Long Expected Birthday Challenge - August post
Title: Not an Elf in sight
Author: Frodosweetstuff
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~ 4.100
AN: Many thanks to my excellent beta Lbilover!
Quote: „Well I don’t know,“ said Sam thoughtfully. He believed he had once seen an Elf in the woods, and still hoped to see more one day.
Summary: Sam hopes to see Elves... or does he?
***
Everyone in Hobbiton, from the smallest hobbitling to the oldest gammer, knew that Hamfast Gamgee’s youngest son Samwise had a thing about Elves.
Or to be precise, everyone thought that Samwise had a thing about Elves.
But they were all wrong. The truth was that Sam found Elves terminally boring. To start with, they looked spectacularly unexciting. Their history was for the most part mind-numbingly dreary. And oh Eru, their poetry did more than just verge on the humdrum - it rather hurtled straight for the cliff of utmost tediousness before throwing the hapless listener down into a sea of leaden dullness. Sam shuddered to think what their food might taste like.
But though Sam was far from being a lover of all things Elvish, still he wouldn’t have dreamed of setting the population of Hobbiton to rights about his supposed interest in the children of Eldar. Because when it came to it, it was by far better that people believe he had a thing about Elves than that they discover what, or rather, who he truly had a thing about.
And so, to keep up appearances, Sam spent the oliphaunt’s share of his free time haunting the woods around Hobbiton, pretending to be on the look-out for Shire-traversing Elves. Sam did this all by himself every Highday without fail and regardless of season or weather, which lent his pretend pastime the semblance of dedication (which in turn caused his popularity with the unwedded lasses to dwindle quite dramatically, something Sam didn’t mind in the least).
Funnily enough, even though Sam didn’t really look for them, he believed that he had once seen an Elf in the woods - although, admittedly, it had been a very foggy Foreyule morning, so Sam wasn’t sure if he hadn’t merely mistaken a wafting fog cloud for the tip of an Elvish travelling cloak disappearing behind a tree - and despite not exactly being the Shire’s biggest Elf aficionado, he still hoped he would see more one day, if only to have something to show for the countless hours spent in the woods.
Currently, Sam was sitting in one of his favourite spots in the Culley woods south of Hobbiton. The heavy boughs of a beautiful old oak tree provided welcome protection from the hot Wedmath sun, the moss on the ground was soft and dry, and not far off, a little brook happily gurgled and splashed over some big, shiny rocks. Sam was resting with his back against the trunk of the oak, while his head was pillowed on his arms and his eyes were closed. For about an hour now he had been busily occupied - but not with looking for Elves, of course.
He had been daydreaming about Mr. Frodo - for it was that fairest of hobbits that he really had a thing about.
Despite his name, Samwise was no fool. He knew that if his sisters ever caught him wearing the moon-struck look that inevitably went with daydreaming about Mr. Frodo, they would torture him with needle-sharp questions and a relentless inquisitiveness worthy of the Shire Pipeweed Fraud Squad and before long he would squeak out his heart’s dearest secret - that he dreamed of stealing kisses from the elegantly-curved, full, most certainly petal-soft lips of the young squire (and that he sometimes even dreamed of doing far more amorous and intimate things than that to Mr. Frodo).
As a result, Samwise thanked from the bottom of his heart whichever gossipmonger had first started that silly Elf-watching rumour. He could indulge his besotted fantasies with no fear of being detected - not even by the object of his affections, whose eyes sometimes seemed to be looking straight into Sam’s very soul and seeing far more than Sam dared to reveal.
Sam squirmed impatiently against the tree bark. His daydreaming today had gotten off to a bad start - an insistent fly had been buzzing around his head for an annoyingly long time - and now his mind kept stubbornly straying from lovely visions of himself and Mr. Frodo to the harsh realities of life - which were that none of what Sam dreamed about would ever happen outside of his fantasies - a fact that Samwise had sighed deeply about more often than he could count.
After all, being the Gaffer’s son, he knew his place and there was - alas - no reason to think that Mr. Frodo didn’t know his. And unlike Sam’s, his head was very probably not befuddled by ideas of romance in which one lover was male and the other was... male, too. Sam knew all too well that Mr. Frodo had never so much as flirted with a lad at any of the many festivities in Hobbiton, not even that one time when he had been a bit too deep in his cups, but he had been seen spinning lots of lasses about in the lively dances at the Lithe festivals and enjoying himself greatly while doing so.
Sam sighed again, wishing he wasn’t the one hobbit in Hobbiton who had to be so genderly confused in love. If Eru had created him to lose his heart irrevocably to a lad, Sam pondered not for the first time, then maybe Eru had created another lad who would lose his heart irrevocably to Sam - and why shouldn’t that lad be Frodo Baggins? But there was no point wishing for the impossible, and so Sam sternly told himself to get a bit more daydreaming under his belt before he had to head back to Hobbiton and his real life, where he was expected home in time for supper.
Sam snuggled back against the tree trunk and deepened his breathing as he began a particularly lovely bit of day-dreaming which involved him picking a beautiful white and pink-tinged rose and gallantly handing it to Mr. Frodo, who smiled appreciatively and then...
