Hourglass - Chapter Thirteen - The Stars Tremble

I didn't want to leave you too long with the awful bleakness of yesterday's chapter ...

Dah - dah! Here it is - the last chapter! Oh joy! :) WONDERFUL to be able to post this and actually complete the story! It has been obsessing me over the last four months and it will be great to be able to go to bed at night NOT thinking about what to write in the next chapter. It's a shame it happens to be chapter 13...:O

Thanks so much to all my readers, especially those who have taken the time to comment - it does mean a great deal - I would probably have given up many weeks ago if it weren't for your encouragement and support.

Here it is - I hope it isn't a complete let down - it stressed me out a great deal...I'm very excited! bounce...bounce... :D

THIS CHAPTER COMES WITH A LARGE FLASHING "SMUT" WARNING!!!

FIC: Hourglass - Chapter Thirteen - The Stars Tremble
AUTHOR: Igraine
PAIRING: F/S F/OC
RATING: This chapter is (definitely) NC-17 - strong adult *blush*
SUMMARY: Frodo is drawn onto a dangerous path - but how can Sam protect what isn't his?
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JRR Tolkien. I promise to return them unharmed. I make no money.
WARNINGS: No OC smut here - just the good, clean F/S kind. Tiny angsty bit - lots of love :)

Enjoy! (I hope!)



CHAPTER THIRTEEN – THE STARS TREMBLE


Sitting beside the hearth with his Gaffer, half attending to the conversation, his senses dulled with ale, Sam counted down the last few minutes of the day, wishing they would run through quick and fast.


The daily duties played themselves out, inextricable and unavoidable, pinning him in place. Laughter passing through him like a shudder, as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, longing to be free.


“Will you have another ale, Sam?” Mari smiled, holding out a brimming mug.


Sam sat up and shook out a smile, “No thanks, Mari.”


May turned at the pot sink. “Am I hearing right?” she teased.


“I’m happy enough,” Sam replied.


“Well ye don’t look it!” she laughed, the room stilling into silence around the words, stirring ripples of unease. “Don’t he look like he’s got ants in his breeches?”


“I’m right enough,” Sam stated flatly, slipping his hand in his pocket to locate the distraction of his pipe.


May smirked as she plunged her hands back into the warm soapy water. “I think Sam has other plans for tonight – he looks right guilty!” Daisy nudged her in the side and she jumped a little. “Well, he does!” she giggled. “He does!”


“If he don’t want more ale, then he don’t, leave him be, poor Sam!” Daisy admonished gently, as she stacked the plates away in the cupboard.


“Samwise – a light?” his Gaffer proffered, holding out a hand for Sam’s pipe, his brows knitted together in a frown. Sam looked up and turned to his father, the pipe passing wordlessly from one hand to another. Somewhere in the middle of this interchange their eyes struck together and Sam found himself captured within his father’s fears and the depth of the pain clutched his heart in a fist of ice, choking his breath. The Gaffer’s hard, thorny thumb passed over his for a brief instant and then released, pulling away to light a splint from the fire. Sam wanted to reassure him, tell him that there was nothing to fear, that all was done and put away, but something in Sam’s soul felt the hollow ring inside those words, and turned its face away in denial.


Sam took the pipe from his father’s hand, warm and smooth against his lips, he rubbed it slowly from side to side, trying to smother and blanket his pain with the memory of soft hands clutching in his hair, hot words whispered against his throat, but this only stirred up a fiercer grief, that stabbed him in the belly like a blade.


The clatter of pots and the laughter and singing of the lasses seemed so remote, it was almost as if he were sitting in a dream and no-one was aware of him, only himself, sitting amongst the illusions, unable to make a connection.


Something hadn’t been right…


There were things they never spoke of, there were places Sam was afraid to go, things he feared to touch – parts of Frodo that were elusive and strange, knotted and refusing to be unravelled. Sometimes, when he was making love to Frodo it seemed as if he was holding a dream lover, a shade - that somehow Frodo had managed to flee his own skin and drift away. He could never get close enough, warm enough, he could never get enough…when they were apart he craved Frodo with a sick yearning that frightened him.


