Chapter Text
CHAPTER 14
The fire in the hearth crackled merrily as Frodo sat down in one of the large overstuffed chairs, a mug of tea in his hands. As firmly as he gripped the mug, his left hand just wouldn’t warm. He sighed, recognizing the feeling. He’d been trying to fight his body all day, but as the sky darkened outside, he felt the darkness creeping back around the edges of his mind.
Sam entered the room, snacking on a bit of leftover bread from their supper, when he caught the tight expression on Frodo’s face. He walked closer and placed his hand on Frodo’s left arm; it was ice cold. “You alright, love?” Sam asked quietly.
“Don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said yes?” Frodo smiled. Sam shook his head slowly, and Frodo sighed in response, giving in to the inevitable. “I just can’t get warm...and the pain’s starting.” Frodo pressed the heel of his right hand into his left shoulder and rubbed, trying futilely to massage the ache away.
“Wait here,” Sam said, and he dropped a kiss on the top of Frodo’s head before walking out to the kitchen garden where the herbs and vegetables grew. Unbeknownst to Frodo, he’d been preparing little things around Bag End for most of the day, knowing that when the fever came on, Frodo would need his undivided attention until it passed. He crossed the garden to the back most corner, where he’d been cultivating a small plot of athelas since the spring that he knew he’d be thankful for come fall. Sam cut a fist-sized clump from the low-growing shrub, the herbaceous smell cutting strong through the evening air. He breathed deeply, letting the fragrance settle his rattled nerves. Along with the items he knew he’d need for Frodo’s care, Sam had also been preparing himself for the onset of Frodo’s yearly illness. Sam knew he had to get used to caring for Frodo alone, without the aid of an elven lord, and he was confident in himself that he could give his husband all of the care he would need.
Sam took another deep breath of the athelas as he stood and brushed the grass from his knees. Of all of the times he’d smelled athelas, almost all of them when it was being applied to Frodo’s various hurts, the smell had calmed him, comforted him. He hoped it had the same effect on Frodo.
He re-entered Bag End and found the mortar and pestle in the kitchen. He brought these, the athelas, a strip of linen cloth, and the small decanter of oil from his and Frodo’s bedroom to the parlor where Frodo was still sitting, sipping his tea and absently rubbing at his shoulder.
Frodo eyed the oil decanter and flashed Sam a sympathetic smile. “I thought it went without saying that I’m not in that kind of mood tonight, my love.” He had no more than finished speaking then the smell of athelas washed over him like a green wave. He breathed in deeply, and the icy throb in his shoulder abated fractionally. With wide eyes, he watched as Sam began to crush the herb with the mortar and pestle, stopping occasionally to drizzle a bit of oil into the mixture. One year ago, he’d watched as Lord Elrond created the same mixture, and Sam was thankful once again for the Elf lord. “Where did you get that so quickly, Sam?” Frodo asked.
“Been growing it out back since spring. I knew it’d come in handy,” Sam smiled.
“My dear Sam,” Frodo smiled back. “I can’t believe I never noticed it!” Another icy throb of pain turned his soft smile into a wince, and he pressed back into his chair.
“Hold on just a moment longer, love. We’ll get this poultice applied and get you warmed up. Next year, I’m going to start sneaking athelas into your tea a week in advance of this. We’ll get ahead of it one way or another.” With that, Sam was satisfied with the consistency of his concoction, and he reached up to unbutton Frodo’s shirt. Even with the fire burning a few feet away, Frodo shivered when his chest was bared. Sam pulled Frodo’s shirt down and away to reveal the Morgul scar. While it was usually a thin, grayish pucker, it was now dark and purpled, the veins surrounding it standing out starkly against Frodo’s pale skin.
Gingerly, Sam began to apply the athelas oil with his fingers, rubbing in with as much pressure as he dared. Frodo gritted his teeth, sucking in pained breaths when Sam pushed a bit too far, gripping the arms of his chair with whitened knuckles. “I’m sorry, love,” Sam whispered. “It has to be done this way.”
