FIC: Hourglass - Chapter Eleven - The Yule Fires

Sorry this chapter is a week overdue. It's the summer holidays and I have my hands full at home at the moment. Yes, Barney on a continuous loop. Not very inspiring. :(

Anyway, here's chapter (gasp!) eleven. I am working my way towards a conclusion to this story and I will try not to ramble on too much longer - just a couple more chapters to go. Thanks to all those who are still reading and persevering with me! :)

In this chapter, we have a party and an unexpected visit.

TITLE: Hourglass - Chapter Eleven - The Yule Fires
AUTHOR: Igraine
PAIRING: F/S F/OC
RATING: NC-17 - This chapter is rated R
DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to JRR Tolkien. I promise to return them unharmed. I make no money.



CHAPTER ELEVEN – The Yule Fires

The flames sliced through the dark air, weaving and spinning, casting showers of sparks that fell like jewels running through unlaced fingers. The air was full of the sound of roaring and shouting and laughter that climbed higher with each bold new flame. The heat on Sam’s face was intense as he stood at his Gaffer’s side, thrusting a stout stick into the fire, watching it fall into the blackened heart of the great beast, where it was quickly consumed. The hobbits stood back a little as the fire stretched and burst in erratic blasts of wild energy, their hands loosely entwined, and their eyes shining brightly with excitement. Some yelped and stepped back, brushing the sparks away from long skirts and vulnerable feet, but others bore the heat and the stinging smoke, for the wild pleasure that came from standing so intimately close to the wonder and danger of the Yule fire.


Roaring and gathering its strength, the fire was arching upwards, building a ladder to the stars. Sam looked up at the beautiful weaving patterns in the black sky, his breath white and clear in the sharp, sweet air. Fingers of searing heat tore up his face and made his eyes water, but he relished every sting, feeling the raw power surging through him, dancing with the elation that dwelt in his heart, sending it sparking into the darkness like a great rocket, with a streaming tail.


Sam felt his hand released and turned to his Gaffer, who stood beside him, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and stepping away.


“Dad?” Sam moved closer, turning his back on the flames.


The Gaffer shook his head, still covering his eyes, “No, no, it’s nowt, just a bit of smoke.”


“Let me look, dad.” Sam tried to pull his father’s hands away.


“It’s nowt – you’ve no need to go fussing over me,” the Gaffer snapped, standing his ground stubbornly.


But Sam could see from the tears streaming from his eyes, that his dad was weary of the fire and could not stand much longer.


“Shall we go for a drink now, dad?”


Hamfast stood a moment in stillness and contemplation, a broad and stoical figure watching the bursting of a million tiny flowers, through smoke scorched eyes, as if through a veil of mist.


“Aye, ready enough,” he replied at last, staring at his youngest son, who stood waiting on the edge of the light, his face brighter and more alive than Hamfast had seen it for many a year. “Shall we go?” he said, looking at Sam intently with grave grey eyes.