Perhaps he had known it all along, but could not face the truth. The remoteness, the wandering, the hourglass secretly bestowed…it all started to fall into place; each truth an icy cold stone in his heart, weighing him down.


His Gaffer was asking him a question, but Sam hadn’t been listening and could only turn to his father with a blank face and a tortured semblance of calm.


“Ye weren’t listening, were ye?” his Gaffer said, holding his son in his level gaze.


Sam shook his head. “Sorry, dad. I have things on my mind.”


“I see that,” the Gaffer replied, taking slow puffs on his pipe.


“So, when will ye be off?” the Gaffer said softly, his eyes averted, watching the flames.


Sam felt a flood of heat rising up his neck. “I … I don’t know,” he stammered.


“Will he have need of ye tonight?” The Gaffer continued, watching his son out of the corner of his eye.


“I don’t think so, dad.” Sam replied, his hands turning and twisting the pipe restlessly.


The Gaffer leaned in closer and bent his face low against Sam’s ear. Sam froze; he hadn’t been so intimately close to his father since he was a fauntling and would ride on his shoulders, laughing at the sky. The Gaffer’s face grew grave and his hand clasped his son’s arm tightly as he spoke in a low whisper. “Tis a hard thing for a father to bear, to see his son throwing hisself away.”


“It’s all right, dad,” Sam replied, tears welling in his eyes and tightening his throat. “It’s all right now.”


The Gaffer abruptly let go of his son and drew away, shifting his frame closer to the fire, coughing into his hand. “Goodnight, Samwise,” he said. “Lock the door when you come in.”


Sam rose to his feet at his father’s dismissal and drew in a shuddering breath of bitter relief.


~ ~ ~


Stepping out into the dark night, Sam breathed in the sweet mild air and watched a swollen pale moon sail out from behind an indigo cloud. He didn’t know where he was going but he knew that he must walk, somehow sitting still felt like suffocation. The pain in his heart swelling and blossoming with every passing hour.


It eased the sting a little to imagine that this was somehow inevitable - the result of his father’s fears and his own blind passion. Surely he had been blessed even to have had the privilege of a single kiss. To have felt such pure joy for a many months was indescribably precious. Such beauty cannot last – dancing mayflies live for a single day and then they pass away and so it must be with love.


His feet moved over the long, cool grass and down to the banks of the river where it flowed cold and dancing over his feet. Looking down, he saw how his feet were embraced by the soft sinking mud beneath, swallowing him up to the ankles with soft ease, just as his hands were welcomed by the soil, and suddenly it struck him that the earth would like to take him back. It sang to him, stirring something in his blood that moved beyond the realms of reason. He knelt down and rocked on the balls of his feet, staring into a dark, peaceful void.


“Samwise?”


Sam heard the voice behind him, but he didn’t recognise it, the singing of the water was too loud and clear. A hand fell heavy upon his shoulder and he tried to shrug it off impatiently.


“Samwise, I’ve been looking for you - come away from the water!”


Sam heard it, but his body keened to stay and sank a little deeper, lulled by the song, the bottom of his breeches clinging wetly to his skin, the coldness turning warm, drawing him down. Suddenly he found himself pulled back forcibly and his feet slid and were released, Sam crying out in angry protest at the cruel separation. He was dragged onto the bank and held firmly against the grass, spluttering with rage.


“One good turn deserves another…” The voice made Sam’s hands clench instinctively into fists and his stomach heaved as he wriggled to break free. He found himself released once more and he staggered a few steps away.


“Leave – me - alone!” Sam shouted, his voice hoarse with tears.


Asher stood on the river bank, wrapping a worn black cloak around himself, the moonlight striking his face into startling relief. “I owe you,” he said. “You saved my miserable life, now I’m saving yours.”


Sam looked at him in disgust. “You’d even take this from me!” he said vehemently, rubbing his hand across his face and finding it wet.


“I’ve taken nothing from you,” Asher replied, holding out something in his hand, a pale form that reflected the black water and the stars. “Look – I’m giving you a gift.”


Sam stepped closer and stared.


