Lesson Learned (Frodo/Sam) PG for blackbird_song
Title: Lesson Learned
Rating:PG
Beta: thanks to ismenin
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: The characters of Frodo/Sam remain the property of Tolkien.
No money will be made and no disrespect intended.
Frodo presses the edge of the small, sharp stone into the soft wood and gouges a mark to go alongside the other marks he had made previously. He steps back and begins to count. There are fourteen marks.
Fourteen marks for fourteen days.
They say they will make the decision on the fifteenth day.
He looks back at the inert form on the bed. Nothing.
“Wake up, Sam, please…open your eyes, look at me…”
He could whisper this till the end of time, he suspects, and still Sam would remain the same. Frodo is convinced Sam is over the worst, but he needs to wake up, and then they can leave and go home. The ache for the Shire fills him, so real and raw he has to clutch at himself to stop a cry escaping. He cannot let them hear, in case they think it is over, and it won’t be over, he has decided, until he sees the round green door of his home once more. He shakes his head, refusing to think about what he cannot have.
“Wake up, Sam, please…open your eyes, look at me…”
It’s the same old litany, and if he’d made marks on the walls to tally how many times he’s said this, the walls would be covered. Sam isn’t listening. Sam is somewhere else, somewhere Frodo can’t reach, and after fourteen days of waiting, Frodo is exhausted. So many feelings have battered his mind, so many swings of hope and despair have worn him out. He needs Sam’s strength because his own seems wanting; he needs Sam’s presence so he can imagine the world is as it should be. He needs Sam because…because he wants him back, wants to laugh with him, talk with him, be with him
He wants his Sam, and Sam isn’t listening.
Frodo sighs out loud. The sound is shaky but he doesn’t care. He has stopped thinking about bravery and determination and all those fine words he used to say to himself all those days ago. Not important. Not any more.
He sits on a stool at Sam’s bedside, and watches for any sign that Sam is coming back to him.
******
Thinking back, Frodo knows it was a foolish idea. Sam had always warned him that he was encouraging all kinds of calamities by going on those walks across the Shire on his own, sometimes at night, sometimes without a ‘by your leave’ as Sam puts it, sounding half impressed by Frodo’s foolhardiness and half appalled.
Yet Frodo didn’t listen, mainly because he never believed Sam when he mentioned talk of ‘ruffians.’ The very idea made him laugh.
“There’s those that would sell their grandmother for a basket of eggs, I’ve heard. Some like them folks that live near the borders of the Shire, not knowing what world they belong to, certainly not respectable Hobbit folk.”
Sam made this pronouncement whilst up to his forearms in flour, so it was hard to take him seriously. Frodo knew all Sam was interested in was his welfare, but Frodo had been out and about many times without Sam’s knowledge, and nothing had happened. As far as he was concerned, nothing ever would happen.
He’d said goodnight to Sam and packed him off home with solemn assurances he’d take heed of the warnings, and it was no lie - he was going to take heed of them while wandering the Farthing and enjoying the moonlight. It was a fine, warm night, and he’d packed some cheese and an apple, a couple of slices of Sam’s teabread, thickly buttered, and with his jacket fastened and a cloak packed just in case, he had set off, whistling into the night.
And after that, he’d disappeared.
*
Frodo shifts on his stool, uncomfortable at the thought of all the worry Sam must have gone through. Arriving at Bag End and finding no-one home. Seeing Frodo’s bed untouched.
He wonders how long Sam waited before going after him, asking anyone he met for news of Frodo. He can only imagine how Sam must have felt, because if it was the other way round, he would be beside himself with dark thoughts. Even at the best of times, Sam would worry, and to think of Frodo hurt, perhaps, or even sick, would have driven Sam to distraction at the idea he was unable to help.
“I’m sorry, for all the worry I must have given you,” he whispers and touches Sam’s face, hoping Sam hears him.
*
If Sam only knew, it hadn’t been that dramatic. Frodo had been happily making his way along a track he’d found once, and now knew like the back of his hand, when he’d come across a small group of Hobbits. He couldn’t see too well because the clouds had gathered in the night sky, and although the slight wind kept them on the move, they still obscured the moon every now and then. He could, however, hear voices. One of those voices he recognised as the Keeper of the boats at Brandy Hall. The Hobbit had a name, but all the younger Hobbits called him ‘Keeper’ and all were afraid of him. He was a gruff one, a master of his craft, knowing everything there was to know about boats and repairs, and all the necessaries for Hobbits that lived near water. Those who lived in Hobbiton saw him every so often on his way back from Michel Delving, where he dealt with the business of the licences for all the trade that took place on the Brandy Hall boats and rafts.
From the conversation that was taking place, Frodo gleaned that every piece of information about what cargo was going where, and when it was to be unloaded, and where the best place was to steal it, was being given by the Keeper to the group around him.
Whatever information he was giving them, it wasn’t making them happy, for there was some pushing and shoving, until the Keeper raised his voice and demanded
“You Girdleys, mind yer manners!”
Frodo had tensed at the mention of the Girdleys. He’d never met one, but had heard of them. In the Green Dragon, he’d overheard most farmers blaming the Girdleys if anything ever went missing, even if they lived miles from Girdley Island, where the family lived. All he knew of them was that once they had been proud boat builders to all of the settlements anywhere near the Brandywine river, but now were a family of ne’er-do-wells who preferred to live off others hard-earned livelihoods. No-one had a good word to say about them, and he’d met a few Hobbits, when he had lived at Brandy Hall, who were afraid of them. He’d never seen Girdley Island himself, although Merry had, even if he wouldn’t talk about the experience.
He’d heard the chink of coin, the sworn oaths of secrecy, and knew then it would be better to return the way he had come. He had crouched down to listen, and now straightened up, turning swiftly into the stocky figure and rather rancid breath of one of the Girdley family. Within seconds, there was a sack over his head, and he was being carried off to who knew where. The only emotion he managed to feel was annoyance that he hadn’t taken more care. The thought that he might have been in real danger never even occurred to him.