“I know,” Frodo said. He leaned forward and dropped a kiss on Sam’s forehead. “I know you’re being as gentle as you can.”
When Sam had finished, he wrapped the linen cloth around the old wound to keep as much of the poultice in place as possible. This done, Sam laid the back of his hand to Frodo’s brow and was troubled to find that, in such a short span of time, the fever had already come on in earnest. Sam sighed. “You’re already burnin’ up. C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”
Dizzily, Frodo stood and leaned into Sam’s waiting arms. “Can you walk? I can carry you if-“
“No, no, Sam, I can walk,” Frodo said. Slowly, Sam helped Frodo down the hall to their room as Frodo leaned heavily on Sam’s arm. By the time they made it to their bed, Frodo was so dizzy he wished he had let Sam carry him.
“Easy now,” Sam soothed, helping Frodo back against the pillows. The room pitched drunkenly and for a moment, Frodo feared he might be sick. Sam prepared a cloth from the bowl of water he’d placed in their room earlier, and he placed it on Frodo's forehead. Then, he removed Frodo’s shirt, as it was still unbuttoned from his work in the parlor. Frodo let Sam lift his arms and slide his sleeves off and away.
“M’sorry, Sam,” Frodo slurred. “I don’t mean to be a bother…”
“You’re not a bother, you’re sick. Don’t you worry, love, I’ve got you,” Sam bent and pressed a kiss to Frodo’s burning cheek. “I’ve just a few more things to do, then I’ll get you warmed up.” Sam slid Frodo’s breeches off next, leaving only his smallclothes on under the blanket. Sam removed his own shirt, braces, and breeches next, remembering how much that skin-to-skin contact had helped to warm Frodo last year. Finally, Sam stoked the fire in the fireplace and closed the door, trying as best as he could to get Frodo as much warmth as possible. Even with the fever burning, Frodo’s teeth were chattering, and troubled groans were escaping his throat.
Sam slid under the covers with Frodo and pressed himself all along Frodo’s left side. “You just try and rest now. I’m here with you,” Sam whispered, kissing Frodo’s temple. Curled in Sam’s arms, Frodo shivered his way into a fitful sleep…
… moss squelched sickly under his feet, and the dank smell of the bog washed all around him. Frodo tried to shield his eyes from the white, bloated faces floating in the brackish water, but they peered at him no matter which way he turned. He cradled his left arm to his chest, the pain in his shoulder pounding and throbbing with each beat of his heart. He shivered in spite of the sweat that trickled down his back. Overhead, a fellbeast beat its wings and screamed, its hooded master steering it into a dive. Frodo stumbled in his fright, his feet tangling in the weeds, and he toppled into the water. The fanged visage of the fellbeast snapped and yowled at Frodo through the surface of the water, and ghostly green hands began clawing and pulling at Frodo’s body as he sank. Frodo tried to swim away, tried to escape. A bright light burned through the water, and Frodo propelled himself towards it…
Frodo blinked awake, a lingering moan vanishing on his lips. Sam was blotting his forehead with a cool, damp cloth. The water smelled strongly of athelas.
“There you are,” Sam whispered. “It’s alright, I’m here.”
“Sam?” Frodo gulped, his throat dry. His shoulder still ached, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain. “Is it morning yet?”
“Dawn’s still a ways off, love,” Sam said. “Your fever’s come down a bit, though. Would you like a drink?” Frodo nodded, and Sam pressed a cup of cool water to his lips. Frodo drank deeply and relaxed into his pillows.
“Don’t want to sleep again,” Frodo slurred. “Dreams are awful.”
“How about I just hold you a while?” Sam offered. “Can you sit up just a moment, or would it hurt you too bad?”
“I don’t think sitting up is going to make it hurt worse than it already does,” Frodo said, and he sat up with a grimace. Sam eased his way behind Frodo, then gently pulled Frodo down to recline against his chest. Sam coated his hand with more of the athelas poultice and delicately placed his palm against Frodo’s shoulder. The linen had since been removed, and Frodo tensed as Sam’s palm covered his inflamed wound.
