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Frodo sat in the chair closest to the study fire, a warm blanket wrapped around his thin shoulders. It was the first evening he'd been out of bed since his October spell, one of the two annual occasions that he and Sam had both come to recognize and dread. It would pass, it would always pass. He held that conviction firmly in his stubborn heart, through the darkest hours, and once again, it had. Now there was the matter of pulling himself out of the despair and blackness, resuming his everyday life as quickly as possible, so as to reassure Sam that he was not slowly falling to shreds. But he was.
Frodo glanced from the firelight over to his companion. Sam sat on a bench nearby, carefully mending a rip in his favorite gardening trousers. He was leaning into the light, to see his work more clearly, and the glow lit up his face.
"Golden," Frodo thought suddenly, watching the younger hobbit. He always thought of Sam as golden. The curls, of course, gleaming in sunlight, and a darker burnished gold now. His hazel eyes, where Frodo caught glints of gold, especially when Sam laughed with joy. He hadn't seen them in awhile. Sam's skin, always golden brown, from growing up out in the daylight. It had maintained that rich color even through Mordor itself. And his heart itself. The purest metal, that nothing could corrupt.
Sam carefully knotted the thread and bent his head down to bite off the tail. "Well, now," he examined his work with quiet pride. "That'l hold for a piece."
"You didn't take it to Marigold for the mending this time," Frodo observed , studying Sam's face.
"Well now, Mari has her own family to keep herself busy with, these days," Sam stated affectionately. "I can't be a bother to her for every little thing."
"Marigold has never seemed bothered by you, Sam," Frodo smiled slightly. "The Gaffer, sometimes. Petunia Hardbottle, frequently. And even Tom and her little ones on occasion. But never by you."
"Ah, well, you know naught of the toad incident," Sam raised an eyebrow. " As well you shouldn't."
"You were an incorrigible lad, Sam," Frodo shook his head. "The Gaffer certainly had his hands full with you."
Sam chuckled, heartened that Frodo was feeling well enough to tease him. "I think he's still waiting to see if any good'l come of me yet."
"I wager that's not all he's waiting for," Frodo commented suddenly.
Sam fell silent and, laying the mending down on the bench, rose to stir up the fire. "Likely not," he murmured, concentrating on his task.
Frodo felt a sudden impulse to end the conversation here, to get up to retire for the evening. So many times he had come close to bringing up the topic of Rosie Cotton to Sam, but the timing never seemed right. He knew that he was just being cowardly about it, wishing nothing to change, but it wasn't fair to Sam. At first, there had been so much to do upon their return, setting the Shire to rights, and then Bag End and the gardens to restore. But it had been over two years now. And Frodo was sure that he knew why Sam had made no move. It was time for some plain speaking out on the subject, as much as he dreaded it.
"Sam, I know why you haven't spoken to Rosie yet, " he said hesitantly.
Sam remained on his knees, poker in hand, but turned his face to Frodo, watching him carefully but saying nothing.
Feeling obliged to continue, Frodo continued, uncertain of his words but sure of his message. "You've always taken the best care of me, Sam, but that won't give you the life you deserve to have."
Sam turned back to the fire, poking at it none too gently. "You take care of yourself fine enough," he quietly stated. "There's times you may need a bit of help, but who don't?"
Feeling he could definitely argue that point, Frodo let it go for the moment. "Sam, you don't deserve to just have an invalid on your hands after all you've done. You should have a wonderful wife to come home to and as many lads and lasses as a smial can hold."
"Deserving and wanting," Sam straightened up suddenly, his face still unreadable to Frodo, "ain't always the same. You deserve to be the King of the Shire, if hobbits went in for that nonsense. Can't ever see as you'd want it."
Frodo felt as if this conversation had suddenly taken an abrupt turn. Just in which direction though, he hadn't any idea, except that Sam was making a point and he wasn't understanding it. "Then, you don't want Rosie?" he guessed carefully. He'd never seen Sam glance at another lass, but then he had kept himself shut up in Bag End most of the last year. "Who do you want, Sam?"
"Not so much a matter of the who as the what," Sam answered him cryptically, watching him with a careful intensity.
Frodo rose, still a little shakily, balancing against the back of the chair. Sam was trying to tell him something important, he was sure of it, he needed to follow Sam's thoughts.
"Then what is it that you want, Sam?" he asked, studying the light and shadows on Sam's face.
"What won't be given to me. So I want what I have."