...a polite cough made Sam sit up abruptly and open his eyes.
“Hullo Sam. I was looking for you,” a soft voice said and Sam nearly died of shock. Not only had he not expected to see anyone in the woods all day - not just no Elf, but no hobbit either - he had most certainly not expected Mr. Frodo to appear before him as if conjured by magic. Sam tried to keep his rapidly stampeding wits about him, but it didn’t help matters that Mr. Frodo looked as if he had stepped right out of Sam’s dreams to stand before him.
He was wearing exactly what Sam always had him wear in his fantasies: the light green shirt that brought out the stunning blue of his eyes to such breathtaking advantage and the dark green velvet breeches that were delightfully worn in certain places that made Sam’s breathing go faster when he thought about them. And, just as in Sam’s dreams, Mr. Frodo’s curls were unruly in the most attractive way imaginable and looked as if they were spun from pure silk.
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam exclaimed, quickly scrambling to his feet.
“I... er... I was wondering if I could join you for some Elf-watching?” Mr. Frodo asked hesitantly.
Sam’s mouth fell open and his mind nearly imploded as it attempted to envision sitting next to the most exciting living being he had ever known to exist while waiting for members of the most boring race in the entire history of Middle-earth to walk past them - and that for hours on end.
“I didn’t know you were interested in Elves,” Sam managed to say at last. Realizing his rudeness, he quickly added a “begging your pardon, sir,” and blushed slightly.
“Um yes, I... I became enchanted with Elvish literature... um... only lately,” Mr. Frodo replied, and Sam was entranced by the sweet blush that appeared on his cheeks, looking like a few well-measured drops of strawberry nectar smeared over perfectly smooth whipped cream. “I got rather swept away after looking through um... some of uncle Bilbo’s favourites,” Mr. Frodo continued in a voice that quivered a bit - possibly because he was so excited about his new interest, “and, well, I’d like to see some Elves, too, and maybe practise a bit of Elvish with you, seeing how you are such an expert. If you don’t mind, that is,” Mr. Frodo finished.
Under Mr. Frodo’s beautiful if slightly nervous smile the impossible now happened: the tediousness of Elvish poetry evaporated by leaps and bounds, while the sea of leaden dullness shrunk to the size of a merely very large puddle. Sam was even ready to concede that maybe somewhere in the Elven realm there might be something that was almost edible, if improved with some Shire herbs.
“Oh, no no, I don’t mind at all,” he quickly replied which was greeted by another, less nervous smile from the young Squire.
“Have you already seen Elves today?” Mr. Frodo asked as he set his pack down and removed from it a bottle of wine and two metal cups, a cloth that seemed to be wrapped around a rather large pile of scones or buns and two stoppered jars which, knowing the gentlehobbit’s sweet tooth, most likely contained jam and clotted cream. Mr. Frodo obviously took Elf-watching very seriously and hoped to spend quite a few hours waiting for them. Sam, who had only brought a wedge of bread and had to kneel down by the brook and use his cupped hands when he got thirsty, was impressed.
“Um, no,” Sam finally remembered to reply and then mentally kicked himself - Mr. Frodo must have seen how he had been sitting underneath the tree with his eyes closed, making him the biggest ninnyhammer since the invention of Elf-spotting (which, despite Mr. Frodo’s interest, still seemed like a very very ninnyhammerish hobby to Samwise).
“Oh, good, then maybe we’ll get to see some later today. Uncle Bilbo heard from the travelling bookseller that a group of Elves was passing through this part of the Shire towards the Sea.”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Sam said lamely and again with some delay, which led to more mental kicking. He really needed to sound more interested in Elves. But the way Mr. Frodo’s curls were now lightly ruffled by the breeze was very distracting. In fact, Sam was certain their movement had a more hypnotising effect than an army of Elvish master mesmerists could ever have (assuming Elves knew the art of hypnotism, which Sam was pretty certain they had to, just to make sure they had willing, if unconscious, listeners for their awful poetry.)
They both coughed nervously but then each decided at the same moment to settle down on the soft moss, Sam against the tree trunk, Mr. Frodo next to him, cross-legged, and the atmosphere relaxed a bit.
“Um, Sam, could you call me Frodo? After all, we are both Elf-friends, aren’t we? There should be no formality between us.” Frodo stated this with an imploring look and Sam suddenly felt that there was something to be said for the race of Elves after all, if they got him on a first-name basis with such a wonderful creature as Frodo.
Sam nodded. “Certainly, Frodo.”
“So, who’s your favourite Elvish poet then, Sam?”
Eager eyes were looking at him expectantly and Sam panicked. For a few delightful moments he had imagined himself and Frodo happily chatting away the afternoon, sharing the food and drink that Frodo had brought while discussing local gossip and the flowers in Bag End’s garden and maybe talking about life and dreams... but now Sam was faced with the bleak prospect of having to discuss dratted Elves for several hours.
And which poet should he pick? Annael the awful? Daeron the dull? Lindir the lacklustre? Rumil the repetitive? Maglor the monotonous? He found all of them unbearable, unlistenable and uninspiring but he couldn’t really say that and hurt Frodo’s feelings. He was just about to blurt out a confession when a less embarrassing way out revealed itself to Sam. “Well, I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully - pretending to carefully weigh the options. Then he declared dramatically: “Oh, it’s impossible to pick one.”
