draft?

Frodo leant back against the desk with his drink, close to where Sam was sitting. “Sometimes,” he began, “it’s hard to admit to you, now, how much of my life it’s been. This series. You’ve only known me at the end.” 

He was looking down into his mug rather than at Sam. “I used to be so… on fire it with it, like I spent most of my twenties in an imaginary world instead of the real one.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Sam said lightly. He wanted to put a hand on Frodo’s elbow, but he held his place, waiting to hear more. 

Frodo half-smiled and looked over at him. “You say that… only, I’m worried you’re going to find out how much I’ve missed, all these years.”

“I haven’t done so much either, that’s not skiing.”

“Yes, but—Sam, I’ve even got a tattoo from the books… God, I was going to wait to tell you about that.”

“Where is it?” Sam asked with interest.

Frodo looked embarrassed, sighed, and then turned to put his drink down on the desk, standing with his back to Sam. 

“If you pull down my jumper collar you’ll see,” he said softly. “On my left shoulder-blade.”

Sam stood up, too, feeling his heart beating, and put his mug down next to Frodo’s. Frodo was wearing two jumpers, one over the other—it was cold, in the lodge, despite the heating pumping intermittently through the vents. There was frost still receding on the window-panes of Frodo’s room. 

Sam gently pulled back Frodo’s collar—one hand stroking his dark hair out of the way—and, with Frodo tugging his left sleeve downward, he could just make out what looked like writing in a foreign language; a handwritten script not longer than his finger.

“What’s it say?” he asked, wanting to trace the words along the line of Frodo’s shoulder-blade, but not sure that they were yet at the stage where he could.

“It’s Elvish. I’ll end up spoiling you if I tell you what exactly it’s from… but it translates roughly to; even looking into the void.”

“Even looking into the void what?” Sam asked.

“I am real.” Frodo back to face him, smiling ruefully. Sam’s hands fell back to their sides. “It’s from book four, Two Turrets. Merry convinced me to do it when I was about twenty-two. I can’t bring myself to regret it entirely… but still, what kind of author gets their own quotes tattooed on them, I ask you?”

“It’s pretty,” Sam said immediately. He hoped, by the time he saw the writing again, he would understand what it meant. 

“How about you?” Frodo looked at him speculatively. “Any tattoos I didn’t know about?”

Sam coughed. “Just the one. Nothing very interesting… S’just on my ankle.”

At Frodo’s raised eyebrows, he sighed, and bent to tug down his right sock. “Here.”

He had to put his foot on the chair so that Frodo could examine it better. “It’s a… diamond, is it? The line work’s very nice. What does it mean?”

The diamond was only small, but filled in grey for depth. It had hurt something awful getting it done there, too; so near the bone. 

“It’s a black diamond,” Sam explained. “That’s what they call the most advanced ski trails in the states. It was… a joke of sorts, between me an’ my ma. She always said when I did my first black run here, I’d be worthy of a diamond. I used to think that’s actually what people gave you, over in America…” He trailed off, a little embarrassed talking about his childhood. But Frodo was listening attentively.

“Anyway.” Sam swung his leg back down so that his cuffs covered the tattoo again. “She passed away before I could show her I’d done the black trail—on my own, that is. Without someone guiding me. Then when I was eighteen… well, I thought she’d appreciate me gettin’ the thing she’d promised me. In a roundabout way.”

“That’s a lovely story, Sam.” Frodo leant back against the desk, regarding him. “Much better than mine, anyway. You said, once… she was the reason you got into all this, your mother. She sounds like an amazing person.”

“She was.” Sam picked up his mug again, mostly for something to do with his hands. “T’was a long time ago that she passed. I still think of her when I’m here, though. She got all of us kids excited about the snow—it felt like magic when we were little.” 

Frodo smiled at him, a little sadly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t meet her.”

“She’d have liked you. Although perhaps you’d have gotten on better with Da… he skied the least out’ve all of us.” Sam smiled, recollecting. “He’d come on all the trips, o’course. But he got cold too quick, so most of the time it was my mother managin’ five or six of us on the slopes alone.”

“That sounds like a lot to handle.”

“Oh, it was. But Da tried to help. He always came out to the square with us. In fact, the one thing he really loved about being up here was the jammy doughnuts stand.”

Frodo laughed. “That’s understandable. That was there in those days, too?”

“There’s been doughnuts in the square long as I’ve known it,” Sam said, after another mouthful of his hot chocolate. “My da always said that the cold air made ‘em taste better up here. Only time I’ve ever seen him eat a whole bag of something so sweet.”

“I can’t blame him—I practically lived off those things, the first few days.” 

“I remember.” 

They smiled at each other; Sam remembering how early in their acquaintance, he’d come across Frodo lost in the supermarket and raging at the tea supplies. 

“You know,” Frodo said, standing up, “the bed’s much more comfortable than that chair. Would you come sit on it with me?”

“Alright.” Sam stood up too, suddenly awkward again. He watched Frodo sit on his duvet, scoot over to leave room for Sam, and lean back against the headboard, patting the space beside him.

Sam sat down too, and swung his legs up. He put his mostly-empty hot chocolate down on the bedside table. His hands and the tips of his ears were cold, but his stomach felt full and warm. 

“This is my second tattoo, by the way.” Frodo half twisted to face Sam, pulling up his jumper so Sam could see a simple flower outline on his hip. “It’s a primula. For my mother.”

“Oh.” Sam recognised the shape of the petals—delicate and thinly traced—before the drawing was covered up again. “That’s lovely, too.” He looked back up at Frodo, thinking, what were the chances we both had designs for our mothers?

He could see by Frodo’s smile that he was thinking the same thing. “It’s rather less original than yours…”

“It suits you. I mean—” Sam began to blush. “It looks nice. On you. Somethin’ a little more delicate.”

To his surprise, Frodo went a little pink too. Sam had half expected him to laugh. “You haven’t seen my third one,” he said.

“You’ve got three tattoos?”

“Maybe.” Frodo was looking at Sam steadily almost as though daring him to something. His eyes were bright and there was a little chocolate stain at the corner of his mouth. “I can’t tell you where exactly, though.”

“Oh. That’s a shame.” Sam began to catch on. 

“Yes, because I think you’d appreciate it.” Frodo leant towards him.

Sam shifted to curl his legs in, facing Frodo properly. “Well…” he said, less confidently than he would have liked, “per’aps you could show me. If you like.”

“Come here, and maybe I will.”

Sam had wanted nearly all afternoon to get his arms around Frodo, and to tug off however many layers of jumpers he had. He accepted the invitation gladly. 

Frodo’s hands and face was cold, but his skin was warm—Sam’s hands settled over his hips, over the primula flower, and then up to his pale chest. He was thinner than Sam, Sam had already known that—but solid, too, and real. 

Once Frodo had flopped down backwards and brought Sam with him, they lay next to each other across the duvet. 

Frodo said quietly, his hair already messy and his cheeks flushed, “it’s been… rather a long time, for me. I’m sorry if I, ah—if I’m not up to scratch.”

“Don’t be daft.” Sam kissed him. And again. “I’m the one that should be nervous.”

“How’s that?”

“Oh—” He’d meant to say, how am I going to please the likes of you? But he suspected Frodo would take affront to this. Instead Sam murmured, “I’m sure you know what you’re doin’ much better than me.”

“I quite doubt that.” Frodo stroked a hand through Sam’s hair, looking into his face. “In any case… we’ll learn together.”

“Alright.” Sam rolled and pulled Frodo over him, so that he could feel his weight everywhere, and cupped his cheek. “Alright, I’m ready.”

It turned out Frodo had been lying about the third tattoo, but Sam didn’t mind. There were other things to discover instead.

Chapter Text

“Is this real, considering everything?” Morgan asked. His head was on Circann’s shoulder. He felt the shadows of the trees swaying above them.

Circann did not laugh at the question. “I’m not sure, for myself. You know I don’t trust elvish magic, whatever they say about it. Or their food.”

“But?”

“But—” Circann’s hand in his hair. “I know you’re real. Maybe the only real thing.”

- God’s Grip (Ash Mountain #5)

❆

Frodo felt as though every day he was learning new things about Sam. He knew that the only sport Sam had opinions on—apart from olympic skiing—was football. That he was confident in some things, shy in others. That—thanks to his younger sister, Marigold—he knew all of the songs from Frozen. That he was the best cook out of all the friend group (although Frodo had already guessed this, it was nice to be able to sample more of Sam’s cooking. He made an excellent mushroom risotto...).

He stored all these things up like a sink, always wanting to know more, always wishing they had a little more time. He worried that Sam was getting the short end of the stick, these days, waiting for the brief moments when Frodo would emerge from his desk and his emails and the last chapters of Hell’s Fire. 

Frodo had told Sam the truth when he said it was easier to write now than ever. He almost felt as though his worlds had merged, that he was walking the same snowy paths as Morgan, and Circann, and Maura, and all the others whose stories he was spinning. He dreamed of mountains. The breath of winter was inside him, animating his fingers as he typed. Some days, his characters felt as real to him as Sam did. 

But it was Sam in particular Frodo was thinking of, as he drove down the mountain one day towards the end of January. It was Saturday, and he'd promised to pick up his cousins for the weekend. 

It was an earlier start than Frodo would have liked, particularly as Sam had been staying with him, but he was nonetheless looking forward to catching up with Merry and Pippin—both of whom he’d not seen in person since before Christmas. 

As Frodo made the slow and bumpy descent, he tried to decide how best to tell them about Sam. He hadn’t mentioned anything on the phone, not even to Bilbo, though his uncle had remarked over recent weeks that Frodo sounded more chipper than usual. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want them knowing, exactly. It was more that the thing with Sam seemed so new, still, so precious, that he worried if he jinxed it somehow then the whole thing would burst like a bubble, as soon as he tried to hold it in his hands. 

Even Sam’s friends had not been able to ask many questions, but that was not for want of trying. Frodo suspected that Sam was shielding him from the worst of the attention there, perhaps with privately-delivered threats.

He found Merry and Pippin much the same as ever—Merry in a new, checker-print ski jacket, still figuring out how to carry his gear and then how to load it into Frodo’s car, and Pippin with his hair growing out even longer now; a curly mess jammed under his beanie. 

Merry seemed to be fishing for developments as Frodo drove them back up the snowy, winding road, but this was easy to deflect—mostly by Frodo asking Pippin questions instead, as his cousin talked enough for the three of them. 

Frodo took his car to the carpark in Lower Village, and they took the shuttle bus up the rest of the way with his cousins’ luggage stowed in the hold. They then had to stamp through snow with two suitcases that Frodo thought seemed much too heavy for a weekend visit. Though, knowing Merry's tendency to bulk-buy gear and Pippin's general inability to pack, this was not particularly surprising. 

In the kitchen, already populated with a few families cooking breakfast, Merry boiled the kettle so they could have a round of tea. Pippin was poking through the pantry shelves. 

Frodo decided now was the time to break his news, in their quiet corner of the space. He preferred there to be others in the room so that neither of his cousins could make too big of a fuss. (Not that he thought they would, necessarily… but it was good to take precautions.) (Especially with Merry.)

“So, erm.” He dished tea-leaves into one of the plain general-use teapots. “I said I’d take you to the pub tonight to meet everyone, and I don’t want you both to be strange about this, but…”

“Spit it out,” said Merry, eyeing him as he leaned back against the kitchen bench.

Pippin was busy opening the cutlery drawers, but he looked over at Frodo with interest. “It’s finally happened, then?”

Frodo was disconcerted. “What?” 

“You’ve met someone.” Pippin selected a teaspoon and dipped it into a mostly-empty Nutella jar.

“Not just anyone,” Merry said, looking at Frodo shrewdly. “It’s Sam.”

Frodo sighed and reached for the boiling kettle. “What’s the point of telling you two anything if you already know it all?”

“We guessed,” Merry shrugged. He grinned at Frodo, patting his back as he poured the tea. “I’m really happy for you, mate.”

“I like Sam,” Pippin said absently. He was holding the Nutella jar in one hand and sucking on a spoon with the other. Frodo was slightly distracted by this. 

“He seems very decent. Can’t wait to ask him all about you,” said Merry, hopping up onto the countertop. 

“Now, wait,” Frodo said hurriedly, “this is why I told you both not to be strange. We’re not—together together, alright? It’s quite new, and I won’t appreciate you barging up to him and asking for his life-story. Or mine, for that matter.”

“What do you mean it’s new?” Merry scoffed. “Haven’t you two been mad for each other since you got here?”

“Mmph—is he not actually your boyfriend, then?” Pippin asked through another spoonful of Nutella. 

“No, and no,” Frodo said, crossing his arms. “Firstly—Pippin, that’s disgusting—it’s all happened quite naturally, and we haven’t talked about it much yet, and secondly…” He trailed off, forgetting what he’d wanted to say secondly.

