Work Text:
Sam felt the world coming to an end.
It was something he never thought he’d feel, a thing that was too big and too grand for one of his sort to grasp. He had never thought in terms of permanent darkness, only in winters, which always led to springs.
Perhaps, for a while now, he’d secretly known that he was on his way towards an early death. But he had not considered a collapse of this degree. Things had never before looked so grim. And it wasn’t just him. This was the real end of the road, for all its travellers.
Maybe he’d known something like this was possible, yes, in the way that many things that never happen are possible. He’d worried, certainly. Not in front of Frodo, who had worried far more, but he’d had his thoughts. A fair few of them. He’d heard everyone talk, in Rivendell, in Moria, in Lothlórien. Sam may have come from simple origins, but he wasn’t slow – at least, not as slow as folk tended to assume. He’d always listened to what his mor knowledgeable companions had to say, and he’d known from the beginning that there was a great deal at stake.
But, well, he’d always figured it would turn out. Was he foolish for that? It turned out in Mr. Bilbo’s stories. So what was wrong with this one? Why had no unexpected help arrived in the final hour? Why had their options so definitively run out? Why was it that Sam was standing here, alone, feeling his last shreds of hope evaporate into torrid air? He didn’t know what sort of conclusion he’d anticipated, but he knew this wasn’t it.
He was not really alone, technically, though that was hardly a comfort in this moment. Frodo was here, somewhere, invisible as he was. Untouchable and unknowable as he was.
It was another foolish thing, but before Frodo put on the Ring, Sam had thought that they were going to do this together. That out of some unspoken pact, some unrealised and powerful affection, they would complete this quest without ever turning on each other or losing sight of their ultimate goal.
He had sensed the dangerous nature of his own unregulated optimism, but had failed to address it, if, in fact, it could have been addressed at all. It had been apparent to him for the last few days that Frodo really was very far gone. Though he’d tried not to think about it, aiming instead to persist onward at any cost, Sam did notice that Frodo had stopped speaking to him, that he didn’t seem to know exactly where he was, that he constantly reached for the thing around his neck and even seemed to see and hear things that Sam couldn’t. Still, in spite of all of this, he’d never pushed Sam away before now. He had allowed Sam to walk by his side, to hold his hands in both comfort and restraint, to carry him.
I carried him , Sam thought to himself, angrily. And what had that all come to? To this ?
It wasn’t really Frodo he was angry with. He should have expected this. It had been his self-appointed duty to anticipate the things that Frodo could not. The call of the Ring had nearly gotten to Sam when he’d worn it, even for such a short time. It had inspired violence and deceit in everyone who’d ever possessed it at length, and Frodo was its natural final victim.
So what did I think was going to happen? Sam thought miserably. Unfortunately, he did know the answer to that question. He thought he could care for Frodo so well that the Ring wouldn’t matter in the end. Samwise had earned his name’s meaning in assuming that the love of a gardener could outlast whatever dark and archaic magic gripped Frodo now. They’d never really stood a chance at all.
For an instant, there had possibly been a way out. The creature Gollum had attacked Frodo when he claimed the Ring, and Sam had hoped it might buy him some time to find a solution. If Gollum got ahold of the Ring, Sam would not hesitate to use his sword and take it by force, and then, hopefully, he would be sick enough of the awful thing that he’d be able to destroy it himself. He had no qualms about hurting Gollum. It was Frodo that was the problem.
But then, in their grappling for the Ring, Frodo had apparently won. Though Sam couldn’t see him, he did see Gollum’s hands lose purchase on the invisible body, and the creature, the thing that Sam had spent so much time loathing, was sent stumbling over the edge of the rocky cliffside into the searing depths below. And Sam suddenly felt a horrible, overwhelming remorse.