To Sam’s relief, Frodo nodded emphatically. “Which language do you prefer - Sindarin or Quenya?”
“Um. Sindarin.”
“So do I!” Frodo cried happily and Sam could have punched the air for having accidentally chosen the right answer.
“What do you think Elves look like? The illustrations that uncle Bilbo showed me were all so different.”
Sam frantically sought for a good answer. He had never really more than glanced at the books that Mr. Bilbo had lent him. “Hmm, they’re definitely taller than you and me, that’s for certain,” he eventually came up with which earned him an assenting nod from Frodo.
Sam waited for Frodo’s next question but this time, the other hobbit remained silent. Instead he started nibbling on one of his fingernails. Sam was tempted to do the same; he was that nervous and excited. In fact, it seemed to him as if the very air around them was humming with agitation and portent. If he had been out here waiting for Elves, he would have been expecting to see a group of them float by any minute now and he’d be diligently scanning between the trees for movement.
As it was, he tried not to stare too obviously at Frodo, but he wasn’t sure he was doing a good job of it - his eyes were helplessly drawn to his fellow Elf-spotter who looked so beautiful and who was so sweet and lovely and educated and funny and who made Sam’s knees go weak and his heart beat faster.
Sam desperately tried to come up with something clever to say about Elves so that Frodo would look at him admiringly and then they would both lean forward at the same moment and... Ah no, Sam stopped that train of thought, that sort of thing only happened in his fantasies. For the first time in his life, Sam wished he could relive just a tiny little bit of the time he had spent listening to Mr. Bilbo as he rambled on about all things Elvish, so that he could remember at least a few facts with which to impress Frodo.
Oh, but wasn’t there a love story that Mr Bilbo had enthused about again and again? About a mortal man and an Elvish maiden? Sam dimly remembered their names as Beryll and Luther but he wasn’t completely sure. An ardent fan such as Frodo would surely be shocked if Sam got the names wrong, he fretted. At least he was positive that there was a dog involved in that story at some point. Sam was known to have an excellent memory for the names of everyone’s pets and even most of the Hobbiton farm animals but oh for the love of the mushroom fairy, what was that dog called? Hewn? Juan?
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’, Samwise told himself. He was just about to risk making a fool of himself when to his great relief he was saved at the last moment by Frodo suddenly bursting out: “Oh Sam, did I ever tell you I have a scar that looks like the Elvish symbol for the number 9?” Frodo looked positively giddy with excitement. “I cut myself on some sharp rocks by the Water’s edge the first year I came to Hobbiton.”
“You have?” Inside Sam, a deep feeling of upset that Frodo’s perfect skin was somehow marred by a scar warred with the desire to inspect said perfect skin without seeming like a lecher. “Can I see it?”
“Yes, but... um.... it’s in a rather private place. I hope you don’t mind,” Frodo said, avoiding looking at Sam.
“Oh no, that’s fine.” Sam said, blushing and swallowing hard.
To Sam’s utter delight and terror, Frodo got up and opened the buttons on his breeches - the scar wasn’t on his root, was it, Sam thought in a near-panic, but then Frodo merely pushed down his breeches and underlinens a bit to reveal his left hip. Sam could immediately see the pink mark that looked a bit like the letter m with a tiny little tail at the end. He gasped at the sight. Then he slowly got up and bent down to take a closer look.
He had to take Frodo’s word for it that the shape looked like an Elvish 9 but he could see very well for himself how creamy-white the skin around it was, how soft it looked. Sam almost drooled. Without any conscious command from him, his fingers advanced in the direction of Frodo’s hip.
“You can touch it if you want,” Frodo whispered and slowly raised his eyes to look right into Sam’s. Sam didn’t need to know Sindarin or Quenya to understand the message Frodo was sending him. His deep blue orbs were speaking of hope and a long-burning affection and something too big and beautiful for words that was his for the asking. Sam gulped and without taking his eyes off Frodo’s, he let his fingertips glide reverently over the scar and a little bit beyond, trying to reply to Frodo’s message by loving touch. Sam noticed a little trembling and wasn’t sure if it was his hand or Frodo’s body.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Both hobbits looked up, startled by the unexpected voice.
Sam knew he was scowling at the tall stranger but he couldn’t help it. His heart beat faster when he saw that Frodo, too, didn’t look happy about the interruption.
“I am sorry to disturb you, sirs, but I fear I am quite lost in these unfamiliar woods and I seem to have gotten cut off from the group with whom I was travelling. Would you be so kind as to tell me in which direction the Sea lies?”
“Just walk through those trees over there until you reach a small trodden path, stay on it until it meets with a big road and follow that towards your left. That’ll lead you in the right direction,” Sam explained more curtly then he normally would have. But every jot of his being was hoping that the intruder would leave as quickly as possible so he could be alone again with Frodo.