“Here!” Asher threw the hourglass and it turned three times in the air, shivering sand, before Sam caught it heavy in his hands. “I stole it back for him.”


Sam looked down at the precious thing in his hands, heavy as a stone.


“It’s nothin’” Sam said, looking impassively at the treasure he had marvelled over for so many years. “I don’t want it.”


“You love him?” Asher replied, shivering under his cloak. “Give it back to him.”


Sam shook his head and tried to hand the hourglass back, but Asher stepped away and hid his hands. Sam turned the glass three times, sensing the shift in the dark. “You stole it – you give it back.”


Asher shook his head slowly. “Frodo gave no gifts to me. My brothers were passing that about, showing it off as a party trick, a pretty little illusion. Yes, a pretty little illusion, Sam, that’s what it was…”


Sam saw a strange remorse in Asher’s eyes as he moved closer to Sam and closed his hand tightly about the hourglass. “Keep it – give it to him – I’m trying to help you.”


Sam looked up at Asher and despite the revulsion and pain the words brought him he whispered, “Care for him proper, please. Care for him…”


“I don’t care for anyone but myself,” Asher replied. “You care for him. I’m nothing but a curse, I turn up and take what I want and then I leave a mess behind. He didn’t want me, Sam. I forced him to kiss me, it was a kind of madness. He makes me mad.”


“He didn’t want to?” Sam said slowly, anger coiling within.


“Not really. He loves you, fool!” Asher laughed.


“Then what were you doin’?” Sam ground out, fighting hard not to strike.


“I don’t know,” Asher said, turning his back and searching the far horizon as if he was expecting to see someone. “I couldn’t let him go.”


“He’s worth ten o’ you!” Sam shouted, startled by his own rage.


Asher smiled. “Then fight for him, if you hold him in such high regard – tell him you forgive him. Make him stay.”


“He’s goin’?” Alarm stilled Sam’s aching fists and rooted him to the spot.


“I’d hurry if I were you – he’s slipping through your fingers…”


Sam hesitated, torn between running to Bag End and knocking Asher to the ground. “Go now and don’t - ever – come - back!” he said slowly, his hands clenching around the hourglass in his hand, his heart hammering in his head, making him feel dizzy.


“I don’t mean to,” Asher replied. “I’m leaving this world for good.”


Throwing back his head to frown at the moon in dismay, he cursed and hunching his shoulders, strode out into the fields, heading for the shelter of the distant woods. Sam watched until Asher was nothing more than a sliver of darkness against the trees and then vanished completely, sinking into the night as though he had never been.


~ ~ ~


Bag End was dark, the front door stood open and the curtains billowed at the windows like fleeting ghosts. The hourglass in his hand, Sam stepped over the threshold and listened to the darkness and the silence. Sam took the tinderbox from the hall table and, as he walked down the passage, he struck the lamps alight, flooding the narrow panelled tunnel with yellow light and deepening the shadows that reared up behind.


As he passed the open doors, he looked within each one and found them all to be empty and utterly bereft. Hope faltering in his heart, Sam pushed the flat of his hand against the bedroom door and entered as if for the first time, with strange fears and anticipation. The room seemed as vacant as the rest, but for a moth white curve under the quilt, like the wing bone of a bird curled and flexed in upon itself. Sam approached cautiously, treading soft and steady over the old boards, fearing they might announce his presence before wished it.


“Frodo?” his voice sounded uncertain.


The window was open and a cool wind was blowing into the room. Sam moved purposefully across the floor and fixed the latch in place. He turned to the bed, and like a sleepwalker, he drew his hands blindly along the carved bed end, sensing the fruit and flowers coming to life beneath his touch. His hands curled around the bedpost and then moved to the soft white coverlet, cold with long lying, a little dampness, sticky and cloying. The pillows sat as still as hard boulders. He stroked them and then lay down and buried his face, taking deep, shuddering breaths, tasting nothing but the wind and the night. He wept bitterly until he could feel nothing but the twisting in his lungs and the tight constriction of his throat. When he came to, he found himself, shivering on top of the bed, whispering over and over, “Frodo…Frodo .. Frodo…”


You’re a fool, Samwise Gamgee, to keep on like a lovesick tween, longing for things which can never be.