That had all happened about three seconds ago. And in that time, Sam had begun to grieve his every mistake, for the world was coming to an end and he didn’t know what to do. Where was Frodo? He’d lost track. He’d been distracted with Gollum’s falling, his ghastly scream. Frodo could have left this place already. If he was quick and confident, which Sam knew him to be, he could have made his way back down the path without notice, leaving Sam here alone. Surely, the secrecy of their mission had vanished and both their presences were known by now. The Ring had made sure of that. Would Sam be caught here? Would he be killed? Would Frodo?
‘Frodo!’ Sam yelled desperately, not expecting an answer. He coughed as he glanced around in vain, his throat not taking kindly to the mangled call. Water had not touched his lips in days.
Why you? he wondered to himself. Why are you the only one left? Anyone else woulda found a solution. Strider or Gandalf would know what to do. Mr. Frodo, in his right mind, how he used to be, would solve this. He’d do better, at least. Why’s it up to Samwise Gamgee, the gardener’s son, in the end? You’re nothin’ at all. Nothin’ at all, Sam Gamgee.
But right as he was about to give it all up to mourn his failure, Sam noticed a small bloom of dust a few feet away, close to the cliff’s edge.
As if someone had disturbed it with a small, intentional step.
He couldn’t afford to think twice. Sam lunged forward with another desperate shout, this one wordless. For an instant, he thought he might have been wrong, and he would just end up dashing his face against the rocky ground.
Then, his body made contact with another, and they both fell together.
Frodo screamed as well, first in surprise, then, as Sam tackled him to the ground, in a tone so very cold and desperate. He commanded, “Don’t touch me! This is mine! My reward! My fate! Get your hands off me!”
Sam grappled with him, trying to get ahold of Frodo’s right hand. If he could just get the Ring off, he could fix this. He had a chance.
‘Please, just listen!’ he begged. Frodo fought him, kicking at Sam’s legs in an effort to get free of his hold. ‘Mr. Frodo, you’ve got to give me the Ring!’
‘I always knew you wanted it,’ Frodo’s voice sneered. ‘I should never have trusted you for an instant.’ Sam managed to catch one of his wrists, but he immediately felt a solid blow to his face from the other invisible hand. The pain, resonating through his jaw and in his teeth, almost made him lose his grip, but he couldn’t afford to have Frodo slip away again. He forced himself not to acknowledge it and the layers of hurt it was causing him, catching Frodo’s other hand quickly in his own, pinning him down.
Sam hated this. It was sickening, to have to handle so harshly the body of one he had only ever tried to protect. He wanted to go home. He wanted to be in the garden, shaking Frodo’s hand politely at the end of the day. It didn’t matter that he had only ever tried to be kind. It didn’t matter that Frodo had only ever been kind either. It had all ended here, with them fighting and hurting each other and betraying the friendship that had gotten them so far. Where were the soft touches they’d shared so recently? Where was the Frodo Baggins who had called him a marvel, friend of friends , Samwise the Stouthearted? Why did Sam have to go to such lengths to even have any hope of seeing that Frodo again? It was all questions without answers. This shouldn’t have to happen. It all felt wrong.
‘Frodo,’ Sam said, having no more strength to yell. He grasped for the Ring. He could feel it, impossibly hot, improbably cold, at the base of Frodo’s finger. Closing his own fingers around it, he tried to pull with fierce conviction. It didn’t budge. He tried again. It wasn’t moving. Not at all. ‘Please,’ he asked again. He was so tired, but he was so close. ‘Frodo, let it go, please,’ he said, nearly defeated ‘I love you.’
The Ring stayed firmly in place.
‘You lie!’ Frodo countered easily. He continued to struggle against Sam, but he was weaker now. Despite the Ring’s power, its bearer was still starved and wounded. Words were his only way out of this. ‘You don’t care! You deceive me for your own gain!’
‘It’s the Ring that’s doin’ that!’ Sam cried. ‘Why won’t it just come off?!’
‘It’s mine,’ Frodo answered confidently. ‘It’s chosen me. It won’t let me go now.’ He laughed, as if Sam should have known this.
As he held Frodo’s hand in his, Sam realised he was right. The Ring had made itself smaller.