“I am much obliged to you, sir,” the man said, bowed politely and turned away. Sam nodded, and then looked back at Frodo, who quickly lowered his eyes and blushed deeply. Frodo had been looking at him intensely when he thought Sam wouldn’t notice - a happy shiver ran all over Sam’s body. If things went the way he thought they might, he vowed to become the biggest scholar and supporter of Elvendom in Middle-earth and he would voluntarily read a thick volume of weepy Elvish ballads every day for the rest of his life, just to show his gratitude to the Elves for bringing him and Frodo together...
“Namárië,” the stranger said over his shoulder as he headed toward the trees at which Sam had pointed. Frodo’s eyes widened - a most wonderful effect, Sam thought dreamily. He’d devote a lot of time to making that happen more often, he decided. Then Frodo giggled, a sound that Sam felt outdid all birdsong for beauty and melody.
“Frodo? What is it?” he asked, smiling broadly - seeing Frodo so happy was contagious. But Frodo only giggled more. Then finally he hiccupped, “Sam I think. That was. An Elf.”
“Who? That traveller?” Sam looked over his shoulder but the man was gone. He honestly couldn’t remember anything about him - his clothes, his colour of hair, any distinguishing features, nothing - only that he had chosen a most unfortunate moment to enquire for directions.
“Can I ask you something, Sam?” Frodo’s expression suddenly sobered.
“Um, sure,” Sam mumbled, filled with a terrible sense of foreboding at the change in Frodo.
“You aren’t really interested in Elves, are you?”
“Beg your pardon?” Sam said automatically as the blood in his veins turned to ice water, all air fled his lungs and his ears rang with the swooshing sound that warned of an impending fainting fit.
“I’ve seen you yawn through Bilbo’s recitals more than once. You had your eyes closed earlier when I found you here. And your lack of interest in that Elf just now...” Frodo let the sentence trail off. He considered Sam with his head tilted to one side, a piercing look in his eyes and no longer any sign of mirth on his face.
This was the end. Sam had loved and lost. For a few moments he had had a chance of becoming Frodo’s meleth but now it would all come to an end. He simply couldn’t lie to the one he loved, not even when the happiness of his entire life was at stake. Frodo’s interest in Elves was genuine and Sam really, really wanted to like them as much as Frodo did and find them as exciting, but the truth was the only thing that he found worthy of hours of study and adoration was the hobbit right in front of him.
“You are right,” he admitted in a barely audible voice. “I simply can’t help but find them boring.” Frodo would leave now, he knew; there would never be any happy Highday afternoons where they picnicked and waited for Elves together and when they met at Bag End, Frodo would probably stare right through him or give him pitying looks to show what he thought of people who didn’t appreciate the wonderfulness of all things Elvish.
“Oh Sam, I’m so very glad to hear that.”
Sam’s mouth fell open. Frodo couldn’t have said what he thought he had heard him say. The grief and heartbreak were causing him to hallucinate and the swooshing sound in his ears had made him mis-hear. Yes, that must be it.
Frodo continued, “I find them boring, too! I confess that I only pretended to be interested because of you. I was looking for a reason to join you, to spend time with you alone, to....”
Sam cut him off, something that had never happened before in all the years since Frodo had come to live at Bag End, but the enormity of the relief Sam was feeling made him bold. “I never came out here for any Elf-watching. All I did every Highday was dream of you, Frodo.”
The two hobbit lads fell silent after their confessions and simply looked at each other for a few heartbeats. Wild happiness mingled with a hint of disbelief and nervousness was sparkling in their eyes as they, like all soon-to-be lovers, anticipated what would inevitably happen next. Slowly, then, each took a step towards the other and leaned forward until their lips met in the sweetest of kisses.
It surpassed all fantasies that Samwise had ever indulged in during his many, many hours of Elf-spotting. He would never have guessed that Frodo’s fingers would grip his arms this tightly or that Frodo would make those wonderful little moans or that breathing in Frodo’s scent while kissing him would nearly drive him insane with longing and love and a fierce protectiveness.
Soon the two hobbits had stumbled a few steps back where they found the oak tree a good support as their bodies pressed close together, their knees turned to butter and all their attention was on each other’s lips, tongue, taste and feel.
In fact, the two hobbits were so engrossed in their first ever kiss that neither of them noticed the group of Elves that walked past them only a few dozen feet away. The Elves, however, spotted the kissing couple, and pointed at them with benevolent smiles lighting their faces. One of them raised her hands in blessing. Then they moved swiftly away on silent feet, leaving only a faint glow in the air that gradually dissolved like fog in sunlight.
“Oh Sam,” Frodo sighed happily after a while.
“Me dear,” Sam replied and then he gently dragged Frodo down onto the soft moss where they resumed their kissing. Another kiss followed, and another and another, until it finally became too dark for any more Elf-watching, and they walked home together, hand in hand.
***
Everyone in Hobbiton, from the smallest hobbitling to the oldest gammer, knew that Samwise Gamgee used to have a thing about Elves. But those days were gone. These days, it was very obvious that he had a thing about Frodo Baggins. And it didn’t take much to see that Frodo Baggins had a thing about Samwise Gamgee, too.
The two of them were inseparable, they exchanged the happiest, most love-filled glances all the time, and every Highday they snuck into the woods around Hobbiton and no one was so foolish as to think they went there looking for Elves.