Rubbing his painful, swollen eyes, he wrenched himself from Frodo’s bed. He decided to make himself some tea and perhaps light a fire to warm him until dawn came and the sun would banish this night away for good. Sam made his way to the kitchen without the aid of a candle. The night was very dark and he stubbed his toes on the furniture as he blundered through, cursing under his breath.


Striking a light from the tinderbox on the mantelpiece he lit a small lamp and several candles. Working methodically, trying to cram out the noises in his ears, he made up the fire and filled the kettle with water. He looked at the low pile of kindling and determined to chop some more tomorrow. Shuffling amongst the pots on the shelves he found the fragrant tea leaves and spooned them into the pot, not counting, and forgetting to put it back in its proper place. The fire sparked into life and was soon blazing brightly. He lifted several large logs, thumping them on heavily, so that orange sparks shot up the blackened chimney. He shuddered involuntarily.


After hanging the kettle up to boil, he sank heavily into the chair beside the hearth. It was old, worn and sagging slightly at the seams but it seemed to fit him comfortably. Pulling his feet up he dragged his shirt down over his knees; it felt warm and comforting. He rested his chin on top and closed his eyes. That was a mistake. It seemed whenever there was space in his mind, Frodo would fill it up, as surely as a river will run and trickle into rivulets and streams, spilling to fill in any empty crease of earth. He sighed. He was tired of fighting. It seemed as though he had been fighting forever. Suppressing until it seemed his body would burst from the pressure of it. He fumbled for his pipe and his little tin, so small and comfortable it fitted snug into the palm of his hand. He filled slowly, trying to keep the inevitable at bay, then he lit it and inhaled the pungent smoke deep into his body. He felt it winding and curling about his toes and began to feel a thawing in his blood. He leaned back, expecting to feel better at once, but the pipeweed seemed to have lost some of its healing properties and was, instead, reaching out its cloudy strands to smother and choke. He sighed and knocked it out against the hearth.


It seemed ridiculous and yet now if he could see him again he would take his face in his two hands and gaze and gaze until he was stupid with lookin’…


A thin, high pitched wail pierced through his thoughts as sharp as a knife, every nerve in his body seeming to stand on end. The kettle! Fool! He took a cloth and carefully lifted and lowered the heavy pot, pouring the hot water onto the crushed leaves. Tears feel down his cheeks and burned up on the hot steam. Love tightened in his throat as he stirred the tea round and round, watching the tiny leaves dancing and swirling.


It’s just I’m so churned up with longings and might-have-beens…and I love you, I love you, I love you more than my heart can bear…


He let the spoon fall with a clatter into the pot and wept into the cloud of sweet steam. He didn’t think he had any more tears to come and yet, here were more. Endless, they seemed. Eternal.


Sam…


It was soft as the sound of the wind in the treetops and it seemed to ripple through his soul. He sobbed twice, loudly, as he tried to regain control. He opened his eyes. All was quiet and dark. Licked with the orange fire glow everything was deeply shadowed. A full moon, sailing out from behind the clouds, flooded the room with a clear cold light. If this was all that he had then it would be enough. He would curl up in his mantle of dreams and be glad. Easing back into the chair his eyes dropped shut with a sudden weariness.


You’re here...


Sam smiled, his head fell back and his breathing slowly evened. He was on the edge of a deep and blissful sleep.


Sam, my love, I thought that you would never come again…


So soft on his brow, lifting a stray curl like a breath of wind, it was. Sam sighed.


My love...


Soft across his neck, the light touch was but a flicker of a thought. Sam quietened and all he could hear were his own deep breaths and the snapping of the applewood on the fire, which was filling the kitchen with a sweet fragrance, mingling with the unmistakable smells of grass and trees. He reached out into the air as if hoping to catch hold of a dream. He gasped.


“Sam…”


He found his hand caught firmly in a warm clasp. He stayed stock still and held tight, forgetting to breathe.


“Sam, look at me.”