Sam hadn’t known it could do that, but it made perfect sense. If it could be worn by a Dark Lord, by a man, by a hobbit, it would have to be able to change. And now, as if it knew that Sam wished to destroy it, it was trying to make itself part of Frodo, constricting his hand, binding itself to him. It was impossible to remove.
‘If you wish to get rid of it, you’ll have to throw me into the fire,’ Frodo challenged. ‘Would you really do that, Sam?’
It was like the Ring itself was taunting him. It was right, too. Frodo was right. Sam wouldn’t sacrifice him. Not even to save the entire world.
‘So let me go,’ Frodo said, as if he knew what Sam was thinking. ‘Just let me go. Let me leave. Let me have this, if you care as much as you claim to. And I won’t hurt you, Sam. I’ll just take what’s mine and leave.’
What choice did he have? There was no way he could force the Ring off Frodo’s finger. He was going to let the world end. Right here. Because he was weak and he loved too deeply and was no real hero at all, just a gardener. If only his trowel had never been exchanged for a sword.
Then, something occurred to him. He still had his short sword at his waist.
There was still one more thing he could try.
It was horrible. It was an awful thing he was ashamed of even thinking up. There was no guarantee he could even do it correctly if he tried. But Sam still had a little hope left. There was a way out. Even if it was ugly and painful and unforgivable.
They were close enough to the end of the rocks that Sam would not have to worry about the Ring being claimed again. With great effort, he forced Frodo’s right hand towards the edge, trying to hold steady the finger that wore the Ring.
‘What are you doing?’ Frodo’s voice said, wavering as he realised Sam wasn’t giving up.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam whispered, drawing his sword. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr. Frodo. If it won’t let you go,’ he raised the sword, and not having his sight to guide him, prayed only that his aim would be true, ‘then neither will I!’
‘Stop! Don’t–!’
He brought it down.
Instantly, he knew that by some dreadful miracle, it had worked.
A helpless pale hand appeared in the shadow of his blade. The finger which had been claimed by the Ring appeared too, briefly, before Sam saw both the appendage itself and the golden band which encircled it fall from the edge of the rock and plummet into the fires below.
Everything then seemed silent and slow. Blood began to surge from the stricken hand.
Sam staggered back and flung his sword away, with no intention of ever wielding it again. He had done this. He could never undo it.
Though Sam was no longer holding him down, Frodo was still. He didn’t move his bleeding hand. His eyes were wide and unbelieving, and tears streamed down his face. He was defeated. So altered from the malicious and triumphant character his voice had illustrated mere seconds ago. This was the noble Ring-Bearer, the Master of Bag End. This, finally, was Sam’s Mr. Frodo. And Sam had inflicted him with a gruesome injury that would never, ever heal.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sam muttered again, through his own tears. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I never woulda – I thought it was the only – oh, I’m sorry.’ He’d expected, perhaps, to wake up from this nightmare by now. But it just kept on.
‘It’s gone,’ Frodo gasped, his voice suddenly weak and hoarse. ‘I…I can’t feel it anymore.’
The whole earth seemed to rumble and shift in that instant, as if the mountain itself wanted to be rid of the two of them. Parts of the strange cavern began cracking and collapsing, pieces of rock tumbling towards them from above.
‘Let’s go, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam insisted. He held out his hand, hoping, despite the terrible thing he had just done, that Frodo would still trust him enough to take it.
After a moment of thought, confusion, or hesitation – Sam didn’t know which – Frodo allowed himself to be helped to his feet by way of his unmarred left hand. He stumbled, though, and caught the front of Sam’s shirt with the other, immediately staining it with a dark stripe of blood.
Sam pretended not to notice it as he pulled them both towards the cavern’s exit, but he knew he had spilled that blood, and he wondered if it would ever stop spilling now. If this had all been in vain, if he had done this thing just to prolong Frodo’s pain and suffering before their inevitable end…He couldn’t think like that, though the state of things just kept looking grimmer.