“Let me try this,” Sam whispered. “I hope it helps get you some warmth. If it hurts, I’ll stop.” Gradually, the heat of Sam’s palm warmed Frodo’s shoulder, and the pain began to ease. Instead of the sharp, icy throb, the pain pulsed into a dull ache.
“Mmm,” Frodo sighed. “That’s good, Sam. It’s helping.”
“Good,” Sam whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to Frodo’s curls. “Things must be turnin’ around. You’re still far too warm for my taste, but I hope the worst of it is passing.” Frodo responded with a snuffling snore, and Sam smiled. “Sleep, m’love,” he whispered. “I’ll be here when you wake.”
***
A few hours later, Frodo woke again. He moved to adjust his neck, which had stiffened from sleeping on Sam’s chest, and he found his skin sticky and slick with sweat. Sam snuffled awake as he felt Frodo moving against him, and he too felt the wet slide of Frodo’s skin.
“Fever’s broken,” Sam said, his voice cottony with sleep. “How’s your pain?”
“Still present, but more manageable,” Frodo said. Gently, Sam crawled out from under Frodo, maneuvering as slowly as he could to prevent unnecessary jostling.
“Let me draw you a bath to wash away all of this sweat. While you have a soak, I’ll change the linens here so they’ll be fresh for us. Then we can sleep as late as we want. I might even bring you breakfast in bed,” Sam smiled.
“Whatever would I do without you?” Frodo sighed. Sam smiled and extended his hands to Frodo. Sam helped Frodo stand, and for a moment, Frodo swayed dizzily on his feet.
“Whoa, love. Easy now,” Sam said. He caught Frodo by the waist and helped him to sit back down on the edge of the bed.
Frodo took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled shakily through his mouth. “Still dizzy,” he breathed.
“I’ll not risk you fainting in the bath,” Sam sighed. “Let’s get you another drink instead, and maybe I could just freshen you up with a cloth instead. We can have a proper bath and fresh linens tomorrow.”
“Might be best,” Frodo breathed, slowly closing his eyes. Sam helped him back down to the pillows, and Frodo winced as he adjusted his left side. Frodo huffed, tossing his right arm over his eyes. “It feels like the room is spinning.”
“Are you…” Sam cleared his throat. “Do you think you might…”
“No, I don’t think I’ll vomit,” Frodo helped. “I just feel wrung out, like a damp rag.” Sam nodded sympathetically and poured Frodo another cool drink of water. Frodo rolled to his right and propped himself up just enough to drink from the offered cup. “Thank you,” he sighed after he had drained the cup.
“Of course,” Sam smiled softly. He bent and pressed a kiss to Frodo’s damp brow, and Frodo pressed up into the touch.
***
When Frodo’s eyes opened again, it was mid afternoon, and his stomach growled noisily. In spite of the toils of the previous evening, he was relieved to feel miles closer to normal. He rolled to his side to find the athelas-water and cloth was within his reach, so he took the cloth and bathed his sweat-damp face, neck, and chest. He delicately pressed the cloth to his left shoulder, and breathed a sigh of relief when he found the pain was very nearly gone.
As if he had heard Frodo’s rumbling stomach, Sam came through the bedroom door carrying a steaming bowl and a plate of sliced bread and cheese. He smiled softly, and Frodo smiled back. “It’s so good to see you awake, love,” Sam said softly. He placed the dishes on the bedside table, and stepped forward to press a kiss to Frodo’s forehead. “Are you ready to sit up?”
“Yes, I think so,” Frodo said, “if you’ll stay nearby, just in case.”
“Of course,” Sam said, and he placed his hands on the edge of the bed, ready to help if Frodo found himself too dizzy again. Frodo sat up in bed and placed some pillows behind his back. Once Frodo was comfortable, Sam handed the bowl to Frodo. A rich stew steamed up at him, full of meat and mushrooms and root vegetables.
