A forty-fourth fic by Iorhael

AN: Written for Marigold’s Challenge 8. Betaed by Ismenin.

Challenge Bunny No. 5

The first week, or even longer, at Bag End after Sam has returned home from seeing Frodo off at the Grey Havens. How does he cope? How does Rosie cope? What adjustments do they have to make now that the hole is theirs?

He stretched the sore muscles of his back, looking up, squinting around the barren, smoking land surrounding him. He sighed, and gazed down, taking in the peaceful rising and falling of the chest of someone lying over his lap. Watching passionately the stained face, lightly opened, parched lips. There was a little shudder coming from the dozing figure and he tightened his embrace around the back of the neck.

“Having bad dreams again, are you, Mr. Frodo?” he murmured and brushed a cluster of dark, soiled curls off the brow.

“Y’must get them oftener now that we get closer and closer to the Eye.”

The thing that had haunted Frodo ever since he put on the Ring existed not only in his master’s mind now. The Dark Tower stood erect before Sam’s very eyes and the lidless eye glared menacingly out in all directions. Sam winced when realizing that it was staring in their direction and he grabbed Frodo, pulling him into a deeper hiding place behind a rock. The gardener cursed aloud to find that Frodo was awake now.

“Sam,” a cracked voice greeted him. “I’ve fallen asleep again, haven’t I? What a shame.”

Sam bent down.

“No, Mr. Frodo. It’s not ‘again’. You haven’t slept as well for so long. Go to sleep again, dear master.”

Sam’s heart clenched as Frodo’s lids fluttered shut weakly.

“I don’t know if I can, Sam,” sighed Frodo heavily. “Even the last one was laden with nightmares.”

For a moment there was only a sound of a dry breeze. And the lips parted again.

“I’m tired, Sam.”

The gardener had tried to rub his eyes as swiftly as he could but a tear managed to slip out and it dropped gracefully onto Frodo’s cheek, clearing a tiny bit of filth from the spot. But Frodo did not seem to realize that at all.

# -- # -- #

He threw himself into a plush armchair near the hearth and almost immediately bounced up again. He looked horrified, staring wildly at the chair as though it was full of pins. It was not. Actually, Sam was shocked at his own act; almost could not believe how he could be so comfortable sitting on Frodo’s chair. Although his master has gone now, it did not mean that he could use everything that used to belong to Frodo. Or did it?

Sam decided to follow his first instinct and chose a chair near the window instead. He plopped down carelessly. His heart was heavy, and he did not notice a slender figure watching him from the door and finally approaching him.

“Sam?” Sam looked up and met a sympathetic smile.

“Rosie… Ah, Elanor!” And he reached out his arms to accept Elanor, placing a wet kiss upon the baby’s cheek and sitting her down on his lap. Sam smoothed the soft golden curls of his daughter and tilting his face up, welcomed Rose’s warm lips upon his. Rose wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck and whispered tenderly in his ear.

“Welcome home, my love.”

It was such a simple phrase and could not be more true, yet to Sam they felt like the coldest water being poured onto fire, the quietest gust in the middle of summer. Sam felt like being thrown into a reality he had yet to grasp. Was that true? Was he really home? Sam noticed the things surrounding him and the place where all of them sat or stood or lay about. A place Frodo had clearly stated belonged to Sam after he had left.

“But you are my heir: all that I had and might have had I leave to you.”

His young master had inherited Bag End from his cousin, Bilbo, and gave it, then, to Sam. Again the Gamgee looked around the spacious smial he safely could now call his own. (But still, why did he not feel happy about it?) He drew in a deep breath.

“Well, I’m back,” he said.

# -- # -- #

Nonetheless, a certain person would not be back. At least not to the place he should rightly be.

The force of the tides hitting the coastline or the wind pushing away the clouds was not strong enough to haul back the tears flooding down Sam’s cheeks as he turned to Frodo with a start.

“But I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire, too, for years and years, after all you have done.”

Frodo looked composed and his tone did not betray him. But Sam knew somehow he was tearing inside, too.