The End.
Author: Frodosweetstuff
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: PG-13
Word count: ~ 4.100
AN: Many thanks to my excellent beta Lbilover!
Quote: „Well I don’t know,“ said Sam thoughtfully. He believed he had once seen an Elf in the woods, and still hoped to see more one day.
Summary: Sam hopes to see Elves... or does he?
***
Everyone in Hobbiton, from the smallest hobbitling to the oldest gammer, knew that Hamfast Gamgee’s youngest son Samwise had a thing about Elves.
Or to be precise, everyone thought that Samwise had a thing about Elves.
But they were all wrong. The truth was that Sam found Elves terminally boring. To start with, they looked spectacularly unexciting. Their history was for the most part mind-numbingly dreary. And oh Eru, their poetry did more than just verge on the humdrum - it rather hurtled straight for the cliff of utmost tediousness before throwing the hapless listener down into a sea of leaden dullness. Sam shuddered to think what their food might taste like.
But though Sam was far from being a lover of all things Elvish, still he wouldn’t have dreamed of setting the population of Hobbiton to rights about his supposed interest in the children of Eldar. Because when it came to it, it was by far better that people believe he had a thing about Elves than that they discover what, or rather, who he truly had a thing about.
And so, to keep up appearances, Sam spent the oliphaunt’s share of his free time haunting the woods around Hobbiton, pretending to be on the look-out for Shire-traversing Elves. Sam did this all by himself every Highday without fail and regardless of season or weather, which lent his pretend pastime the semblance of dedication (which in turn caused his popularity with the unwedded lasses to dwindle quite dramatically, something Sam didn’t mind in the least).
Funnily enough, even though Sam didn’t really look for them, he believed that he had once seen an Elf in the woods - although, admittedly, it had been a very foggy Foreyule morning, so Sam wasn’t sure if he hadn’t merely mistaken a wafting fog cloud for the tip of an Elvish travelling cloak disappearing behind a tree - and despite not exactly being the Shire’s biggest Elf aficionado, he still hoped he would see more one day, if only to have something to show for the countless hours spent in the woods.
Currently, Sam was sitting in one of his favourite spots in the Culley woods south of Hobbiton. The heavy boughs of a beautiful old oak tree provided welcome protection from the hot Wedmath sun, the moss on the ground was soft and dry, and not far off, a little brook happily gurgled and splashed over some big, shiny rocks. Sam was resting with his back against the trunk of the oak, while his head was pillowed on his arms and his eyes were closed. For about an hour now he had been busily occupied - but not with looking for Elves, of course.
He had been daydreaming about Mr. Frodo - for it was that fairest of hobbits that he really had a thing about.
Despite his name, Samwise was no fool. He knew that if his sisters ever caught him wearing the moon-struck look that inevitably went with daydreaming about Mr. Frodo, they would torture him with needle-sharp questions and a relentless inquisitiveness worthy of the Shire Pipeweed Fraud Squad and before long he would squeak out his heart’s dearest secret - that he dreamed of stealing kisses from the elegantly-curved, full, most certainly petal-soft lips of the young squire (and that he sometimes even dreamed of doing far more amorous and intimate things than that to Mr. Frodo).
As a result, Samwise thanked from the bottom of his heart whichever gossipmonger had first started that silly Elf-watching rumour. He could indulge his besotted fantasies with no fear of being detected - not even by the object of his affections, whose eyes sometimes seemed to be looking straight into Sam’s very soul and seeing far more than Sam dared to reveal.
Sam squirmed impatiently against the tree bark. His daydreaming today had gotten off to a bad start - an insistent fly had been buzzing around his head for an annoyingly long time - and now his mind kept stubbornly straying from lovely visions of himself and Mr. Frodo to the harsh realities of life - which were that none of what Sam dreamed about would ever happen outside of his fantasies - a fact that Samwise had sighed deeply about more often than he could count.
After all, being the Gaffer’s son, he knew his place and there was - alas - no reason to think that Mr. Frodo didn’t know his. And unlike Sam’s, his head was very probably not befuddled by ideas of romance in which one lover was male and the other was... male, too. Sam knew all too well that Mr. Frodo had never so much as flirted with a lad at any of the many festivities in Hobbiton, not even that one time when he had been a bit too deep in his cups, but he had been seen spinning lots of lasses about in the lively dances at the Lithe festivals and enjoying himself greatly while doing so.
Sam sighed again, wishing he wasn’t the one hobbit in Hobbiton who had to be so genderly confused in love. If Eru had created him to lose his heart irrevocably to a lad, Sam pondered not for the first time, then maybe Eru had created another lad who would lose his heart irrevocably to Sam - and why shouldn’t that lad be Frodo Baggins? But there was no point wishing for the impossible, and so Sam sternly told himself to get a bit more daydreaming under his belt before he had to head back to Hobbiton and his real life, where he was expected home in time for supper.
Sam snuggled back against the tree trunk and deepened his breathing as he began a particularly lovely bit of day-dreaming which involved him picking a beautiful white and pink-tinged rose and gallantly handing it to Mr. Frodo, who smiled appreciatively and then...
...a polite cough made Sam sit up abruptly and open his eyes.