“Aye, lets!” Sam smiled and, after waiting respectfully for his father to lead the way, followed onwards to the ale tents with a spring in his step.


~~~


Having secured his father a table and a jug of spiced ale, Sam scanned the crowded tent, his eyes flickering and roaming over every table and shadowed corner, his ears ringing with the roar of drunken laughter and raised voices. Bodies brushed past him where he stood, cradling a mug of ale and sipping at it slowly as his eyes roved impatiently over familiar faces.


“Sam!”


Sam turned sharply at the sound of merry laughter at his elbow and a sharp nudge in his side, causing him to slosh ale onto his shirt.


“Hey!” Sam frowned, brushing his front.


“Since when have you cared so much for your looks?” The fair young hobbit laughed and shook out her wheat coloured curls. “Give us a hug.”


“May!” Sam grinned and embraced his sister heartily, making her squeak as he lifted her off the ground.


“Told you I’d be back for Yule!” she laughed, after she had caught her breath.


“You’re looking fine,” Sam said, noting how bonny and tall she had grown in the months she had been away, apprenticing to a herb wife in Tuckborough.


“Do you think?” she grinned, playing with her hair. “You’re not looking too bad yourself. Is there something they ain’t told me?” A smirk slowly turned up the corners of her lips. “Sam – you’re not courting are you?” she whispered.


Sam coloured and sipped his ale. “Nah…” he said.


“Are you sure – you look awful guilty?” May persevered, looking right up into Sam’s slanted gaze.


“And you’ve come home with a snaky tongue!” Sam laughed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. May tapped his hand severely and then pulled his arm.


“Come with me!” she said, drawing him out of the tent, a brilliant gleam in her pale blue eyes.


“Hey! Where are we off to?” Sam muttered, trying not to spill his ale. “What about dad?”


“Oh, dad’s all right – he’s yattering away to Daddy Twofoot – he’ll be happy enough for a good few hours – he’ll not even know you’ve gone!”


“But, where are we…” Sam was trying not to trip over his feet as May weaved her way through the crowds. “Hey – slow down!”


“Come on, Sam!” she laughed, yanking her brother’s arm as they raced across the Party Field, the cool damp grass tickling their ankles, their laughter a sailing white arc trailing behind.


Sam dropped his ale somewhere along the way and only stopped laughing when he fell, belly first onto the hillside that faced the empty town below. May was leaning up on her elbows, looking down into the valley and Sam wriggled up beside her to see what was attracting her attention.


“What is it?” Sam asked and even as the words passed his lips, they fell like pale echoes, for below, in the flat water meadows beside the dark river, the looming wagons and tents stood like great sailing ships, illuminated by fire and lantern. Dark figures moved slowly about the encampment, gliding in and out of the circles of light.


“Travellers, Sam!” May whispered. “Daisy’s gone down there and some of the Cotton lads. They’re telling fortunes.”


“Surely you don’t go in for such foolish things?” Sam said, through gritted teeth, his hands clutching at the grass.


“Will you go down with me?” May said, turning to Sam with wide, imploring eyes. “I want to look at the wagons, they’re so pretty.”


“Daisy’s down there?”


“Yes! Please come!” May cried, holding out her hand. “It’ll be fun! Exciting! Come on – it’s about time you let yourself go. They’ve all been telling me how hard you’ve been working up the Hill, stopping till all hours, getting no rest.”


Sam shook his head. “I have to get back.”


He might be there – he might be waiting beside the fire…


“Oh Sam!” May stamped her foot. “You wouldn’t want anything to happen to your favourite sister now would you? Kidnapped by strangers, bundled into a mysterious tent, married off as a prize?” she teased, winding her fingers into her brother’s palm.


Sam shivered, foreboding creeping under his skin as he looked down at the figures below.


Go…discover the worst and be watchful…


Sam sighed heavily. “All right, I’ll come, but only to bring Daisy back. No fooling now, May. We’ll find Daisy and then get right back to the party.”


“Yes, Sam,” May laughed, running down the hill towards the lights below until she was nothing more than a glint of gold in the moonlight. Sam turned back once more towards the party, where the fiddlers were tuning up their instruments and made a silent vow to return.


“Wait – wait for me!” he cried, running down the hill towards the river.


~~~



Frodo stood before the looking glass, carefully smoothing the rich dark red waistcoat; regarding himself curiously, as he stroked the silken material, brushing away the soft particles of dust and dried lavender that clung to the fine threads. He drew in a deep breath and watched the slight pale form in the mirror, pulsing for a moment with life, before it stilled once more, staring at him with watchful eyes, luminous and wary in the soft lamplight. He raised his hands to his hair and stroked his curls back from his face where they had grown a little long, watching his ghost self mirroring and seducing. He watched the light playing in the stranger’s curls, enriching the colour to chestnut and draining his skin to white. How fragile he seemed and how altered, his eyes knowing now where once they held only secrets. Now the sweet knowledge lay in heavy dark pools captured within each ring of blue. He raised his fingers and drew them along his face, watching the spirit lips fall open as spread fingers brushed gently down.


