Archive of Our Own

All the Songs I Have Ever Heard
Title: All the Songs I Have Ever Heard
Author: htebazytook
Rating: R
Disclaimer: <--
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Author's Notes: "I feel like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!" Takes place in Minas Tirith. Thanks again to Tolkien and e. e. cummings (what?) for letting me steal some of their beautiful words.

It's the oddest sensation to look out on the world without anything in the way– no trees or hills, just the occasional protruding tower painted blue with the starlight. From here, Frodo can look straight out at the stars and watch them twinkle and shine, which is something that the Elves sing about but which hobbits don't take much notice of. From here, Frodo can see far off the places that had been oppressive and desolate just weeks ago, Ephel Dúath and the Dead Marshes just on the edge of sight, but now they're too far removed to ring menacing, and are nothing more than simple places in the world. And sometimes, Frodo thinks he can glimpse the gleam of water far away to the West.

"It's some kind of view, isn't it?" Sam says.

Frodo smiles before looking at him. "I take it dinner is ready."

"Not quite. Legolas is trying to explain to your cousins why he isn't keen on eating again so soon."

"Ah. Awhile yet, then."

"Mm." Sam just looks at him.

Frodo smiles again. "What is it?"

"You just . . . you look fair Elvish out here in the starlight, in such a splendid city as this. You look as if you belong in all these grand places we've seen, whereas for me, I mostly just feel wonderstruck at it all."

"Well, I don't know about belonging," Frodo says. "The air is so strange here." The smell of salt permeates.

"Hallo!" Pippin calls from the doorway. "Shall I just help myself to your shares of the food, or are you planning on coming inside anytime soon? I assure you the moon isn't going anywhere."

Frodo and Sam follow him inside for dinner, which all the hobbits take very seriously until their initial hunger is satiated and they can emerge from the task of eating to contribute to the conversation.

"Of course, I know the city like the back of my hand by now," Pippin is saying, "so I'll be your guide during our time here. You know, show you all the local hideouts and keep well away from the touristy bits."

Gandalf is on the verge of laughing, but Pippin seems oblivious.

"So we'll be going out later, then?" Pippin continues. "I know the loveliest little tavern . . ."

Merry says, "Of course you do, Pip."

"Yes, that's what I—I say, Merry, are you questioning my authority as a knight of Gondor?"

Sam catches Frodo's eye from across the table and Frodo has to look down for a minute to laugh as silently as possible.

"Now you hobbits will agree with me," Gimli says out of the blue. He and Legolas had been talking amongst themselves for most of the night. "Minas Tirith is a grand city, grand enough even to rival the Thousand Caves of Menegroth of old. It has no need of redecorating."

"Rejuvenating," Legolas corrects.

Gimli waves him off.

"Oh, honestly," Legolas says. "Even King Elessar agrees with me that the city has fallen into decay."

"And now he calls Aragorn 'Elessar' as though he's been in on it all along," Gimli imparts.

Merry's frowning. "Right, so, what exactly are you going on about, Gimli?"

Legolas talks over the dwarf: "It is my feeling that Minas Tirith is sadly lacking in green and growing things. And the Lord Elessar—"

Gimli grumbles something.

"—And the Lord Elessar happens to agree with me."

Gimli says to the hobbits, "Surely you can see how sacrilegious it is to mar the architectural beauty of this ancient city with, with trees . . ."

Pippin makes a face. "I don't know. I mean, in the Shire we are rather partial to trees on the whole."

Sam nods fervently. "I can scarcely imagine the Row back home without all those big old trees."

Frodo says, "Indeed. I'm not sure why you're so violently opposed to the idea, to be honest, Gimli."

There's a general silence during which like Legolas looks terribly smug for an Elf.

"Well!" Pippin says, clapping his hands together. "Where's the other three courses then?"

As it turns out, Gandalf hadn't been counting on preparing a meal fit for a hobbit, let alone four of them, and before long Pippin had convinced the others to come to a tavern with him.

Merry and Pippin wait until Sam's gone back to the bar for the next round to descend on Frodo.

"You two are together now, aren't you?" Merry asks.

"I'm sorry?" Frodo says, not quite registering their intensity for a minute.

"You and Sam!" Pippin says, managing to shout in a whisper. "Honestly, you have been gazing longingly at the lad like he's the prize winning pie at Lithe."

"Which Pippin wouldn't know anything about," Merry adds.

Pippin shoves Merry away a little. "Oh, like you're immune to Aunt Rosamira's recipe."