“This looks perfect, Sam. Thank you,” Frodo smiled. He took a piece of bread from the offered plate and used it as a spoon, scooping up a mouthful of stew with it and taking a large bite. He chewed, sighing with pleasure, his eyes falling closed. “Delicious, as always. Especially the mushrooms.”
“I thought you might appreciate those,” Sam smiled, sitting down in a chair on the other side of the room. “In case you’re in the mood for something sweet after, I made seedcakes as well. I’ll bring you some.”
“I actually think I’m in the mood for something far sweeter than that, Sam,” said Frodo, casting Sam a demure smile, accentuated with a flash of his long eyelashes.
It took Sam a moment to process what Frodo was indicating. When he finally did, Sam’s eyes went wide, and then he shook his head with a chuckle. “Oh, love, no,” Sam said, disappointment evident in his voice. “You’ve had such a hard night. We just couldn’t!”
“Please, Sam?” Frodo asked. “It would really… I mean…” Frodo faltered. He huffed a frustrated sigh. “It’s just, you don’t know…” Frodo stopped, his eyes falling to stare at the bowl in his hands. Sam stood from his chair and came back to sit on the bed next to Frodo. Frodo looked up into Sam’s eyes.
“What is it, Frodo?” Sam whispered. “What don’t I know?”
“You don’t know how hollow it makes me feel, the sickness I mean,” Frodo said quietly. “It’s such a tangible reminder of everything we went through. Most days, I feel like we do very well. We live our lives, we use the tools that Gandalf taught us to keep the darkness at bay, and the light of our love shines so brightly. But…” Frodo’s voice caught, and he took a breath to steady himself. Sam gently took the bowl from Frodo’s hands, placed it on the bedside table again, and took Frodo’s hands in his own. “...but when the pain comes on me again, it feels like it’s happening all over again. The Ring, the task, everything. It’s exhausting to push all of that darkness away again when it all comes rushing back. The best thing for lighting up that darkness is feeling the warmth of your love. Please, Sam? Could we?” Frodo inched forward and placed his head on Sam’s chest.
Sam felt indecision conflict with desire in his chest. “I hear what you’re sayin’, love, I promise I do. But, I don’t know if… I mean, you know I always want to make love to you,” Sam said. He placed his hands on Frodo’s back and rubbed gently. Sam focused on the feeling of his hands against Frodo’s bare skin until he could find his words. “But there’s a deep-seated part of me that needs to know you’re alright. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to give you what you need until I know you’re fit to handle it.”
Frodo sighed softly, his heart filling with warmth. “My kind and gentle Sam,” he whispered, and pressed his lips to the depression at the base of Sam’s throat.
“How about you start by finishing your stew for me?” Sam offered. “Knowing you have a full belly will go a long way towards reassuring me you’re on the mend.” Frodo looked up at Sam, blue eyes meeting brown. Frodo nodded and smiled. Sam smiled back and replaced the warm bowl in Frodo’s hands.
***
A short time later, after Frodo had finished his bowl of stew, the plate of bread and cheese, and three seedcakes, Sam found himself buried to his stones in his husband. Sam knelt on the bed, Frodo’s legs draped over his shoulders, watching as Frodo bared his flushed chest and throat to the ceiling. Sam clung tightly to Frodo’s hips, Frodo’s arse resting against Sam’s splayed thighs, while Sam indulged in long, slow strokes that ended when he bottomed out entirely. Frodo moaned long and loud as Sam grazed the spot deep within him that brought white hot flashes of pleasure pulsing through him.
“Oh, Sam, it’s so… oh, yes, please,” Frodo sighed with each push and drag of Sam’s cock within him.
“Yes, love,” Sam groaned, “Cor, you’re so tight!” Sam continued his slow, methodical rhythm, continuing to give Frodo the slow, deep, burning pressure he craved.
“Tell me again how tight I am for you, love,” Frodo groaned. Sam moaned along with Frodo and reached out to take Frodo’s leaking cock in his hand.
“Tight like this ,” Sam punctuated the word with a squeezing stroke of Frodo’s member, making the dark-haired hobbit see stars.