Sam raised his eyes and saw Frodo standing beside him, his hair tangled and wild, his eyes shining with sorrow, the smell of the night on his skin.


“Where were you?” Sam said, enfolding both of Frodo’s hands within his own.


“I walked to the top of the hill and I sat down under the trees.” Frodo crouched down beside him and looked up with red rimmed eyes. “I don’t know how to begin.”


Sam pressed Frodo’s hand softly. “Did you love him?” Sam said, his jaw tense and his eyes half closed, battling against a wave of pain.


Frodo looked down at their tangled hands. “No. It wasn’t love – it wasn’t that. We lay together for one night, Sam. There was no love, nothing like that…”


Sam swallowed and drew a shaky breath, “Then why?” he whispered.


Frodo fell silent for a moment. “There were things I …needed to learn but was afraid to ask of you - I didn’t want to hurt you, but now I see that in doing this I have hurt you beyond measure and I regret it bitterly!”


“There was nothing I wouldn’t have given you!” Sam burst, his heart pounding. “Anything you asked I would’ve done!”


“I know!” Frodo’s eyes shot up to blaze like fire into Sam’s own. “That is why I could never speak of it!”


“You put yourself in danger and you didn’t let me help you! You could have trusted me, Frodo. I loved you!” Sam groaned. “I love you…”


“I didn’t know!” Frodo sobbed. “I didn’t know…”


Sam wrapped his arms about Frodo’s neck and twined his fingers in and out of Frodo’s dark curls that drifted like clouds across the surface of the pale moon. He found the irresistibly curved tip of Frodo’s ear and kissed it softly, feeling the resulting tremor running through Frodo’s skin.


“Then we are both to blame and should forgive one another for it,” Sam replied.


Frodo clung to Sam and buried his hands in Sam’s thick curls. “I can’t ask that of you,” he whispered. “It’s too much…”


“Well, then, it will seem like walkin’ naked in the snow and feeling the cold and not carin’ because it don’t matter – none of it matters – only that there’s all this pure, bright beauty – such beauty I can’t bear it…” Sam groaned at the sharp flame that leaped eagerly deep within. “I want to love you Frodo, but I hardly know how to begin…”


In answer, Frodo tugged at Sam’s shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of his breeches and lifting it tenderly over his head. Sam’s worried brown eyes gazed back at him like a startled buck, from beneath softly drooping curls of bronze, but Frodo smiled and kissed him with gentle care. Casting aside the shirt Frodo sat back on his heels to look at Sam sitting half in firelight, half in moonlight, capturing and stealing the beauty from both.


“I love you, Sam,” he said.


Sam looked up slowly, small bursts of joy startling under his skin to hear the longed- for words spoken so clearly and with such calm certainty.


“I love you better now,” Sam replied. “If that were possible.”


~ ~ ~


Sam lay naked on the settee, breathing hard and fast, watching as Frodo undressed in the light of an old fire, its light made of ashes and embers and the red heart of the oak. Bending to pull his breeches off his ankle, Frodo seemed completely unaware of his own beauty, honey gold in the warm light, his hair dripping into his eyes.
Unbuttoning his shirt, he caught sight of Sam watching from out of the corner of his eye and laughed lightly, nervously.


“Sam! You’re making me feel shy – lying there like that.”


Sam looked down at his own body, unselfconsciously spread upon the velvet and he coloured slightly and turned his face away.


“It’s all right,” Frodo said. “I don’t mind really.”


Sam turned back slowly, rolling over onto his side. “Better?” he said.


Frodo raised his eyebrows and smiled, tugging his shirt free from his wrists and dropping it onto the floor where it lay in a pool with the rest of his clothes. Then he just stood looking at Sam, the darkly melting desire in his eyes so fierce that it sent a physical jolt through Sam’s skin, turning him to rock and flame.


Shifting backwards a little, he made room for Frodo to slide down beside him, his body thrumming with anticipation. Their faces nose to nose, Frodo gently rubbed his nose up and down across Sam’s, tilting his hips and softly breathing caresses that moved like sweet poetry across Sam’s lips.


“I love you Sam…” he breathed. “I trust you.”