"Anyway," Merry says. "You do care for Sam."

"Well, I love him, of course," Frodo says.

But for some reason that gets an assault of knowing looks in response.

"I love the two of you, as well!" Frodo tries.

"Frodo, please. We're family."

"Yes, exactly," Frodo says.

Merry thinks about it. "Well, yes, good point."

"Now, I don't know about you folk up in Hobbiton with your queer ways," Pippin says, "but in the Great Smials we don't exactly go around professing our love for our gardeners."

"Except for Gorbadoc," Merry points out.

"Well, yes, and his tulips are simply splendid," Pippin says, "but Gorby doesn't make a habit of staring deeply into my eyes."

"Sam doesn't—" Frodo pauses, clears his throat. "That is, it's not as though. I." Realization is dawning on the horizon. His cousins nod encouragingly. "We don't stare at one another that much, do we?"

Pippin rolls his eyes.

Merry says. "Honestly, Frodo, you barely paid him any mind before this whole affair began."

"Well, to be fair, Sam is the only other person I've interacted with for weeks, really. And I suppose there comes a certain familiarity with that."

They aren't buying it.

Frodo sighs. "Yes, Pippin?"

Pippin explodes: "You share a bed, for goodness sake!"

Frodo throws up his hands. "You lot share a bed! I don't know if you've noticed, but as delightful as Gandalf's little summer house in the city of kings is, it is sorely wanting in guest rooms."

"We're cousins," Merry defends.

Frodo snorts. "I'm sure at least half of our cousins have wedded one another . . ."

"Yes, well—"

And Sam's back, balancing four enormous tankards and setting them down on the table with comic seriousness.

Frodo smiles at him, and Sam smiles back, and while he's walking around the table to his seat Pippin points at Frodo accusingly while Merry throws his hands up.

"You know, Sam," Frodo says. "Perhaps we ought to leave my overly imaginative cousins to their own devices." He takes Sam by the arm and leads him easily away.

Once quite out of earshot, Frodo sighs. "Ah, much better. Cheers, Sam."

They sip of the ale. Sam sputters a little.

Frodo pats him on the back, trying not to cough himself. "My, that is. Well."

"Strong stuff," Sam gasps.

"Indeed."

And they're not wrong about that, because it takes a startlingly short stretch of time for their conversation to devolve into laughter and dizziness.

"You'll be a bard, certainly," Frodo is saying seriously. "And all the musicians in all the land will quail at the . . . the pretty words. They will, Sam, or at least they ought to."

Sam's laughing beautifully.

"Oh, you laugh beautifully."

Sam only laughs harder, and Frodo finds it difficult to blink him back into focus with all that movement. Sam breathes, "You're . . . whatever a moon has always meant . . ."

"Mm, I think I need a refill . . ."

"Y'know, y'know what, Frodo? Sir. Your eyes're fair beautifuller than . . . what is it? That blue gem they have."

Frodo giggles. "I don't, I don't bloody know, Sam."

"Anyway, I'd imagine they're like the sea itself, like the sunlight over the water . . ."

"You see? This is what I'm talking about. You're so. You're so poetic, Sam. It's really quite lovely, really. You're really very talented and lovely, you know. Really."

Sam looks at him so green and earnest. He takes Frodo's hand in his like he can't not. "We've done it, haven't we? And now we really will be going home and all. I can't believe it."

Frodo means to say Neither can I, and maybe it's because Merry and Pippin had put the thought in his head, or maybe it's the way Sam's just licked his lips, but somehow it seems like a good idea to instead lean in enough to plant a brief warm kiss on Sam's mouth.

Sam doesn't respond, doesn't pull away either, and when it's over he looks Frodo right in the eye, opens his mouth to—

"Oi, Frodo!" Pippin says, popping up out of nowhere.

"Yes-hullo-Peregrin," Frodo says tightly. "How can I help you?"

"Merry and I are playing just the naughtiest drinking game that the soldiers have. Don't worry, I'll explain it all to you on the way over, just–"

"I don't know, Mr. Pippin," Sam says, shooting Frodo a look. "Mr. Frodo is right tired out." He leans closer to Pippin. "Between you and me, I don't think he's quite recovered from everything that's happened to him. You know, in Mordor . . ."

Pippin's eyes widen. "Oh. Oh, yes, I see, well. Right. See you two back at the house, then. Cheers!"

Pippin is barely five paces away when Frodo bursts into laughter.