He should be at the party by now. It was getting late; the darkness was falling around him in heavy swathes, yet he was reluctant to leave. Something was keeping him here, rooted to the mirror, dressing slowly and with infinite care. He knew that Sam would be waiting and still he lingered, feeling the time drawing out like a reel of thread.


Sam would be with his family and his friends, drinking and laughing with casual affection. Knit close within a warm circle of family love he had no right to enter. Sam would see him. He would want to come to him, he would try to break away from his family, and they would resist, pulling him back. He had no right to Sam – no right to claim him there, perhaps it was better he stayed away.


Frodo turned from the glass and walked up to the window. He could hear the faint sounds of music and cheering voices carrying up the hill and could see in the sky above the trees, dancing orange sparks, shooting high over the grasping branches. The fire called to him, chanting its ancient spell, promising him Sam and the taste of spiced ale on his lips. It called to him of stolen passion and fleeting touches in the dark, and yet he was afraid. The last few weeks had been like a dream; he couldn’t bear for anything to disturb the warm rhythm of their days. Five o’clock on the first stroke, Sam would be so eager to fall into his arms, that he would drop his tools carelessly on the doorstep and his mouth would open readily under his. An hour they would lie, sometimes on the sofa, sometimes in Frodo’s bed, sometimes on the hard settle in the kitchen, wherever they could stumble to in their haste, words of love caressing and entwining as they fell.


Turning from the window, Frodo sank down on the edge of the bed, looking at his hands.


A party held so many dangers, both unseen and unexpected. Too many memories lay waiting to be summoned. Bilbo and his vanishing trick - levity and goodwill trickling away into disbelief. Coloured flags fluttering in the silence before the accusations began. Something shuttering inside.


Love fled as quickly as it came. Perhaps love was like that – perhaps it can never be caught, but slips through the door like a shadow – leaving no answers behind, only memory and supposition.


Something about my life seems like a riddle I can’t resolve. Tricks and tales and heirlooms - a red silk waistcoat, a golden ring, an hourglass. Visions and dreams - an inheritance of secrets.


I wish Sam would leave the party. I wish he would come to me and hold me, unquestioning.


He couldn’t go. He would stay and hope that Sam would come. He would sit and read, open a bottle of wine and drink until the ache of anticipation grew less and the desire to sleep would overtake him at the last – if all came to nothing.


Leaving the bedroom, he walked down the passage to the kitchen, breathing in the fierce fragrance of the evergreen that hung from the beams, stranger and darker in the evening, as if it had unaccountably grown and become possessed of a soul. A lamp flickered on the kitchen table and shed enough light for Frodo to find his way to the pantry and locate the exact bottle of wine he had been anticipating – potent and red and strong. Catching up a glass with his finger, he turned to carry both into the bedroom, hoping to retreat to its warm comforts, heaps of soft pillows at his back and a warm fire at his feet.


Before he had taken a step, a cold breeze trickled past his ear and sent him spinning on his heel to face the back door, glass and bottle chiming as they struck together. There was nothing. The door was closed and the window. The glass reflected the interior of the room – the lamp, the table, his stricken face, the shock in his eyes, the bottle, and the wineglass. Breathing deeply, trying to still his jangling nerves, he leaned for a moment against the back of a chair, his head bowed and his eyes closed. From outside he could hear the sound of distant music, a steady drumbeat and the playful dance of the fiddles.


Straightening up, still breathing fast, he turned to leave the room, eager to curl up in the sheltering blankets.


There was a noise. A soft shuffling on the threshold of the cellar door, where the shadows gathered the deepest.


“Sam?” Frodo’s voice was uncertain and strained. “Sam – is that you?”


Another voice answered. It was deep and lilting and unforgiving. “Nay, Mr Baggins, you have the wrong hobbit altogether.”