*
There’s a scratching at the shutters that have blocked most of the light in the room. Frodo is used to the endless twilight of the place where he now spends his days with Sam, and finds his way easily to them, waiting for the bolts to be drawn back so they can be opened. Food on a tin plate and a container of water is passed through. Frodo doesn’t look down any more, for he knows the food is tasteless, and hardly worth the name. He’s more interested in the water. They never have enough water, and even less now Sam is hurt.
He unstoppers the stone bottle, and tips the water onto a piece of cloth torn from his cloak. Carefully he wipes Sam’s forehead, face and neck, knowing that Sam, if he were conscious, would appreciate the coolness in the stiflingly oppressive air of the room. The day must be hot on the river. Frodo can hear the water lapping at the old jetties. He can hear the whine of insects, and almost taste the atmosphere of the room itself. They haven’t washed for days, their clothes are stiff with mud and sweat, and the slop bucket reeks. Privately, Frodo wonders if whoever comes to pay the ransom might take one look at them both and decide the Girdleys can keep them.
There’s some left in the bottle, and Frodo finally allows himself to take a sip or two, tipping his head back, letting the water spill into his mouth. He can’t bring himself to drain it, though, and lets the final few drops fall onto Sam’s lips. They linger there for a moment before spilling down his chin. Frodo sits back on the stool and resumes his vigil. For the first time, he notices the lack of movement from Sam was something he expected. He doesn’t even bother to hope any more. His head is pounding, and feels far too heavy for his body.
*
The first few days of his captivity were a medley of different sounds and smells, none of them pleasant. Sights didn’t come until much later, so at the beginning he wasn’t sure where he was. It was only the sound of water that made him ask, and when a harsh voice replied ‘Girdley Island, but don’t think there’s a chance of escaping’, he was so surprised at the distance he’d been taken, escaping didn’t even come into it. It was only later, when he realised that the nearest habitation downstream was Brandy Hall, that the frustration set in. By then, though, he had been trussed up and left on a pallet in a mouldy, damp storage shed that looked as if a strong gust of wind would demolish it.
He was visited once. The leader of the Girdleys, one Tobias Girdley, was filthy, with clothes that had seen better days, hair unkempt, feet matted with mud. To Frodo’s surprise, he seemed barely older than Merry. As he came in, other older Hobbits guarded the door, although Frodo couldn’t have escaped. At his side was a smaller Hobbit-lass, equally unkempt. Her eyes never left Frodo.
Tobias came to the point very quickly. “You got in the way of our business, Frodo Baggins. No need to look so surprised, we know who you are. Master of Bag End, and relation of our sworn enemy, the scum Brandybuck. Keeper told us. Keeper wanted you dead, but dead men don’t pay well.”
Not for the first time, Frodo wished the tale that Bilbo had left a treasure hoard in the cellars of Bag End had never been told. He’d looked there himself, and there was nothing.
“I have no money worth speaking of, but what I have you are welcome to, although I can’t get hold of it, trussed up like this.” He hoped his voice sounded reasonable, because he was still trying to understand how one Hobbit could turn against another in such a way.
“It’s not you we’re asking, but the Brandybucks, who’ll pay - one way or another. I’ve sent the ransom note, and I give them fifteen days. At the end of that, you’re either in the river, or perhaps sold on to some of those traders from the south I hear about on my travels. Always looking for something exotic, and nothing like a Hobbit of breeding - with a little elf blood in his veins - to whet such appetites, eh?” Tobias had been amused at Frodo’s horrified reaction.
“Why are you doing this? I’ve done you no harm. You’re a Hobbit, same as me!”
“Nah, not the same as you. Never have been, never will be. There’s bad times coming, my sister says, and she’s always right. She says we needs money because we have to be somewheres else when those times get here. Only for some of us in present company, the bad times are already here. Better hope the Brandybucks have deep pockets…”
For the rest of that day Frodo had tried hard not to think about Merry’s father, and his habit of holding onto what was his until the last possible minute. He’d do the right thing, wouldn’t he? Merry would surely speak up for Frodo, although Merry was never in his father’s good books, and his father might not even listen. The idea that Saradoc might think it was Frodo’s own fault, and let him get on with his predicament, slipped unwanted into Frodo’s mind.
He didn’t get much rest that night, or the following three nights.
*
Frodo stares at the marks on the wall once more, counting them again to make sure. Tomorrow the ransom should come, if it is meant to come. Tomorrow, they should be going home.
He wonders if the pallet Sam is lying on will be able to be carried, and he spends some time on his hands and knees investigating the possibilities, when, without realising, he knocks against the wooden structure with his elbow. He can’t help the cry of pain, and the lurch of his body in reaction, that jars the pallet, sending it moving slightly. Sam’s body rocks, but Frodo is too busy blinking back tears to check if everything is all right.
Then it is too much, and the tears become sobs, great gulping sobs that come from so far within it hurts - because Sam is hurt, and Frodo should be helping him more, and he doesn’t know how, and everything has gone wrong. He’s useless, only fit to read elvish poetry and make polite conversation with passing Hobbits.
And if they don’t pay…in spite of their promise…if they don’t pay…
He stops, angry at his own behaviour. He should know better.
“You shouldn’t have come, Sam. Not here. I’m not worth it…”
*
He was moved to a drier cabin-type dwelling after six days. As he was unceremoniously thrown into the gloomy room with its shuttered window, he had been glad to see there was a pallet, with a bundle of clothing on it. He’d hated sleeping on the floor, and was beginning to feel the river-chill already.
Before he could explore his new surroundings, Tobias’ sister had entered carrying Frodo’s cloak and some water.
“You’ll need this.”
Frodo hadn’t understood, and said so.
“For him.” She gestured to the bundle. “Came looking for you. Found more than he bargained for.”
He didn’t believe what he’d heard, and thinking it was a trick of some kind, had approached the pallet with great caution.
Finding Sam battered and bruised was not what he expected. His heart racing, he had tried to find what was wrong, for Sam was not responding. His friend lay there without a sound. There was dried blood on the side of his head, and bruises everywhere.