"Well," Sam says, grinning. "I reckon we deserve to have some good come out of the whole ordeal."

"Yes," Frodo says. The front of his head is oddly heavy, and he has to fall into Sam a bit because of it, and speak into his ear because it's there: "You're right, though. I should like to turn in before long."

Sam shivers, looks at Frodo like he's about to kiss him this time, and that sets Frodo to wondering whether this is the way Sam's always looked at him and he's only just now noticing it.

They exit the tavern with some difficulty, but luckily they have each other to stumble on, and by now they've honed a rather efficient way of walking like this. Only now, Sam's hand at the small of his back is hot like a brand and Frodo's become entranced by the smell of Sam's hair, the feel of his muscles working under tanned skin.

By the time they've returned to the house all is blue and silent with sleeping, which only makes staying quiet all the more hilarious. Frodo tries unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter when they trip up the stairs, and once they've finally made it to their lavish room with the feather bed Sam's found an even better way to control Frodo's giggles.

Frodo knows they must be kissing, knows the world flip-flops a couple of times and still magically sets him safely on the bed, but his eyes are heavy with sleep and alcohol and Sam's touches are bright and hot but fading fast along with Frodo's consciousness. Sam kisses Frodo's neck lazily, murmurs his name and rests his head against his shoulder as they fall into sleep.

Frodo's utterly alone.

There is nobody here at all, no matter that he calls out. And the storm is coming, the force of the nighttime rolling over the waves to engulf him.

Frodo falls, crawls through the blackness through the dead abandoned forest. Sits alone in silence for eternity with the sad dying trees. It goes on for so long and he cycles through despair and hope and anger and guilt and resignation to his fate.

But then at last daylight blooms, and with it comes the certainty that he must find himself again back on the other side of the turbulent waves. He needs to be gone.

He stumbles to the light but such dark clings to him, pulls him back so heavily, and the wind is deafening and he cannot hide. So close to the open waters now. And the rain that hits his face tastes like salt. And the smell of salt is overwhelming—

Frodo awakens with a jolt, which rouses Sam as well, there by his side and instantly concerned like always. Frodo's heart hammers from the dream, but its contents are already slipping away into forgetfulness.

In the present, Sam reaches out to touch his face and in Sam's most frail gesture are things which enclose him. Sam leans a little and tilts Frodo's chin a little and Frodo closes his eyes blissfully—

"Up and at 'em, gentleman!" Pippin's voice booms through the door.

Sam scrambles off the bed like a skittish foal. Frodo sighs. "At whom, Pippin? Silly me, I'd thought the war was over."

"Why, at breakfast, cousin Frodo! Followed by a most informative walking tour directed by someone who, I'm told, has a thorough knowledge of the Tower of the Setting Sun. Of course we'll further discuss the origins of the city's many names in great detail later."

After an hour of pancakes and glancing nervously at Sam from across the table, they set off to explore Minas Tirith. Gandalf had declined Pippin's elaborate invitation, and the first leg of the tour consisted mainly of Pippin grumbling about this.

"I don't see why Gandalf thinks he's so above a little history lesson," Pippin says.

Legolas blinks at him. "Are you . . . oh dear, you're serious."

"One is never too old to learn, that's all I'm saying," Pippin replies primly.

Sam raises his eyebrows and Frodo laughs.

Gimli puts and arm around Pippin, which Merry observes in confusion. Pippin's too busy wallowing to take much notice of anything. "Never mind him, master hobbit," Gimli says. "If he'd rather go flower-picking with Aragorn then it's his loss."

Legolas glances around at them in disbelief. "Do none of you pay any attention? Elessar is—"

"Oh, so we've dropped the title now, have we?" Gimli mutters.

Their argument commences, but Pippin's spirits seem to have lifted somewhat. At least, he's stopped complaining now that he's got Merry's attention while he points at buildings and pontificates.

Sam says, "As ridiculous as he is, I can't say as Mr. Pippin hasn't done some growing up."

"Well, he's wound up about slightly more important matters now, instead of, for example, the illicit conquest of mushrooms across all four farthings." But Frodo really is awfully fond.

Sam just sort of smiles at the tall white buildings, at the breeze and the view, and as optimistic as he'd been on their journey, Frodo could see how much more relaxed and happy he was now.

"You're enjoying Minas Tirith, Sam?"