Frodo froze as a tall, broad shape stepped out of the darkness, his hand outstretched, a dark green coat flapping at his booted heels and the wet brim of his hat overshadowing his eyes. When he spoke his deep voice dripped with menace.


“So, Mr Baggins, have you kept to your word?”


Frodo felt a wash of anger and fear flooding him as he faced Kern across the kitchen table.


“How did you get in?” he said, steeling himself against the intruder even as his knuckles clenched white around the chair back.


Kern stepped forwards, shaking his head. “Not such a pleasant welcome as the last – won’t you be offering me a drink?” He picked up the bottle and shook it, staring at the swirling dark contents by the light of the lamp. “So well provided for, ain’t ye?” he smiled, baring wolfish teeth.


“I want you to leave,” Frodo replied, holding himself steady, his voice still retaining a measure of calm.


“I’ve come for my own,” Kern replied. “As was promised. Well and unharmed…”


Frodo let go of the chair and paced around the table, edging towards the door.


“Will you not show him to me, Mr Baggins? Where have you hidden him?” Kern took the wine bottle in his hand and threw it, once, twice, turning in the air, before catching it with a grin and a flourish. “Good – yes?” He laughed loudly, watching Frodo with cold eyes, assessing his reactions, calculating his moves as if they were merely playing games.


“Asher has gone,” Frodo said softly, his heart hammering despite the level tone of his voice.


Kern smiled slowly, the awful incongruity of it making Frodo’s blood run cold. “Aye, so it seems…” he said, piercing Frodo with eyes that held nothing but the shadows of a hard life and an emptiness webbed with hate.


“It was his choice,” Frodo continued. “There was nothing I could do to stop him. I did all I could.” But even as he spoke, the lies that lurked at the corners of his words spat poison. Kern was staring at him and he was certain in that moment that he could see everything; read his thoughts, penetrate his heart, just like his brother. It was their gift.


“I trusted him to your care – it seems you’ve let us down, my friend.” Kern put the wine bottle down carefully and walked closer to Frodo, slowly bending and putting his mouth close to his ear. He whispered, his breath hot on Frodo’s neck, “What other promises did you break?”


Frodo shuddered and recoiled. “He wanted to leave.”


“And why was that?” Kern continued, thrusting his face up into Frodo’s even as he physically evaded him by twisting to the left or right.


Frodo threw himself away and paced backwards towards the kitchen door, Kern following hot on his heels, his bigger bulk bearing down on him.


“He’s easily snared, it’s been done before. He was a mewling brat, clinging on his ma’s heels, snagging her dress. When she left, he clung to any stray that raised him a smile. Eager to please, always has been, gets him into trouble. Do you know, Mr Baggins, there are those that take wicked advantage, take what they have no right to? It’s happened before and it’ll happen again, mark my words, it will…”


Frodo had his hand on the door latch, his fingers clasping tightly around the cold metal.


“I wouldn’t want to see him hurt like the last. Tore him up, that did, made him weak. We have to look after him, he’s our own, the last of us. So you’ll be telling us where to look, won’t you, my friend?”


Frodo thought fast, “I don’t know where he went, only that he was to travel east and swiftly, I believe he was heading back to Bree.”


Kern paused, seeming to consider in his mind. “If you might recompense us for our troubles,” he said slowly, stepping back a little. “I might consider the debt repaid.”


“The debt?” Frodo replied, feeling stirrings of revulsion at the thought that Kern might be seeking payment for his brother’s favours.


“A small token of your goodwill. Anything at all…”


Frodo looked around the kitchen, throwing his eyes wildly at the pots and pans and earthenware, all homely and good, but of little price. All of his finest possessions didn’t belong to him but to Bilbo by rights and nothing would entice him to part with them. It had to be something of his own. His clothes would be of little interest and books were only valuable to those rare souls who prized them. He had gold, but that was limited, all tied up as it was with the smial and its smooth running. He couldn’t give this hobbit Sam’s wages for the month, or the grocery fund, unless he was willing to starve on account of his own guilt and shame. Perhaps that would be fair and proper, but he didn’t want to have to explain it to Sam. The only other thing was his mother’s hourglass. But that was too precious – it contained within it a million grains of memory.