Sam had come looking for him, and they had beaten him.
And so it began.
Days and nights of vigils, cooling Sam down in the oven the room became in daytime, and making sure he did not get too cold at night. Loosening his clothes, attending to his personal needs. No place for modesty or inhibition - Sam needed him, and that was all there was to it.
All the time Frodo talked to him, until, too weary to do much else, he sat on the stool and watched the rise and fall of Sam’s chest. At first he had told himself that he was doing it because Sam would do it for him. Sam had looked after him many a time. It was what any right thinking Hobbit would do.
It was only when Tobias came visiting to say that they’d heard word that the ransom was to be paid, that Cat Girdley made a comment that set his world spinning.
“You care for him like he’s yours. Not a friend. A friend? You go and see what needs to be done. But when its yours…then you go and see what should be done before it ever really needs doing. You are never still, always looking at him, wanting him to be right. He’s yours, and no mistake.”
Tobias had looked at Frodo then, and laughed at the open mouth and stupefied look.
That night Frodo had sat and thought about Cat’s words. He had looked back at his life at Bag End since Bilbo had left. He made a list in his head of all the things Sam gave to his life. From being the finest gardener Frodo had ever met, to the way he could do three tasks without mixing up even one of them; from the way he listened to Frodo’s stories with that intent gaze upon Frodo’s face, his laughter and sheer good hearted nature, and the way Frodo could always depend on him…so much given without any reward.
His thoughts moved to other things - more private, something he could only admit to in this darkened space. Sam’s body, muscular and strong, together with a nature that was loving and kind, had led Frodo to imagine certain actions, certain loving actions that Frodo would reciprocate with a passion…only then he had to stop, because he was trembling at the conclusions he had come to.
He regarded Sam as his, and wanted to be Sam’s. His face had burned. He wanted it in every way. The strength of the wanting astounded him.
When Cat had returned, he had thanked her for her words. She’d laughed, and told him he had the mind of a water flea. A blind Hobbit could have told him.
“You remember. When that one reaches for you, you better hold on.”
He’d remember. There was no one else he wanted to hold onto more.
If Sam woke.
*
He feels empty now, after all the emotion has drained away. There’s nothing left, just exhaustion.
He takes Sam’s hand and gently strokes it, trying to summon the will to say something. Sam’s hand is warm, and if Frodo touches the wrist he can feel that strange beat of life that tells him Sam is still with him. He presses Sam’s fingers to his lips, closing his eyes, imagining how Sam would move to cup his face, trace his thumb over Frodo’s cheek, and before he knows it, he’s leaning over Sam and his hand is doing the same.
Tracing the outlines of Sam’s face, his beloved Sam, so no matter what happens, he wouldn’t forget the time and place where he found out what his heart really wanted, he finds himself kissing Sam’s mouth and throat, and then every square inch of cheek and forehead.
He laughs softly as eyelashes tickle and then, shocked, he finds himself staring into eyes that are puzzled.
“Mr Frodo?”
Frodo cries out in sheer happiness. His Sam is back. Dazed, not altogether himself, but back, nevertheless.
The night is spent talking and sleeping, Sam helpfully making room for Frodo to lie next to him, but protesting all the same, because he was capable of sleeping on the floor, and it wasn’t right for him to presume this way.
Frodo isn’t dismayed. In fact it’s a task he relishes. He imagines all the ways he can convince Sam that it’s not improper to have the feelings Sam’s having…and he is having them, even if Sam thinks Frodo hasn’t noticed.
*
Dawn comes. They are fed, and then their surroundings seem to become noisier. Orders are being given, although neither Frodo nor Sam can decipher what they are.
“It will be good to be home.” Frodo smiles at the thought, and squeezes Sam’s arm. Sam looks down at Frodo’s hand, and agrees.
When the door is opened, and Tobias and his Hobbits enter, the world is changed again. They are loud, confident, and very sure of themselves. They surround Frodo, blocking Sam from his view, and quickly tie his hands. Before he can protest, he is outside, half dragged, half pushed into the sunlight.
Frodo is taken through the Girdley’s camp. He stumbles through old clothing and decaying wood, mounds of this and that he can’t even identify. Faces peer at him, distorted by lank tufts of hair, eyes staring at him, faces that are blank and unreadable. Younger versions of their parents, the younglings of Girdley make him uneasy. This is not how younglings should be, silent and watching without comment as he passes. He knows it’s not their fault he’s in this state, hardly different from their own, but something about their stillness makes his flesh crawl. Sun glints on small polished flint knives held in even smaller hands. Frodo hopes they will not be told to use them, because he has no doubt that if Tobias ordered them, they would.
It is a world he does not understand, a world outside his experience, and now he is not in the mood to even try, because he can see the river and a raft, and beyond that…Hobbits on ponies, armed with bows and pikes. At their head is Saradoc, proud and aloof, and behind him, richly dressed, more so than Frodo has ever seen before, is Merry.
He is bundled onto the raft, hands pushing and shoving him to the floor, but the movement on the water is comforting, and he manages to swivel to look behind him for Sam.
But there is no Sam, and with mounting horror, Frodo knows that Sam has been left behind.
“Wait! There are two of us! You have to go back!”
Tobias’ face comes into view, a smile on his face. He can already feel the money in his hands.
“Ransom was asked for one. If they pay for one, then one they get.”
Frodo closes his eyes in misery. If he had known, he would not have come without a fight, he tries to tell himself, but isn’t sure of the truthfulness of his thoughts. The need to be free, to return to his home had been overwhelming. Now, all he can think of is Sam waiting for him to come back into that tiny cabin, and waiting in vain, and no matter how hard he thinks he had no choice - the fact is that Sam will never know that Frodo did not want to leave him.
“I’m sorry, so sorry…” he whispers the words over and over again, willing them to travel over the water to the camp where the smoke from the fires spirals into the air, and the younglings play amongst the dirt and debris, to find his Sam, his beloved Sam. Then he can’t say any more, for there is a knot of grief in his throat. Too many have gone from his life already…
Saradoc barely glances at the Girdleys. As Frodo is pulled to the front of the raft, the head of the mighty Brandybuck family looks him up and down and asks
“Is he hurt?”