“Hullo Sam. I was looking for you,” a soft voice said and Sam nearly died of shock. Not only had he not expected to see anyone in the woods all day - not just no Elf, but no hobbit either - he had most certainly not expected Mr. Frodo to appear before him as if conjured by magic. Sam tried to keep his rapidly stampeding wits about him, but it didn’t help matters that Mr. Frodo looked as if he had stepped right out of Sam’s dreams to stand before him.
He was wearing exactly what Sam always had him wear in his fantasies: the light green shirt that brought out the stunning blue of his eyes to such breathtaking advantage and the dark green velvet breeches that were delightfully worn in certain places that made Sam’s breathing go faster when he thought about them. And, just as in Sam’s dreams, Mr. Frodo’s curls were unruly in the most attractive way imaginable and looked as if they were spun from pure silk.
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam exclaimed, quickly scrambling to his feet.
“I... er... I was wondering if I could join you for some Elf-watching?” Mr. Frodo asked hesitantly.
Sam’s mouth fell open and his mind nearly imploded as it attempted to envision sitting next to the most exciting living being he had ever known to exist while waiting for members of the most boring race in the entire history of Middle-earth to walk past them - and that for hours on end.
“I didn’t know you were interested in Elves,” Sam managed to say at last. Realizing his rudeness, he quickly added a “begging your pardon, sir,” and blushed slightly.
“Um yes, I... I became enchanted with Elvish literature... um... only lately,” Mr. Frodo replied, and Sam was entranced by the sweet blush that appeared on his cheeks, looking like a few well-measured drops of strawberry nectar smeared over perfectly smooth whipped cream. “I got rather swept away after looking through um... some of uncle Bilbo’s favourites,” Mr. Frodo continued in a voice that quivered a bit - possibly because he was so excited about his new interest, “and, well, I’d like to see some Elves, too, and maybe practise a bit of Elvish with you, seeing how you are such an expert. If you don’t mind, that is,” Mr. Frodo finished.
Under Mr. Frodo’s beautiful if slightly nervous smile the impossible now happened: the tediousness of Elvish poetry evaporated by leaps and bounds, while the sea of leaden dullness shrunk to the size of a merely very large puddle. Sam was even ready to concede that maybe somewhere in the Elven realm there might be something that was almost edible, if improved with some Shire herbs.
“Oh, no no, I don’t mind at all,” he quickly replied which was greeted by another, less nervous smile from the young Squire.
“Have you already seen Elves today?” Mr. Frodo asked as he set his pack down and removed from it a bottle of wine and two metal cups, a cloth that seemed to be wrapped around a rather large pile of scones or buns and two stoppered jars which, knowing the gentlehobbit’s sweet tooth, most likely contained jam and clotted cream. Mr. Frodo obviously took Elf-watching very seriously and hoped to spend quite a few hours waiting for them. Sam, who had only brought a wedge of bread and had to kneel down by the brook and use his cupped hands when he got thirsty, was impressed.
“Um, no,” Sam finally remembered to reply and then mentally kicked himself - Mr. Frodo must have seen how he had been sitting underneath the tree with his eyes closed, making him the biggest ninnyhammer since the invention of Elf-spotting (which, despite Mr. Frodo’s interest, still seemed like a very very ninnyhammerish hobby to Samwise).
“Oh, good, then maybe we’ll get to see some later today. Uncle Bilbo heard from the travelling bookseller that a group of Elves was passing through this part of the Shire towards the Sea.”
“Ah, yes, sir,” Sam said lamely and again with some delay, which led to more mental kicking. He really needed to sound more interested in Elves. But the way Mr. Frodo’s curls were now lightly ruffled by the breeze was very distracting. In fact, Sam was certain their movement had a more hypnotising effect than an army of Elvish master mesmerists could ever have (assuming Elves knew the art of hypnotism, which Sam was pretty certain they had to, just to make sure they had willing, if unconscious, listeners for their awful poetry.)
They both coughed nervously but then each decided at the same moment to settle down on the soft moss, Sam against the tree trunk, Mr. Frodo next to him, cross-legged, and the atmosphere relaxed a bit.
“Um, Sam, could you call me Frodo? After all, we are both Elf-friends, aren’t we? There should be no formality between us.” Frodo stated this with an imploring look and Sam suddenly felt that there was something to be said for the race of Elves after all, if they got him on a first-name basis with such a wonderful creature as Frodo.
Sam nodded. “Certainly, Frodo.”
“So, who’s your favourite Elvish poet then, Sam?”
Eager eyes were looking at him expectantly and Sam panicked. For a few delightful moments he had imagined himself and Frodo happily chatting away the afternoon, sharing the food and drink that Frodo had brought while discussing local gossip and the flowers in Bag End’s garden and maybe talking about life and dreams... but now Sam was faced with the bleak prospect of having to discuss dratted Elves for several hours.
And which poet should he pick? Annael the awful? Daeron the dull? Lindir the lacklustre? Rumil the repetitive? Maglor the monotonous? He found all of them unbearable, unlistenable and uninspiring but he couldn’t really say that and hurt Frodo’s feelings. He was just about to blurt out a confession when a less embarrassing way out revealed itself to Sam. “Well, I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully - pretending to carefully weigh the options. Then he declared dramatically: “Oh, it’s impossible to pick one.”