"It's fine in its way," Sam says. Pippin's stopped up ahead to gesture at a lofty turret. Frodo isn't sure whether he's imagining that Sam's come to a halt so much closer to him than is strictly warranted, so close that he feels the heat of him, so close that the very air seems to wobble with the things Sam's nearness inspires him to . . .

"Mr. Frodo?"

"Oh. Yes." Frodo can feel his face burning, tries to hide it by pretending to pay attention to Pippin.

"I was just saying I'll be glad to be getting home," Sam continues. "And I don't mean no disrespect to Mr. Strider, but why he's insisting on us staying on so long is beyond me."

"Right," Frodo says, finding it difficult not to just lunge forward and start kissing Sam in the middle of the crowded foreign street. "Yes. That is, I should like to be back in the Shire before long, but I must say that this is a beautiful country, and I'm not adverse to staying here a little longer. Anyway, you do rather look the part, Sam."

They'd all donned Gondorian garb upon their return to the city. Sam had resisted, finding it uncomfortably luxurious. But now, devoid of his usual homespun clothes he didn't look uncomfortable in the least. He had a quiet authority about him that got lost in his station—unlooked-for, overlooked, something. But now it seemed clear to Frodo that Sam was destined for more than pruning the hydrangeas at Bag End til the end of his days, though surely that would factor in somehow, if Sam had any say.

Sam stutters: "I. I'm not sure what—"

Frodo's got to step a little closer, he's already so near. Shrugs. "You look like you belong here more than I."

"Oh, I don't know about . . ." Sam looks down for a minute, fiddles with Frodo's velvety jacket. "These coats are just so fine. They suit you, if anything . . ."

Frodo's almost too occupied with controlling his grin to notice Merry making exasperated faces at him over Sam's shoulder.

"I don't deserve such things," Frodo says, but Sam's starting to fret so Frodo hurries to add: "It's all a bit much, between the celebrations and the gifts."

"That's nonsense," Sam says. "You deserve everything. After what you've—"

"Oh, please, Sam," Frodo laughs. "It was you who—"

Pippin sighs, "Oh, Elbereth," in their general direction.

Legolas strides up to the parapet. He looks out over the plain and the wind catches his hair and the sun splashes his face. Frodo thinks it's all a bit much.

"Rarely have I heard the song of a bird in this lonely stone city," Legolas says, "but now I can hear the gulls calling from afar . . ."

Gimli rolls his eyes.

"Ah!" Legolas sighs. "Can't you hear them?"

"No, Legolas," Gimli says, mutters, "Always with the 'gulls' . . ."

"Oh," Frodo says, "is that what they're called? It's the oddest bird call I've ever heard. Certainly it's unlike anything we have in the Shire." He looks at his cousins but they're preoccupied with bickering, and Sam only looks at him with the same concern as always, and for some reason Legolas mirrors it.

If Frodo were completely honest, he'd have to admit to feeling a little hurt that Merry and Pippin had been withholding leaf from them. But all is forgiven now as they sit in a dark corner of the tavern smoking and drinking and talking nonsense in a most hobbitly fashion.

"I say, Frodo, it must be very strange to be short a finger."

"Yes, and it was a rather horrible experience, Pippin," Frodo says. "Thank you for reminding me."

Sam is practically seething at his side. Frodo puts a preemptive hand on his arm.

"He didn't mean any harm, Sam. Do lighten up." But Frodo finds it hard to take his own advice right away, turns to his ale and serious thought for a moment or two.

Merry, who's become much more diplomatic in their time apart, jumps in: "It's some exceptional leaf, isn't it?"

"That it is," Sam says, letting his agitation drift away with a smoky exhale. Frodo's slightly mesmerized by the half-lidded look Sam gives him, there with flushed cheeks and the pipe stem tracing across his bowed upper lip.

"Don't you agree, Frodo?" Merry says, giving him a kick under the table.

"Ngk! That is to say, yes. Quite."

Merry says, "I'll be glad to be back at the Bridge Inn, myself. Not that it isn't grand here, Pippin. I just find this style of music a bit odd."

There was a cheerful fiddle somewhere in the depths of the tavern, and while it did give the place a homey feel there was something distinctly exotic about the sound of the music.

"Aye," Sam says. "He's not doing all the quick little ornaments you'd here from a fiddler back home. This Gondor style is a mite straightforward, if you ask me. There's no variation, no give and take in it. Less stepwise and more jumpy in the melody, like."

Pippin looks at Sam like he doesn't recognize him. "I'd know idea you were such a musical connoisseur, Sam."

"Oh, I don't know all that much about it, sir," Sam mutters.