“Don’t make a habit of damaging the goods, Brandybuck.” The deliberate lack of courtesy is noticed by the Hobbits that accompany Saradoc, but the elder Hobbit doesn’t even flinch. He waits until Frodo is untied, and then signals a family retainer to throw the bag of money onto the raft. The bag lands squarely, and one of the Girdleys counts the coin. He nods to Tobias, who unceremoniously shoves Frodo off onto the muddy bank. Frodo, taken by surprise, finds himself on hands and knees in the same kind of ooze as the younglings he’d passed earlier. Looking up, he sees Saradoc shake his head, while Merry looks anxious. He knows Saradoc takes him for a fool, but Frodo doesn’t care any more. There are more important matters to consider.
“Meriadoc, help your cousin up. He can ride with you. Let’s see if we can ride homeward without this foolish Hobbit getting himself into any more dangers.”
Merry clicks his tongue, and the pony moves forward obediently. He makes a sympathetic face, and leans down, extending his hand for Frodo to grasp.
All Frodo has to do is take that hand, swing up onto the pony, and he is safe. There will be a soft bed for him, hot water and towels and food worthy of the name…all he has to do is take Merry’s hand.
He turns away to the gasps of all around him.
“I’m not going.”
Both Tobias and Saradoc echo his words in disbelief. Merry stares at Frodo as if his cousin has lost his mind.
“Saradoc, I thank you for the ransom you have agreed to pay, but Tobias made a mistake.” It is hard to face down Saradoc - it goes against every tenet of Hobbit good manners - but Frodo is determined. Sam will not be left behind. “There are two of us, and so I cannot go.”
“Two? You managed to snare another lollop-brained fool to take part in your adventures? Tell me who? A Took, no doubt.”
“Samwise Gamgee. My gardener…”
Saradoc almost explodes. “Your gardener? You took your gardener with you? What kind of gentlehobbit are you? Have you no sense of propriety? No respect for the family to which you belong?”
Frodo is aware that every Hobbit present is staring at him, most waiting for him to acknowledge Saradoc’s position, and make humble apologies, but he can’t do that. It’s not how he lives his life, and Sam, as he has slowly come to realise these days, is very much a part of his life.
“You are entitled to what you hold dear, and I am entitled to think otherwise. Sam is a fine gardener, and without his help I freely acknowledge I would not be able to manage Bag End. Yet he is also my friend. A friend, who came to find me at the risk of his own life. What kind of Hobbit would I be, to ignore that?”
Frodo looks from the astounded faces of Saradoc and Tobias, to the grin on Merry’s. Without further ado - and to the amazement of all - he sits down in the mud, and waits.
Tobias howls his indignation.
“You’re not getting the other without a fair price. Granted, it will be less - but I’m not letting him go without more coin. None of that barter business.”
Saradoc is stony faced. “I don’t pay coin for gardeners. Supplies - food, tools, and the wherewithal to make sure your family can manage in their new home. Oh yes, for leave this place you will. Two ransoms, and a wagon of supplies is all you will ever get from me. I paid one all those years ago, and it cost your father his life. Don’t make the same mistake. You can take my ex-Keeper of the Boats with you. He finds himself unemployed.”
Tobias takes some time to consider it, talking to the members of his family on the raft, and Frodo bites his lip in worry, wondering if there is some trick as yet undiscovered, and if Sam will have vanished once the supplies are handed over.
With terse words and nods, the agreement is sealed, and all Frodo has to do is wait for Saradoc’s party to return and send a wagon of supplies in their stead. That, and make sure Sam is by his side when it does. He waits anxiously as the raft sets off once more, and only when he sees the figure of Sam supported by two of Tobias’ followers does he allow himself to relax.
Sam insists on making it to the bank by himself, and in a few strides is standing over Frodo.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, mister Frodo, that’s a strange place to be sitting.”
Frodo looks up at him, suddenly shy at the joy he’s feeling at Sam’s return. “I was waiting for you.”
“And now you’re not, because I’m here. And although I’d happily sit down, I’m not sure I’d get up again. So, I’m going to wait standing up, and I’d be obliged if you’d see your way to doing the same.” He reaches down instinctively to help Frodo up, but winces at the movement.
Laughing, Frodo scrambles to his feet. Taking hold of Sam’s outstretched hand, he looks him over so thoroughly that Sam begins blushing furiously, but Frodo won’t have any of it. “I am so pleased to see you, Sam, you have no idea…”
“Oh I think I have, if you forgive me for saying,” and it is Frodo’s turn to blush at the reply.
For a while it is enough to stand companionably side by side, but little by little, hands touch and fingers brush against the other. Frodo doesn’t know what to say quite yet, and perhaps it’s just as well, for Sam is simply amazed that this has turned out the way it has.
The wagon, when it arrives, is quickly emptied, and Sam and Frodo helped aboard by a proud Merry, pleased to be of help to his friends. The wagon rolls along, Merry providing a chattering accompaniment to the sound of the wheels on the track. He talks of hot baths, and clean clothes, elevenses, and second breakfasts, and all the time he does, Frodo feels himself slipping into a restful doze.
He senses Sam shifting to allow him to lean against his body, and murmurs an apology.
“No sorries needed, for you’ve been looking after me for long enough. 'Bout time I did something.”
“You did something. You came after me. You are a true friend, Sam, and more.”
Sam blinks. “More?”
“From what I remember, we have a certain kiss to talk about…” Frodo tries to sound somewhat stern, finding it hard to resist the chance to tease.
Surprised, Sam can only stutter. “I..I .I can explain…”
Frodo looks up at him. “Oh yes…now would be a good time.”
The wagon rolls on, Merry keeps chattering, and a thought occurs to Frodo, as Sam’s fingers touch his lips, and they move closer, eager to make sure that other kisses will follow, that Cat Girdley is right.
Whenever Sam reaches for him he has to hold on…
Frodo smiles. He can’t ever imagine letting go.