“I have nothing to give you.” Frodo replied, panicking, fearing that Sam might come at any moment and find them. Whatever happened, Sam could not be drawn in. It would be settled and then it would be finished and put away, there was no need to cause Sam any further harm, nor embroil him in the sordid deal.


“Now, now, Mr Baggins, I don’t think that is true? Shall I have a look and choose myself a little gift to remember ye by?”


Kern walked across the kitchen, down the passage and strode briskly into the parlour, his eyes scanning the shelves as he turned into the room, standing where he had stood the evening they brought Asher in, half drowned and senseless. Frodo watched where his eyes now lingered and his heart shattered.


“Now here’s a pretty thing I fixed my eye on the last time I was here.” Kern picked up the hourglass from the mantelpiece, turning it in his broad, clever hands. “Such things interest me – they hold a certain fascination.”


Frodo looked on in horror. “Please, not that. It belonged to my mother. It is all I have of her. I know you have suffered the same, and must know how dear these possessions and keepsakes become.”


Kern smiled with amusement as he turned the glass in his hand, watching the candlelight flickering on the sand. “My ma ain’t dead, she ran off with a boater, went off on the water, never looked back.”


“Please, put it back,” Frodo urged, feeling prickles of doubt creeping up the back of his neck.


“Nay – I’ll be keeping this.” Kern slipped the hourglass into his coat pocket and began to walk out of the room. Frodo hastened behind, wondering if there was a way to take it back, slip into his pockets like a thief. “Don’t believe the words of a traveller, we tell too many tales,” he said, throwing Frodo a look of malevolent scorn.


Frodo opened wide the front door, the cold air carrying the rousing chorus of a Yule song, raised high on drunken laughter. Kern stepped out and sniffed the sweet smell of bonfires. “Will ye not be joining the party?” he asked, turning and tipping his broad brimmed hat. “Seems the world and his wife are out dancin’ tonight, every lad to his lass, eh?” He winked and laughed and then turned down the garden, pulling his hat more firmly on his head.


