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There are lots of times when Frodo felt to Sam, like a distant house with its lights on, shining atop some far off hill. It felt as if he might long to be within those warm windows for the rest of his life, and never come any closer. Only ever guessing what was going on inside, watching from afar its comings and goings.
It was at times like these when Sam would wish, stupidly because it really was a ridiculous thing, that they were still traveling on their way to Mordor, infinite weight upon their shoulders. At least then it would have made sense for them to crumble, to fall apart. But not now, not now that they were safe and home.
But that was one of the things he had learned on their adventure (if it could even be called an adventure now); That you could surely go off, that your feet could take you infinite distances, so vast your mind could not quite comprehend them. You could go, and you could do something brave or something noble or something awful or something kind. And there would be no limit to how far your legs could take you, no matter if they were small. And all that was well and good, at times even proper grueling, but it was nothing compared to how hard it was to come home. That was the real challenge.
But he would not dwell on that tonight. No, not tonight when the Brandywine was flowing warm and lazy through secluded woods. Not when the wild strawberries of spring were in full bloom, not when Frodo was here with him. Not just here, but here. Not when they were all together again. Tonight was too precious for thoughts like that.
Originally it had just been Merry and Pippin who’d snuck out of the Green Dragon, intent to take a dip, but company had soon followed, and now even Gandalf had his feet in the shallow pooled edges of the Brandywine. Gimli was floating on his back in the water, his beard spiraled out around him. Perched on a nearby rock, Legolas was attempting to land leaves on his chest with quick flicks of his practiced wrist.
Frodo and Aragorn were playing chicken against Pippin and Merry, creating quite the spectacle as they brawled.
He and Gandalf watched it from a small distance, half in half out of the water. Sam felt a great happiness spreading through him at the sight. His beloved friends getting to enjoy the best of The Shire, on a night like the ones he dreamed of while they were journeying abroad. No danger lurking around every corner. No dark riders emerging from the night. The tower of Mordor had crumbled, and with it all the evil that had paralyzed men twice his size, twice his character.
And Frodo was laughing--laughing! And looking so very alive. If he were really a shell of something, like he so often mumbled in his sleep, he was the most beautiful shell that Sam had ever seen. The type of shell that even the most dutiful beach-combers of Gondor might covet. Maybe an iridescent conch..or an unbroken baby’s ear-
Gandalf’s soft voice beside him, along with a knobbly hand placed on his shoulder roused him from his thoughts.
“You’d do well to pat yourself on the back, Samwise Gamgee.” He rumbled quietly through a cloud of pipe smoke. In the moonlight Gandalf looked to Sam, like one of the marionettes that were popular at fairs when he was young. Carefully yet still somewhat crudely carved of elm, pale paint chipping slightly to reveal the wood beneath. Movements rattling and oaken and familiar.
“Thank you Sir.” He met Gandalf’s eyes meekly under their long bushy brows. He wasn’t sure what he was being praised for, but he did not feel that now was the right time to ask
Gandalf looked as if he were going to say more, but just then Aragorn and Frodo won their chicken game, sending Pippin sailing forward into the river with a garbled exclamation. Gandalf’s hand fell from his shoulder. Legolas was chuckling quietly behind a pale hand.
“Merry! I told you to back up!” Pippin wheeled on his companion as he popped out of the water, running a hand over his eyes and pushing his hair back.
“I told you to let off some of the pressure!” Merry argued back, crossing his arms.
“
You two seem like awfully sore losers.” Frodo smiled as he was let down off Aragorn’s shoulders.
“Come on, let’s have another go.” Pippin frowned incredulously, grasping Aragorn’s arm, as he was in the midst of shaking water out of his hair the way a particularly mangy dog does. “I call the big person.”
“Big person?” Aragorn raised an eyebrow.
“
You can have Merry.”
“
No, no. That’s quite enough for me tonight.” Frodo chuckled, much to the others disappointment. He waded back to shore, catching Sam’s gaze.
As their eyes met, Sam searched him intently for any signs of distress. He’d been doing that a lot lately, taking some sort of mental inventory. Frodo looked as content as he felt, which was a happy rarity. Still, Sam seemed worried.
“Alright Mister Frodo? You didn’t push yerself’ too hard, did ya?” He asked tensely as Frodo sat down next to him, opposite from Gandalf and a good deal closer. His wet clothes made a damp spot on Sam's side.
“I’m fine, really…” He insisted, leaning against Sam’s shoulder; Not quite sleepy, but pleasantly spent.
Aragorn and Pippin were now trying to get Legolas to join the next round. The pair watched in amused silence for a moment.
“I’m glad, you seem so much better t’night.” Their hands laced together, a very easy thing. Sam was secretly worried that now having been named, this sudden betterment might vanish. It was cruel like that sometimes. But Frodo showed no signs of getting worse at present.
He turned Sam’s hand over in his, inspecting his nails which were unfailingly grimy, and the freckles that covered his tan knuckles. People who spent a good deal of time in the sun often aged faster, looking bleached and well-loved as they did. He couldn’t help but entertain the image of Sam looking like that, crows feet and all. He imagined that they might laugh about each other’s bad knees or various other ailments, gripe at each other in a way that only time could perfect. He would have his tea in the early morning, Sam would have his later. Frodo would read at night, Sam would insist he do so aloud. It was the most he’d allowed himself to think about the future for a very long time.