Rating:PG
Beta: thanks to ismenin
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: The characters of Frodo/Sam remain the property of Tolkien.
No money will be made and no disrespect intended.
Frodo presses the edge of the small, sharp stone into the soft wood and gouges a mark to go alongside the other marks he had made previously. He steps back and begins to count. There are fourteen marks.
Fourteen marks for fourteen days.
They say they will make the decision on the fifteenth day.
He looks back at the inert form on the bed. Nothing.
“Wake up, Sam, please…open your eyes, look at me…”
He could whisper this till the end of time, he suspects, and still Sam would remain the same. Frodo is convinced Sam is over the worst, but he needs to wake up, and then they can leave and go home. The ache for the Shire fills him, so real and raw he has to clutch at himself to stop a cry escaping. He cannot let them hear, in case they think it is over, and it won’t be over, he has decided, until he sees the round green door of his home once more. He shakes his head, refusing to think about what he cannot have.
“Wake up, Sam, please…open your eyes, look at me…”
It’s the same old litany, and if he’d made marks on the walls to tally how many times he’s said this, the walls would be covered. Sam isn’t listening. Sam is somewhere else, somewhere Frodo can’t reach, and after fourteen days of waiting, Frodo is exhausted. So many feelings have battered his mind, so many swings of hope and despair have worn him out. He needs Sam’s strength because his own seems wanting; he needs Sam’s presence so he can imagine the world is as it should be. He needs Sam because…because he wants him back, wants to laugh with him, talk with him, be with him
He wants his Sam, and Sam isn’t listening.
Frodo sighs out loud. The sound is shaky but he doesn’t care. He has stopped thinking about bravery and determination and all those fine words he used to say to himself all those days ago. Not important. Not any more.
He sits on a stool at Sam’s bedside, and watches for any sign that Sam is coming back to him.
******
Thinking back, Frodo knows it was a foolish idea. Sam had always warned him that he was encouraging all kinds of calamities by going on those walks across the Shire on his own, sometimes at night, sometimes without a ‘by your leave’ as Sam puts it, sounding half impressed by Frodo’s foolhardiness and half appalled.
Yet Frodo didn’t listen, mainly because he never believed Sam when he mentioned talk of ‘ruffians.’ The very idea made him laugh.
“There’s those that would sell their grandmother for a basket of eggs, I’ve heard. Some like them folks that live near the borders of the Shire, not knowing what world they belong to, certainly not respectable Hobbit folk.”
Sam made this pronouncement whilst up to his forearms in flour, so it was hard to take him seriously. Frodo knew all Sam was interested in was his welfare, but Frodo had been out and about many times without Sam’s knowledge, and nothing had happened. As far as he was concerned, nothing ever would happen.
He’d said goodnight to Sam and packed him off home with solemn assurances he’d take heed of the warnings, and it was no lie - he was going to take heed of them while wandering the Farthing and enjoying the moonlight. It was a fine, warm night, and he’d packed some cheese and an apple, a couple of slices of Sam’s teabread, thickly buttered, and with his jacket fastened and a cloak packed just in case, he had set off, whistling into the night.
And after that, he’d disappeared.
*
Frodo shifts on his stool, uncomfortable at the thought of all the worry Sam must have gone through. Arriving at Bag End and finding no-one home. Seeing Frodo’s bed untouched.
He wonders how long Sam waited before going after him, asking anyone he met for news of Frodo. He can only imagine how Sam must have felt, because if it was the other way round, he would be beside himself with dark thoughts. Even at the best of times, Sam would worry, and to think of Frodo hurt, perhaps, or even sick, would have driven Sam to distraction at the idea he was unable to help.
“I’m sorry, for all the worry I must have given you,” he whispers and touches Sam’s face, hoping Sam hears him.
*
If Sam only knew, it hadn’t been that dramatic. Frodo had been happily making his way along a track he’d found once, and now knew like the back of his hand, when he’d come across a small group of Hobbits. He couldn’t see too well because the clouds had gathered in the night sky, and although the slight wind kept them on the move, they still obscured the moon every now and then. He could, however, hear voices. One of those voices he recognised as the Keeper of the boats at Brandy Hall. The Hobbit had a name, but all the younger Hobbits called him ‘Keeper’ and all were afraid of him. He was a gruff one, a master of his craft, knowing everything there was to know about boats and repairs, and all the necessaries for Hobbits that lived near water. Those who lived in Hobbiton saw him every so often on his way back from Michel Delving, where he dealt with the business of the licences for all the trade that took place on the Brandy Hall boats and rafts.
From the conversation that was taking place, Frodo gleaned that every piece of information about what cargo was going where, and when it was to be unloaded, and where the best place was to steal it, was being given by the Keeper to the group around him.
Whatever information he was giving them, it wasn’t making them happy, for there was some pushing and shoving, until the Keeper raised his voice and demanded
“You Girdleys, mind yer manners!”
Frodo had tensed at the mention of the Girdleys. He’d never met one, but had heard of them. In the Green Dragon, he’d overheard most farmers blaming the Girdleys if anything ever went missing, even if they lived miles from Girdley Island, where the family lived. All he knew of them was that once they had been proud boat builders to all of the settlements anywhere near the Brandywine river, but now were a family of ne’er-do-wells who preferred to live off others hard-earned livelihoods. No-one had a good word to say about them, and he’d met a few Hobbits, when he had lived at Brandy Hall, who were afraid of them. He’d never seen Girdley Island himself, although Merry had, even if he wouldn’t talk about the experience.
He’d heard the chink of coin, the sworn oaths of secrecy, and knew then it would be better to return the way he had come. He had crouched down to listen, and now straightened up, turning swiftly into the stocky figure and rather rancid breath of one of the Girdley family. Within seconds, there was a sack over his head, and he was being carried off to who knew where. The only emotion he managed to feel was annoyance that he hadn’t taken more care. The thought that he might have been in real danger never even occurred to him.