“But you want him to be. Your boyfriend, I mean,” Pippin said, taking the spoon from his mouth. He and Merry were both looking intently at Frodo.

He felt defensive and a little embarrassed. “I mean, yes, of course I do, but think about it—I’ll be finishing this damn book in a month, God help me, and Sam’s teaching up here through ‘til April. He doesn’t live anywhere near London; how on earth is it going to work?”

Frodo paused with a sudden tightness in his throat. He dropped his arms only to brace them on the counter, leaning forward as though steeling himself. 

“Oh, Frodo,” Merry said gently, dropping off the bench so he could come put a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “I’m saying this as your cousin and friend, you know… but you are a little thick, at times.”

“How am I being thick?” Frodo fired. He forgot that other people were making breakfast across the kitchen, forgot that Gimli or Gandalf or someone else he knew might walk in at any moment. “I’m being realistic.” He’d rather not get his heart broken, if he could help it. 

“You’re scared of trying something new, so you’d rather not consider it,” Merry said wisely, now patting Frodo’s back. “Plenty of people make long-distance work. If Sam’s worth it—and, from everything you have and haven’t told us, it sounds as though he is—then why not see where it goes?”

“Exactly what I was going to say,” said Pippin, now scraping more Nutella out of the jar. “Why worry now when you can enjoy your handsome boyfriend for at least another month?”

Frodo sighed through his nose, and then straightened. The tea had brewed long enough, he reached automatically for some cups to pour it out in. “I see your point. Both of you. I’m just saying, it’s a little… up in the air, at the moment, so—”

“So we won’t embarrass you by interrogating Sam tonight,” Merry finished. “Yes, we understand.”

“And you’ll give us space to work it out.” Frodo frowned at him. 

“I never meddle,” said Pippin.

“I know, I was talking more to Merry. In fact—” Frodo stopped, narrowing his eyes at the Nutella jar that Pippin was steadily cleaning out. It had just occurred to him that he didn’t remember buying it.

“Pippin, did you just steal that from another person’s shelf?”

“What?” Pippin looked around the kitchen innocently. “No… I thought it was just a free-for-all kind of thing. Communal shelves.”

“For heaven’s sake, Pippin!” Frodo confiscated the jar. “Of course it’s not communal, you can’t just go taking other people’s things!”

Pippin had the grace to look slightly ashamed, and dropped his spoon regretfully into the sink.

“You may as well let him have it now,” said Merry, stirring milk into his tea. “He’s eaten straight out of it and everything.”

“Oh, lord.” Frodo ran his fingers through his hair. “How am I going to manage you both for the weekend?”

“You should be grateful we’re here for moral support,” Merry returned. “Looks like we arrived just in time, quite honestly.”

“Yep. You obviously need to talk to someone,” Pippin said, and reached for his mug of tea with grabby hands until Frodo passed it over. 

❆

Everything lined up with rare serendipity at The Blue Dragon that night. 

Not only were Merry and Pippin up visiting, but Boromir was there and had brought his brother this time; something he’d been threatening to do all winter. 

Faramir was introduced to them as a quieter, narrower version of his brother, though just as tall and strong-looking. Frodo was a little surprised—Boromir had always described his little brother as a studious sort, even something of a nerd. He made eye contact with each person he shook hands with, and spoke in a soft voice which was nonetheless kind. His hair was shorter than Boromir’s, but his eyes were the same grey. 

“Can you ski?” Aragorn asked.

“A little.” Faramir smiled. “I’m more of a snowboarder. I used to skate a lot when I was younger.”

Éomer and Éowyn looked over with interest at this. 

It was a busy Saturday night, warm and steaming inside, and the snowbanks looked like dark shapes through the window. The people Frodo knew spilled over onto two tables.

Sam was with him—it had only been a day, but Frodo was surprised yet again by the rush of happiness he felt seeing him—and he’d touched Frodo gently on the back, before greeting his cousins. Merry, luckily, kept his thoughts to himself and was very polite. 

Pippin had gone over to sit on a high stool and talk to Boromir. Faramir, looking a little surprised, seemed to be in deep discussion with Éowyn—they were comparing snowboard models. Her hair was in two long golden braids, one of which she twirled absently between her fingers—Frodo couldn’t help noticing Faramir’s eyes following this movement. Neither could Merry, who looked a little put out.

To everyone’s surprise, Legolas and Gimli had gone from disliking each other on principle—apparently, the skier-snowboarder feud had gone deeper than Frodo thought—to being friends. Frodo couldn’t pinpoint exactly when this had happened, but he saw the two of them with their heads bent together, Legolas talking more animatedly than Frodo had ever seen him. Every now and then one of them would erupt in laughter and cast glances over the table.

“I think they’re talking about me,” Aragorn muttered, slinging his camera over his shoulder. “I keep hearing my name, and Legolas pointed over this way...”

“Why would they be talking about you?” Frodo asked, as Gimli gave a great booming laugh at something Legolas had just said. 

“I don’t know, but I suspect I’m the butt of something amusing.” Aragorn shrugged, patted Frodo’s shoulder and moved off to join Boromir and Pippin. 

Frodo looked round for Sam, and found to his surprise that Sam had gone to greet a newcomer by the door—a dark-haired girl with a furred overcoat, flared jeans, and earrings flashing in her ears. 

He was confused until Sam brought the girl over, and introduced her as his sister May.

After Frodo’s initial surprise, he thought he could see the family resemblance—a slight freckled nose, the shape of her smile, as May leaned forward to shake his hand. Her hair swung in a short bob, cut jagged sharp. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Frodo. Sam was talking a lot about you over Christmas.”

Sam gave Frodo an apologetic smile and shrugged. 

“I didn’t tell him I was coming up today, I know he’d only have fussed,” May said brightly, already looking round the room with interest. “Got a full day in, skiing—god, I’m sore—and I’m staying tomorrow with a couple of friends. I thought, why not take the weekend?”

“If you’re as formidable as your brother is on the slopes, then I’d be scared to see it,” Frodo said, smiling.

“Oh, I’m better.” May elbowed Sam in the ribs and he winced. She then demanded that he take her round and introduce her to his friends—some of which she already knew—and Frodo instead found himself joined by Rosie, who was taking off her apron.

“Glad I’m not working the late shift,” she muttered. “I try not to work on Saturdays, especially when everyone else is here having fun.”

“I didn’t see you behind the bar,” Frodo said, surprised. Rosie was now ruffling up her hair, having thrown her apron down on a free stool. 

“No,” she said, smiling. “I’m sure you had other things to be distracted by.”

Frodo went pink. He wondered if Rosie had been watching him watching Sam, even from over across the bar. 

“We all knew you’d be good for him,” she said in a softer voice.

Frodo’s eyes immediately sought Sam, who was over with May and Tom, the three of them sitting at one of the high tables. It looked as though Sam was saving Frodo a spot with his jacket, which was draped over the stool next to him.

“Oh?” he turned back to Rosie, a little nervous. They had not discussed how she felt about her best friend going out with him, yet. 

“First time I saw you, I reckoned it would be a good fit. Then that first night at the pub, I had the rest of them convinced after you left.” She grinned. 

Frodo was horrified at the thought everyone except him had been onto it so early. “Did Sam hear that?” he asked, going redder.

“Oh, no, I didn’t say anything.” Rosie waved a hand. “He’s strange, that one. You’re too direct and he gets all spooked, a bit like a horse. He’d have never gathered his courage and done anything.”

“Oh.” Frodo breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“No. Best to let him figure it out by himself.” Rosie was looking at him shrewdly. “Which he did eventually, didn’t he?”

Frodo assumed this question was rhetorical. He felt that he should say something to prove his worth—something about how he was committed to Sam, or that Sam had good friends in his corner. 

Rosie spared him the trouble. “He’s mad about you,” she said gently, and Frodo could tell that somehow, to his great relief, he’d been approved of—by Rosie, and the rest of the group by extension.

“I’m glad to hear it.” He looked over towards Sam again. “I… feel the same about at him.”

Sam was laughing with his sister about something, the light catching his hair gold, and his face seemed somehow clearer than anyone else’s in the room. 

Almost at that moment, he half-turned his head and looked over at Frodo. Their eyes met and Frodo felt his stomach jolt. He would give anything to see Sam look at him like that again, even just a month from now. It was a soft look, with a little half-smile, as though he’d already felt the weight of Frodo’s gaze. As though he'd turned expecting to find him there.

Frodo flushed and realised he’d missed most of what Rosie was saying. “Oh—sorry?”

“I’ll get us a drink,” she said, smiling, and disappeared. 

Later, when Merry had drunk half his body-weight in beer and kept hugging everyone, even Faramir, who looked extremely confused; when Aragorn’s camera had run out of battery, and when Legolas and Gimli had finished their drinking game—with ambiguous results—Frodo became aware that he was sitting at one of the table-stools with Sam, watching the proceedings. The lights in the pub seemed to shimmer. It was late but not yet midnight, and it felt as though time had frozen where it was. 

Tom was asleep at the table, Rosie next to him, talking in whispers to May. Pippin was opposite them eating a pizza slice; Frodo had no idea where he’d gotten it from. 

Merry came over clutching an empty pint-glass and looking sorrowful. “I should have known,” he said to Frodo, who took a moment to realise what he was talking about. “The best loves always from happen from afar, eh? I suppose she was always too good for me…”

“Oh, no, Merry.” Frodo put his arm around his cousin. He could see Faramir standing shyly by Éowyn at the bar, who was gesturing about something with a lovely flush to her cheeks. Evidently Merry had been one-upped. 

“Yes, well. There’s other fish in the sea,” Merry said sadly into his glass. 

“That’s right,” Frodo encouraged. Sam, next to him, looked bemused, and also as though he was trying not to listen in.

Pippin came over with the last of his pizza crust. “Do you want this?” he asked Merry, who accepted it mournfully. 

Then the two of them went off to get more slices from goodness knew where.

Frodo leant into Sam’s side, and a moment later Sam’s arm came around him. They could do that, now, and no one would stare at them, no one would question them. It was peaceful, being the still points in a blur of motion. 

“Did y’see Éomer just fall off his chair?” Sam snorted suddenly.

“No. Where?”

“Looks like Boromir pushed him. Accidentally, I think…”

Frodo laughed and turned his head, just for a moment, into Sam’s shoulder. The wool of his jumper, the scent of him—fabric and sandalwood soap and the faint smell of cider. 

He felt Sam’s lips on his hair before he straightened again. It was a deeper contentment than Frodo had ever felt. 

If only it could stay like this, he found himself wishing. If only they could find this moment again.

❆

Sam felt as though he was learning new things about Frodo every day. That his favourite childhood book had been The Magic Faraway Tree. That he made tea when he was stressed, and mouthed words silently when he wrote. That he talked in bed often, and usually when he was nervous, but he went silent if Sam found the right points to kiss behind his ear and down his neck.

The more Sam learnt, the more he wanted to know. Not just on the mountain, either—but what Frodo’s normal life in London was like, how his apartment was decorated and what he did on weekends back home. Sam even wanted to meet Frodo’s inimitable uncle Bilbo, who he’d heard so much about. 

Still, there was time before the outside world intruded on them. They were in the early days of February, now; things were good, and the snow as deep as it had ever been. 

One such evening found Sam sitting on the communal sofa in Frodo’s lodge, close to the fire, feeling the ache in his legs in a dull sort of way. After a full teaching load, he’d spent an hour with Tom and Rosie on some of the more difficult slopes, racing each other, always pushing for a little more speed. It had felt good, then, but Sam was certainly experiencing the after-effects now.

He’d taken a shower after coming straight to Frodo’s, who had taken a break to see him. It was getting increasingly difficult to spend full evenings together, particularly as the weeks grew closer to Frodo’s March deadline.

They did not speak of it, much. Sam suspected that Frodo was more stressed than he let on—he was certainly working strange hours, sometimes well into the night, and would only rise after Sam had already begun his day’s lessons. 

Sam worried sometimes that he was just another thing for Frodo to juggle between work. But Frodo said the opposite. “I work much better when I’m happy—with you,” he’d admitted a few nights ago, on his elbows looking at Sam in bed. “And I’m on the downward slope now… I couldn’t stop if I tried. Honestly, every time I sit down these days it’s like the words come out faster than my mind can think them. I can see the ending.”

“It’s a happy one, I hope,” murmured Sam. 

“As happy as a fantasy epic has a right to be.”

Sam had rolled sleepily onto his side. “Don’t go killin’ too many people off now, Frodo. I hope Morgan makes it,” he added. “And Circann. An’ all the dragons.”

Frodo lay down again too. “Someone’s always got to die,” he said.

“Not always.” Sam looked over at him steadily. “I always thought the better stories were the uplifting ones. With hopeful ends…”

Frodo looked thoughtful. He turned onto his back, staring up at the beamed ceiling. “I keep changing my mind about the ending,” he admitted. “I could be harsh. But I do—I want to be hopeful.”