Frodo leans into him. "You sell yourself short," he chides.

But Pippin's over the conversation, leans back in his chair and sighs. "Ah, I for one can't wait to be sitting in the parlor at home with my feet up after a proper bite of sup."

Merry smiles at him. "What ever happened to the splendor of the White City, Pip?"

The dreamy look on Pippin's face evaporates. "It's just that there's a distinct lack of mushrooms around here," he says defensively.

"Right, right," Merry says. "And what about you, Frodo? What do you miss the most?"

"I . . ." Sam's studying him. They're all so expectant but for some reason Frodo has trouble thinking of anything more unique to the Shire than stars, which he can see just as easily from anywhere. "I think I should like to take the walk."

Pippin pshaw's. "Do stop feigning old age, Frodo—you simply aren't as boring as you think you are."

"He's right—the night is young, you know" Merry says. "The next round's on me!"

Frodo feels overwhelmed all of the sudden, mutters something about being tired and pushes his way away from the close loud populated tavern as quickly as he can.

Out on the empty white street he can breathe again. He moves to the edge, compelled to it, and stares straight out at the constant stars and feels some comfort.

"What is it that keeps the stars apart, I wonder," Sam says from behind him, then from beside him: "Sure I miss the garden and my Gaffer and being at home and that. But right now I'm mostly just caught up in missing you."

Frodo frowns, turns to him. "What do–?"

"You go somewhere else, sometimes," Sam says, hushed amid the abandoned stones.

Frodo opens his mouth to deny it, but he can't, really. "Walk with me?"

They stroll through the well ordered streets in their fine foreign clothes, and it's both familiar and new, to travel together away from war and worry.

Sam takes his hand, lets his thumb stroke over the back of it. "They're made of the dew of one of the Trees of Life, aren't they? The star-queen put them there when the Elves first woke up, to light the way, like."

"I'm impressed, Sam," Frodo says. "I remember Bilbo reading to you by the fire well past your bedtime, and . . ." And just like that Frodo's struck by melancholy again.

"He'll be here soon enough," Sam says, knowing instantly. "And between the four of us he'll fill up the rest of his book in no time."

They walk, heading unspoken in the direction of the house, and there doesn't seem to be anything that triggers it, exactly, but at some point in the sweet silence between them they meander into an alcove and Frodo touches Sam's face and Sam kisses him into a night-cold wall.

Frodo means to gasp but Sam's tongue gets in the way and the kiss delves suddenly deep. Frodo crushes Sam as close as possible and responds clumsily under the pressure of his lips. Something delicious swirls up Frodo's spine and lands in his brain and makes him stumble their mouths apart. Opens his eyes:

In the darkness, the voice of Sam's eyes is deeper than all roses.

"We're not quite home yet," Sam says hoarsely.

"No." And Frodo slips away, catches Sam's sleeve and they rush back to the house.

It's such a blur of breathless anticipation that keeps Frodo paralyzed along the way, keeps him unable to look at Sam or think too much until thresholds are passed and stairs are over with and the bedroom door shuts and seems to snap him out of it. When Frodo can see again he matches their mouths together.

Sam makes a sweet sound, hand running up Frodo's side and shuffling fabric and electrifying skin so Frodo answers with a moan and kisses him more, back, trapped against the huge door in this country of Men where they don't belong.

Frodo kisses Sam's mouth, his chin, his neck to the music of a groan and Sam's hand clutching at him. Negates the ties of Sam's tunic and follows with his lips while Sam only shakes and stares brilliantly at him through shadow-ridden air.

He's possessed by this feeling that he must save or keep or become Sam somehow, drops the rest of the way to his knees and gets Sam's odd-fitting Gondorian breeches undone and ignores his stuttering protests and takes him in his mouth.

Frodo sucks experimentally, licks tentative, feels flesh pulse under his tongue and takes Sam deeper. He's forgotten to breathe and has to come up for air, exhales hotly over Sam's saliva-slickened cock and Sam's head falls back against the wall with an audible thunk.

The fingers loose but trembling in his hair are delightful so he sucks Sam slowly in again. He's just found an effective way to bob his head when Sam interferes, yanks him to his feet dizzily and kisses him dizzier.

Frodo starts to speak but Sam reaches out to touch Frodo's mouth and cup his face for a minute, lets his fingers trail down to start unlacing Frodo's tunic. Frodo reaches out to muss up Sam's hair even worse, lets Sam urge him backwards to the bed and practically rips both their tunics the rest of the way off before pushing him down into the pillows.