The Ring was destroyed, but that alone was not to be their salvation. Of course it wasn’t that simple. Of course.
Entering into the open air, they were still surrounded by flames on all sides. They found themselves seeking hurried refuge on a bit of rock that was, for the moment, untouched by the rising fire. But there was no way to move elsewhere now.
Once he had found steady footing on their rapidly diminishing haven, Sam tore off a part of his shirtsleeve, which had been so tattered already that further destruction was hardly difficult. He knelt down to Frodo, took his hand, and wrapped the thin material around the bleeding space where his finger had been. It was futile, he knew. The fabric, once white, now verging on a greyish brown, was dyed entirely red in mere seconds.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. If he continued saying it from now until the very imminent end of his life, it wouldn’t be enough. ‘I shouldna done it. I thought…I guess that I could save us. But I’m a damned fool, Mr. Frodo.’ He choked out a sob as he tried to look Frodo in the eyes. His eyes, still blue as ever, had been rimmed with the red of exhaustion for weeks, framed by permanent dirt and grime ever since their water had run out. His eyes conveyed such tiredness and resignation, yet remained wide with new fright and new pain, searching for something and not understanding it. He had seen so much, even things that Sam had not. And the view before him, this hopeless fiery tableau, was perhaps – no, it was – the last ever thing he’d set his eyes on. It was more dismal than anything.
Sam apologised again and again.
‘Trouble yourself no further,’ Frodo whispered. He let his body fall forward, pushing himself into Sam’s arms, which granted him ingress, automatically and in the usual way. Even as he was running out of things to appreciate, Sam at least knew it was a great blessing that they would perish at peace with each other, not struggling violently as they had been moments ago.
‘Sam,’ Frodo said, his breath solid and ragged against the side of Sam’s neck.‘You've let me die free. By your side. There’s no greater gift. I’m glad to be with you.’
All of his shame in these matters gone, Sam hugged Frodo close to him. He reveled in all of the little movements he could feel. The rise and fall of his chest. Trembling shoulders and uneven breaths. The dampness of tears, of sweat, of blood. So many small signs of life in a dead and dying place. Sam found comfort in knowing he would not live long enough to have to let go.
***
In Minas Tirith, things came further undone.
Or rather, things attempted to reconstruct themselves, but the end result was wrong.
In the wake of their unlikely rescue, a feat of survival he should have been immensely glad for, Sam was finding the consequences difficult. After the day of his and Frodo’s awakening, he began to understand that what he had done in his most desperate hour would follow Frodo for the rest of his life. His guilt overwhelmed him, and even though Frodo had tactfully avoided telling anyone what had really happened to his hand, Sam could hardly bear to be in a room with him.
He was afraid, above all. Afraid that if he tried to talk to Frodo, tried to apologise again or offer some sort of recompense, he’d find that he was no longer in the good graces of his master. After all, it was one thing to accept the loss of a finger when the loss of life itself was presumed to come next. But it was quite another to have to live with and try to heal such a grievous injury when it had been inflicted by someone who was and remained close.
It must have been painful enough to deal with on the daily, and Sam didn’t want to add to it. Not wanting to hurt Frodo any more than he already had, he kept his distance, even if he longed to ask Frodo if he was all right and if he retained any bitter feelings about this offence.
Eventually, it had been long enough that Sam decided he could never ask. He resolved to go back to being just a gardener. From here, he would defer to Frodo’s authority. He would speak when spoken to. He would stop trying to pretend he was anything bold or brave or noble whatsoever. When they returned to the Shire, he would not expect any friendship from Frodo beyond that which would have been delivered to an ordinary employee.
Whatever had grown between them during their journey together, whatever devout affection had forced Sam into his actions upon Mount Doom, that had been relinquished by the blow his sword delivered. He had no claim to it anymore. The best thing he could do for Frodo was to disappear back into his station as a servant. Perhaps Frodo’s hand would always be a reminder of what had taken place that day, but Sam was determined that he himself would not be. He was done involving himself in matters he had no place in, though he suffered immensely from his own unspoken ruminations and decisions and he thought of Frodo in every waking moment.