“Well, be hopeful then.” Sam shuffled forward so that he could put his arm over Frodo. Frodo always went endearingly limp in bed, rolling over into Sam as though he was boneless. 

“I know you’ll give it the right ending,” Sam whispered with his face in the junction between Frodo’s shoulder and neck. “No one knows how to better than you.”

“Mm. I only hope that’s true. Thank you, Sam.” 

And Frodo went quiet, breathing slow, though Sam suspected his mind was still working through all the possibilities, all the loose threads of his final book. 

Now, Frodo was sitting next to Sam by the fire, his knees curled under him with his ancient laptop perched on top. The sound of his typing was as comforting to Sam as the crackle of flames, the night wind whistling against the lodge window-panes.

They’d made dinner in the lodge kitchens, sharing the space with a dozen other friends and families. The common room had mostly cleared out, now, though a couple of kids were playing cards across the room on the carpet, while their parents’ laughter was heard from the kitchen area accompanied by clinking glasses.

Sam felt Frodo’s hand rest lightly on his arm. “Hey. Are you falling asleep?”

“What? No.” Sam shook himself out of his stupor.

Frodo was looking at him affectionately, though his eyes still had that squinty look that he got from reading back over his typing as he wrote. “Sorry I’m such a bore, tonight—I’ve just got to finish this scene by tomorrow. You can turn in, if you like, and I’ll join you in half an hour…”

“I’m alright.” Sam straightened up in his seat, put his hands out towards the fire grate. “I’m enjoyin’ the warmth here. You take your time.”

Frodo bit his lip. After a moment he reached into his pocket and produced a rolled-up set of earphones. “Do you want to listen to this with me?”

Sam looked with interest as Frodo plugged the cord into his phone. “Alright, if you don’t mind sharing… what sort of music?”

Frodo smiled and slid the right earbud into Sam’s ear. “Well, nothing with lyrics. I’ve got a dozen writing playlists, most of them about five hours long. Lots of fantasy ambience.”

“‘Course you do,” said Sam. Sure enough, he heard the soft notes of what sounded like a melancholy wood-pipe begin to play. 

Frodo put the other earbud in his own ear, and leant closer to Sam, adjusting his laptop. “I won’t be long. Maybe half an hour.”

“I’ll be here.”

Something about the playlist was more soothing than Sam had expected—or maybe he was just tired—because he quite quickly dropped off to sleep.

He only woke up when he felt Frodo’s warmth leave his side, and the earbud was gently taken out of his ear. Sam rubbed his eyes and tried to regain his thoughts.

“Sorry,” Frodo whispered. The room was much darker, and they were alone now. “That took a little longer. Come to bed?”

Agreeably, Sam stood up, still half-asleep, and followed Frodo back through the dim and creaking hallway to his room. 

Frodo left with his pyjamas to go and shower, but Sam was so tired that he simply took off his shirt and jeans before climbing into Frodo’s bed. He almost immediately fell asleep again, waiting for Frodo to reemerge. 

He was dimly aware of the sound of the lamp being clicked off, and the covers lifting as Frodo’s weight settled in next to him.

“Sam?” His voice was soft. “You awake?”

“Mm.” Sam rolled over, eyes still closed.

“I’m sorry.” Frodo’s hand found Sam’s side under the covers, and slowly rubbed down to his hip. “That wasn’t much of an evening together.”

“S’alright.” Sam shuffled closer towards Frodo’s voice. “I don’t mind… I like just bein’ near you anyways.”

He heard Frodo’s exhale. “Sam. You’re much too good for me.”

“Mm.”

Frodo’s hand was steadily circling his hipbone. Sam could smell the conditioner he had used, something a little spicy that he’d forever associate with him. Like chai tea. He felt himself coming slowly more awake. 

“I’m almost done,” he heard Frodo whisper, almost to himself. “Soon we’ll have all the evenings we like, just for us.”

Sam attempted to open his eyes, then. He had a feeling Frodo was trying to convince himself of something. “Frodo…” He lifted his head.

The dark outline that was Frodo’s shape shifted closer to him. “It’s alright. Go back to sleep, Sam.”

Sam felt Frodo’s hand on the hem of his boxer shorts. He was still tracing those infuriatingly slow circles. “If you keep doin’ that I’ll wake up again,” Sam mumbled. 

“Oh, good.” Frodo’s voice was mostly breath. “I was going to be rather lonely by myself…”

“Come here then, you.”

Sam rolled to sweep Frodo up in his arms. He received a huff of surprise, and then a laugh, and then Frodo pressed his hot mouth against Sam’s and was quiet. His hair was damp from the shower, and Sam couldn’t see much except the slight gleam of his skin. 

He felt warmth rising up inside him like a tidal wave.

“Stay with me, Sam,” Frodo said breathlessly, kissing Sam’s cheek. Their legs tangled together.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” Sam murmured. 

And he found Frodo’s mouth again, true to his word.

❆

Another evening they went walking around Upper Village, Frodo eager to stretch his legs after a day at his desk. Snowdrifts lined the shovelled paths, and the trees were caked in white. They could see the lights of the houses stretched out in the valley below. Snow-dusted roofs and triangular windows, the smell of woodsmoke and crushed pine. 

Sam was zipped up in a dark snow-coat, not his usual instructor’s jacket. He wore woollen gloves, and was holding Frodo’s hand through his mittens. He’d already laughed about Frodo’s knitted beanie. 

They crunched their way along the paths, enjoying being some of the few people out after sunset. They were talking about books.

“I can’t believe you’ve never read The Last Unicorn,” Frodo said, swinging their joined hands between them and trying to sound outraged. “It’s a classic, like Narnia. I thought every child would have to read it.”

“I only read what Ma and my brothers had,” Sam said, laughing. “Daisy and May weren’t much readers. We went through Narnia, and Charlotte’s Web…”

“Oh, pfft, Charlotte’s Web.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Sam seemed offended. “I liked the animals. Sure, there weren’t dragons or anythin’, but you can’t always have dragons.”

Frodo shook his head. “Wasn’t much of a story. Also, I didn’t like the spider.”

“Not big on spiders, eh?”

“Well, who is?” 

Sam conceded the point by tugging on Frodo’s hand as if to pull them closer together. 

They stopped between two sloping trees at what seemed to be the ideal lookout to the village below. The ground sloped sharply down away from them, rolling down toward the ski-lifts—dark shadows against the violet sky—and the village lights beyond. And beyond that was forest, stretching out forever like a picture postcard. 

Frodo’s breath was almost visible in the air. He leant a little against Sam’s side, and immediately Sam’s arm came around him.

“I’ll miss this,” he said quietly.

He heard Sam’s exhale. “We’ll be back again. There’ll be more nights…”

But not the same, Frodo thought. It was breaking his heart a little. He simply did not see how, if this was Sam’s last season, and Frodo’s last Ash Mountain book, they’d meet in this place again next winter, in the same way. The rest of the year existed too, all nine months of it—nine months where he would separated from Sam. 

The future opened before him like a void. What would he do after Hell’s Fire was finished? Immediately begin another book? Frodo couldn’t imagine writing anything else. He’d been with this series for so long. He’d been living alone for nearly as long. 

The thought of Sam building a life somewhere else was at that moment almost too painful to bear. 

“You know,” Frodo said after a moment, trying to gather his thoughts, “I’ve always found writing to be the easiest thing. I’m—well, I’m not going to be able to express myself very well, here, but… it’s sort of… the opposite of entropy, in a novel.”

Sam hmmed quietly, encouraging him to continue.

Frodo tilted his head a little onto Sam’s shoulder. “Everything has draw tighter and tighter together, so in the end all the elements of the story combine. Which doesn’t help much with real life, of course.” He spoke quieter. “I feel like I’m trying to hold onto as much as I can, and it’s already spiralling away from me.”

Sam was quiet. He rubbed Frodo’s arm a little over his coat. “I’m scared, too,” he said eventually. “No one knows what life’ll be like in a year, two years, five… ‘specially not at our age.”

“We’re not that young anymore, Sam.”

“We’re plenty young.” Sam pulled away to grin at him. “Still on this side of thirty, aren’t we?”

“Yes, I suppose, but…”

“Hey.” To Frodo’s surprise, Sam stripped off his gloves, stuffed them in his pocket, and then reached out to hold Frodo’s face. His hands were warmer than they had any right to be. “It’s alright. It’s scary, yes, but you’ve got a few things you can be sure of… no matter what else happens.”

“Oh?” They were standing quite close, and in the shadows of Sam’s face Frodo could see only tenderness.

“Well, in my case,” Sam said slowly, “I’ve always got my family. An’ the friends I’ve made. An’ the snow, even if I can’t be here all the time. I know it’s still there, and it sorta helps… does that make any sense?”

“A little, yes.” Frodo swallowed. “And me?”

“You’ve got your family, too. An' all your stories… not just yours, but all the ones you’ve ever read and heard. That’s something.”

“Yes.” 

“And… you can be pretty sure of me, too.” Sam said. He stroked along Frodo’s cheek with his thumb. 

“I’ll take pretty sure,” Frodo said, smiling.

“More than that.” Sam leant their foreheads together. “See, I very much like you, and I’m hard t’get rid of.”

“That’s… good to know.”

He felt Sam’s laugh. “Only good?” he teased.

“More than that.” Frodo kissed Sam’s cheek, which was cold. “I very much like you, too, Sam.”

“Aren’t I glad to hear it.”

Sam kissed him soundly. Frodo would never get tired of kissing Sam. And being with him in every way there was.

He began to think that if they really could stay constants in each other’s life, then, well. Everything else could go up in the air, and Frodo wouldn’t be half as scared. 

If Sam stayed with him, he’d have nothing on earth to complain about.

❆

Much as he’d determined not to worry, Sam found himself thinking more and more about what would happen when the season ended—especially when they reached a crunch point, mid-February. 

Frodo was frantic to get his last chapters done, spending more and more time locked away at his desk, eating less and sleeping at strange hours. He almost never came down to Lower Village anymore, and the others asked about him. Only Sam regularly made the trip up to Gandalf’s lodge to find Frodo and make him tea, rub his back and get him to talk about something that wasn’t Hell’s Fire for even half an hour. 

When Frodo finished his draft he would not be able to stay more than a week, after sending it in. His deadline had already been extended from last year, Sam found, and the publishing team were anxious to make up for lost time. There would be meetings, announcements, instant feedback; edits to be made and cover designs to approve, and everyone involved seemed to be in the city, all of them requiring Frodo’s presence. 

Some sort of goodbye, even if it was temporary, was going to come. Sam’s contract ran through ‘til the start of April, when the last of the snow was predicted to fall. And then there was his family to think about…

Still a month, Sam thought. Then; still a couple of weeks.

Still a little more time. 

But, dreading such a parting did nothing to prevent it—indeed, the goodbye came earlier than expected, on an otherwise innocuous Wednesday ten days before Frodo’s deadline. 

Sam had just stepped off the bus, planning to freshen up at the lodge before he was to meet Frodo that evening, when he got the call. It was Daisy’s mobile, which was how he knew something was wrong. She usually used the home phone.

“Dais? You alright?” He cupped the phone to his ear, using his hand to shield its speaker from the wind.

“Oh, Sam.” Her voice was choked. “Sam, it’s Da.”

Sam’s insides went cold. “What’s happened?”

“We’re not sure, yet—he just collapsed, we think it’s another heart attack… One of the neighbours heard me calling an’ the ambulance is on the way, they’re talkin’ to him now, and… I’m calling all the family. Sam, I don’t know what we’re goin’ t’do if…”

Her voice came distantly as though underwater. Sam felt sick, a physical wave of nausea sweeping over him all at once. He should be there, he should have been there with his da already. Hadn’t Daisy told him as much all winter? Guilt twisted his stomach. 

“I’m coming,” he said immediately. He’d stopped right where he was, standing in the snow in the middle of the road. “I’ll go straight there. Once the ambulance arrives he’ll be fine, you just listen to them, alright? An’ go with him, I’m sure Da’ll need you there.”

“Oh, Sam—” His sister, normally the most level-headed of all of them, was fighting down sobs. “Sam, please hurry. I can’t do this alone, I…”

“I’ll be a couple hours, I’ll head off right now. You’ve gotta stay strong for him, Dais. Promise me?”

He heard her answer in the affirmative. 

“Call me if anythin’ changes.” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. “I love you. I’m coming right now.”

“Alright. I love you too. Oh, hurry, Sam…”

She hung up. 

Sam stood there a moment longer, feeling his heart beating, lost for what he’d best do. 

The thought of his da, so strong, so stubbornly hard-working, who’d told Sam not to worry about him at Christmas—the thought of him on the ground, being loaded into an ambulance carrier, sudden as a strike of lightning… it was almost unimaginable. 