“So I thought, too, once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger, someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.

# -- # -- #

A hand slowly pressed on his right shoulder.

“I’ve prepared hot water for you. That should be good for your weary muscles.”

Sam absently rubbed at his eyes and turned around to find Rose smiling sadly at him. Faint creases appeared on his brow. Why was she smiling sadly? And why was it difficult for him even to just smile?

“You’re the best, Rose!” he beamed, praying silently he could hide his feelings perfectly. “That’s exactly what I need now.” And he rushed to the washroom in which Rose had filled the washtub with the hot water. Rose’s crushed look was lost on Sam as he closed the door.

# -- # -- #

They had walked and walked. And Sam noticed how Frodo stooped lower and lower every time, to the point where he fell on his hands and knees. Yet not a word of complaint slipped out of those sore lips. Frodo kept going even if he had to crawl.

Sam halted and lifted Frodo from behind, bracing him upon his chest. Frodo’s breath was rasping against Sam’s supporting arms, and after some moments, Frodo had calmed down, and Sam let go of him still letting him lean against him. The gardener reached into his sack.

“Have a nibble, Mr. Frodo,” he brought out his hand filled with some undistinguishable crumbs, and put it to Frodo’s lips. “It’s nigh half a day and you haven’t taken a single bite of anything.”

Frodo eyed the thing behind his half-closed lids.

“What is that, Sam?” he inquired hoarsely. “Where did you get it?”

Sam flushed a little thinking that Frodo might scorn him for being a thief.

“Ummm… I got it from them Orcs’ place. I sneaked into a room and found it where they kept their provision.”

Frodo flinched at the mention of ‘Orcs’ and backed away from the hand, sinking closer into Sam. An action that was wrongly interpreted by the gardener.

“I’m so sorry if I have offended you, Frodo. I didn’t mean to steal. I just wanted to get some food for us, that’s all. And I wished it weren’t as stale as their breath.” Sam gritted his teeth while saying the last sentence. He had moved away the food, letting it scatter onto the parched land.

“I will ditch all of them then, Mr. Frodo.” Sam’s shoulders sagged dejectedly as he also felt Frodo slump down. Sam could not see Frodo’s face but somehow he knew his master was not listening to him, lost in his own reverie. Sam frowned and gasped as realization hit home.

Oh, you ninny! He slapped himself inwardly. It was no wonder Frodo would not touch the food. Wearing Orc’s shirt and chain mail must have been hard enough for him and he would have preferred wearing nothing. Sam knew they had no option either in this or about the food, but taking into your body something that came from those who had rendered you captive and helpless would be too much for Frodo to bear.

Frodo was now curling up upon Sam’s lap, and there was nothing else the gardener could do but gather him closer, silently apologizing for what he had done and trying to bring comfort to his damaged master.

# -- # -- #

The night grew colder and more silent except for the creaking sound of night creatures. But it did not feel cold to Sam since he had just finished his supper. At first he had not felt like eating although the last meal he had was tea down in Bywater. But he knew his wife, and she would worry sick should he refuse the supper. Even tonight Rose had decided to accompany him at the dining table, not wanting to leave him alone to sleep knowing Sam might skip his meal without her presence.

Sam sipped his coffee and stared unseeing at the flickering flame of the candles in the middle of the table, completely unaware of his wife sitting at the other end. Sam gazed unblinking as if held under spell by the dancing little flames, taking him to far away places and to a fading memory of someone. Fading? No… More like…

“Sam.” Rose whisper was too thin to be recognized. “Sam!”

Sam’s head jerked at the demanding tone.

“Rosie? What’s the matter?” He panted a little, blushing as though he had been caught doing something bad.

Rose took a deep breath. She got up and walked to him, dragging a chair and sitting down, arms folded, before her husband. There were many things she wanted to say and ask, but in the end she just said,

“It’s very late already. You must be tired. Why don’t we go to sleep now?”

# -- # -- #

There was a faint sound down the hall across his room. Sam jarred awake and jumped out of his bed. The sound became clearer once he opened the door, sending him rushing to its source. He rapped at the closed door and burst inside.