“Oh, Sam, again!” Frodo cried, arching into the touch. Sam complied, snapping his hips faster, foregoing the luxuriously long strokes in favor of chasing his impending climax. Frodo rolled his hips to match Sam’s increased pace, simultaneously bearing down on Sam’s cock and pushing himself into Sam’s hand. They reached their peaks at nearly the same moment, crying each other’s names, gasping, and spilling their pleasure.
Sam let his head lull backwards, breathing his relief at the ceiling, as his heart calmed from the intensity of it all. Frodo tossed his right arm over his eyes and chuckled. “Oh, my love, that was perfection,” he sighed.
“Uh huh,” Sam nodded, his head still tilted upwards. Gradually, as the pounding of his heart slowed, he pulled gently out and curled up next to Frodo. “I’ll get you a cloth in a moment, m’love,” he breathed. “Or, now would be a good time for that bath we discussed this early mornin’.”
“Oh yes, that sounds excellent,” Frodo agreed. They relaxed in silence for a long while, each listening to the gentle breathing of the other and the faint birdsong lilting in through the slightly open window.
“So, is this the year?” Sam asked, suddenly breaking the comfortable silence between them. Frodo startled and lifted himself up on one elbow to stare wide-eyed and puzzled at Sam. Sam lifted himself up on his elbow so his eyes could meet Frodo’s. “Y’know…” Sam continued, softly. “Is this the year we… leave?” Frodo continued staring at Sam, his eyes darting with insecurity around Sam’s face. “Beggin’ your pardon, love. I… I wasn’t sure how else to ask. But, just know, each year I’m going to ask. I want you to know that.” Frodo nodded slowly with understanding. “So,” Sam continued, “do you need more time to think about it, or…”
“No, not this year, Sam,” Frodo said. Sam nodded.
“I’ll be honest,” Sam said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “This scares me. You said the sickness makes you feel hollow. For me, it makes me feel fairly damn terrified. I’ve nearly lost you so many times. When you’re deep in your fever, cryin’ out in your sleep, you feel so far away from me. I sit and wait for you to come back, the whole time so scared that you won’t.” Fat tears rolled silently down Sam’s cheeks. “But, so far, you’ve come back,” Sam sniffled. “As soon as it’s too hard to come back to the light…”
“I promise I’ll tell you,” Frodo whispered, gathering Sam’s face in his hands. “I promised you last year in Rivendell, and I swear I’ll never break that promise.” Sam nodded, letting Frodo’s fingers collect his tears, while Frodo kissed him delicately.
***
The wind blew through Frodo’s curls, brisk and salty. Gulls cried in the distance, and Frodo watched them dive and rise again in the golden evening light. He steered Bilbo down the stone path, the older hobbit’s feet making a shushed shuffling sound as they moved. Frodo still couldn’t quite wrap his head around how much Bilbo had aged since he and Sam visited him in Rivendell on their way back to the Shire. During the duration of their ride in the back of the cart, Bilbo had napped peacefully against Frodo’s shoulder, and Frodo’s heart ached with affection for his beloved Uncle.
Sam walked close behind Frodo and Bilbo, and Merry and Pippin filed solemnly after him. Ahead of them, Gandalf, Elrond, Celeborn, and Galadriel already stood on a gray, wooden pier to which was moored a long ship with a swan’s neck carved into the bow.
“Oh!” Bilbo gasped when he caught sight of the ship and the glistening water. “Well, here is a sight I have never seen before.” He smiled wide, the white wisps of his hair framing his wrinkled face like fallen snow. “I think I’m quite ready for another adventure,” he chuckled, and he began to shuffle away from Frodo. He had nearly reached the pier when he turned back. Frodo smiled, trying and failing to sniffle his tears away.
“This isn’t ‘good-bye’ forever, my lad,” Bilbo said. He pressed a warm, timeworn hand to Frodo’s cheek, catching Frodo’s silently falling tears. “Whenever you’re ready, you just come on along.” Frodo nodded, pressing his hand to Bilbo’s, wanting to keep the memory of Bilbo’s hand on his cheek as long as he could. Sam stepped slowly forward, and pressed his hand to the small of Frodo’s back. “Take care of him, Samwise,” Bilbo winked.