Sam wanted to be sick. After a moment, he called Frodo.

❆

Frodo had never seen Sam so white in the face before, not even that night they’d walked through a blizzard. He looked seconds away from keeling over when Frodo found him waiting by the corner of the instructor’s lodge.

He’d come as soon as Sam called him, without asking questions. Even getting on the first shuttle there had taken twenty minutes or so, and that now seemed like twenty minutes too long. 

“Sam.” He pulled him into a hug, without thought. “What can I do?”

“I…” Sam clung onto Frodo’s arms for a moment after he stepped back. He looked deeply shaken, as though he’d barely heard Frodo’s words. “I’ve talked t’the lodge, they know I’m goin’ straight away… Tom would usually drive me down but he’s out and not answerin’ his phone, and Rosie doesn’t know where he is but she’s comin’ from Upper Village now as soon as she can get here—”

“I’ll drive you,” Frodo said immediately. “We’ll go right now.”

“Frodo. I can’t ask you to…”

“Of course you can. Where do you need to go?” 

With a pull on Sam’s arm Frodo got him walking, as they crunched over the snowy road towards the carparks where Frodo’s car had spent most of the winter. 

“I—I’d usually take the train home, but a flight’ll be faster, there’s one in an hour an’ a half if we can make it…”

Frodo knew Sam hated flying, and it broke his heart a little. He’d drive Sam all the way if he could, but that was nearly eight hours, and Frodo didn’t yet know how urgent the situation was. Sam hadn’t given details beyond the fact that his gaffer had collapsed, and it was something to do with his heart. 

That could be anything. Plenty of people survive heart attacks, Frodo told himself over and over. They got to him in plenty of time. 

But neither him nor Sam could be sure of this, not yet. 

“I’ll take you straight to the airport,” Frodo said, holding Sam’s arm as they hurried down the street.

It was busier now than it had any right to be, he thought, annoyed—another wave of people had just gotten off the shuttle-bus, and many were hefting luggage, skis, or leading small children by the arm. Snatches of conversation passed them, and a few even said something friendly to Sam, though Sam, Frodo noticed, did not seem to hear. 

There were masses of cars in the indoor carpark, and their steps echoed loudly in the concrete space—Frodo’s bay was halfway along, and he sped up when he saw his old beaten Ford parked in the row, its snow-chains still on. He praised god he’d thought to get fuel when he’d driven down to meet his cousins a few weeks ago. 

Sam put his single, small duffle bag on the backseat and climbed into the passenger side, while Frodo turned on the heater and took a moment after starting the engine, reaching over to clasp Sam’s hand.

“Thank you,” Sam said, squeezing his fingers. He hadn’t let go of his phone; was still grasping it white-knuckled in his other hand. “Frodo, I…”

“He’s going to be alright,” Frodo said with as much conviction as he could muster. “You always told me he was stubborn, didn’t you? Even more stubborn than you, which is hard to believe.”

Sam’s smile was barely a fraction of usual. “That’s right,” he said, a little shakily. “He’s a Gamgee.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Frodo kissed Sam’s hand, then gently let it go, and reversed the car out of the park. 

It was a terrible forty minutes. They drove mostly in silence, down the endless winding roads of the mountain—which had before seemed so charming, and now were only infuriatingly circular—and the snow began to fall again, light flakes that would have been beautiful if Sam had not been sitting so rigid in his seat, holding his phone like a lifeline and staring out at nothing. 

Frodo put the radio on softly after ten minutes of near unendurable silence, and Sam didn’t react—Frodo half suspected that he couldn’t hear it. He wanted to reach for Sam’s hand again, but it was taking most of his concentration to take the curves smoothly and not send them speeding into a snowdrift.

You’re here to drive him, he kept telling himself. Be strong for him. 

But his insides felt heavy, and his thoughts were distracted. 

He thought of his own parents, in a boat accident when he was young—so young that he only had a handful of memories of them, now. His father swinging him up into his arms and the scratch of his stubble. His mother, Primula, who loved gardens and sweet flowers just like her name. There were the grainy photos Bilbo still had of them both, with a young Frodo who looked like a different boy back then. His hair had been shorter, a little lighter, and he had been normal. Loved.

He was still loved, of course, and so was Sam—by all his siblings, by his friends. But it would be so much worse for Sam, if anything happened to his da. Not just because of the many more memories that would be ripped away, but also, Frodo knew, because Sam was the type of person who would blame himself for all of it. For not being there when his family wanted him. For taking too long to realise his father’s dream; for not being the good son who lived at home and took up the family mantle, the business, the name.

Frodo knew it was already eating Sam up inside. He looked absolutely lost. Neither did he seem to notice Frodo’s frequent sideways glances. Frodo felt his heart breaking even further, and he still did not know what to say.

Everything he thought of sounded useless, trite. None of this is your fault, Sam. Don’t take this burden on yourself too. 

He thought of Sam hugging his sister May goodbye, a few weeks ago. His frequent calls to Daisy. How good of a brother he was. And he already knew Sam’s reply—not so good that I wasn’t home when they needed me.

They reached the airport with half an hour until Sam’s flight—Frodo knew he would make it, if he hurried, right then. But Sam paused with his hand on the door-handle, looking back at Frodo, and Frodo could see all the terror in his face, the same guilt that he’d known would be there. 

“Here.” Frodo got out of the car, too, slamming the door behind him. The cold wind hit his face; they were parked in one of the standing bays for the domestic terminal.

He came round and got Sam’s bag, his keys in one hand, and then threw his arms around Sam, who was standing looking lost by the still-open passenger door. 

Sam held him so tightly, it was like Frodo was the only thing keeping him up.

“Go,” Frodo whispered. “It’ll be alright. And… call me, when you can?”

“Aye. I will.” Sam buried his face for one moment in Frodo’s shoulder. When he straightened up his eyes were wet, and it hit Frodo all at once that this was goodbye. Temporary or not, he didn’t know… but he knew that their dreamlike days on the mountain had come, finally, to their end. It was a much more cruel and abrupt awakening then he’d imagined. 

Worse was Frodo’s guilt at the thought that he’d been the one supposed to leave first—indeed, he’d always counted on it. And instead it was Sam. 

He wished he was going with him. He wished he could say half of the words that were rattling round inside him.

I love you, he thought. Instead he kissed Sam’s cheek. “It’ll be alright,” he said again. 

Sam nodded, wiping his eyes with one hand. He stepped back, took his bag from Frodo. He was still clutching his phone, which had not rung. 

Frodo tried to memorise every detail of Sam’s face, his windswept hair and jacket and snow boots. 

Neither of them said goodbye. It was the sort of thing with too much finality to be spoken aloud. 

Chapter Text

The white city rose mountainous above the sea, all pale stone and polished marble. Even the windows, the highest of them still dusted with snow, glimmered in the salt-haze that was blown off from the ocean. 

Sentries would be posted, of course, watching for dark shadows from the shoreline—ships, or worse things, things that could fly above the water. 

They would not be watching for Maura, in her travel-stained cloak, the bearer of a such a strange and unlooked-for message. Wearily, she set her feet towards its gates. 

- Midnight’s Torch (Ash Mountain #8)

❆

Frodo arrived at Bilbo’s with two suitcases, his shoulder-bag, and not much to say for himself. 

“Can I stay here?” he asked, his body aching from the long drive and more near-tears than he would have liked.

“My dear boy.” Bilbo enfolded him into his arms. “You never need ask.”

After leaving Sam, Frodo had driven straight back to his lodge, packed his gear, and checked out early the morning after, enormously grateful that Gandalf didn’t ask questions—or, at least, didn’t seem to mind when his questions went unanswered.

He thought he’d drive straight to his apartment, but this didn’t hold up for two reasons—one, Frodo wanted to be closer to where Sam lived, just in case… and two, he didn’t think he could be alone. 

He only had nine days until his deadline, and roughly fifty thousand more words to write. And that was the best-case scenario. 

That evening, Frodo had dinner with his uncle, and this time was not able to avoid answering questions about what had happened, why he was back early, and why on earth he looked so ghastly pale. 

He kept waiting for Sam to call him, checking his phone constantly, but the call never came. 

Frodo’s dread increased. 

His plan was to stay up late and knock out another few pages, but Bilbo insisted that Frodo have one of his famous pick-me-up hot chocolates first, which—as he really should have predicted—was strong enough to put him to sleep. 

Frodo woke up on the couch the next morning with a blanket over him, a terrible crick in his neck, and the smell of bacon frying in another room. Bilbo was humming to the classical radio, a little off-tune, and so familiar that Frodo felt for a moment that he’d been transported back fifteen years, into his childhood. He remembered coming barefoot down the stairs on weekend mornings to this exact scene; knew what he’d find when he stepped into the kitchen. 

Bilbo, turning from the frying pan to watch as Frodo attempted to smooth down his couch-hair, remarked in lieu of a good-morning; “you dropped your phone last night, lad. Found it on the floor and plugged in for you—it’s been beeping. Maybe that Sam lad?”

He said this innocently enough that Frodo almost believed his uncle hadn’t, in fact, already peeked at Frodo’s notifications while he’d been asleep. 

He crossed the kitchen with his heart in his throat, not saying anything. 

There was a missed call and a text from Sam.

hey, da’s ok. went into surgery last night, and doctors say a full recovery. siblings all here and we’re all ok, just staying with him. 

will call u again soon 

Frodo felt near dizzy with the wave of relief he felt. For Sam, for his family. 

He texted back immediately. 

Sam, I’m so so glad. sure he’s in good hands. where’s the hospital and is there anything you need?

Sam did not reply, however, until well after breakfast, when Frodo was sitting at the now-cleared kitchen table and attempting to thorn-pick his way through the final battle on the slopes of Dread Mountain. There were too many bodies, too much blood, too many characters for his brain to follow. He was running out of ways to describe the flashing of armour, and Bilbo kept coming in—ostensibly to make more cups of tea, but in reality to check on Frodo and hear if there was any more news. 

Frodo was considering going to write at his bedroom desk in a minute—his uncle was currently re-sorting the library, which was a no-go zone. At least upstairs would be a little more private.

Then his phone beeped, and he nearly upset his cold mug of tea grabbing for it. 

you’ve done so much already. thanks again for driving me yesterday. im sorry i wasn’t in touch sooner.

A minute later:

i feel like i need to be here, maybe for a while. i haven’t been around and da ll need someone at home with him, making sure he eats right 

Then the dreaded three typing dots, which came and went, all while Frodo held his phone with both hands and wondered why Sam wouldn’t just call him… and why he himself didn’t dare to press the call button, if that was the case.

Finally, Sam’s last text came through.

I’ll be thinking of u with the draft this week. i know you’ve written something amazing and can’t wait to be reading it one day

Frodo stared and stared at his phone, but the typing dots no longer came. That was it. That was all, and it sounded already like goodbye. 

Sam would read his book someday…

Someday when they were no longer in each other’s lives? Was that what he meant? 

Frodo had naively, foolishly, hoped that if Sam’s gaffer was alright—which he was going to be—then nothing would have to change. But of course everything already had, because Frodo was back in his world and Sam was in his, and what did they have tying them together now, really? 

No more drinks at The Blue Dragon, or twenty-minute shuttle buses; no more evenings at the lodge, sitting by the fire…

Frodo stood up abruptly, throwing down his phone. Almost immediately Bilbo appeared in the doorway, no doubt alerted by the sound of Frodo’s chair skidding back. 

“Frodo my lad? Any news?”

“No,” Frodo said blankly. “No, no news.”

He picked up Gollum, his old laptop, and his rough-drawn battlefields diagram. “I’m going to my room for a bit, if that’s alright.” He tried not to look at his uncle, who was scrutinising him with concern. 

“Of course that’s alright,” said Bilbo, standing aside to let him pass. “Only yell if you need anything. And make sure you come down for lunch—I’m making cannelloni.”

Frodo didn’t trust his voice enough to do anything more than nod.

❆

It had been one of the longest nights of Sam’s life, in the hospital waiting-room with all his siblings around him—May pacing, Hamson and Halfred talking in low voices, Marigold holding a clenched handkerchief to her eyes and Daisy sitting pale-faced, silent, staring at nothing. 

Their father had been taken straight into the operating room—it was the second heart attack he’d suffered, but this one vastly more severe. Multiple blocked arteries had required immediate double bypass surgery; words that meant almost nothing to Sam, even if he hadn’t felt like he was hearing everything as though from far away. 

He held Mari. He took over Daisy’s job of keeping the uncles and aunts updated, from when his da was wheeled into surgery—looking paper-thin and near unrecognisable, his square hands resting over the blankets by his sides—and when he was, at last, wheeled out again, nearly six hours later. 