***
It was a warm summer night, and Frodo awoke in the middle of it, feeling as if he’d just been having a dream that was now gone from his mind without hope of resurfacing.
One of his nicer awakenings, to be sure.
Never certain where he was when he woke up nowadays, Frodo took a moment to reacquaint himself with his surroundings. The hills on the outer edges of Rohan. They were returning to the Shire at last – he, Merry, Pippin, and Sam, accompanied, for the time being, by Gandalf. Until now, they’d been progressing rather leisurely, paying a visit to Fangorn and Rohan after leaving Minas Tirith. But now, their real goal was in sight. Home. They still would not arrive for months, as there was no reason to hurry the way they had before, no reason to walk from sunrise to sundown without pausing for rest.
There was plenty of rest on this second, kinder journey. Plenty of time for contemplation as well, which displeased Frodo more often than not. His contemplations failed to lead him anywhere useful, and with Sam acting distant lately, he felt he had no one to share them with.
The moon was high, and the fire they had lit in the evening still burned. Frodo had not been sure about the fire, but he’d ultimately taken Gandalf’s word that it would be all right to have.
The wizard was asleep, or appeared to be. Frodo didn’t know if he really slept or if he needed to. However, he felt safe enough with Gandalf’s presence regardless, so he didn’t inquire any more than he needed to. He was probably losing the innate curiosity that he’d carried with him since childhood. That was all right. It was too tiring to be curious in a world like this. After his Uncle Bilbo’s old Ring, Frodo wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of any more secrets.
Merry and Pippin were also snoring softly nearby. As if the day’s walking had not been enough, they’d strolled around the area near to their camp after dinner, smoking and chatting and racing each other to the top of a few of the small hills in the vicinity. It was no wonder they slept so well.
And Sam… as Frodo looked around, he saw that Sam’s bedroll was empty. It was not an immediate cause for concern, he tried to tell himself. Even if Sam typically slept soundly through the night without moving an inch. After widening his field of observation with slight alarm, Frodo luckily found him in seconds.
Sam was walking away from the camp, his silhouette disappearing into the taller grasses. His cloak and pack remained with his bedroll, so Frodo knew he would return soon enough. He closed his eyes. Certainly, he was waiting for Sam to get back before he could really sleep again. It would just comfort him more to know they were all here together.
Some time passed, and Frodo became a bit more apprehensive. After waiting for another interval with his eyes open, he sighed to himself and got up.
Following Sam was overdoing it, but Frodo couldn’t help his worries. Even if it might be inconvenient to have to explain them when he inevitably discovered that Sam was enjoying the night air in perfect health and wellbeing.
Heading in the same direction that he had seen Sam go, Frodo contemplated this friendship of his. Initially, he’d been reluctant even to allow Sam to leave the Shire with him. He’d tried many times to declare his journey a solitary one. Now, though, their roles were reversed. Now it was Sam who wandered off alone and Frodo who was desperate to follow him.
Of course, he knew Sam needed to take some time to himself. The events upon Mount Doom had scarred them both – Frodo physically, and Sam in perhaps some other way. Indeed, it had taken Frodo a while to come to terms with what had happened to his hand, though he blamed himself for it more than anything. He could tell that it still unnerved Sam, and he had tried never to call attention to it, but it had been months by now. Avoidance had grown tiring, and he found himself needing Sam more than ever.
And then there was the secondary issue. Some of his need was of a nature he could not define. However, the strength of it was frightening. He knew it was not just the closeness of their quest that he aimed to recapture. Indeed, he had begun longing for things he had never actually had before. Every word spoken between them, every sparing touch, most of which were accidental these days, weighed on Frodo’s mind. There was not a single other soul who had ever conquered his thoughts and feelings as thoroughly as Sam.
Walking quietly under the clear night sky, Frodo was looking for answers for these internal questions that continued to ask themselves relentlessly.