“I always will, sir,” Sam said, the tears in his voice only allowing his words to come at a whisper. With a gentle pat of Frodo’s cheek, Bilbo turned and walked up the pier, allowing Lord Elrond to assist him.
Gandalf watched Bilbo intently, and once Bilbo had reached the ship, he turned to the gathered hobbits. “Farewell, my brave hobbits. My work is now finished.” Gandalf smiled as he looked between Frodo and Sam and Merry and Pippin. “Here at last, on the shores of the sea, comes the end of our Fellowship.” Pippin sniffled loudly, and Merry rubbed his back gently. Frodo hung his head, and Sam took his hand and squeezed. “I will not say ‘do not weep,’ for not all tears are an evil,” the wizard smiled. He stepped towards Frodo and Sam, and Frodo lifted his head to meet Gandalf’s gaze. Frodo stared expectantly, waiting, but Gandalf only smiled, turned, and walked towards the ship.
The quartet of hobbits stood silently, watching the ship glide along the water until it disappeared over the horizon. “Well, that’s that then,” Merry sighed. He and Pippin turned to walk back up the stone path, and Sam turned with them. He had taken a few steps before he realized that Frodo hadn’t turned with him. Sam turned around and found Frodo still staring at the horizon, the wind ruffling his hair and cloak. Sam watched him, his heart in his throat.
Frodo could feel the evening sun on his face, the salt-spray on his cheeks, the wind in his hair. The gull cries echoed in his ears, melancholy and beautiful. His heart ached, but for what, he couldn’t name.
“Frodo?” Sam said softly, his hand pressing the small of Frodo’s back again. Frodo turned to face Sam, his eyes red-rimmed. “Ready to go home?” Sam asked.
Frodo stared at Sam, his blue eyes reflecting the light of the evening sun, turning them a glassy gray. They looked empty, void of their usual sparkling. Sam’s heart pounded, a sad anxiousness gripping him and making his palms sweat. Suddenly, Frodo blinked and shook his head. His eyes cleared, and the pound of Sam’s heart slowed as they sparkled blue again. Frodo smiled a wan smile and wiped his tear-stained cheeks.
“Yes, Sam,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.”
***
The years passed, and they were good to Frodo and Sam. Each season brought new happiness and sadness and challenge, and they weathered each season of their lives with the wisdom, courage, foresight, and passion that comes from living the lives they had lived. They welcomed new nieces and nephews, they said their good-byes to friends and relatives, (the loss of the Gaffer was particularly hard for both of them), and they combatted Frodo’s annual illness.
As Sam promised, he asked Frodo each autumn if they would need to leave the Shire, and year after year, Frodo declined.
But the autumn after Sam’s one hundred and second birthday, that finally changed.
***
When Frodo’s pain and fever came on this year, it came on with a vengeance. The last few autumns had become increasingly worse for Frodo, but with a Bilbo-like stubbornness, Frodo had continued to find excuses to stay in the Shire. These were mostly related to the various weddings and births brought on by their multiple nieces and nephews, but Sam had been hard pressed to argue with his love, as he too loved to watch his family grow.
Sam was thankful that it had taken this long, but this was the kind of fever that Sam had feared the most. In spite of the intensity, Sam had done the usual routine: atheals tea, the poultice. He’d tucked Frodo in bed with extra pillows and a hot water bottle. Once Frodo had fallen asleep, Sam had slipped out of their shared room to refill the kettle of atheals tea. As he poured the steaming water, he heard a metallic clatter echo down the hall. Sam turned, adjusting the round-rimmed spectacles that adorned his aged face.
“Frodo?” he called. He listened intently, but received no reply. He left the kettle abandoned in the kitchen and shuffled his way back down the hall. He found the door to their room standing wide open, the bed abandoned, the hot water bottle he’d left pressed to Frodo’s side spilling its contents on the polished floor.