Sam’s hands shook from the hospital coffee that he’d gotten all of them. He kept flashing back to nights in this same hospital, in his mother’s last hours, and for a moment he did not process what the doctor was telling them—that the operation had been successful, that Hamfast was stable, and, provided his recovery was well-monitored, he would live.

He would live. 

It was not Sam’s ma all over again. He cried then, in a way that he had not since he left Frodo, and had first gotten onto the aeroplane with fear a tight fist in his insides. The relief seemed to hurt just as much. 

Daisy hugged Sam so tightly that his breath hiccuped in his chest. 

“When can we see him?” May demanded, beside him, her eyes flashing.

Mari had burst into tears and had been picked up by Hamson, as though she was a young girl again. 

The doctor—an older woman, her mouth firm but eyes kind—told them their wait was almost over.  Their father would be out for several more hours, but once he was stabilised in his room, they were encouraged to stay with him, provided they kept order. The doctor’s eyes lingered particularly on May as she said this—but for once all the siblings were silent, and no one had protests to make.

That was how the day dawned. Bright and cold, in a white and curtained-off room. They took turns sleeping in the chairs beside their father’s bed, or leaving to get supplies—Daisy home for a change of clothes, Halfred out to call his family and bring back lunch. 

Sam thought of going to call Frodo. He wasn’t sure what he could say, once he delivered the news. How much he’d be able to keep out of his voice. 

He thought again of Frodo hugging him at the airport and missed him with a near-physical ache. And yet—Frodo would be into the last week of his Hell’s Fire deadline, and Sam couldn’t draw him into this particular mess, the chaos that would be Sam’s whole world for the foreseeable future—hospital rooms and coffee in the canteen, sleeping at the family house with who knew how many. 

Frodo would be worried about him, wanting to be there, offer whatever support he could. And as much Sam wanted it—heaven knew, just the sound of Frodo’s voice would be enough to somehow convince Sam everything would be alright—he couldn’t do that to him. Frodo was where he needed to be, finishing his series without distractions.

Sam told himself he’d call Frodo tomorrow. It had almost been a relief that he hadn’t picked up in the morning—it gave Sam more time to think about what he would say. How not to betray his longing.

Hamfast woke up that afternoon, groggy and disoriented in his hospital gown, the breathing tube still in place and a patient monitor machine beeping prominently beside the bed.

Sam felt a sort of childish fear, seeing the gauntness of his father’s features, the IV out of his arm, his shock of greying hair against the bland white pillows. But when Hamfast’s eyes truly opened, and he took in his children for the first time, Sam could see the flicker of recognition—of understanding—reflected there, and breathed properly again. 

“Da!” Mari fumbled for one of his hands. “It’s us. We’re all here. You’re going to be alright.”

Their father’s eyes closed again, but Sam thought he saw a slight softening of his features, as though he was sleeping more peacefully as the medication carried him off again. At least, he hoped so.

Sam was going out to fetch something from the canteen when he ran into Daisy in the corridor, who’d returned from home with a bag full of clothes. 

She was scanning his face before Sam even had time to say, “he’s woken up, Dais. Sleepin’ again now, but—”

“Oh!” Daisy flung her arms around him. It took Sam a confused moment to realise that the noise was Daisy sobbing against his shoulder. Out of all his siblings, Daisy was the one who cried the least. 

Sam rubbed her back, trying not to cry, too. “S’alright,” he kept saying.

“Oh, Sam.” Her voice was shaky against his shoulder. “Last night, I really thought—”

“Shh. I know. I know.” His own voice cracked a little. “But he’ll be alright now.”

When Daisy got control of her breath, Sam squeezed her a moment longer, and before he’d really thought about it, he said, “I’m sorry,” into her hair. 

“What’re you talkin’ about, Sam?” His older sister drew back, her face still tear-stained. “It’s not your fault…”

“I should’ve been here,” Sam said, the guilt that had been knotted inside him since yesterday now choking his throat again. “I should have—”

“Sam.” Daisy wiped under her eyes, already shaking her head. “It’s no one’s fault.” Then, quieter, “there was nothin’ you could’ve done. You think Da said anything to me about chest pains, or—or feelin’ sick, or hot flushes?” She sniffed, another tear running down her cheek. “Of course he didn’t, because he never wants to admit he’s hurtin’. He would’ve said nothin’ to any of us…”

“Yes, but…”

“Sam.” Her hand came to his cheek. “You can’t blame yourself for how Da is. Heaven knows he’ll need a good talkin’ too, once he’s better, but… it’s not your fault.”

Sam felt his own eyes welling up. People were still passing them in the hallway, stepping around Daisy’s dropped bag, and part of him might have felt embarrassed if he wasn’t so desperate to hear his sister’s words; her forgiveness. 

“What matters,” she continued, more firmly as she regained control of her voice, “is you’re here now. That you came. All of us did. That’s what Da will want t’see.”

He nodded, pressing the palms of his hands over his eyes. He felt Daisy’s light touch on his shoulder, and then ruffling his hair. “Sammy. You’re too much like Ma, sometimes.” Her voice was almost amused now. “Takin’ everything on yourself an’ leaving nothin’ for the rest of us.”

Sam sniffed and dropped his hands. His sister was smiling at him with shining eyes. 

“Come on,” she said after a moment, picking up her bag, and threading her other arm through Sam’s. “Let’s go and see Da.”

❆

On his third morning at Bilbo’s, Frodo debated with himself whether driving to the hospital was a good idea. 

Sam had, in fact, given his location when he called briefly the night before—his voice, somehow tentative and exhausted and radiant all at once, had been so familiar that it had seemed to punch Frodo right through the stomach.

He’d said—quite obviously repeating what the doctors had told him—that the outlook was good, they were watching for post-surgery complications, but none since had arisen. The gaffer was already grumping at the lot of them for treating him like he was liable to keel over again at any moment. 

Frodo had wanted to know more, to keep Sam talking, but he could hear voices in the background and machines beeping, and Sam sounded half-distracted. “I’d better not keep you, I know y’must be flat out. I’ll be thinkin’ of you.”

Stay, Frodo thought. He settled for, “call me again?”

“Yeah. Alright. I’m sorry, Frodo… I’d better go.”

Frodo still did not know what had been in Sam’s voice. He knew even less whether Sam would appreciate his company. But he had to do something.

Before Frodo could talk himself out of it he was in the car, and drove two hours that he really should have spent crunching through pages in his room.

He felt an odd tightening in his chest as he approached patient reception, and asked for Hamfast Gamgee’s room. 

“You family, love?” the lady behind the counter asked. She reminded him a little of Mrs Rumble from the Lower Village grocery store. 

“Er—no.” Frodo was nothing, really, he thought. Not a partner, not even a family friend. 

“I’m sorry, dearie. Only family visitors are allowed, for the moment. Would you like to leave a message?”

It was better this way, Frodo thought, as he handed over the bag of doughnuts he’d purchased down the street. Jam doughnuts, which Sam had once said had been his father’s favourite. They were cooling down already; Frodo only hoped there was a microwave or oven somewhere Sam could use. 

“Just a gift,” he said, attempting to smile.

“Very kind of you. Is there a name I can give?”

He hesitated. “Er, yes. It’s Frodo.”

“Frodo.” She wrote his name down on a sticky-note. “Anything else, love?”

“No, that’s… everything. Thank you.”

He went back to his car and sat there with his keys in his fist, thinking about how Sam had been, for a brief instant, in the same building as him. What he was doing now, and whether he was holding his father’s hand. 

Bilbo would say it was time to let it be. Frodo had his own trials to deal with this week, and he was already behind schedule.

He began the long drive back to his uncle’s, wondering why the tightness in his chest had only gotten worse, not better, the further he drove away from the hospital and from Sam.

❆

Sam was reading when he became aware that his father had woken from his sleep, and was shifting about uncomfortably.

He stood up immediately. “Da? How’re you feelin’? Should I call the nurse back?”

It was just Sam in their wing at the moment. Daisy was home, and the others were out, either just going or returning. Five days into their father’s recovery, and the doctors were optimistic. No signs of complications, opportunistic infections, or discomfort beyond the expected—although their gaffer was inclined to irritability. He felt that he should be out of the hospital by now, getting back to things.

A few days ago when everyone was around, they’d gotten him to properly relax for an afternoon—which was made easier by the surprise box of doughnuts from Frodo. There had been eight mini jam puffs, one for each of them and one for the nurse who had been so patiently overseeing Hamfast Gamgee’s case. That had been one, blissful, worry-free moment, as they all stood around with styrofoam cups of tea and icing-sugar dusting their mouths, and the gaffer had pronounced the doughnuts almost as good as they’d once been at the Upper Village stand. 

Sam thought this was the best praise he could have expected. His heart had warmed at Frodo’s thoughtfulness, mixed with the guilt of knowing Frodo had been here, only hours before, and had not texted to let him know. 

Had Frodo stopped in on his way to London? Had he been staying somewhere else before then? Sam realised with another guilty start that he didn't know; that Frodo hadn’t said a thing about where he was on the phone. By now he was probably a hundred miles away…

“Who sent these?” Hamson asked with his mouth full. “They’re much better than the canteen stuff.”

“Proper posh—the jam tastes like it’s house-made,” added May. She was sucking her fingers. 

“It was… a friend of mine,” Sam said, sliding Frodo’s sticky-note into his pocket. “His name’s Frodo.”

May and Daisy both knew who he was talking about, but Marigold’s eyebrows raised. “Not by any chance the Frodo?” she asked. “Frodo Baggins?”

“Who?” grunted the gaffer. 

“Oh—no one you’d know, Da. I’ll thank him for you.” Sam felt guilt further twist his chest. When had he not felt guilty, this past week?

Now, his da was attempting to sit straight against his pillows, and Sam rushed over to help, pushing thoughts of Frodo out of his mind. Again.

“I’m alright, son.” Hamfast waved him away. “Pain’s not so bad. In fact, don’t know why they can’na take off these things,” he waved his IV-plugged arm with irritation, “and check me out before lunch. Much too overcautious these days. I’m more likely to catch a plague here than at home, ain’t that so?”

“Da,” Sam said, bending by his side. “We’ve got t’listen to the doctors. Your body needs rest.”

Hamfast snorted. “Rest airn’t what I need. There’s work to be done an’ I well know the garden ain’t bein’ taken care of while you’re all here fussin’ over me.”

Carefully, Sam perched on the end of his father’s bed. He put his hand over Hamfast’s larger, older one, avoiding the pulse oximeter clamped over his thumb. “Listen, Da. I know you don’t want t’hear it, but… you’re just not goin’ to be able to work the same as you used to.” 

“Don’t you start, Sam—I’ve heard enough from yer sisters just yesterday,” the gaffer said testily. “Don’ need t’hear it from my second-youngest too.”

“But…” Sam looked into his father’s lined, tired face. His voice softened. “Da. You don’t need to be workin’ so much. Pushin’ yourself for us. We’re alright. All of us. Aren’t we all takin’ care of ourselves?”

To his surprise and dismay, the gaffer’s mouth wobbled, as though he was on the edge of some strong emotion. “Aye. An’ I’m proud of you all,” he said, coughed, and then patted Sam’s hand with his free one. “An’ so your mother would be, if she were here w’us.”

Sam felt a lump in his throat. It was rare, in recent years, that Hamfast referred to their ma.

“Well,” he said, slowly, thinking how much like Daisy he was becoming, “wouldn’t Ma say, if she were here, that you should be lookin’ after yourself first? Not not workin’, but just—bein’ more careful. And—lettin’ us in more, so we can help.”

His voice stuttered a bit on this last sentence. He knew what he was really offering. If his gaffer asked, Sam would leave his winters behind in order to take the brunt of the business, freeing his father of his burdens. He would—or, he thought he would, he must—and yet…

After a moment his gaffer sighed. “I know I’ve been, well—per’aps a mite overdoin’ things.” He looked like it was costing him to admit as much. “The doctor’s said that’s why I ended up in here, all likelihood.”

“We can’t do this again, Da,” Sam said, very quietly. The lump in his throat was growing. He’d do anything not to be here again, looking at his father so frail in bed. 

“I know.” Hamfast’s chin dropped. “Aye,” he repeated, quieter. “I know.”

“So…” Sam squeezed his hand. “Maybe it’s time we get more people t’help with the landscaping?”

“I’ve got people,” his gaffer said, gruffly. “I’ve got you, Sam, haven’t I?”

“Of course you do. But—” Sam broke off. Emotions were warring within him.

He thought of cold nights in the snow, of the ski-lifts frozen against the sky, and Frodo standing before him with some sort of entreaty in his eyes. We’re plenty young, Sam had told him then. He wanted that to stay true. 

“But what, lad?”

Sam felt tears prick his eyes. He leant forward a little, his father’s hands still warm under his. “But, Da… I don’t think I’m ready, yet, t’take it all over.”