Frodo shivered and wrapped his arms around himself protectively, longing for Kern to leave and never return. Moving back into the shelter and warmth of the hallway he watched Kern ambling down the path, toying with the gift in his pockets and whistling into the dark, a sad and lingering melody. Even when he had turned down the road and vanished from sight, the music still hung in the air like pipesmoke and entered Frodo’s heart like a shard of difficult memory that could not be uprooted.


~~~


The air was heady with wood smoke and spice, and filled with the noise of pipes and shouts and crying babes. Stalls had been hastily erected and leant haphazardly against one another and billowing tents of scarlet and orange, blue and black stood behind. Some were tied open with a sign fixed above the entrance signalling what might be found within, others were drawn and enticing, decorated plainly with dark symbols painted on the cloth. A confusion of sounds and scents and bodies swam through Sam’s consciousness as he weaved his way through the camp, following May as she laughed and exclaimed at each new curiosity, longing to taste and to buy, pulling on his hand. Sam struggled to make sense of the faces that swam in and out of his vision; catching fleeting glimpses as he hurried past. A dark eye, a stern brow, a pipe song, would seize him for an instant before dispersing, teasing and releasing.


“Sam, look!”


Sam nearly crashed headlong into his sister as she stopped suddenly beside a stall covered in ribbons and lace, silk and embroidery. May ran her fingers down the dripping ribbons, admiringly.


“Have you ever seen anything so lovely?”


Sam shook his head as he watched a figure moving behind the stall, rearranging the folds of the tent behind, speaking to whoever was within. It was dark and the lantern light that hung overhead illuminated only the stall and its fine goods and cast the rest into shadow. Sam’s eyes bored into the dark, searching. The hobbit’s face was fair and his hair was braided and wrapped in red ribbons, he was so alike that Sam’s heart lurched and he moved closer to the stall, peering into the gloom behind with a terrible fascination and fear.


“Looking for something, sir?” The hobbit stepped out of the shadows of the tent where he had been leaning and moved closer to the stall, looking down at Sam with amusement.


“No thank you.” Sam replied, stepping away as he realised his mistake. The stall- holder watched him curiously out of the corner of his eye as he moved away, tugging on May’s arm.


May looked up and frowned. “I wanted to buy something!” she cried as Sam dragged her away. “Don’t tug me about so!”


“Where’s Daisy got to?” Sam muttered as they were faced with yet more anonymous tents and small moving clusters of half drunk hobbits.


“Sam – look! Over there!” May began running across the camp, across to where three blue tents were set up close against the river. A small group of hobbits were assembled outside, talking and laughing. May was running, her hair streaming out behind her as she waved and called. A few of the hobbits raised their hands in recognition and Sam was able to discern Daisy amongst them and beside her, Tom’s sister, Rose Cotton.


Daisy and Rose were clutching one another and shrieking and as she approached, they pulled May into their circle. Tom and Jolly Cotton grabbed Sam and offered to take him back to the ale tents. Still unsure, Sam looked once more around the crowded tents, thinking of all the places where a hobbit might be lying low, biding his time.
May was looking at the tent behind her with eager anticipation, biting her lip.


“Sam!” she called, “Sam!” Then she turned back to Daisy and Rose and muttered audibly, “Shall we send Sam in and find out his secrets?”


“Does Sam have secrets?” Rose said, smiling at Sam, her blue eyes twinkling.
Sam just wanted to get back to the fire and find Frodo. If he wasn’t there by now, he would take a walk up to Bag End and make sure everything was all right. He wasn’t interested in teasing and provoking, nor in the velvet folds of the tent towards which he was finding himself propelled.


“Go on, Sam. It’ll be fun!” Daisy laughed. “We all went in – even Jolly, though he had to be pushed and when he came out he were like a beetroot!”


“Yes, Sam, you have to have a go – no moaning, now, go on!” Rose laughed, pushing Sam through the gap in the curtains and into the dim interior of the tent.


Darkness and smoke and flickering lights disorientated him for a moment as he stood, gathering his wits, trying not to make a fool of himself and run, tearing up the hill.


“Come in, come in, if you’re willing.”


Sam walked towards the voice, finding the fitful light and drawing towards it like a moth. In the centre of the tent, he saw a low table and two stools set beside it. Seated on one was a small figure swathed in a red shawl, her hair bound in gold ribbons and her fingers covered in many rings.


“Sit down,” she said and held out her hand, palm upwards. Sam sighed, sitting down and feeling in his pockets for some coins, which he laid in her hand and watched her silently and swiftly conceal.


A deck of cards was spread out upon the table and Sam looked down at it with suspicion. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to play any games. I’m looking for someone, I want to know if you’ve heard of them or seen them hereabouts. Their name is Yarrow – four brothers from Bree. The youngest – Asher, his name is – well, he was biding here for a time.”


“You’re looking for them?” she said, her green eyes regarding him sternly from beneath her painted brow.



“I want to know if they’ve come back with you – following the fair?” Sam said, his heart racing, wanting this to be over, desperate to find Frodo.


The lady raised her hand and turned the deck of cards upon the table, offering them with a sweep of her eyes.


“Take one,” she said. “If you’re seeking the truth – it is there.”


Sam sighed, looking down at the blank faces of the cards with mistrust. There were no answers to be found in illusion, only more puzzlement, but he wanted to please the lady and so he turned one of the cards uppermost and watched a smile passing over her face as she looked down at the picture revealed.


“Are you seeking them for yourself, or for another?” she said, her eyes downcast.


Sam’s eyes widened and he shuffled in his seat. “Do you know them?” he persisted.


“Turn another card.”


Sam turned five cards and then spread them out on the table, staring at the strange pictures and signs, watching as the lady pressed her fingers to her temples and closed her eyes in concentration. She ran red nails along her brow and shook her head as if she was in fright.


Alarmed, Sam sat forwards on his seat, a cold stab of fear penetrating his heart. “What is it?”


“I know those you speak of – they have been here and they have passed on. They carry danger for you and the one you care for.”


“But they’ve gone, now?” Sam stated, longing for confirmation.


“Yes, they don’t linger long,” she replied, taking hold of Sam’s hands and running her fingers along his rough palm, turning slowly, considering. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. “You carry such treasures in your hands,” she whispered. “Hold them gently.”


Sam looked up at her thin, painted face scored with lines of sorrow. “I will – thank you,” he said and stumbled to his feet. “I have to go.”


“Yes,” she said. “You do.”