His breath flees with the impact and Sam steals what's left of it with another frenzied mash of mouths, captures Frodo's wrists to keep him from mischief and busies himself with kissing Frodo everywhere while his hair tickles. Exciting wet tongue that laps over Frodo's nipple and makes him feel desperate.

Sam's fingers drag expressively down Frodo's arms, over every part of him within reach before setting to work relieving Frodo of the rest of his clothes. Sam has to sit up for this, and Frodo has to follow him and return the favor, and then he has to kiss him, and then they find themselves naked and panting at one another sitting on the bed.

Because someone has to, Frodo says, "What now?"

"Well," Sam says, and his voice is ragged, "I've learned a thing or two in my time. And if I may make so bold . . ." And he kisses up Frodo's jaw to bite the tip of his ear gently. "I've thought about doing a thing or two to you often enough."

"Make as bold as you like," Frodo breathes.

Frodo had never exactly thought about Sam's sexual experience, but he supposes it makes sense that he's had some. Hobbits who don't have to worry about heirs and expectations partake in discreet little romps during festivals often enough. Frodo had had a somewhat scandalous phase in his tweens on his visits to Brandy Hall, but it had been ages since he'd even thought about this, and he wonders how that could be, what with Sam's talented mouth, his muscle, his clear compelling desire.

There's a fair amount of rolling around on the expansive bed, twisting limbs and shocking lovely alignments amid the struggle. But Frodo tires of the game before long, squirms his hand between them to wrap around Sam's cock and he kisses him into submission, gets Sam on his back and writhing into all of it.

Frodo straddles him, goes to reconnect their mouths because that's simply what has to be done at all times, now, but that's when Sam thwarts him, pulls Frodo up just slightly by the hips and reaches and has their shafts hot hard heavy against each other. Sam wraps one wonderful-rough hand around the both of them while the other clutches Frodo by the hair and his lips part and plead.

So Frodo thrusts and sees the heat and hears the lust ringing in his ears. Sam moans, or maybe that was Frodo, and Frodo falls forward on his forearms to grind against Sam harder, amazing, the tightness of Sam's hands everywhere, the sweat of his skin and the sound of his breathing so near and desperate.

Sam's body tenses. He says Frodo's name and keeps tensing and babbling more and more so Frodo holds his face still to kiss, thrusts faster until Sam comes suddenly between them. The hot slide of it makes Frodo weak with pleasure, Sam's hand pumping Frodo's cock slower now, harder and so close for so long—

"Oh," Frodo whispers to Sam's kiss. "Ohplease, please . . ."

A few more strokes and Frodo comes achingly, laughing and collapsing and submitting to Sam's unending caress until sleep finds them both.

No matter that Frodo tries to speak, no one will heed him. Merry and Pippin and Sam are riding through Green Hill Country–no, away, out of the Shire and there's Aragorn awaiting them.

"I don't understand," Frodo says, terribly anxious, and nobody seems to hear him except for Sam, who only turns and looks at him silently, knowingly, and then he too turns back to the others, and they converse and fade while Frodo goes backwards, out and away into a town which is deserted and shaking with wind.

It's snowing there, but finally the snow melts into rain, melts away everything and the dark insistent weight on him turns to easy liberated water. He clutches grains of golden sand, and he's deaf, and he'll never walk on the shores again, and nobody speaks, nobody . . .

Frodo wakes up. Stares at the vaulted ceiling and tries to escape the lingering isolation of the dream. The scratch of quill to parchment seeps in through the edges of his muzzy consciousness and he turns his head to see Sam awake and occupied at the desk in the corner.

It takes all of Frodo's skill to move hobbit-silently enough to sneak up on Sam and get a look at what he'd been writing:

And it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
And whatever a sun will always sing is you.

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

And the sky of the sky of a tree called life
Which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide

And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart:
I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart

"Frodo!" Sam says. "Sir."

Frodo laughs, bends to kiss him, and it goes on for absolute days before ending. But Sam lingers there with his fingers twisted up in Frodo's hair for forever so Frodo kisses him again, and better, and Sam hums into it and looks right into him afterward and they're left staring at one another like they always do.

"You should write more often."

"Oh, well . . ." Sam hastens to change the subject. "It's a beautiful day," he says, nodding at the large open window where sunlight streams goldenly in.

"Yes," Frodo says. He walks to the window, tastes the salt in the air. "And the wind's in the West."