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FIC: Heart's cry (Lord of the Rings, Frodo&Sam, G)
This fic is unfinished and I currently have no plans to finish it.
The stranger was dressed in grey, and at first the innkeeper took him for an elf, or an elf-child; his features held much both of elvish beauty and of the sadness they all seemed to share, a sadness that one who looked so young should not have to carry. But the elves had passed from that region long ago, and few indeed remained in all of Middle Earth, and so the innkeeper deemed he must be a hobbit, though a passing strange one.
"What may I call you then, sir?" he inquired, as he rummaged for the ale bottle his customer had requested.
A brief half-smile flitted across the other's face. "I am called Morël, now," he said at length. "I'm a stranger here."
The innkeeper suppressed a chuckle; any fool could have seen that. Visitors to the Shire were few and far between, and ones like this rarer still. He handed over the bottle. The stranger took it with a nod of thanks, paid, and before the innkeeper could produce a bottle-opener, drew out a slim blade. It looked to be Elvish in workmanship, and glinted like silver. He pried the top off the bottle with it, but it slipped, slicing into the finger of his left hand. The innkeeper gave a cry of alarm, but his customer seemed not to notice, sheathing his blade again and taking a swing from the bottle.
"Mr. Morël, sir, are you not hurt?"
"Mmmm?" said the other, dreamily, his mind seeming far away.
"I saw you cut your finger...."
"Oh... you must have been mistaken." He held up his hand, unbloodied, without so much as a scratch on it. "You see? I'm fine." He resumed his drinking, savouring the ale as slowly and carefully as if it had been the finest Elvish wine.
The innkeeper frowned, and moved away to attend his other customers. He was sure he had not been mistaken.
*~*~*
He trod the old path slowly, almost afraid it would melt away to nothingness under his slippered feet, and he would find he had been dreaming after all. At last he came to the familiar door. It had been painted since the last time he had seen it - how long ago? - and was framed on either side by bushes recently left untended. Hesitantly, he raised his hand and knocked.
The footsteps, when they came, came reluctantly, as if their owner didn't wish to go, but felt it his duty. The door creaked open.
"I'm not really in fit state to receive company -" Sam began, running a hand through his curly, greying hair. The stranger looked up, and he stopped abruptly.
"Frodo?"
*~*~*
Forgetting his manners, quite possibly for the first time in his life, Samwise Gamgee stood and stared. Then he recovered himself. This stranger couldn't possibly be Frodo. For one thing, he looked no older than Frodo had when he'd left; if anything, he was younger. For another, Sam knew very well where Frodo had gone to and there was no coming back from there. He was just about to apologise, when the stranger spoke - and all his doubts fled instantly.
"It's me, Sam. Could I... might I come in? If you don't mind the company."
Sam was still reeling with shock, but his manners would not desert him a second time.
"Of course not, of course not... come right on in." He stood aside to let Frodo pass - noticing as he did so the Elvish garb his former master now wore. "Sitting room's... well, I daresay you remember where it is. Do go through, while I see if I can find us something to eat."
Frodo settled himself, still rather dazed by the familiar surroundings - and how familiar they were! In all the time he had gone, so little of this dear house had changed; except that, in the alcove by the fireplace, where a picture of Bilbo had once hung, there was a portrait of Rose Cot- Rose Gamgee. And its oval frame was draped with a black cloth.
"I'm sorry I can't offer you more choice," said Sam, bustling in with two plates of seed cake. He disappeared again, returning in a few seconds with two steaming mugs of tea.
"The truth is," he continued, easing himself into the armchair opposite Frodo's, "you've caught me somewhat unprepared, so to speak. I wasn't expecting visitors around now, and, ah.... least of all you, meaning no offence, sir."
There was an uncomfortable silence. At length, Frodo sighed.
"Sam, dear Sam... first of all, please don't call me 'sir'. You're master of this house now, as much as I ever was; and it was - good - to hear you call me by my name, before. As for the rest... I will tell you, I promise, but it's long in the telling, and I'm very tired right now. I won't intrude on your hospitality too long, for I'll have to find a good inn in Hobbiton... but I just wanted to see you, now, before I went."
Sam sat up in his chair.
"Stay in Hobbiton?" he cried. "In an inn? And what kind of ungrateful wretch do you take me for? You will stay here, with me. I won't hear of a word against it! Eru knows there's room enough now...." and at that his voice trailed off, and he glanced towards the alcove beside the mantelpiece. Frodo caught his hand between his own.
"Dearest Sam... you always were too good to me. Of course I shall stay here, if you wish it. But I don't want to be a burden to you, if you'd prefer to be alone for now."
Sam didn't meet Frodo's eyes, instead gazing down at their still-joined hands.
"You've heard, then?"
"I - yes, I have heard."
There was another heavy silence.
"Sam, I'm so sorry. If I can do anything...."
Sam did meet his eyes then, his face half sad, half quizical. Frodo flushed, looking away.
"I know, it's a terrible thing to say. Everybody must say it, and there's nothing that anybody can do." He looked back up at Sam's face. "I mean it, just the same. Anything, everything in my power...." Sam shook his head. "I feared as much. I am sorry, though."