He could still see the dim glow of their camp’s fire in the distance when he heard the gentle rush of a nearby stream. The first he saw of it was the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the water, then, the bend it made off to the left, where the stream continued winding through the hills and plains that his company would traverse come morning, and lastly, Sam, sitting alone at its bank.
Not thinking he could possibly be an imposition, Frodo sat down beside him.
His approach had been masked by the sound of flowing water, so Sam startled a bit when he saw he had company. But surprisingly, upon seeing it was Frodo, he said nothing and instead turned his face away.
Somewhat hurt by this reception, Frodo ventured to ask him, ‘Is something the matter, Sam?’
His query received nothing but a simple shake of the head.
‘You’ll not get away with that,’ Frodo said, hoping a lighter quip might encourage Sam to speak what was on his mind. ‘You always pestered me about how I was, if I was sleeping well, if I was eating. You must allow me to do the same.’
Sam turned to look at him ever-so-briefly, and in that instant, Frodo caught sight of a watery glistening in his eyes.
‘Are you crying, Sam?’ he asked, much more carefully.
A loud sob broke his silence, and seeming ashamed of it, Sam quickly wiped his tears with his hand.
Feeling that he was in some way responsible for this, Frodo was moved to comfort him in whatever way he could. He reached out a hand, not sure if he should place it anywhere, instead opting to leave it hovering in the air.
‘Let me be a friend to you,’ he said. ‘Please.’
Seeing the offered hand, Frodo’s right hand, as it happened, Sam took it gently with both of his own and bowed his head. Frodo felt a few wet teardrops on his open palm.
Thinking he could very easily begin crying himself if Sam suffered any longer, Frodo shifted onto his knees and wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders.
‘Mr. Frodo…’ he began, as if he might again deny that anything was wrong. Then, he was wracked with another sob as he gave into the embrace. Frodo encouraged it gently, attempting not to show how startled he was when Sam pulled him closer and began to cry with his face pressed against Frodo’s chest.
Though taken aback, Frodo was glad to see that Sam had responded to his attempts. But he was confused, more than anything, as to what had brought this on. Nevertheless, he felt the time for questions was still a ways off. He settled for trying to repeatedly run his hand over parts of Sam’s curly hair in a way that he hoped would imply that there was nothing to be ashamed of.
Eventually, through his lamentations, Sam managed to say, ‘Oh, could you ever forgive me?’
The words were felt more than they were heard. In these warm months, Frodo often left the top few buttons of his shirt undone when he went to sleep, so by chance, Sam’s breath, and tears as well, graced his bare skin. Frodo happened also to feel what he thought might be the briefest brush of lips in movement, and though he knew that it was all completely accidental, he could not pretend that it didn’t excite in him a small tender thrill.
But Frodo was a committed enough friend and confidant that he was more presently compelled by Sam’s mournful tone, which seemed to imply that he feared the answer to his question was already long since decided.
‘What do you mean?’ he said, pulling back to sit in the grass again. He had to admit that physical comfort was more Sam’s skill than his own. He was always far too aware of himself.
‘What I did to you, sir, your poor hand,’ Sam explained, drying his eyes on his sleeve. ‘I can’t stop thinking of it. I’ll never be anythin’ else but that. Oh, but I tried awful hard not to let you know I thought of it so much, I didn’t want more trouble for you… I didn’t want you to have to pretend it was all right for my sake. But I know you’ll never forgive me.’ Frodo tried to interject, but Sam continued on too rapidly. ‘I was supposed to protect you, Mr. Frodo,’ he insisted. ‘I never wanted to hurt you! Never in my life! But I have now, and I’ve failed at the only thing I was ever good for. I wanted to be your faithful companion, and instead I’m the fool who cost you your finger…’ His shoulders began to shake again.
‘Is this why you’ve avoided me for so long?’ Frodo sighed. ‘Listen, Sam. You’re right only in that one of us is singularly responsible for the injury I’ve suffered. But it isn’t you. You may have inflicted it, but I forced its necessity.’