*
There’s a scratching at the shutters that have blocked most of the light in the room. Frodo is used to the endless twilight of the place where he now spends his days with Sam, and finds his way easily to them, waiting for the bolts to be drawn back so they can be opened. Food on a tin plate and a container of water is passed through. Frodo doesn’t look down any more, for he knows the food is tasteless, and hardly worth the name. He’s more interested in the water. They never have enough water, and even less now Sam is hurt.
He unstoppers the stone bottle, and tips the water onto a piece of cloth torn from his cloak. Carefully he wipes Sam’s forehead, face and neck, knowing that Sam, if he were conscious, would appreciate the coolness in the stiflingly oppressive air of the room. The day must be hot on the river. Frodo can hear the water lapping at the old jetties. He can hear the whine of insects, and almost taste the atmosphere of the room itself. They haven’t washed for days, their clothes are stiff with mud and sweat, and the slop bucket reeks. Privately, Frodo wonders if whoever comes to pay the ransom might take one look at them both and decide the Girdleys can keep them.
There’s some left in the bottle, and Frodo finally allows himself to take a sip or two, tipping his head back, letting the water spill into his mouth. He can’t bring himself to drain it, though, and lets the final few drops fall onto Sam’s lips. They linger there for a moment before spilling down his chin. Frodo sits back on the stool and resumes his vigil. For the first time, he notices the lack of movement from Sam was something he expected. He doesn’t even bother to hope any more. His head is pounding, and feels far too heavy for his body.
*
The first few days of his captivity were a medley of different sounds and smells, none of them pleasant. Sights didn’t come until much later, so at the beginning he wasn’t sure where he was. It was only the sound of water that made him ask, and when a harsh voice replied ‘Girdley Island, but don’t think there’s a chance of escaping’, he was so surprised at the distance he’d been taken, escaping didn’t even come into it. It was only later, when he realised that the nearest habitation downstream was Brandy Hall, that the frustration set in. By then, though, he had been trussed up and left on a pallet in a mouldy, damp storage shed that looked as if a strong gust of wind would demolish it.
He was visited once. The leader of the Girdleys, one Tobias Girdley, was filthy, with clothes that had seen better days, hair unkempt, feet matted with mud. To Frodo’s surprise, he seemed barely older than Merry. As he came in, other older Hobbits guarded the door, although Frodo couldn’t have escaped. At his side was a smaller Hobbit-lass, equally unkempt. Her eyes never left Frodo.
Tobias came to the point very quickly. “You got in the way of our business, Frodo Baggins. No need to look so surprised, we know who you are. Master of Bag End, and relation of our sworn enemy, the scum Brandybuck. Keeper told us. Keeper wanted you dead, but dead men don’t pay well.”
Not for the first time, Frodo wished the tale that Bilbo had left a treasure hoard in the cellars of Bag End had never been told. He’d looked there himself, and there was nothing.
“I have no money worth speaking of, but what I have you are welcome to, although I can’t get hold of it, trussed up like this.” He hoped his voice sounded reasonable, because he was still trying to understand how one Hobbit could turn against another in such a way.
“It’s not you we’re asking, but the Brandybucks, who’ll pay - one way or another. I’ve sent the ransom note, and I give them fifteen days. At the end of that, you’re either in the river, or perhaps sold on to some of those traders from the south I hear about on my travels. Always looking for something exotic, and nothing like a Hobbit of breeding - with a little elf blood in his veins - to whet such appetites, eh?” Tobias had been amused at Frodo’s horrified reaction.
“Why are you doing this? I’ve done you no harm. You’re a Hobbit, same as me!”
“Nah, not the same as you. Never have been, never will be. There’s bad times coming, my sister says, and she’s always right. She says we needs money because we have to be somewheres else when those times get here. Only for some of us in present company, the bad times are already here. Better hope the Brandybucks have deep pockets…”
For the rest of that day Frodo had tried hard not to think about Merry’s father, and his habit of holding onto what was his until the last possible minute. He’d do the right thing, wouldn’t he? Merry would surely speak up for Frodo, although Merry was never in his father’s good books, and his father might not even listen. The idea that Saradoc might think it was Frodo’s own fault, and let him get on with his predicament, slipped unwanted into Frodo’s mind.
He didn’t get much rest that night, or the following three nights.
*
Frodo stares at the marks on the wall once more, counting them again to make sure. Tomorrow the ransom should come, if it is meant to come. Tomorrow, they should be going home.
He wonders if the pallet Sam is lying on will be able to be carried, and he spends some time on his hands and knees investigating the possibilities, when, without realising, he knocks against the wooden structure with his elbow. He can’t help the cry of pain, and the lurch of his body in reaction, that jars the pallet, sending it moving slightly. Sam’s body rocks, but Frodo is too busy blinking back tears to check if everything is all right.
Then it is too much, and the tears become sobs, great gulping sobs that come from so far within it hurts - because Sam is hurt, and Frodo should be helping him more, and he doesn’t know how, and everything has gone wrong. He’s useless, only fit to read elvish poetry and make polite conversation with passing Hobbits.
And if they don’t pay…in spite of their promise…if they don’t pay…
He stops, angry at his own behaviour. He should know better.
“You shouldn’t have come, Sam. Not here. I’m not worth it…”
*
He was moved to a drier cabin-type dwelling after six days. As he was unceremoniously thrown into the gloomy room with its shuttered window, he had been glad to see there was a pallet, with a bundle of clothing on it. He’d hated sleeping on the floor, and was beginning to feel the river-chill already.
Before he could explore his new surroundings, Tobias’ sister had entered carrying Frodo’s cloak and some water.
“You’ll need this.”
Frodo hadn’t understood, and said so.
“For him.” She gestured to the bundle. “Came looking for you. Found more than he bargained for.”
He didn’t believe what he’d heard, and thinking it was a trick of some kind, had approached the pallet with great caution.
Finding Sam battered and bruised was not what he expected. His heart racing, he had tried to find what was wrong, for Sam was not responding. His friend lay there without a sound. There was dried blood on the side of his head, and bruises everywhere.
Sam had come looking for him, and they had beaten him.