For a long time they sat like that, hands joined, Sam staring into the fire, Frodo watching Sam. But this was a more comfortable silence, one it might be expected old friends would share.
It was Sam who eventually broke the moment, coming to himself with a brisk shake of his head, and carefully withdrawing his hand from Frodo's.
"Well, there now," he said. "We've let the tea go cold." And his smile was so soft, so brave, so determinedly cheerful despite the sadness in his eyes, that Frodo was ready to move mountains for him. Instead he returned the smile with a hesitant one of his own.
"It would seem so."
"Would you like some fresh?"
"All I'd really like now is a warm bed. Unless... you'd prefer me to stay here?"
"No, Mister Frodo, bless you, but no. I'll be off to bed myself, I think. I've usually gone by this hour, anyways. Sleep doesn't come as easy to me as it did when I was younger." And again he shot a wondering glance at Frodo's unlined face.
But that was one conversation Frodo didn't want to have yet. Indeed, he was so comfortable, sitting in this blessedly old and homely room, that he wasn't sure he wanted to have the conversation at all, to shatter this peaceful surface with the ripples he knew it would bring. But after all, it was why he had come. Tomorrow then, maybe. Not tonight. Tonight it was time for bed - a real hobbit bed in a real hobbit hole.
They made their way towards the bedrooms, Sam in the lead. He hesitated for a minute outside the guest suite, then carried on. Eventually he stopped again.
"Your old room, Mister Frodo. I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess: Frodo-lad sleeps here when he stays round. But I thought -" He didn't need to complete the sentence. Frodo's appreciation was clear on his face. He hesitated a moment. "I'm just down the hall, if you need me."
Frodo's eyes were shining. He took a deep breath. "I - thank you, Sam. Goodnight." And before he could lose his nerve, he pressed a gentle kiss to Sam's cheek.
Sam stayed in the hall for an interminable moment after the bedroom door had closed. Then he softly ran two fingers down the side of his face.
"Goodnight, Mister Frodo."
Notes from 2009
This little snippet came out of my desperate desire to write some Sam/Frodo that was a) canon-compliant and b) not going to totally break my heart. This was a challenging combination! I eventually decided that the only way I could do it would be to set it after Rosie's death; oops. Once I stopped fiddling with the set-up and tried to write the actual slash parts, it became clear that a Sam still in mourning for his wife wasn't significantly less heart-breaking to write than a Frodo who would leave Sam for the Grey Havens. So I left it here, where I can at least still imagine a happy ending with a minimum of angst for them.
The stranger was dressed in grey, and at first the innkeeper took him for an elf, or an elf-child; his features held much both of elvish beauty and of the sadness they all seemed to share, a sadness that one who looked so young should not have to carry. But the elves had passed from that region long ago, and few indeed remained in all of Middle Earth, and so the innkeeper deemed he must be a hobbit, though a passing strange one.
"What may I call you then, sir?" he inquired, as he rummaged for the ale bottle his customer had requested.
A brief half-smile flitted across the other's face. "I am called Morël, now," he said at length. "I'm a stranger here."
The innkeeper suppressed a chuckle; any fool could have seen that. Visitors to the Shire were few and far between, and ones like this rarer still. He handed over the bottle. The stranger took it with a nod of thanks, paid, and before the innkeeper could produce a bottle-opener, drew out a slim blade. It looked to be Elvish in workmanship, and glinted like silver. He pried the top off the bottle with it, but it slipped, slicing into the finger of his left hand. The innkeeper gave a cry of alarm, but his customer seemed not to notice, sheathing his blade again and taking a swing from the bottle.
"Mr. Morël, sir, are you not hurt?"
"Mmmm?" said the other, dreamily, his mind seeming far away.
"I saw you cut your finger...."
"Oh... you must have been mistaken." He held up his hand, unbloodied, without so much as a scratch on it. "You see? I'm fine." He resumed his drinking, savouring the ale as slowly and carefully as if it had been the finest Elvish wine.
The innkeeper frowned, and moved away to attend his other customers. He was sure he had not been mistaken.
*~*~*
He trod the old path slowly, almost afraid it would melt away to nothingness under his slippered feet, and he would find he had been dreaming after all. At last he came to the familiar door. It had been painted since the last time he had seen it - how long ago? - and was framed on either side by bushes recently left untended. Hesitantly, he raised his hand and knocked.
The footsteps, when they came, came reluctantly, as if their owner didn't wish to go, but felt it his duty. The door creaked open.
"I'm not really in fit state to receive company -" Sam began, running a hand through his curly, greying hair. The stranger looked up, and he stopped abruptly.
"Frodo?"
*~*~*
Forgetting his manners, quite possibly for the first time in his life, Samwise Gamgee stood and stared. Then he recovered himself. This stranger couldn't possibly be Frodo. For one thing, he looked no older than Frodo had when he'd left; if anything, he was younger. For another, Sam knew very well where Frodo had gone to and there was no coming back from there. He was just about to apologise, when the stranger spoke - and all his doubts fled instantly.