~~~


The only light in the smial spilled from beneath the bedroom door and Sam walked quietly up and listened, tentatively, his ear against the wood. He wondered if he should knock and then dismissed the thought and pushed the door open slowly.


The room was washed gold by the flickering firelight, dancing on discarded clothes, heaps of linen, silk and leather lying scattered beneath the looking glass. Books were splayed upon their backs, pages fluttering. Bedclothes tossed and crumpled, quilt and pillows sliding down into the centre of the bed, where Frodo lay sprawled upon his back, dressed in his finest and best, now half undone, the red waistcoat glimmering like a ruby on his snow white shirt. Golden and lustrous, his face moved restless in sleep, his lips fallen open, dark lashes curving an arc of shadow on his cheek.


Enthralled, Sam came slowly into the room, feeling as if he had no right to, but entering nonetheless. Climbing onto the bed, he knelt beside his master and gazed at him in open adoration, delighting in this quiet moment of peaceful intimacy, knowing at once that Frodo was safe and well, only sleeping.


Only sleeping…


Sam bent his head and kissed Frodo softly on the brow, watching Frodo’s eyes flickering as he stirred, lashes batting open slowly, focusing on Sam’s face.


“Sam?” he whispered, raising a hand to touch Sam’s cheek.


“I’m sorry to disturb you.”


“Come here, lie with me,” Frodo said, guiding Sam into his arms and wrapping his body around him, smoothing his hair and kissing him deeply. “You smell of the fires,” he said.


“You didn’t come.” Sam closed his eyes under Frodo’s kiss.


Frodo took a breath, breaking from the kiss with lingering patient laps of his tongue. “I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”


Sam smiled and drew him back, holding him tightly as he moved urgently against him, kissing his throat as he swiftly wound his hands through the tangle of cloth and found smooth, heated skin.


“Sam?” Frodo gasped as Sam closed his hand around him.


“Yes, me dear?”


“You can go back if you want to, you don’t have to do this, you can go…”


Sam looked up in astonishment and frowned. “Why are you sayin’ that?”


Frodo looked at him intently, his eyes full of yearning. “You’re not tied to me, you don’t have to leave your party.”


“I know that,” Sam replied, his hand tightening and moving slowly, causing Frodo to tip back his head and close his eyes. “It’s my choice, my choice, don’t fear. It’s what I’m wanting, it’s all I want…”


Arching his hips, Frodo’s voice broke on a cry as the log in the hearth split and burst, breaking into a thousand tiny fragments of fire. A distant reel and a pounding drum, a hundred feet dancing on the grass. Sam holding Frodo as he stretched taut, his skin gleaming, pooling shadow into which he dipped his tongue. Frodo’s eyes opening sightless with pleasure and Sam holding the warmth in his palm like gold.


“Like that – that’s how much I love you,” Sam whispered, kissing the tears from Frodo’s face.


The fire was still burning on the Party Field, a tall spire of flame curling into the black sky.


To be continued…