Sam let him clean under his nails as he thought, watching him as he worked. His own much longer thumb nail moved rhythmically left and right beneath Sam’s. Back and forth.
“What are ya’ thinkin’ about?” Sam whispered after a moment.
Legolas had finally allowed Aragorn to drag him into their game, and was now swaying unsteadily atop The King’s shoulders a good distance above Merry, who looked like perhaps he was having second thoughts about agreeing to take part. Pippin beneath him was hopping up and down with excitement, water splashing out rhythmically around him.
“You… the future.” He replied slowly, low enough for only Sam to hear. He squeezed his hand tighter.
“Good things, I’d hope.” Sam chuckled softly.
Frodo drew the back of Sam’s hand to his lips. “Very good things.” He confirmed in a low voice, letting his hand fall.
A silence settled over them. It felt natural, not empty like it could sometimes be, but full to bursting with the ambient sounds of the night, which they held between them like a very fragile and delicate secret. Many things were held between them like that now: Bagend, Mordor, how it felt to bear The Ring. Frodo wondered if it was a selfish thing to be happy that no one could take that away. That if not a roof, or a night, or an age, they would always share something.
Maybe tomorrow morning they’d wake and Frodo would have gotten out of bed in the middle of the night to wander, and they wouldn’t speak for a day or even a week. But tonight everything was perfect.
“Walk with me?” Frodo asked quietly, feeling guilty already for wanting to tear Sam from the scene going on around them, so many friends gathered together. It was a rarity worth enjoying. But he was greedy, he always wanted just a little bit more than he had. And Sam had always been terrible at denying him.
“‘course.” He nodded, helping Frodo up.
Gandalf was the only one who noticed their departure, nodding sagely as they began to walk up the river towards the ferry. The others were too absorbed in their game to pay any mind.
As they walked up the Brandywine, sounds of jubilation faded behind them, the voices of the fellowship mingling with the wind and dying out to faint cries.
T
hey walked until Frodo saw a wide stone set alone in the center of the river, and wading in they stopped and sat on it. Legs crossed, knees brushing, leaning inward until they looked like one of those flower buds that folds in on itself at night and closes, waiting till dawn to open its petals again.
There he and Sam descended into a language they often spoke when they were alone; Half-baked thoughts passed back and forth for the other to look at and hold. The vestiges of conversations that they’d had over and over again. Ones they knew the starts and endings of. Pretense seemed to evaporate in the spring air, leaving what was fragmented and heavy behind.
“Is it bad not to feel--?”
“No, no. It’s not. It’s natural, you can’t help it.
“Do you wish..?”
“Of course I do, every day,”
“But you would never”
“I couldn’t, not after all this time. It’s too far.”
“Even if it got worse.”
“I have faith that it won’t.”
“Do you ever get tired of having faith like that?”
“Do I ever get tired of breathing.”
This particular conversation was very, very old. Frodo thought they may have originally had it in Mordor, or maybe after being imprisoned. A piece of it at least.
He wasn’t rightly sure of any details, all of that time now seemed a blur of sharp metal, blunt rock, blunt pain. Still there came a momentary relief in speaking of it, letting it live between them for a moment. Afterall, horror was only formless terror, and terror was a much easier beast to face.
Together they gave their worst feelings a body. Sallow eyes, sallow skin. Burning flesh, dark cold hands. Heat like you could only imagine. It felt like a terrible indulgence, like they ought to have moved on but could not, out of some propensity to weakness or another similar shortcoming. The story was beautiful in the way that even your own broken skin is beautiful when you live in a world that has no color, no feel.
“You’re sure you’re alright?” Sam asked again when they had at last exhausted themselves of shadowed talk. His hand came up, cupping the side of Frodo’s face.
“Better than I have been in a long time.” Frodo nodded, covering Sam’s hand with his own and closing his eyes. For once, he did not feel he had to lie.
Leaning closer, their foreheads brushed and met, the sound like the soft fell swoop of a bird as it perches. Their curls mingled pleasantly.
“How long d’you think this’ll last?” Sam found himself asking, though he never meant to. The thing inside him that could never stop counting, measuring, rationing, reared its weary head. Three days means we can make it to the end of Gandalf’s visits, that’s three nights side by side, more than twenty meals--His mind began to wander. One day is five or so, which would have to do…if maybe--
“Forever, I hope.” Frodo said at last. Sam’s mind went quiet. He’d never tried to divvy up forever before.
“I’m an optimist,” Sam found himself chuckling softly, thumbing a hollow circle under one of Frodo’s eyes, “But I ain’t no fool.”
“I've never taken you for one.” Frodo said seriously, pressing down on Sam’s hand and opening his bright eyes. They looked through Sam, taking him apart. They reminded him of the way it felt to be under Sauron’s gaze, though somehow it didn’t scare him. It didn’t even make him uneasy. For one of the first times of his life, he wasn’t afraid of being taken apart. It caught him by surprise a little, and he wondered when he had stopped shirking back from things like this, from people who thought they could dissect him. People who figured that when they’d seen the outside, the inside wasn’t too hard to guess at.
Somehow though, this was different, more intimate. Maybe it was because he’d gotten used to the feeling. Maybe it was because it was Frodo.
“
No, no. I reckon you haven’t.”