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“I never did share a dance with you.”

Starlight crept through layers of forest, faintly illuminating the wilted greenery and soil they’d camped on for the evening. The wilderness remained utterly still – the quiet of momentary peace, rather than the silent approach of danger. A rare glimpse of calm in the eye of their quest.

“Pardon?"

“I never shared a dance with you.” Sam shoved himself upward against the thin and snarled trunk of the nearest tree, shaking off the elven cloak he’d bundled around him. “I was meaning to, at you and Bilbo’s party, but then there was all that business with him going and disappearing, and I didn’t get the chance. And I woke up the next morning and I said, ‘Samwise, you fool, you’ve got to get that dance the next chance you’ve got, ‘cause you don’t know when it’s gonna Mr. Frodo off disappearing next.’ But every chance I got I was lending a hand with all the affairs of the party, or I was nervous and giddy all tween-like, and now we’re out here in indecent places, and I ain’t ever even asked you.”

“You danced with Rosie, though, didn’t you?” Frodo asked.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna dance with both of you.”

Frodo rose. A whisper of a smile graced his face.

“You’ve followed my step this far,” he said, his voice ringing clear and largely unburdened by grief for the first time in months. “A dance is the smallest form of payment I can offer you in return.”

Sam glanced upward. Frodo’s pale hand, glistening almost iridescent in the light of the moon, stretched toward him. New callouses shredded his palm, and grime infested the creases and lifeline. But it was still the same hand that passed Sam mugs of ale, that had written letters of thanks left on the garden beds, that had held open tomes borrowed from Bilbo’s library. 

It was an offering. A promise of softness and innocence in the whirlwind of the larger world’s uncaring sharpness.

“Now, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. “I ain’t expecting payment for any of this.”

“I know, Sam.”

“That’s not why I’m doing this, sir.”

“I know, Sam.”

The hand remained.

Sam curled his fingers around Frodo’s wrist before being wrenched upright. His feet faltered under the suddenness of the pull, and he stumbled into Frodo’s chest, but Frodo simply let out a clipped laugh and set him straight.

“You’re going to want your right arm here–” Frodo adjusted Sam’s grip until his hand splayed across the middle of his back. “And your left hand here.” Their sides pressed against each other, close enough that Sam could feel what little warmth radiated from Frodo, as their remaining hands clasped together.

“Begging your pardon, but I do know how to dance.”

“One can never be too careful.”

Frodo sidestepped to the right. Sam followed.

“I have rather missed this,” Frodo said.

A step to the left. Sam followed.

“For so long, I dreamt of leaving the Shire behind and following in Bilbo’s footsteps. But now that I’m here, I find myself aching for pieces of home. Fresh fruit from the market. Flowers blooming in spring. Dances under the party tree.”

Frodo rocked back on his right foot, leaning to the side before swiveling forward. Sam followed.

“And we’re gonna make it back, and we’ll have all those things. We’ll have a proper dance. Your Sam’s gonna make sure of it.”

Twigs crunched beneath their feet, and damp leaves coated their soles, but they slid into the next steps regardless.

“You always manage to lift your spirits above the shadow,” Frodo murmured. “It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

Sam turned to meet Frodo’s crystalline gaze. He stood with his back straight and his shoulders open, as unburdened as Sam had seen him since they’d left the Shire.

He wished, as he had a million times before, it had been anyone other than Frodo.

But this was their task. And he would follow him there, and he would follow him home.

He was shaken from his thoughts by the press of a kiss to his forehead, lingering and gentle.

“Forgive me for repeating old sentiments.” Frodo turned to kiss his cheek, the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth. “But I’m glad you’re with me.”

They stood, one dark silhouette against the stars, lips meeting under cover of night.

<3<3<3

Darkness wheeled overhead. No break in the churning black, save for the dulled orange light of fire and ash billowing from the mountain.

Frodo’s back lay flush to Sam’s chest. Sam couldn’t know the full weight of the Ring, not save for those few moments Frodo’s path became one he couldn’t take – but he could feel every tremble and shiver of his worn down figure against his own, and he could faintly catch the scent of iron from his raw and bleeding neck.

“I’m real awful sorry, sir.”

His fingers, rough and scabbed, tucked a lock of Frodo’s matted hair behind his ear.

“I made a promise, ” Sam whispered. “I said we were going there and back again. I told you I was gonna bring you home. But I can’t work out how to do it.”

An involuntary gasp stuttered in his lungs. The beginnings of tears pinpricked his eyes, but did not fall.

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it back, Mr. Frodo.”

The stars still shone beyond the perpetual shroud concealing them. Sam knew some lights never dimmed. But they could be hidden, and from the jagged rock of Mordor, the distinction between the two became far less clear.

“I said I wasn’t gonna leave you. It would’ve killed me if I’d left you behind, that’s for certain. And if this is the job, I’m glad to do it. My mind’s long been made up on that.”

His hand fell to Frodo’s chest. The outline of each rib could be made out with more ease than the beating of his heart.

“But I should’ve liked to share a proper dance with you. Under the lights of the party tree, all shimmering like one of old Gandalf’s fireworks. Where we’re supposed to be.” 

Frodo’s unsteady fingers searched for the Ring, small breaths quickening as he fumbled for it. Sam caught Frodo’s right hand in his left. He lifted the paired hands to his lips, leaving a cracked and bloodstained kiss on Frodo’s knuckle.

“I should’ve liked for the end to be happy.”

They lay, one dark silhouette atop the rock, wishing that if it couldn't well, it could at least end mercifully.