‘How can you talk like that?’ Sam asked, his tears now replaced by sudden frustration. ‘Like you’ve just accepted it?’
‘I have accepted it,’ Frodo told him. ‘It caused me pain in the moment and it has caused me more every day since. But there was no other way you could have removed the Ring from me. Not with words, not with force. As a gardener, you must know that sometimes the dead, poisoned parts of something must be cut off for any life at all to persist. This is no different. There are many, I’m sure, who would have chosen to kill me, by fire or by sword, instead of doing what you did.’
‘No,’ Sam said in a faint voice, looking back over the moonlit water. ‘I shoulda found another way. I don’t wanna think hurtin’ you was the only thing.’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t,’ Frodo conceded, though it wasn’t what he believed. He had known, even before Sam had unsheathed his blade, that the only way to separate him from the Ring would be through some form of violent severance. When he had chosen to take it for himself, he had given up each and every kinder possibility for its destruction. ‘But it is what brought us out of that place together. For that, I not only forgive you, but thank you as well.’
Sam did not offer a response, now directing his gaze up towards the sky. Frodo knew he loved the stars awfully. It was an aspect of Sam he had never seen until spending so many nights by his side. Even in their darkest days, he had always been hoping to catch one last glimpse of even a single star. Could he not see that his own actions, though unpleasant, were the only reason they were both here to witness the vastness of this particular night?
‘Are you concerned that folk back home will know?’ Frodo wondered. ‘Because I will never so carelessly reveal what has happened to you and me. I wish not to attempt to explain even my own actions.’
‘That isn’t what worries me,’ Sam said. ‘But thank you, Mr. Frodo, for keepin’ it between us.’
‘What worries you, then?’ Frodo placed his hand atop Sam’s. This time, it felt far more instinctual. He was willing to do anything to repair this fracture; he cared not who had caused it.
‘Well, I’ve wronged you, haven’t I?’ Sam said. ‘And you’ve forgiven me so easily, I feel I’ve gotten away with somethin’ horrible. I’ll never feel right about it.’
‘Ah.’ How could he set everything right if Sam would not forgive himself? It seemed out of his hands. Then, a thought occurred to him, and although he was not entirely certain it was a solution, Frodo decided to pursue it. It would cost him, but if there was a chance that Sam would feel a bit better about everything, or at least, a bit less ashamed, he’d do it.
‘Would you be easier on yourself if I were to commit some wrong against you?’ Frodo proposed. ‘That way we’ll be on equal footing.’
Sam seemed surprised by the offer, or maybe it was the good-natured way in which Frodo had spoken it. Still, he accepted. ‘Sure, sir. I know I deserve it, at any rate.’
‘Close your eyes, then.’
Sam obliged, facing Frodo with his eyes shut. His body was tensed, as if he was afraid he might receive some sort of strike. Frodo, who hadn’t wanted to give even the vaguest impression that he would actually hurt Sam, was beginning to sorely regret this.
‘Go on,’ Sam insisted.
Frodo carefully touched his palm to the side of Sam’s face, wanting to communicate that he meant no harm. Sam flinched at first, not having known what to expect. He then put his own hand over Frodo’s, holding it in place. A few tears fell from his closed eyes, and Frodo brushed them away with his thumb. He had better not prolong this.
‘It’s all right, Sam,’ Frodo whispered, before kissing him.
He knew immediately that this was what he had been wanting, the unnamed heartache within him. It was, of course, not proper of him to use such a vulnerable opportunity to explore the nature of that thing, but he had promised a wrongdoing, and indeed, was delivering it.
Frodo knew he could not draw it out as long as he desired to, but he felt almost encouraged by the firm hold Sam’s hand maintained on his own. Other than that, Sam was very still.
‘Apologies,’ Frodo said, moving back ever-so-slightly. He was still far too close, and he could not direct his eyes away from Sam’s just-barely parted lips.