Sam felt the weight of the words sinking deep inside him, causing small embers of fire to curl and spark inside. “Oh, Frodo,” he whispered, brushing his lips softly over and over the swollen, kiss stained mouth, feeling Frodo rising up to meet him, his eyes fluttering closed.


“Stay with me,” Sam said, bending to drop a soft kiss. “Don’t drift away.”


“I’m with you,” Frodo replied, clutching Sam’s arm. “I need to feel you...please.”


Carefully, very carefully, Sam moved to cover Frodo with his broader frame, holding himself on his elbows as he laid his mouth against silken skin and taut muscle, his mouth moving, open and moist over soft rose flushed flesh and eager, grasping limbs. Settling his cheek on Frodo’s chest, he took a dark nipple between his teeth and pulled gently, making Frodo gasp, and then flattened it with his tongue, swirling hard against skin that tasted of ripe plums, overlaid with salt and the bitterness of desire. Frodo’s legs rose and clasped around Sam’s hips, his hard cock digging into the base of Sam’s stomach. Sam felt his own arousal thickening in the soft well between Frodo’s hip and thigh as he dragged his mouth along taut muscles and quivering thighs. Frodo was trembling violently and Sam raised his head to look. His head thrown back in contortions of bliss, Frodo’s eyes were half shuttered and rolling blindly.


“Frodo?” Sam whispered hoarsely, holding his body steady and still.


Frodo’s eyes flickered back into focus and held his for an instant, a pure, brilliant blue encapsulated in porcelain, the dark irises quickly absorbing the colour as Frodo breathed heavy and slow. “I’m here, Sam,” he said. “I’m here with you.”


Satisfied, Sam closed his eyes and sank to take Frodo deep within his mouth. Whilst his lips and tongue plunged eager and strong, drawing ragged sobs, his hands moving beneath were uncertain and tentative. Frodo moaned and writhed as Sam tried to still the wild motions of Frodo’s hips and, cautiously pushed a finger within, terrified that he might cause him any pain. Frodo seemed to tense for a moment and Sam waited, trembling, letting the warm, velvet flesh fall from his mouth as he raised his head to look into Frodo’s face. Frodo’s brow was knit in concentration and his eyes were closed.


“All right, me dear?” Sam asked, easing his finger back a little, causing Frodo’s stomach to quiver and dip. He bent his head and kissed it lightly, making Frodo gasp.


His hand spilling out onto the rug, Frodo pushed something towards Sam. Slowing a moment, Sam eased his hand free and clutched for the bottle on the floor. Recognising it as the comfrey oil that Frodo had brought from the pantry, the same that was used on aching joints and knotted muscle, Sam uncorked and poured a generous amount onto his palm, where he warmed it carefully, rubbing it between his hands. It felt safe and familiar, for he had often massaged Frodo’s shoulders and neck with the oil when he had been too long at his desk and the act of rubbing it onto his own skin eased some of his anxiety as he prepared himself, his heart racing with excitement and fear.


Frodo pushed up onto his elbows and watched, tossing the hair from out of his eyes.


“Here,” he said softly, “let me.”


Frodo sat up and took Sam’s hands within his own, palm to palm, moving their fingers together, twisting and twining, slicking his own hands with the pungent oil. Kneeling between Frodo’s legs, Sam swayed a little as Frodo wrapped his hands around Sam’s cock and smoothed the oil upon it, stroking with long, lingering twists, each one nearly pulling Sam over the edge, until at last he stilled and brushing the head lightly with his thumb, watched it shining in the circle of his fist. Then Frodo lay back down once more and waited, silently, his legs curled around Sam’s hips, his breath hitching in his chest.


Suddenly afraid, Sam’s eyes darted nervously around the room, fixing on familiar objects as if seeking reassurance from them, his body poised, his fingers flexed and curled around heat and resistance, Frodo’s breathing, soft gasps in the silence, his hips bearing down just a little. Pure white stabs of want pierced Sam low in his belly as he felt his way in the dark, moving against hot, curves of skin that eased under him, slow as a flower opening its petals to the sun.