“Now, Samwise.” The gaffer was looking at him shrewdly. Even through all the pain medication, the post-surgery haze, his gaze was sharp. Knowing. “I tell you I’m not about t’drop off my perch just yet, am I? I’m not needin’ you to take over, son.”

It took Sam a moment to process these words. Then he was surprised at himself for not having expected them. “But I’m tryin’ to tell you, Da—y’can’t keep workin’ the way you do. The way you did.”

“Not the same amount, aye. Per’aps. I’ll be needin’ you, Sam. But you won’t be doin’ it all.”

Of course, that was what Sam had wanted to hear all along. He liked the work—the people, the satisfaction of hard labour, the beautiful gardens that bloomed from his and his father’s efforts. But he also had made the mistake of wanting.

The mountains. The ski slopes. Frodo. 

Would he be selfish to have all of it?

“Mayhap,” Sam suggested, tentatively, “we could… well, I think we’d benefit from some extra hands. The hard labour you shouldn’t be doing, an’ maybe the orders side of it too.”

“I’ve gotten on just fine for years without—” his gaffer began to bluster.

“Da.” Sam had to smile through blurring eyes. “Listen a moment. Hasn’t old Tolman been offerin’ for years to help us out? He knows people in the area, an’ you trust him… we don’t have to do it alone.”

Hamfast considered this for a moment—at least, his chin moved as though he was mulling Sam’s words over. “Well,” he said, gruffly. “I know the Cottons’ll be in tomorrow askin’ after me… I’ll see what he’s got to say. Per’aps over the winter months, it would’ve been some of a help…”

Sam couldn’t help feeling joyfully—selfishly—relieved. As though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. If there were others helping his da, not just him, then he’d have time for… everything else. 

He thought again of Frodo. I very much like you too, Sam. 

He had to call him. No, that wasn’t enough—Sam had to see him.

He sniffed and wiped a hand over his eyes. Crying was another thing he was sick of this week, along with the guilt. He wanted his tears gone. 

“That’s great, Da.”

Hamfast’s hand patted his. “You’re a good lad, Sam. I don’t tell you enough.”

“Oh—Da. Don’t get soft on me.” Sam smiled weakly. 

“Well, don’t go cryin’ like it’s somebody’s funeral. I’m goin’ to be holdin’ onto this world a little longer, you hear?”

“Yes, Da.” Sam stood up from the bed. “Is there anythin’ I can get you? Food? Or I’ll change the TV channel?”

His gaffer’s eyes were now wandering over the flower-strewn room. “What’s that you’ve been readin’?” he asked unexpectedly, looking at Sam’s vacated chair.

“Oh.” Sam felt himself blush. Marigold had leant him more of Frodo’s books yesterday—he was now started on God’s Grip. “Just a fantasy novel.”

“You may as well read me some, then,” his da said gruffly.

Sam blinked. His mother had been the one to always read with them as children; Hamfast preferred the radio while he tinkered with spare parts or fixed the seedling beds on the windowsills. He’d never been much of a reader that Sam knew of.

“It’s the fifth one in the series, Da. I don’t think you’ll enjoy—”

“I don’t care what it is, I just want t’listen to something that’s not the accursed news channel for once,” Hamfast retorted. He waved a hand. “Go on. Come pull up your chair next to your da.”

Sam hesitated. “Alright. I’ll… read a few pages, an’ you can see what you think.”

He sat next to the bed, scooting away from the heart-monitor machines. The curtains hid other patients, and Sam only hoped that no one else would hear him.

He began to read, and his father listened with his eyes first on the book, and then half-closed, occasionally nodding his head a little when Sam broke out of the story to explain who a character was. 

That was how the nurse found them half an hour later with more medication and a lunch tray. Sam felt at peace for the first time that week. His voice was a little hoarse, but he kept reading as long as his father wanted, over lunch and well into the afternoon, until at last Hamfast dropped back into sleep. 

❆

Frodo sent in his draft, three hours before the deadline. By his standards, this was quite a comfortable margin—he’d been doing nothing but writing for the past week after all.

It had gotten to the point where Frodo was glad to see the thing done; he could no longer tell if it was any good or not. He’d done alright with the ending, he thought. He could tell because the characters’ voices all seemed to have gone quiet inside him.

They would live on in realms outside the scope of his novels, leading happy lives where he could not follow. Frodo had thought of Sam, saying, be hopeful, then, and he’d given them the kindest ending he knew how. 

Bilbo had made a cake, as he did every time Frodo finished a manuscript. This one was a black forest chocolate sponge, which was Frodo’s favourite. At the moment when Frodo pressed send on his draft and said, hoarsely, “it’s done,” his uncle had appeared from the kitchen in an apron and hugged him tightly. 

“Well done, lad. I’m so proud. Don’t be afraid to let it all out, now.”

Frodo felt his back being patted as though he was a child. He thought he’d feel a lot more, if he was honest. True, there was so much still to go before Hell’s Fire was ready for public eyes, but… the story was out of him, now. The same story that had been sitting with him since he was eighteen. 

Maybe Frodo was crying, a little. He couldn’t tell. He mostly felt tired, like he could sleep for a week. For a moment he felt like he’d never form words again. 

The draft had been due at the end of the workday, and Bilbo, factoring this in, had prepared a feast’s worth of a dinner to go with the cake. “I’ve invited your cousins Meriadoc and Peregrin over,” he’d said yesterday—he always insisted on using their full names. “We’ll have a bit of a celebration, eh?”

Frodo was not allowed to help in the kitchen, so he went upstairs for a nap. Around seven, he woke to the doorbell and roused himself to greet his cousins.

“Congratulations, Frodo-lad,” Merry said, hugging him. “You’re out the other side, now.”

Pippin was kicking off his shoes in the hallway. “You look terrible,” he said, seeing Frodo. 

“Thanks, Pip.”

“No filter on that one. But hey,” Merry ruffled at Frodo’s hair, “nothing a bit of wine and your uncle’s excellent cake won’t fix, hey?”

They dined like kings, and the cheer of his family lifted Frodo’s spirits. He felt vaguely like he was in a dream, about to wake up and find he still had another dozen chapters to write; still, though, it was a happy dream. 

He ate moderately, taking half as many helpings as Pippin somehow managed. But Bilbo cut him the most generous slice of cake, as was custom, so Frodo still found himself stuffed by the end of the meal. The only damper to his contentment was that Sam, a little to Frodo’s surprise, had not yet called. The thought tugged at the back of his mind, though he attempted to dismiss it as selfish. Sam had a lot more important things to be thinking about than Frodo’s finished draft. 

It occurred to Frodo, though, how much nicer the table would have been if Sam was sitting in the chair next to him, listening to his uncle’s tales and Pippin’s laughter and passing Frodo berries or the cream. 

But, after it all, the tea and the cleanup and last drinks in the living room, Frodo ascended the stairs to bed alone. Merry and Pippin were bedding down on the carpet and the couch, respectively. Frodo was looking forward to his first proper, overnight sleep in what felt like weeks, but he felt strange thinking of how little there was for him to do tomorrow, and his thoughts drifted again to Sam. Even in his dreams they stayed drifting around Sam, and his family, and also, bizarrely, the battlefields of Dread Mountain, the coal eyes of the Faceless King falling into the void. 

They all rose late the next morning, though Frodo was perhaps the latest. He could hear voices in the kitchen below as he stumbled round sleepily getting dressed, and the sound of the kettle boiling, and then, suddenly, the doorbell ringing.

Frodo stopped where he was, in the process of tugging on one sock. He strained his ears to hear footsteps going down the hall, the door clicking open. He couldn’t hear the words exchanged. 

He opened his door onto the upstairs landing. A moment later Pippin’s voice floated up. 

“Oi! Frodo! There’s someone down here to see you!”

Frodo’s heart began to speed up. It couldn’t be Sam, he told himself firmly. Of course it’s not Sam.  It’s ten in the morning, you fool. “Who is it?” he called.

“Just someone!” Pippin called back, infuriatingly. 

Frodo couldn’t imagine his cousin withholding the fact if it really was Sam—as Merry had pointed out last evening, Pippin really had no filter—so, feeling a little calmer, he descended the stairs whilst attempting to finger-comb his hair. 

Bilbo’s voice was coming from the kitchen, and Merry was whistling, and Pippin met Frodo in the hallway with a peculiar expression on his face. He looked as though he was trying not to grin. 

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, patting Frodo’s arm, and past him, framed in the doorway in a rectangle of streaming sunlight, was Sam. 

Sam. Frodo’s first thought was that he looked exhausted, as though he’d been up all night. His sandy hair was sticking up at the back, and his collar was rucked underneath his wool jumper—half up, half down. But he was smiling, a little hesitantly, and he was holding flowers. 

“Sam. How did you…” Frodo half wanted to run to him. He sensed Pippin moving away behind him, as he slowly approached the doorway. 

Sam held out the bouquet. It was a cheerful mix of purples and violets; hyacinths and even what looked like a few long-stemmed primulas, which was exactly the sort of sappy, romantic thing Sam would have thought of.

Frodo accepted them dumbly. 

“Congratulations on your novel,” Sam said, smiling brilliantly. His eyes glowed hazel in the light. “I, er, wanted you t’have these.”

“They’re beautiful,” Frodo said, holding the flowers to his chest. The scent up rose sweetly like perfume. “Sam—thank you, I… I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Well, you sent me on a bit of a goose chase tryin’ to find you,” Sam said with a grin. “I was halfway to London last night before I thought to call Merry and found out you were at your uncle’s…”

Frodo stared. “But—how?” he asked.

“Éowyn had his number, she got it to me though Rosie. I realised I didn’t have your address last night,” Sam continued, speaking fast, “an’ Merry told me instead to come here and that he wouldn’t say anythin’ to you. Slept in my car for a few hours and turned back round.”

Frodo was both astounded, and immensely touched at the lengths Sam had gone to for him. “But… why didn’t you call me?” he asked finally. “I could’ve told you where I was.”

“Well, see.” Sam rubbed his neck a little uncomfortably. “I’m… not so good at sayin’ what I needed to say on the phone.”

Oh. Frodo felt his heart going fast again, a mixture of nerves and wild hopefulness. “Well. Please come in, then.” He backed up a little to hold the door further open for Sam, his flowers tucked close. “You don’t have to say it all in the doorway.”

Sam ducked his head a little shyly, in thanks, and followed Frodo down the creaking hallway, passing through the living-room into the kitchen. Frodo sensed Sam’s gaze moving round the place, taking in the wall-paintings, cheerful cushions and rugs, and all the strange objects that Bilbo hoarded like a magpie around his home. Bowls of sea-glass, jade sculptures and leather-bound books, even an old-fashioned bronze gong that Bilbo used occasionally to summon guests to breakfast. 

Bilbo himself was in the kitchen, a fact that Frodo had almost forgotten, and he was halfway through frying a stack of pancakes, while Merry was searching the pantry and Pippin sat on the oak table, kicking his legs. 

“Oh,” said Frodo, stopping in the doorway with his flowers. Sam came up behind him and also hesitated. 

“Oh dear.” Bilbo turned round, tossing a tea-towel over his shoulder. Pancakes were bubbling on the stove behind him. “You must be Sam.” He came over to shake Sam’s hand, at the same time saying, “Frodo-my-lad, why didn’t you tell me we’d be having another for breakfast? It’s just as well I thought to double the recipe, but it still might not stretch to five…”

“Six. Pippin counts as at least two,” said Merry, emerging from the pantry with the sugar. “Hullo, Sam. Good of you to come!” He came over to cuff Sam’s shoulder.

Frodo stood uncertainly with his flowers. He was considering taking Sam straight back out of the kitchen again, but unexpectedly it was Pippin who came to his rescue.

“Alright, everybody out,” he said, hopping off the table. “Not you, Sam,” he added as Sam took a few hurried steps backward. “Frodo needs to put his flowers in water.”

Bilbo looked agitated. “The pancakes—”

“I’ll look after’em,” Sam offered.

“Oh. Will you? Thank you, Sam. Already I like you better than my nephew, he can’t use a spatula to save his life.”

Frodo was too anxious to get them all out of the room to properly defend himself. He saw Sam open his mouth—probably to say something nice on Frodo’s behalf, although he’d never seen Frodo flip pancakes—but Frodo interrupted. “I’ll just be a couple of minutes, then you can all come back.”

“Alright, alright.” Bilbo let himself be hustled by Pippin out of the room.

“We’ll eat outside anyways, it’s a beautiful morning,” Merry said with a grin, and picked up a stack of plates and the sugar jar before following the others. 

This left Frodo and Sam standing awkwardly in the kitchen. “Sorry about them,” Frodo said.

“What d’you have to be sorry for?” Sam moved over to the hissing frypan. “Your uncle seems lovely. He’s… almost exactly how I pictured him, I’ll be honest.”