Frodo lowered his gaze. He should be able to understand what Sam was saying to him. Sam was speaking plainly, he always did, but the meaning was lost on Frodo. He stared at his right hand on the back of the chair. Pale, bony, and lacking. It would always be so. It had mended as much as it ever would, but it would never be whole again. He didn't understand Sam, and he always had before.
Suddenly he felt old, tired, useless. Worn out and ready to be discarded. If it weren't for him hanging on, Bag End would belong to Sam and he could fill it with a proper family. Then Sam would be happy again and the gold flecks would glint in his eyes again.
It wasn't until he felt a light touch that he raised his head again, startled out of his thoughts. Sam was standing next to him, his hand resting lightly on Frodo's blanket-covered shoulder. "Where did you go?" he asked softly, his eyes looking into Frodo's with concern.
"Just slipping into my dotage," Frodo replied, with a certain amount of bitterness that he was unable to keep out of his voice. "I suppose I should be back in bed."
Sam's grip about his shoulder started to tighten and he stared at Frodo for several silent moments with a certain set of his jaw that Frodo had not seen in a long while. Then he seemed to come to a conclusion. "Tell me, Frodo Baggins," his voice was strangely harsh and rough. "What do you think of yourself?"
For just a moment Frodo stared at Sam dumbfounded. And then he could hold it back no longer. All the despair and bitterness that he had hid behind his façade poured out and he could not stop it up no matter how much he hurt and shocked Sam. "I've been corrupted, Sam," he nearly spat out, glaring fiercely at Sam. "Is that what you want to hear? I carried that Evil until it poisoned everything that was decent in me. That's why I failed in the end, Sam. Not because I couldn't, but because I chose not to. Sometimes, I can look and act almost the way I once did, but inside, there's nothing. That's the wound that really can't heal, not those on my body. Maybe the Elves have some cure for this emptiness. Or maybe I would just be bringing evil to them."
Frodo was clutching the back of the chair when he stopped speaking, breathing heavily. He stared at Sam angrily, waiting for Sam's expected denial that any of this was true. But instead, Sam stared back at him without speaking, his gaze calm but deeply searching. Sam's grip on his shoulder had not relaxed, and Frodo became aware once again of the strength of that hand.
Then Sam seemed to reach his decision. "Come," he commanded, his voice still rough. "Come with me." Gripping Frodo about the shoulder, he steered him to the front door of the smial, grabbing Frodo's cloak in the entryway as they passed by. With a matter-of-fact air, Sam walked both of them out of the door and back to the path to the hill behind Bag End.
Frodo followed Sam's unspoken instructions in a daze. Sam wrapped Frodo's cloak over the top of the blanket, but the evening was cool rather than chilly. There had been an early full moon, only starting to now set, and the stars shone clear in the cloudless sky. They stopped at the foot of a hill facing the Party Field. At the top of the hill, a stately young oak still held onto its leaves against the coming autumn.
"Do you remember this tree, Frodo?" Sam asked softly as they looked up to it silhouetted against the violet sky.
Frodo stared at the oak uncomprehendingly. Feeling he was failing Sam once again, he whispered, "No."
"Or maybe I should ask," Sam continued, as if Frodo's answer had been expected, "do you remember what was here?"
Frodo continued to look at the tree a moment more and then remembered. "There used to be an old stump here once," he said slowly. "I don't see it now. But I don't remember the tree."
Sam gave a short fond chuckle. "Ah, but you do still see the stump, Frodo. It's still there too."
Frodo gave a quick glance at Sam, who seemed to be looking at the tree almost with pride, and then back again to the oak. "Lightening," he said slowly. "I remember. Lightening hit the tree the year before we left, and there was only a stump left."
"Aye, the Gaffer was right," Sam replied with pride. "He said to me to leave that stump be, not to be too hasty about pulling it up for dead. He said that it sometimes takes time, but if the wood was true to start with, it can come back. And now just look at it."
Suddenly the night seemed warmer and the stars all the brighter. Sam's arm about his shoulders was firm and held Frodo close. Frodo took in a deep breath of the fragrant night air and heard the rustle above of the golden leaves of the oak. What Sam had said earlier came back to him again and now he wasn't afraid to ask. "Who is the "who" you spoke of, Sam?" he asked quietly.
Sam looked back at him, moonlight glinting a silvery gold on his hair, and answered with a tender smile, "You, of course. It's always been you."
"And the "what"?"
"Whatever you wish to give me, Frodo-love. As long as you give yourself, and me, time and a chance."
And as he kissed Sam for the first time under the starry sky, he felt, for the first time in his life, true hope fill his heart for peace, healing, and love.