To Sam’s relief, Frodo nodded emphatically. “Which language do you prefer - Sindarin or Quenya?”
“Um. Sindarin.”
“So do I!” Frodo cried happily and Sam could have punched the air for having accidentally chosen the right answer.
“What do you think Elves look like? The illustrations that uncle Bilbo showed me were all so different.”
Sam frantically sought for a good answer. He had never really more than glanced at the books that Mr. Bilbo had lent him. “Hmm, they’re definitely taller than you and me, that’s for certain,” he eventually came up with which earned him an assenting nod from Frodo.
Sam waited for Frodo’s next question but this time, the other hobbit remained silent. Instead he started nibbling on one of his fingernails. Sam was tempted to do the same; he was that nervous and excited. In fact, it seemed to him as if the very air around them was humming with agitation and portent. If he had been out here waiting for Elves, he would have been expecting to see a group of them float by any minute now and he’d be diligently scanning between the trees for movement.
As it was, he tried not to stare too obviously at Frodo, but he wasn’t sure he was doing a good job of it - his eyes were helplessly drawn to his fellow Elf-spotter who looked so beautiful and who was so sweet and lovely and educated and funny and who made Sam’s knees go weak and his heart beat faster.
Sam desperately tried to come up with something clever to say about Elves so that Frodo would look at him admiringly and then they would both lean forward at the same moment and... Ah no, Sam stopped that train of thought, that sort of thing only happened in his fantasies. For the first time in his life, Sam wished he could relive just a tiny little bit of the time he had spent listening to Mr. Bilbo as he rambled on about all things Elvish, so that he could remember at least a few facts with which to impress Frodo.
Oh, but wasn’t there a love story that Mr Bilbo had enthused about again and again? About a mortal man and an Elvish maiden? Sam dimly remembered their names as Beryll and Luther but he wasn’t completely sure. An ardent fan such as Frodo would surely be shocked if Sam got the names wrong, he fretted. At least he was positive that there was a dog involved in that story at some point. Sam was known to have an excellent memory for the names of everyone’s pets and even most of the Hobbiton farm animals but oh for the love of the mushroom fairy, what was that dog called? Hewn? Juan?
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained’, Samwise told himself. He was just about to risk making a fool of himself when to his great relief he was saved at the last moment by Frodo suddenly bursting out: “Oh Sam, did I ever tell you I have a scar that looks like the Elvish symbol for the number 9?” Frodo looked positively giddy with excitement. “I cut myself on some sharp rocks by the Water’s edge the first year I came to Hobbiton.”
“You have?” Inside Sam, a deep feeling of upset that Frodo’s perfect skin was somehow marred by a scar warred with the desire to inspect said perfect skin without seeming like a lecher. “Can I see it?”
“Yes, but... um.... it’s in a rather private place. I hope you don’t mind,” Frodo said, avoiding looking at Sam.
“Oh no, that’s fine.” Sam said, blushing and swallowing hard.
To Sam’s utter delight and terror, Frodo got up and opened the buttons on his breeches - the scar wasn’t on his root, was it, Sam thought in a near-panic, but then Frodo merely pushed down his breeches and underlinens a bit to reveal his left hip. Sam could immediately see the pink mark that looked a bit like the letter m with a tiny little tail at the end. He gasped at the sight. Then he slowly got up and bent down to take a closer look.
He had to take Frodo’s word for it that the shape looked like an Elvish 9 but he could see very well for himself how creamy-white the skin around it was, how soft it looked. Sam almost drooled. Without any conscious command from him, his fingers advanced in the direction of Frodo’s hip.
“You can touch it if you want,” Frodo whispered and slowly raised his eyes to look right into Sam’s. Sam didn’t need to know Sindarin or Quenya to understand the message Frodo was sending him. His deep blue orbs were speaking of hope and a long-burning affection and something too big and beautiful for words that was his for the asking. Sam gulped and without taking his eyes off Frodo’s, he let his fingertips glide reverently over the scar and a little bit beyond, trying to reply to Frodo’s message by loving touch. Sam noticed a little trembling and wasn’t sure if it was his hand or Frodo’s body.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Both hobbits looked up, startled by the unexpected voice.
Sam knew he was scowling at the tall stranger but he couldn’t help it. His heart beat faster when he saw that Frodo, too, didn’t look happy about the interruption.
“I am sorry to disturb you, sirs, but I fear I am quite lost in these unfamiliar woods and I seem to have gotten cut off from the group with whom I was travelling. Would you be so kind as to tell me in which direction the Sea lies?”
“Just walk through those trees over there until you reach a small trodden path, stay on it until it meets with a big road and follow that towards your left. That’ll lead you in the right direction,” Sam explained more curtly then he normally would have. But every jot of his being was hoping that the intruder would leave as quickly as possible so he could be alone again with Frodo.