Frodo laughed, and the tension broke. He went to find a vase to arrange his flowers in, while Sam flipped the last round of pancakes and added them to the stacked plate sitting next to the stove.

When Frodo turned from arranging his bouquet in the vase, he found Sam already watching him, leaning back against the stove counter, which had been switched off.

“They’re also an apology,” he said, gesturing at the flowers. “For, er, not bein’ in contact sooner.”

Frodo dropped his hands. “Don’t be silly, Sam. You were weathering a family crisis, of course you didn’t have to be in contact. I’m… so glad your dad’s on the mend.”

He came over to the counter, next to Sam, who was still looking at him with those serious, hazel eyes, whose broad shoulders and stubborn jawline were so unquestionably familiar that Frodo sort of just wanted to throw himself into him. 

“You did so much for me. For all of us,” Sam said firmly. “And I… didn’t thank you enough. Or let you in. An’ I’m sorry for that.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Frodo said, leaning against the stove counter. He was again aware of his heart beating. “You’ve been under so much strain, without me adding to it. Besides, I hardly did anything.”

“You got me there. You were always on call, even with your draft deadline… Oh, and I didn’t say—Da loved your doughnuts.” Sam smiled, shook his head. “You didn’t have to drive all that way, you know. But we all appreciated it.”

Frodo felt his cheeks warm, though he wasn’t exactly sure why. “I’m glad.”

Sam was still looking at him as though drinking him in with his eyes. “It’s real nice t’see you,” he said, softly.

Frodo reached out and took Sam’s hand, unable to resist a moment longer. Sam had large, brown, callused hands, and everything about them was familiar, especially when he squeezed Frodo’s fingers tight. Frodo sensed that there was more he wanted to say.

“Anything else you couldn’t tell me on the phone?” He tried to keep his voice light, but it came out hesitant, and, he thought, a little scared.

“Well, yes.” Sam looked down their joined hands. A curl of hair fell over his eyes. “I’ve been, er, doin’ some thinkin’.”

Here it goes, Frodo thought helplessly. A part of him was almost expecting to be broken up with— this whole thing; Sam’s distance, the apology flowers, might all be leading up to such a parting. And yet… why did Sam keep holding his hand? And why had he driven, though the night, all this way for such a miserable conversation?

Hope was worse than the pain of absence. Frodo nodded, slowly, for Sam to continue, unable to trust his voice to speak. 

“It seems to me,” Sam went on steadily, now looking up at him again, “you’ve got some things to figure out, soon, an’ so have I. This year. An’ maybe… we can do it together.”

Frodo had sunk into the depths of despair at the beginning of this sentence, only to rise again into disbelief, uncertainty, and a wild hope that gripped his insides in a way he hadn’t felt since he was much younger. Whatever Sam was proposing, and however he envisaged it—they weren’t yet going to part, and Frodo would agree to anything.

“Yes,” he said, tugging Sam’s hand, pulling him a little closer. “Of course, Sam. That would make me… very happy.”

Sam looked amazingly relieved; Frodo had no idea what he’d had to worry about. He smiled at Frodo, hesitant and bright, and his eyes were filled with affection. They were close enough that Frodo could almost lean into him. “I know you didn’t really believe me when I said it to you last time,” he said gently. “But we’re not up in the mountains anymore, an’ I mean it even more now.”

“Oh.” Frodo ducked his head. He was horrified to find that tears were pricking his eyes—he’d never cried in front of Sam, and this seemed like an unfortunate moment to start. 

“Hey. Frodo. Come here?” 

Sam pulled Frodo gently into him, disentangling their laced fingers so he could wrap him into a hug. Lord, he even smelt familiar. Frodo felt his breath hitch in a sort of gasp as he leant his chin on Sam’s shoulder. “Why’d you think I wouldn’t believe you?” he said, weakly, well aware that someone secure in Sam’s promises would not now be crying into his shoulder.

Sam rubbed his back. There was a smile in his voice. “Because I know you. An’ I know you would’ve overthought things already. Am I right?”

“I’d prefer not to comment,” Frodo said, muffled. He felt Sam laugh, and added, quieter, “you’ve been away too long.”

“I know.” Sam cupped the back of Frodo’s neck, sliding his fingers into his hair. “I’ve missed you awfully.”

“I’ve missed you too, Sam.”

“You’ve been busy with your book, I didn’t think you’d have much time t’spare for missing me…” 

“Every day,” Frodo said truthfully. “And all the nights as well.”

“Oh.” Now Sam was the one who seemed surprised. Frodo drew back to look at him, though first he had to wipe a hand over his eyes. Sam’s eyes were bright, too, a little too bright. 

“Perhaps,” he said, tracing a thumb over Frodo’s cheek, “you could tell me exactly what you missed…?”

Frodo had just opened his mouth when footsteps were heard in the hallway, and then Pippin’s voice from the living room called, “how are the pancakes getting on?”

Frodo stepped away from Sam as his cousins came into the kitchen, but he quickly reached to take Sam’s hand instead. He saw Sam look surprised and pleased at this gesture; Merry raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Frodo before going to rummage in the fridge, and Pippin said loudly, “you two have made it up, then?”

“Oh, we’re allowed back in, are we?” Bilbo asked from the doorway before Frodo could reply. He gave the stack of pancakes, and then Sam, an approving look. “If you’ll bring those out for us, lad, I’ll give Meriadoc a hand with the jams.”

“Can you stay for breakfast?” Frodo asked quietly, looking over at Sam.

“Oh, yes, I’ve got all morning.” Sam smiled, then turned to grab the pancakes, which were still steaming-warm under a half-folded tea towel and smelt heavenly. “I’d better be back this afternoon to see the others, but no particular hurry.”

“Maybe…” Frodo began, wondering if he was already overstepping, “I could come visit with you? Only if your dad won’t mind…”

Bilbo pressed a set of cutlery in Frodo’s hands as he said this, and Sam accepted the cloth napkins that followed. He looked pleased. “Da would love it if you came,” he said, following Frodo to the door. “Actually, I may’ve gotten him onto your books while he’s been in hospital… he’s been getting so bored with the TV, see. He wants someone readin’ them to him all the time now.” Sam shot Frodo a sideward smile, a little sheepish. “He’d love a chance to meet the novelist himself, if he could.”

“Oh, dear,” Frodo said, embarrassed at the thought. “Well, erm…” He was touched that Sam had been reading his books to his da. “I’ll try not to be a disappointment in person.”

“You couldn’t be,” Sam said easily, and followed Frodo down the hallway into the light through the back door. 

Pippin was already sitting at the weathered porch table, the garden behind him bathed in sunlight.

Sam set down the pancakes and Frodo began to distribute cutlery. He could hear Merry’s voice and his uncle’s tread coming down the hall, and he felt so ridiculously happy that it was a struggle to contain it. 

Pippin immediately nabbed two pancakes as the others arrived to take their seats, but Sam stayed standing, waiting for Frodo to choose his spot first, and his hand came very lightly to Frodo’s back before he himself sat down. 

“Did I hear right that you’re staying, Sam?” Bilbo asked interestedly from across the table, reaching for the marmalade. 

Sam nodded his head, sunlight turning his hair gold. “Yes, sir. Not all day today, but… I’ll be around, the next little while. If that’s alright.”

“Of course it is, lad. Any friend of Frodo’s, and all that. Of course, he hasn’t told us half so much about you as he should have, though I’m sure I can tell you a lot about him that you’ll be interested to know…”

Merry snorted into his plate. Frodo glared down the table at Bilbo. “And what’s that supposed to mean, dear uncle?”

“Well, there’s quite a few good family photo-books in the library that need dusting,” Bilbo mused. “I’m sure Sam will be interested, won’t you, lad?”

“Don’t agree to anything, Sam,” Pippin said immediately. “He’ll keep you there for hours.”

“Watch who’s just made you breakfast, Peregrin,” Frodo’s uncle retorted. “And you’d do well to pass some round for the rest of us.”

Sam looked over at Frodo with dancing eyes. I’ll be around, he’d said. Frodo believed him. 

He reached forward to take Sam’s hand over the table as they waited their turn for the pancake plate. They were far away from the mountains, now, but here was something that could grow well into the spring and summer, and the seasons beyond. 

Here was something new and already so familiar, Frodo would be a fool to doubt it.

Chapter Text

“Where are we?” Circann hissed.

They had landed hard in what seemed to be an open-shafted tunnel; with no light from above, Morgan could only make out a darkened gleam as though their surroundings were lit up from within.

It took him an awful long time to fumble for his matches, with freezing hands and Circann’s breath heavy on his neck.

In its pinprick of light, they saw a blue sheen as though of crystal. Their breath fogged out before them.

“Ice,” Morgan whispered. “We must be—we’re under the mountain now.”

They grasped hands. The stories were all wrong; neither of them needed to say it. It was not fire, not a dragon’s lair. The beginning of the world was, and had always been, cold. 

- Hell’s Fire (Ash Mountain #9)

❆

Nine months later

Frodo stood outside the bookshop, hands deep in his coat pockets, and looked the bright colours of the window display. 

There was his name; on posters, on newly minted box-sets, and on the proudly pedestaled hardback, Hell’s Fire, which he could still hardly believe was real. The red-ringed mouth of a volcano belched out the title on the black glossy cover, in letters of gold. 

The astonishing end to the world-acclaimed series! one of the posters announced. Frodo thought this was a bit much. It was, in fact, the first time he’d seen his book in a physical bookshop, excluding the night of the launch, and he was still a little stunned that the whole thing had happened so quickly.

He thought briefly of going inside, picking up one of the hardbacks just to feel it in his hands. He was tempted to flip to the dedication page and again see the words printed there.

For Sam, who taught me how to love the mountains. And how to fall. 

He still blushed to think of writing it. Sam had not yet seen it, but Bilbo had, and thought it was sweet. Merry thought it was a bit rich that the last book didn’t get a family dedication. I’d better be referenced by name in your next series, he’d texted. Full name, mind you.

Frodo’s editor had tentatively suggested he mention something about the fans in his dedication. But the fans hadn’t gotten Frodo through the terrifying first draft of Hell’s Fire. That had been Sam.

(Sam, and a small ski lodge far away from the fans. And everything else.)

Frodo had half imagined his world would come to an end when he finished the Ash Mountain series. Of course, not right at that moment—he still had months of signings and book tours to get through—but after that, he’d seen only blackness.

The future was beginning to fill in now, though, little by little. A few half-formed stories were already turning through his mind, being filed down from something nebulous into the core of an idea. Frodo hadn’t spoken of it yet, not even to his agent. He knew he needed a break from book contracts, at least for a while. 

Gollum—his trusty computer, which had carried him through the whole of the series since his eighteenth birthday—had finally died rather dramatically, halfway through revisions of the second draft. It had felt like the end of an era. Frodo would need some time to bond with his new and distastefully modern laptop before jumping into another story. He had even considered following his uncle’s example and turning his hand to paper, for the moment. 

He was also considering renting out his London apartment, once the fuss had died down, and finding a place closer to Bilbo. He was there practically all the time he could manage it, anyway. It was closer to Sam, and to Sam’s family. 

This particular dream Frodo had also not told anyone—not Bilbo, not Sam. It was an image of a little old house in a quiet country suburb, with much the same charm as Bilbo’s cottage, only it would be Frodo’s. And it would have a couple of cats, and a garden… and as Frodo had no hope of managing so much as a flowerbed by himself, he’d begun to imagine what he might say to get Sam to join him, in such a place.

He could picture the two of them on any given morning; Frodo writing on the porch, Sam pottering around in the garden with shears, doing whatever he did, with two cups of tea steaming on the railing. Frodo could only hope this was the sort of place Sam would want to go to in the spring and summers, when he was not dreaming after mountains. 

“Frodo!” A familiar voice startled Frodo out of his reverie. He turned to see Sam coming down the wintery street, wrapped up in his coat and scarf with a coffee in each hand.

“Were you looking at your books, then?” he asked smilingly, approaching with a huff of cold air.

“What? Oh.” Frodo remembered that he was standing quite overtly in front of the book display. He also remembered he’d been supposed to meet Sam at the cafe instead. “Sorry, I lost track of the time…” 

“Well, that’s understandable,” Sam said, passing Frodo his coffee. The cup immediately warmed his hands. “Not every day you get to see your hard work payin’ off so nicely.”

He looked into the display with approval. “Pity there’s no dragon models, though. Halfred sent me a picture from London—they’ve gone all out at the Waterstones.”

Frodo smiled, embarrassed. “I, er… I wasn’t going to go in.”

“I should. I’ve got to get myself a copy or two.”

“You don’t need to, Sam. I’ll give you one if you like.” Frodo sighed. “I’ve got loads.”

“Well, ’tis not just me is the problem.” Sam grinned. “I’ve promised to pick one up for Mari, Tom, even Da wants a copy. He’s been complaining about the cliffhanger for months. Tryin’ to get me to find out what’s goin’ to happen from you.”