"It's me, Sam. Could I... might I come in? If you don't mind the company."
Sam was still reeling with shock, but his manners would not desert him a second time.
"Of course not, of course not... come right on in." He stood aside to let Frodo pass - noticing as he did so the Elvish garb his former master now wore. "Sitting room's... well, I daresay you remember where it is. Do go through, while I see if I can find us something to eat."
Frodo settled himself, still rather dazed by the familiar surroundings - and how familiar they were! In all the time he had gone, so little of this dear house had changed; except that, in the alcove by the fireplace, where a picture of Bilbo had once hung, there was a portrait of Rose Cot- Rose Gamgee. And its oval frame was draped with a black cloth.
"I'm sorry I can't offer you more choice," said Sam, bustling in with two plates of seed cake. He disappeared again, returning in a few seconds with two steaming mugs of tea.
"The truth is," he continued, easing himself into the armchair opposite Frodo's, "you've caught me somewhat unprepared, so to speak. I wasn't expecting visitors around now, and, ah.... least of all you, meaning no offence, sir."
There was an uncomfortable silence. At length, Frodo sighed.
"Sam, dear Sam... first of all, please don't call me 'sir'. You're master of this house now, as much as I ever was; and it was - good - to hear you call me by my name, before. As for the rest... I will tell you, I promise, but it's long in the telling, and I'm very tired right now. I won't intrude on your hospitality too long, for I'll have to find a good inn in Hobbiton... but I just wanted to see you, now, before I went."
Sam sat up in his chair.
"Stay in Hobbiton?" he cried. "In an inn? And what kind of ungrateful wretch do you take me for? You will stay here, with me. I won't hear of a word against it! Eru knows there's room enough now...." and at that his voice trailed off, and he glanced towards the alcove beside the mantelpiece. Frodo caught his hand between his own.
"Dearest Sam... you always were too good to me. Of course I shall stay here, if you wish it. But I don't want to be a burden to you, if you'd prefer to be alone for now."
Sam didn't meet Frodo's eyes, instead gazing down at their still-joined hands.
"You've heard, then?"
"I - yes, I have heard."
There was another heavy silence.
"Sam, I'm so sorry. If I can do anything...."
Sam did meet his eyes then, his face half sad, half quizical. Frodo flushed, looking away.
"I know, it's a terrible thing to say. Everybody must say it, and there's nothing that anybody can do." He looked back up at Sam's face. "I mean it, just the same. Anything, everything in my power...." Sam shook his head. "I feared as much. I am sorry, though."
For a long time they sat like that, hands joined, Sam staring into the fire, Frodo watching Sam. But this was a more comfortable silence, one it might be expected old friends would share.
It was Sam who eventually broke the moment, coming to himself with a brisk shake of his head, and carefully withdrawing his hand from Frodo's.
"Well, there now," he said. "We've let the tea go cold." And his smile was so soft, so brave, so determinedly cheerful despite the sadness in his eyes, that Frodo was ready to move mountains for him. Instead he returned the smile with a hesitant one of his own.
"It would seem so."
"Would you like some fresh?"
"All I'd really like now is a warm bed. Unless... you'd prefer me to stay here?"
"No, Mister Frodo, bless you, but no. I'll be off to bed myself, I think. I've usually gone by this hour, anyways. Sleep doesn't come as easy to me as it did when I was younger." And again he shot a wondering glance at Frodo's unlined face.
But that was one conversation Frodo didn't want to have yet. Indeed, he was so comfortable, sitting in this blessedly old and homely room, that he wasn't sure he wanted to have the conversation at all, to shatter this peaceful surface with the ripples he knew it would bring. But after all, it was why he had come. Tomorrow then, maybe. Not tonight. Tonight it was time for bed - a real hobbit bed in a real hobbit hole.
They made their way towards the bedrooms, Sam in the lead. He hesitated for a minute outside the guest suite, then carried on. Eventually he stopped again.
"Your old room, Mister Frodo. I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess: Frodo-lad sleeps here when he stays round. But I thought -" He didn't need to complete the sentence. Frodo's appreciation was clear on his face. He hesitated a moment. "I'm just down the hall, if you need me."
Frodo's eyes were shining. He took a deep breath. "I - thank you, Sam. Goodnight." And before he could lose his nerve, he pressed a gentle kiss to Sam's cheek.
Sam stayed in the hall for an interminable moment after the bedroom door had closed. Then he softly ran two fingers down the side of his face.
"Goodnight, Mister Frodo."
Notes from 2009
This little snippet came out of my desperate desire to write some Sam/Frodo that was a) canon-compliant and b) not going to totally break my heart. This was a challenging combination! I eventually decided that the only way I could do it would be to set it after Rosie's death; oops. Once I stopped fiddling with the set-up and tried to write the actual slash parts, it became clear that a Sam still in mourning for his wife wasn't significantly less heart-breaking to write than a Frodo who would leave Sam for the Grey Havens. So I left it here, where I can at least still imagine a happy ending with a minimum of angst for them.