“Sam…” Frodo gasped as Sam entered, tugging handfuls of Sam’s hair as he buried his mouth against the hot curve of Sam’s pulsing throat.


Sam lifted Frodo’s hips up over his thighs and held him, stroking his lips softly against Frodo’s open mouth, as his hips pushed gently forwards and down. “Like this?” Sam whispered, closing his eyes against the pressure and the heat.


Frodo moaned and raised his hips a little higher, dragging Sam down further and deeper into bliss. “Yes…” Frodo sighed, the tight concentration in his face easing into a smile. “Yes…”


Sam groaned and held himself steady. “More?” he whispered, rubbing his lips up and down, swallowing Frodo’s quick light breaths.


“I need…Sam, please…I need you to…”


Sam closed his eyes and drowned in black velvet, lined with silk. Wings were beating around his head as he gathered Frodo around him and moved in a slow dance of darting hips and hands that drew out his soul with a long, exalted cry. As he thrust deeper, Frodo keened and rose beneath him, both fighting to keep the fire at bay that threatened to engulf them whole, gritting their teeth, clutching with their hands.


Too soon it seemed, the pleasure and the heat grew too great and Sam found himself beating and gasping like a butterfly released from a net as Frodo fluttered around him and held him so tightly he pitched into darkness, forgetting his own name and replacing it with another.


Frodo…Frodo…Frodo…


Bliss, darkness and the trembling stars.


~ ~ ~


“I have something to give to you,” Sam said, as he disentangled himself from Frodo’s warm embrace. Frodo looked up at him with heavy lidded eyes and beseeching hands reached to pull him back down. Sam leaned down and kissed him soundly. “I won’t be long,” he said.


Frodo sighed and lay back, pulling the blanket around himself to keep out the chill and Sam could not help but stand and watch for a moment, disbelieving.


“Hurry then!” Frodo said, without even opening his eyes.


Sam returned quickly, his skin burning against the cool weight of glass that hung heavy in his hand. Kneeling down beside Frodo he put the hourglass down beside Frodo’s curled fist. “Here…” he said. “Open your hand.”


Frodo’s hand opened and flexed about the form beneath, feeling the cold curves and sighing deeply.


“He gave it to me – he – Asher – he said he had stolen it back for you,” Sam said.


Frodo opened his eyes and his hand wrapped around the hourglass as his eyes wrapped around his love. “You are more than I deserve,” he said.


“I will speak of him, and I will say his name – then it will loose its power,” Sam replied, clasping Frodo’s hand tightly around the glass.


“Yes,” Frodo whispered. “Despite all – I wish him well.”


Sam shook his head as he looked down at his love, still rosy and flushed from his climax. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand you, me dear,” he said, hesitantly. “Does it matter?”


Frodo looked at Sam quizzically and then pulled him down into his arms. “Just keep talking to me, Sam. Keep telling me things…” Suddenly Frodo fell quiet and his face grew grave.


“What is it, love?” Sam asked, brushing the hair back from Frodo’s face and looking him deep in the eyes.


“It’s just that – I wish we didn’t have to part. I want to sleep with you every night and wake with you in the morning. I know that it’s an impossible dream and I don’t want to bring you to harm or disgrace but…”


“Yes,” Sam breathed, curling his fingers around a dark ringlet and pulling gently.


“Sorry, Sam?” Frodo said softly, his eyes lowering. “What are you saying?”


“Yes I will stay with you and wake up with you and never leave your side, not this night nor the night after that, nor the night after that,” Sam replied, grinning with pleasure. “And yes, it’s dangerous, but since when has that stopped me doin’ what’s right?”


Frodo beamed and pulled Sam closer, wrapping his leg around Sam’s thigh and kissing him passionately. Sam was panting and laughing when they drew apart.


“Thank you, you never fail to surprise and delight me,” Frodo laughed.


“I’ll never leave you, me dear, never…” Sam whispered, pulling down the enfolding blanket and burying his head beneath.


Frodo cried out softly and let the hourglass fall unnoticed from his hand to roll and tumble across the hearth, capturing within its heart, the last of the embers where they would remain cherished and burning eternally.


THE END