Frodo huffed a surprised laugh. Gaffer Gamgee, who was now almost back to his old stubbornly-defiant picture of health, still possessed a liking to be read to in the evenings. He’d been very welcoming to Frodo, who couldn’t help wondering how he would’ve been received if half the family weren’t already reading his series, when they’d first met him. 

“They can all have one of my copies,” he said, and took a sip of his latte. It nearly scalded his tongue in sheer contrast from the frosty afternoon. “I can pick them up before the dinner tonight. If I’ve got time.”

“Oh, alright,” Sam said. They’d begun walking down the street, which was already strung with the earliest of the Christmas lights. A flurry of anxious shoppers parted ways around them. Everything sparkled with the potential for snow. “I was goin’ to take you from here, but I can pick you up from Bilbo’s if you’d prefer.”

“Only if you’d be willing to drive me all the way home again,” Frodo said, taking Sam’s arm, and holding his coffee close with the other hand. “After pudding.”

“Hm. I did forget about the pudding. Still,” Sam said gallantly, “the offer stands.”

“Well, it’s very kind of you.” Frodo leant into his side.

He’d been invited to what he’d soon found was a rather rare full-Gamgee dinner, to celebrate Marigold graduating from university at half-term. Daisy had started night school only recently, now that the gaffer was back to stable health, and Sam was around more to look after his needs. 

It had been a tough few months, to start, and Frodo had hardly seen Sam for a few weeks as he worked with his father to manage the springtime load of landscaping clients. Fortunately, Sam had convinced his da to hire more staff for the business, including some from the quite extensive Cotton family. This, to Frodo’s endless gratitude, had freed Sam up a little to pursue his own projects. 

He’d be going up to the mountains soon, for a week or so before Christmas, to get some skiing in with the Cotton siblings and likely Aragorn too. (Legolas and Gimli, to everyone’s surprise, had gone off backpacking in Eastern Europe and wouldn’t be back until January. Aragorn suspected they were likely to freeze to death, but Gimli’s instagram had been cheerful enough so far. Lots of caving and frolicking round castle-sides.)

Frodo was staying, this time. He’d go up with Sam again in the new year, once he had a free weekend between book events. Needless to say, he was looking forward to the Christmas holidays.

Sam was not an instructor this season. He’d normally be gone by now; not back from the snow until April’s first spring rains. Frodo knew Sam was thinking about it. It would be his first winter at home in years. 

And yet, that wasn’t to say Sam wouldn’t go back, some day. As much as Frodo would miss him, he’d never deny Sam one of the things he loved most in the world. Nor his friends—for Tom Cotton was already up there, with Aragorn, Éowyn and Éomer; Boromir had gotten a deal on season passes and bought new skis, and Faramir was going to be snowboarding every weekend. 

(That was another thing. Éowyn and Faramir had tentatively gotten together a few months ago, to nobody’s surprise but everybody’s approval. Even Merry, when Frodo had brought it up with him, had seemed quite cheerfully resigned. 

“Oh, yes, Faramir’s a decent bloke. And it doesn’t mean Éowyn and I shan’t be friends anymore. In fact, she’s promised to teach me to snowboard this winter… I’ve already sold the skis so I can buy a board of my own.”

Frodo had his own private suspicions about how long this new phase of Merry’s would last, but he chose not to comment.)

In any case, Sam’s reply whenever someone asked if he was going to go back to instructing was always the same. “Likely one day. Snows down here too, though, doesn’t it?”

When Frodo had asked if he’d made any other plans for the next few years—once the family business settled, that was—Sam had gotten a bit red, and said that he’d been thinking a little about teaching. He’d missed the kids up on the mountains. 

Frodo thought that teaching would be perfect for Sam; there was no one with a better temperament. He had determined to be gently encouraging, but not to press the subject—as Rosie had once told him, and Frodo himself was coming to know, Sam tended to get a little skittish if you approached something too directly. 

It was another quality about him that Frodo found endlessly charming. 

They crossed the bustling street, coloured lights gleaming in all the shop windows, and made their way down to the little parkland a block down. Here there was space away from all the shoppers, and they could sit on one of the benches to enjoy their coffee in peace. 

The sky was cold, crystalline, teasing the snow that they’d been expecting all week. The trees were a dark green, hills stretching out behind them into the distance. Everything was soft, here; there were no distinct silhouettes like that of the Highlands.

Even so, Frodo imagined he could see the mountains off in the skyline, beckoning. Pulling on Sam with every cool breath of wind—and on Frodo, too. 

Sam fished around in his coat pocket, and pulled out a slightly battered paper-bag. “Got summat to go with the coffees.”

Frodo peered inside, smelling the warmth of the pastry before he saw it. “Oh—cherry danish. That’s my favourite...”

“I know,” said Sam, smiling as though he was amused Frodo thought he could forget such a thing. 

“You’re an angel among mankind, Sam,” Frodo said, pulling the danish out of its paper. He hadn’t eaten since late breakfast, having been in meetings all day. “Truly.”

“As you often tell me,” Sam said with a grin. 

Frodo still got a little embarrassed saying I love you out loud, even though it was just Sam, so he’d come up with increasingly inventive ways of expressing his devotion. Sam put up with most of the metaphors; he understood the sentiment behind them. Or Frodo hoped so, anyway.

He leant into Sam’s arm, offering him a square corner of the pastry. 

Sam accepted. “Hm. From what Daisy’s told me ‘bout tonight, I’m not sure I should be eatin’ anythin’ for several hours beforehand.”

“You’ll fit it in somehow.” Frodo patted his knee. “You always do.”

“An’ what’s that supposed ta’mean?” 

Sam tried to grab Frodo’s pastry off him, Frodo squirmed away, and his coffee was nearly upended in the process. “It’s a compliment, Sam, and no, I’m keeping this, you bought it for me—”

“I bought it to share, actually—”

“Think of your poor, starving boyfriend who hasn’t had lunch.”

“I am thinkin’ of him,” Sam growled. He swiftly pulled Frodo, pastry, and coffee cup into his arms.

Frodo leant his head on Sam’s shoulder for a moment. Every day he didn’t see Sam he missed him fiercely, and whenever he did see him he remembered what that feeling had been like; determined not to miss any detail about his face, his mood, even the scent of him.

“How come y’didn’t have lunch?” Sam asked after a moment, leaning his chin on Frodo’s hair.

“Oh. Zoom meetings.” Frodo adjusted himself a little sideways so he could look out into the park, still leaning on Sam’s side. His legs were swung over Sam’s faded jeans. “No matter how quiet I try to be, my editor always seems to know when I’m eating off-camera.”

“I’ll have some words to say t’her about schedulin’ things during break hours,” Sam said with feeling, supporting Frodo with his arm round him, while Frodo broke off two more pieces of danish for them both.

“That’s very kind of you, Sam, but I’d better fight my own scheduling battles.”

“Hm. Well.” Sam huffed.

They were content, for the moment, Sam drinking his coffee and letting Frodo have most of the pastry, which was kind enough that Frodo felt a little guilty having shared his no-lunch story. 

“Frodo?” Sam murmured after a pause.

“Hm?”

“I was wonderin’… well, I was thinkin’, would you ever want t’read some of your book to me?”

“What?” Frodo pulled back from Sam’s shoulder. He then had to brush a bit of pastry off it. “I mean… why do you ask?”

“Well, see.” Sam looked a little embarrassed. “I usually listen to the audiobooks, it sort of holds my attention for longer… but the audiobook for the new one hasn’t come out yet, o’course, and… well. It’s just an idea I had.”

“Well.” Frodo considered. He could feel the cold breeze under his coat collar, now he wasn’t leaning against Sam anymore. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind, if you’d like me to. I usually don’t reread my books, you know, unless it’s for a plot point or something. But I… what I mean is, would you really want to listen to me?”

Sam’s hand came affectionately to Frodo’s hair. “‘Course I would. I always want to hear you.” He smiled. “Lord, I’d probably listen t’you readin’ out your grocery lists, if there weren’t anythin’ else.”

“I can’t believe that,” Frodo said, touched all the same.

“S’true.” Sam cupped the back of his head, fingers threading through Frodo’s curls. “When I’m away, I thought you could read to me on the phone some nights. Doesn’t have to even be your book—though ‘course I want to hear the end of the story.”

Frodo swallowed at the thought of it; Sam lying in his bunk far away, earphones in, listening to his voice while Frodo, in his own bedroom—in London, or at Bilbo’s—read to him softly. The thought of it, reading his own words aloud, filled him with a peculiar mix of satisfaction and shyness, which was strange, because he’d read out extracts of his work many times in public with hardly a thought.

“I would do that,” he said, quietly. “If you liked.”

“More than liked,” Sam said, now tucking a curl of Frodo’s hair behind his ear. This was a futile gesture, as the wind immediately stirred his curls loose again.

“I suppose you’ll have me reading you the paper over breakfast before long,” Frodo said, attempting to make light of the strange emotions aroused in him.

“You can read me whatever you like over breakfast, as long as I get to see you actually eatin’ it,” Sam said firmly. “No work or meetings or otherwise.”

“Sounds like you’ll have to stay with me to make sure,” Frodo replied.

“Stay with you where?”

It was almost the perfect time to say it, Frodo realised. How about sharing a house with me?

It didn’t have to be next year. It didn’t have to be for the next couple of years, if Sam didn’t want it. Although Frodo was sort of hoping that he would.

The picture of them both on the porch became even clearer, Sam pulling off his gardening gloves and Frodo finding the new page in his book, wherever they’d been reading from. The sunlight, the steaming teacups. The garden, roses gently swaying in their beds. 

Not yet, he told himself. Not just yet. “Oh… wherever, I suppose.”

“I’d stay with you tonight if you like, only I think they’ll need me to be there clearing up.” Sam made a face. “And Da wants my help with summat in the morning…”

He was so dear to Frodo in that moment that it almost hurt looking at him. Gold-brown curls tumbling over his forehead, warm eyes with surprisingly long lashes; a smattering of still-fading freckles from days working in the sun. The way the wind blew colour into his cheeks, the way his voice sounded, all of it. 

“Sam?” Frodo said.

“Yeah?”

“Come here.” He’d already put down his coffee cup, it was easy to bring his hands to Sam’s cold face, to guide him forward until their lips touched.

Sam was shy about public displays of affection, usually, but there was no one else around in their corner of parkland—and Frodo had not forgotten that Sam had once kissed him on a ski-lift, even alongside other passengers. 

Sam tasted like coffee and buttery pastries. His cheeks were cold but his mouth was warm. And the little noise of breath he made, a contented exhale, was familiar enough that it filled Frodo with an affection nearly about to burst. That was the effect Sam had on him, these days, and it only ever seemed to get stronger.

Sam’s hands slid through his hair. It was near-bitingly cold, now, and Frodo would have started to shiver even in his coat, if he hadn’t had Sam’s warmth to share. 

When he pulled away after a minute, it was to murmur, “perhaps you can stay over tomorrow night.”

“Alright.” Sam’s voice was low. “If your uncle doesn’t mind.”

“What do you mean, mind? He’s practically adopted you already.”

Sam laughed and shook his head just as the breeze picked up again, more frozen then before, and Frodo felt something wet in his hair. He looked up.

“Sam… is it snowing?”

Sam looked up too, his hands still in Frodo’s hair. They both had to squint slightly against the grey slate of the sky, but there was definitely something drifting down, albeit patchily, from the sky. Frodo thought he could see glimmers of white.

“It’s tiny flakes of… something,” he said, twisting so he could hold up his hands to catch it.

Sam looked unconvinced. “It could be sleet. Or hail.”

“Sam.”

“I’m jus’ sayin’, that’s not exactly a proper snowfall. Not anythin’ like the mountains.”

Frodo felt a small flake land on his hand, immediately dissolving into water. “Sam—it is. It must be first snow.” He turned to Sam, beaming. “Did you see?”

“If you say so…” Sam put out his own hand, still squinting doubtfully up at the sky. 

The wind swirled around them, with a definite wintery sting, and the little specks of white began to fall more regularly; some of them icy like hail, others soft so that Frodo barely felt them on his skin.

They should probably head back in a minute; Sam was right that they’d likely get wet. Only, he couldn’t rush the feeling of contentment within him, as though the snow was an old friend coming back to greet them.

“It’s beautiful,” Frodo murmured, dropping his hands, looking up at the sky beyond the trees.

“Aye. It is.”

But when Frodo turned his head, Sam was looking at him. His eyes were so warm, so hazel-brown.

“I’m… glad you’re with me,” Frodo said, without quite knowing why.

Sam touched his face, brushed his chin gently with his knuckles. The wind swirled faster around them. “Good,” he said, softly. “‘Cause I’ll be stayin’.”