“I am much obliged to you, sir,” the man said, bowed politely and turned away. Sam nodded, and then looked back at Frodo, who quickly lowered his eyes and blushed deeply. Frodo had been looking at him intensely when he thought Sam wouldn’t notice - a happy shiver ran all over Sam’s body. If things went the way he thought they might, he vowed to become the biggest scholar and supporter of Elvendom in Middle-earth and he would voluntarily read a thick volume of weepy Elvish ballads every day for the rest of his life, just to show his gratitude to the Elves for bringing him and Frodo together...
“Namárië,” the stranger said over his shoulder as he headed toward the trees at which Sam had pointed. Frodo’s eyes widened - a most wonderful effect, Sam thought dreamily. He’d devote a lot of time to making that happen more often, he decided. Then Frodo giggled, a sound that Sam felt outdid all birdsong for beauty and melody.
“Frodo? What is it?” he asked, smiling broadly - seeing Frodo so happy was contagious. But Frodo only giggled more. Then finally he hiccupped, “Sam I think. That was. An Elf.”
“Who? That traveller?” Sam looked over his shoulder but the man was gone. He honestly couldn’t remember anything about him - his clothes, his colour of hair, any distinguishing features, nothing - only that he had chosen a most unfortunate moment to enquire for directions.
“Can I ask you something, Sam?” Frodo’s expression suddenly sobered.
“Um, sure,” Sam mumbled, filled with a terrible sense of foreboding at the change in Frodo.
“You aren’t really interested in Elves, are you?”
“Beg your pardon?” Sam said automatically as the blood in his veins turned to ice water, all air fled his lungs and his ears rang with the swooshing sound that warned of an impending fainting fit.
“I’ve seen you yawn through Bilbo’s recitals more than once. You had your eyes closed earlier when I found you here. And your lack of interest in that Elf just now...” Frodo let the sentence trail off. He considered Sam with his head tilted to one side, a piercing look in his eyes and no longer any sign of mirth on his face.
This was the end. Sam had loved and lost. For a few moments he had had a chance of becoming Frodo’s meleth but now it would all come to an end. He simply couldn’t lie to the one he loved, not even when the happiness of his entire life was at stake. Frodo’s interest in Elves was genuine and Sam really, really wanted to like them as much as Frodo did and find them as exciting, but the truth was the only thing that he found worthy of hours of study and adoration was the hobbit right in front of him.
“You are right,” he admitted in a barely audible voice. “I simply can’t help but find them boring.” Frodo would leave now, he knew; there would never be any happy Highday afternoons where they picnicked and waited for Elves together and when they met at Bag End, Frodo would probably stare right through him or give him pitying looks to show what he thought of people who didn’t appreciate the wonderfulness of all things Elvish.
“Oh Sam, I’m so very glad to hear that.”
Sam’s mouth fell open. Frodo couldn’t have said what he thought he had heard him say. The grief and heartbreak were causing him to hallucinate and the swooshing sound in his ears had made him mis-hear. Yes, that must be it.
Frodo continued, “I find them boring, too! I confess that I only pretended to be interested because of you. I was looking for a reason to join you, to spend time with you alone, to....”
Sam cut him off, something that had never happened before in all the years since Frodo had come to live at Bag End, but the enormity of the relief Sam was feeling made him bold. “I never came out here for any Elf-watching. All I did every Highday was dream of you, Frodo.”
The two hobbit lads fell silent after their confessions and simply looked at each other for a few heartbeats. Wild happiness mingled with a hint of disbelief and nervousness was sparkling in their eyes as they, like all soon-to-be lovers, anticipated what would inevitably happen next. Slowly, then, each took a step towards the other and leaned forward until their lips met in the sweetest of kisses.
It surpassed all fantasies that Samwise had ever indulged in during his many, many hours of Elf-spotting. He would never have guessed that Frodo’s fingers would grip his arms this tightly or that Frodo would make those wonderful little moans or that breathing in Frodo’s scent while kissing him would nearly drive him insane with longing and love and a fierce protectiveness.
Soon the two hobbits had stumbled a few steps back where they found the oak tree a good support as their bodies pressed close together, their knees turned to butter and all their attention was on each other’s lips, tongue, taste and feel.
In fact, the two hobbits were so engrossed in their first ever kiss that neither of them noticed the group of Elves that walked past them only a few dozen feet away. The Elves, however, spotted the kissing couple, and pointed at them with benevolent smiles lighting their faces. One of them raised her hands in blessing. Then they moved swiftly away on silent feet, leaving only a faint glow in the air that gradually dissolved like fog in sunlight.
“Oh Sam,” Frodo sighed happily after a while.
“Me dear,” Sam replied and then he gently dragged Frodo down onto the soft moss where they resumed their kissing. Another kiss followed, and another and another, until it finally became too dark for any more Elf-watching, and they walked home together, hand in hand.
***
Everyone in Hobbiton, from the smallest hobbitling to the oldest gammer, knew that Samwise Gamgee used to have a thing about Elves. But those days were gone. These days, it was very obvious that he had a thing about Frodo Baggins. And it didn’t take much to see that Frodo Baggins had a thing about Samwise Gamgee, too.
The two of them were inseparable, they exchanged the happiest, most love-filled glances all the time, and every Highday they snuck into the woods around Hobbiton and no one was so foolish as to think they went there looking for Elves.
The End.