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam refrained from going any further than the foot of the bed by a heartrending sight met his gaze. On the bed lay Frodo, blanket pushed downwards, nightshirt crumpled at the left shoulder as if a hand had been grappling at it. It was now open at the throat, revealing a pallid, almost bruised skin.

But Frodo was no longer clutching it. He was staring blankly at the ceiling, face contorted in indescribable pain, lips pressed together. When they opened, Frodo let out a small, piteous whimper.

Sam was full of concern. This must be the day, he thought. This must be one of the anniversaries of the wounds. One of the burdens Frodo carried that Sam could never understand. Frodo had sacrificed too much in his life – why should he suffer more?

Sam moved slowly toward the unconscious figure and reaching out a hand, he touched the bare shoulder – only to pull back as fast as he could. It was cold!

It was freezing cold – the skin, not just the wound mark. Sam glared wildly, eyes stinging with tears. Where was Aragorn when he needed him the most? When Frodo needed him?

There was absolutely nothing that Sam could do. He was in such great despair, and then he noticed that Frodo’s right hand was creeping slowly to the white gem pendant resting on his breast.

# -- # -- #

Sam’s eyes squinted open and his heart sank with disappointment as he found his room was brightly lit by the sun. Rose had long ago risen and she had left the window and the curtain wide open. Sam groaned. He had woken up late! The day had broken a long time ago and he had so many things to do that had to be started early in the morning.

Sam drew the sheet aside and rolled out of bed. He stumbled a little as he struggled to reach the door. The weariness from the night before had apparently not been totally washed away from him.

“Rosie?” he called out. He looked to the study, the kitchen, the dining room. She was not there. Sam continued looking for her in the living room, and there she was.

Only she was not alone.

And it was not just Elanor that was with her.

There were the Cottons, Tom and Lily, Rosie’s parents, and his own, Hamfast and Bell. All were staring at him, concern and affection in their eyes.

“Ma, Da!” Sam cried out, unable to hide his amazement. “You’re all here – and Tom, Lily.” The gardener bowed his head slightly, and the couple gave Sam an answering nod.

Bell stood up and half ran to his son, hugging him tightly. That made Sam even more astonished. He had met them before. It was not like they had not seen each other since the quest was ended. Sam let his mum hug him for a while before he pulled back gently from her.

“Ma?” Sam lifted one eyebrow.

“Oh, Sam. We know you miss him so much. Why not tell that to Rosie? Why don’t you two talk things over?”

Miss him? Talk? How did they know? Sam knew he was not complaining to anyone.

“Ma,” groaned Sam, his eyes darting to Rose, who glanced back at him softly.

“Well you didn’t say anything and that left your wife a little worried and she called for us.”

Sam turned and watched Rose approaching him. Slowly.

Sam thought he was being strong, but he was not. His heart started to crumble as Rose reached out to him. His lower lip fluttered and his voice was strangled when he let out, “I don’t understand…”

Rose stroked his curls.

“Oh, Sam. You kept mumbling about Frodo. Sometimes you even shouted. But most other times you seemed to converse with him.”

Sam closed his eyes, the tears warm on his cheeks.

“We’ve been through so much together, Rose, and he left me. He left me, while I never did leave him.”

“Sam,” Rose rested her cheek upon Sam’s damp one. “Mr. Frodo has suffered too much.”

“But I’d rather he was dead!” There was hurt in Sam’s voice. “Dead – so there’s a grave I can go to!”

“Oh, dear!” Rose brought him to her embrace. “You’re not alone! You still have us.”

But Sam wept and wept, and Rose smoothed his back to bring him some comfort. She knew how strong her husband was. She knew Frodo had trusted him with his life. But this time Sam needed someone else to be strong for him. Sam held on to Rose tightly as if he would never let her go.

And for a moment he felt like it was not Rosie but his master who was holding him. That he was in Frodo’s warm, tender arms, and that they were back by the shore, looking out to a great grey ship floating quietly in the crystal-like water.

And Sam broke down again…

-- fin --