When he had decided upon his transgression, he had not known how suddenly he would feel the need to repeat it, nor how desperately he would want it committed against him in turn. Still, he was wary of the mistakes he’d made with the Ring, and he knew there was a limit to how much he could take for himself. This would have to suffice.
‘I don’t understand,’ Sam said eventually. ‘Are you makin’ fun of me?’
‘No,’ Frodo quickly assured, not knowing how he could have come to that conclusion. ‘I’ve done something shameful to you, just as you believe you’ve done to me. We’re perfectly even, and we needn’t dwell on either misdeed.’
‘Well,’ Sam said, as if he might oppose that way of thinking. Then, he changed his tone. ‘I suppose if that’s what you want, sir.’
‘You want something different?’ Frodo asked, intrigued. Hopeful.
‘It would mess things up again, to be certain, but… well, Mr. Frodo, you know everythin’ I’ve done was for your sake, even if I didn’t always do right by you,’ he mumbled, timid but earnest, ‘and I can’t pretend to know what you’re tryin’ to get at or what sort of game you’re playin’, but I’ll make a fool of myself one more time and tell you, if you really do forgive me…that I’d sure like to kiss you again.’
Frodo hardly hesitated this time, allowing himself only a second to smile before meeting his companion’s lips a second time. Now, it was Sam who reached to hold Frodo’s face in his hands. The surface of his palms was rough, perhaps from recent toils, perhaps from decades of hard work, it was hard to say. What Frodo did know was that his body ached to be touched by those hands in every place.
And his mouth, so soft and inviting. His lips, so perfect in shape and so precise in their affection. Frodo wondered why he had never before realised that this was exactly what he wanted. How many months he had spent with Sam, and the possibility of them, like this, had never once crossed his mind.
He recalled, only in this instant, that Sam had tried to tell him he loved him on Mount Doom. He hadn’t listened then, but he saw now that it had been the honest truth, and the realisation inspired him to move with even deeper passion.
Frodo reclined onto the grass, pulling Sam down with him. Lying on his back with one of Sam’s arms around him, he stretched his right hand upwards to caress Sam’s cheek, indicating that he should lower himself completely and join their lips again.
‘Is this really all right?’ he asked Frodo in a low voice. ‘You’re not afraid I might hurt you?’
Frodo saw what he meant. The last time they had been this close was when Sam had pinned him to the ground on the rocks above the Cracks of Doom. In his fugue of hatred and blindness, Frodo had seen Sam as his enemy then. But the Ring, along with its Dark Lord, had been the driving force. Every fracture between Frodo and his companions had been its fault, not Frodo’s, and absolutely not Sam’s. He only had to observe how far they had come without it to know that was the case.
He placed his four-fingered hand atop his own chest and told Sam to hold it. Reluctantly, he did. Frodo laced their fingers together. The gap where he was missing one was sore to the touch, but the pain was dull and he had faced far worse.
‘I’m not afraid, my Sam,’ he said. ‘I know you.’
Then, his mouth was met once again with the pleasurable warmth of many tender efforts.
They continued like this for some time, finding other places to kiss and touch each other, speaking countless words of affection in between until they were both profusely flushed.
When the sky began to take on a lighter hue, they decided they should head back to their company. Morning in its true form would not arrive for several hours, but they had been gone for long enough to cause worry if one of their friends happened to wake.
‘You know, in just over a month, we’ll stop in Rivendell,’ Frodo said, rebuttoning his shirt, which had come almost entirely undone. ‘And…I should be glad if you wanted to spend some time alone with me when we get there.’
‘I’d be glad of it, too,’ Sam said, blushing as he understood Frodo’s meaning.
‘We’ll just have to be a bit subtle until then.’
‘Not at all a bad secret to have to keep,’ Sam remarked pleasantly.
The returned to their camp hand-in-hand, and in what remained of the darkness, Sam quietly moved his bedroll next to Frodo’s. He fell asleep first, still clutching Frodo’s right hand.
Frodo knew without a doubt that they were well and truly safe now, and that neither of them would ever have to hurt the other again.