Sam’s heart dropped to his feet as he backed out of their room. A scream rang in Sam’s ears, and he suddenly found himself on his back. From out of the shadowy hall, Frodo had pounced, Sting gripped tightly in his shaking fist. Sam’s head rang from the scream and from the dizziness brought on by landing so hard on the floor. When his vision focused, Frodo’s face wobbled into view. His white-streaked curls stuck out wildly around his face, his teeth bared in a grimace, his blue eyes flaming and glassy with fever. He pressed Sting’s razor edge to Sam’s throat, his left hand wound in Sam’s hair.
“You won’t take it, you villain,” Frodo croaked. “You won’t take it from me!”
“Frodo, love, it’s me! It’s your Sam!” Sam cried, his hands held up at his sides in a clear sign of surrender. Sam tried to calm his panicked breaths. Frodo had hallucinated plenty of times during his fevers, but never before had he reacted this viscerally. “You’re sick, love,” Sam pleaded. “You’re safe with me in Bag End. We have to get you back to bed and get that fever down. Please, put Sting down! It’s just me, your Sam, your husband!”
In spite of the white-hot, freezing pain radiating outwards from Frodo’s left shoulder, he tightened his grip in Sam’s hair. In his mind’s eye, Gollum’s face sneered up at him, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth as if he’d just torn the finger from Frodo’s hand.
“Don’t try to trick me! It won’t work this time,” Frodo babbled. He pressed Sting closer, drawing a tiny bead of blood from Sam’s skin. Sam yelped, reflexively shoving Frodo away. In his weakened state, Frodo toppled backwards, Sting falling from his hand as he collided with the wall. Sam stood, kicking Sting as far away from Frodo as he could. He ran as fast as his old legs would carry him to their room and brought back the bowl of athelas poultice. Frodo was still dazed, and he shook his head against the collision with the wall.
“Oh, Frodo, I’m so sorry,” Sam bawled. “I’ll never forgive myself if I’ve hurt you!” He pressed a handful of poultice into Frodo’s linen shirt against his shoulder. Frodo cried out in pain and curled in on himself. Sam gathered Frodo to his chest and held him there. They stayed that way until dawn’s light trickled in through the windows, Sam sobbing frightened tears, Frodo crying, muttering, and rocking in Sam’s arms.
***
Sam woke with a start to find Frodo’s fingers dabbing gently at the cut on his neck.
Sam blinked and adjusted his spectacles, which had fallen askew as he’d slept. His back and knees weren’t happy that he’d spent the night on the floor in the hallway, but he pushed the discomfort away as he studied Frodo’s timeworn face.
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo finally whispered. “What have I done?”
“Your dreams-” Sam tried to start, but Frodo stopped him.
“There’s no excuse for this, dreams or no dreams,” Frodo whispered, tears rolling down his cheeks. “It’s finally come to this. This is the year, Sam. It has to be. I will not be a danger to you ever again.”
The hurt in Frodo’s voice brought instant tears to Sam’s eyes, and the two collided in an embrace. “I know you didn’t mean this, love,” Sam sobbed. Frodo’s bitter tears were the only reply he could manage, and he cried into Sam’s neck.
***
A scant week later, after making sure that all of their worldly affairs had been taken care of, Frodo and Sam found themselves on the same gray, wooden pier they’d stood on as they’d watched Bilbo, Gandalf, and the others depart from so many years ago. They boarded their waiting boat, hand in hand, and sailed off into the late autumn air.
Sam felt a rush of relief well up within him, and it caught him off guard with its intensity. It was as if he’d been holding his breath for years, and the rushing release of it made him weak in the knees. He sunk to his knees on the deck and sighed deeply.
Frodo turned to Sam, sinking to the deck with him.He put his arm around his shoulders. “I’m glad to be with you, Samwise Gamgee, here at the end of all things,” he said, and Frodo pressed his lips into Sam’s temple and held them there.
“No, love,” Sam whispered. “It’s only another beginning.”