And so it began.
Days and nights of vigils, cooling Sam down in the oven the room became in daytime, and making sure he did not get too cold at night. Loosening his clothes, attending to his personal needs. No place for modesty or inhibition - Sam needed him, and that was all there was to it.
All the time Frodo talked to him, until, too weary to do much else, he sat on the stool and watched the rise and fall of Sam’s chest. At first he had told himself that he was doing it because Sam would do it for him. Sam had looked after him many a time. It was what any right thinking Hobbit would do.
It was only when Tobias came visiting to say that they’d heard word that the ransom was to be paid, that Cat Girdley made a comment that set his world spinning.
“You care for him like he’s yours. Not a friend. A friend? You go and see what needs to be done. But when its yours…then you go and see what should be done before it ever really needs doing. You are never still, always looking at him, wanting him to be right. He’s yours, and no mistake.”
Tobias had looked at Frodo then, and laughed at the open mouth and stupefied look.
That night Frodo had sat and thought about Cat’s words. He had looked back at his life at Bag End since Bilbo had left. He made a list in his head of all the things Sam gave to his life. From being the finest gardener Frodo had ever met, to the way he could do three tasks without mixing up even one of them; from the way he listened to Frodo’s stories with that intent gaze upon Frodo’s face, his laughter and sheer good hearted nature, and the way Frodo could always depend on him…so much given without any reward.
His thoughts moved to other things - more private, something he could only admit to in this darkened space. Sam’s body, muscular and strong, together with a nature that was loving and kind, had led Frodo to imagine certain actions, certain loving actions that Frodo would reciprocate with a passion…only then he had to stop, because he was trembling at the conclusions he had come to.
He regarded Sam as his, and wanted to be Sam’s. His face had burned. He wanted it in every way. The strength of the wanting astounded him.
When Cat had returned, he had thanked her for her words. She’d laughed, and told him he had the mind of a water flea. A blind Hobbit could have told him.
“You remember. When that one reaches for you, you better hold on.”
He’d remember. There was no one else he wanted to hold onto more.
If Sam woke.
*
He feels empty now, after all the emotion has drained away. There’s nothing left, just exhaustion.
He takes Sam’s hand and gently strokes it, trying to summon the will to say something. Sam’s hand is warm, and if Frodo touches the wrist he can feel that strange beat of life that tells him Sam is still with him. He presses Sam’s fingers to his lips, closing his eyes, imagining how Sam would move to cup his face, trace his thumb over Frodo’s cheek, and before he knows it, he’s leaning over Sam and his hand is doing the same.
Tracing the outlines of Sam’s face, his beloved Sam, so no matter what happens, he wouldn’t forget the time and place where he found out what his heart really wanted, he finds himself kissing Sam’s mouth and throat, and then every square inch of cheek and forehead.
He laughs softly as eyelashes tickle and then, shocked, he finds himself staring into eyes that are puzzled.
“Mr Frodo?”
Frodo cries out in sheer happiness. His Sam is back. Dazed, not altogether himself, but back, nevertheless.
The night is spent talking and sleeping, Sam helpfully making room for Frodo to lie next to him, but protesting all the same, because he was capable of sleeping on the floor, and it wasn’t right for him to presume this way.
Frodo isn’t dismayed. In fact it’s a task he relishes. He imagines all the ways he can convince Sam that it’s not improper to have the feelings Sam’s having…and he is having them, even if Sam thinks Frodo hasn’t noticed.
*
Dawn comes. They are fed, and then their surroundings seem to become noisier. Orders are being given, although neither Frodo nor Sam can decipher what they are.
“It will be good to be home.” Frodo smiles at the thought, and squeezes Sam’s arm. Sam looks down at Frodo’s hand, and agrees.
When the door is opened, and Tobias and his Hobbits enter, the world is changed again. They are loud, confident, and very sure of themselves. They surround Frodo, blocking Sam from his view, and quickly tie his hands. Before he can protest, he is outside, half dragged, half pushed into the sunlight.
Frodo is taken through the Girdley’s camp. He stumbles through old clothing and decaying wood, mounds of this and that he can’t even identify. Faces peer at him, distorted by lank tufts of hair, eyes staring at him, faces that are blank and unreadable. Younger versions of their parents, the younglings of Girdley make him uneasy. This is not how younglings should be, silent and watching without comment as he passes. He knows it’s not their fault he’s in this state, hardly different from their own, but something about their stillness makes his flesh crawl. Sun glints on small polished flint knives held in even smaller hands. Frodo hopes they will not be told to use them, because he has no doubt that if Tobias ordered them, they would.
It is a world he does not understand, a world outside his experience, and now he is not in the mood to even try, because he can see the river and a raft, and beyond that…Hobbits on ponies, armed with bows and pikes. At their head is Saradoc, proud and aloof, and behind him, richly dressed, more so than Frodo has ever seen before, is Merry.
He is bundled onto the raft, hands pushing and shoving him to the floor, but the movement on the water is comforting, and he manages to swivel to look behind him for Sam.
But there is no Sam, and with mounting horror, Frodo knows that Sam has been left behind.
“Wait! There are two of us! You have to go back!”
Tobias’ face comes into view, a smile on his face. He can already feel the money in his hands.
“Ransom was asked for one. If they pay for one, then one they get.”
Frodo closes his eyes in misery. If he had known, he would not have come without a fight, he tries to tell himself, but isn’t sure of the truthfulness of his thoughts. The need to be free, to return to his home had been overwhelming. Now, all he can think of is Sam waiting for him to come back into that tiny cabin, and waiting in vain, and no matter how hard he thinks he had no choice - the fact is that Sam will never know that Frodo did not want to leave him.
“I’m sorry, so sorry…” he whispers the words over and over again, willing them to travel over the water to the camp where the smoke from the fires spirals into the air, and the younglings play amongst the dirt and debris, to find his Sam, his beloved Sam. Then he can’t say any more, for there is a knot of grief in his throat. Too many have gone from his life already…
Saradoc barely glances at the Girdleys. As Frodo is pulled to the front of the raft, the head of the mighty Brandybuck family looks him up and down and asks
“Is he hurt?”
“Don’t make a habit of damaging the goods, Brandybuck.” The deliberate lack of courtesy is noticed by the Hobbits that accompany Saradoc, but the elder Hobbit doesn’t even flinch. He waits until Frodo is untied, and then signals a family retainer to throw the bag of money onto the raft. The bag lands squarely, and one of the Girdleys counts the coin. He nods to Tobias, who unceremoniously shoves Frodo off onto the muddy bank. Frodo, taken by surprise, finds himself on hands and knees in the same kind of ooze as the younglings he’d passed earlier. Looking up, he sees Saradoc shake his head, while Merry looks anxious. He knows Saradoc takes him for a fool, but Frodo doesn’t care any more. There are more important matters to consider.
“Meriadoc, help your cousin up. He can ride with you. Let’s see if we can ride homeward without this foolish Hobbit getting himself into any more dangers.”
Merry clicks his tongue, and the pony moves forward obediently. He makes a sympathetic face, and leans down, extending his hand for Frodo to grasp.
All Frodo has to do is take that hand, swing up onto the pony, and he is safe. There will be a soft bed for him, hot water and towels and food worthy of the name…all he has to do is take Merry’s hand.
He turns away to the gasps of all around him.
“I’m not going.”
Both Tobias and Saradoc echo his words in disbelief. Merry stares at Frodo as if his cousin has lost his mind.
“Saradoc, I thank you for the ransom you have agreed to pay, but Tobias made a mistake.” It is hard to face down Saradoc - it goes against every tenet of Hobbit good manners - but Frodo is determined. Sam will not be left behind. “There are two of us, and so I cannot go.”
“Two? You managed to snare another lollop-brained fool to take part in your adventures? Tell me who? A Took, no doubt.”
“Samwise Gamgee. My gardener…”
Saradoc almost explodes. “Your gardener? You took your gardener with you? What kind of gentlehobbit are you? Have you no sense of propriety? No respect for the family to which you belong?”
Frodo is aware that every Hobbit present is staring at him, most waiting for him to acknowledge Saradoc’s position, and make humble apologies, but he can’t do that. It’s not how he lives his life, and Sam, as he has slowly come to realise these days, is very much a part of his life.
“You are entitled to what you hold dear, and I am entitled to think otherwise. Sam is a fine gardener, and without his help I freely acknowledge I would not be able to manage Bag End. Yet he is also my friend. A friend, who came to find me at the risk of his own life. What kind of Hobbit would I be, to ignore that?”
Frodo looks from the astounded faces of Saradoc and Tobias, to the grin on Merry’s. Without further ado - and to the amazement of all - he sits down in the mud, and waits.
Tobias howls his indignation.
“You’re not getting the other without a fair price. Granted, it will be less - but I’m not letting him go without more coin. None of that barter business.”
Saradoc is stony faced. “I don’t pay coin for gardeners. Supplies - food, tools, and the wherewithal to make sure your family can manage in their new home. Oh yes, for leave this place you will. Two ransoms, and a wagon of supplies is all you will ever get from me. I paid one all those years ago, and it cost your father his life. Don’t make the same mistake. You can take my ex-Keeper of the Boats with you. He finds himself unemployed.”
Tobias takes some time to consider it, talking to the members of his family on the raft, and Frodo bites his lip in worry, wondering if there is some trick as yet undiscovered, and if Sam will have vanished once the supplies are handed over.
With terse words and nods, the agreement is sealed, and all Frodo has to do is wait for Saradoc’s party to return and send a wagon of supplies in their stead. That, and make sure Sam is by his side when it does. He waits anxiously as the raft sets off once more, and only when he sees the figure of Sam supported by two of Tobias’ followers does he allow himself to relax.
Sam insists on making it to the bank by himself, and in a few strides is standing over Frodo.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, mister Frodo, that’s a strange place to be sitting.”
Frodo looks up at him, suddenly shy at the joy he’s feeling at Sam’s return. “I was waiting for you.”
“And now you’re not, because I’m here. And although I’d happily sit down, I’m not sure I’d get up again. So, I’m going to wait standing up, and I’d be obliged if you’d see your way to doing the same.” He reaches down instinctively to help Frodo up, but winces at the movement.
Laughing, Frodo scrambles to his feet. Taking hold of Sam’s outstretched hand, he looks him over so thoroughly that Sam begins blushing furiously, but Frodo won’t have any of it. “I am so pleased to see you, Sam, you have no idea…”
“Oh I think I have, if you forgive me for saying,” and it is Frodo’s turn to blush at the reply.
For a while it is enough to stand companionably side by side, but little by little, hands touch and fingers brush against the other. Frodo doesn’t know what to say quite yet, and perhaps it’s just as well, for Sam is simply amazed that this has turned out the way it has.
The wagon, when it arrives, is quickly emptied, and Sam and Frodo helped aboard by a proud Merry, pleased to be of help to his friends. The wagon rolls along, Merry providing a chattering accompaniment to the sound of the wheels on the track. He talks of hot baths, and clean clothes, elevenses, and second breakfasts, and all the time he does, Frodo feels himself slipping into a restful doze.
He senses Sam shifting to allow him to lean against his body, and murmurs an apology.
“No sorries needed, for you’ve been looking after me for long enough. 'Bout time I did something.”
“You did something. You came after me. You are a true friend, Sam, and more.”
Sam blinks. “More?”
“From what I remember, we have a certain kiss to talk about…” Frodo tries to sound somewhat stern, finding it hard to resist the chance to tease.
Surprised, Sam can only stutter. “I..I .I can explain…”
Frodo looks up at him. “Oh yes…now would be a good time.”
The wagon rolls on, Merry keeps chattering, and a thought occurs to Frodo, as Sam’s fingers touch his lips, and they move closer, eager to make sure that other kisses will follow, that Cat Girdley is right.
Whenever Sam reaches for him he has to hold on…
Frodo smiles. He can’t ever imagine letting go.