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Sam shivered in the dark. It had been raining for most of the day and several drips rolled down his spine. It had been quite for the passed two hours, but he could see the gradual approach of wild men across the paddocks above them. The sheep were bleating in protest at being disturbed from their sleep. That would mean more work for Farmer Brown in the morning trying to round them up again.

Sam huffed in sympathetic annoyance, and turned as other sensations grabbed his attention. Pursing his lips he tried to take his mind off the discomfort that had been building all day. His groin hurt and he felt hot. His skin fare itched in places as well, but scratching it only made it worse. It was as if the itching was under his skin and not on it. It was totally new to him. His pants were getting too tight, which was strange in itself because hobbit clothes generally tended to be loose fit for ease of movement and comfort.

Brushing off the light drizzle from his cloak he rubbed it across his hot cheeks. It was a relief, a brief one. Brushing further down his clothes, he fidgeted to get more comfortable, pulling at the material of his pants. It was no good as he soon discovered. He was as hard as rock underneath. Sam was alarmed, almost to the point of crying out, but he swallowed it. He touched the swelling, wondering if it was him or a snake, but as his body shuddered from the touch he realised that it was not a snake. Breathless he panted from the mere touch. A jolt of pure pleasure and need shot up inside his body and collected in that one spot, and no matter how hard he tried it would not go away.

He gasped as someone joined him. A smiled met his gaze, close to his face.

“Hello,” she said.

“Rosie,” he stuttered, trying not to breath hard. “What are you doing here. It’s not safe.”

“I came to give you some water,” she explained and handed him a ladle of it.

Sam had never drunk so fast. The cool water was slung down his throat so fast that it barely touched the sides.

“Steady on,” Rosie whispered.

“Sorry,” he said. “I think I’m coming down with something. Not feeling my best, so to speak.”

“Then you should come inside and get some herb tea in you. If you’re sick . . .”

“No. It’s ok. I’ll get something for it when there’s more time. Right now I have a shire to save, and one very pretty lass I love lives in it. I can’t save her if I’m stuck in bed with a bad case of something.”

Rosie smiled shyly. “If you’re sure?”

“Sure that I love you?”

Rosie giggled softly. Sam smiled back. They both knew that was not what she had asked. Rosie leaned in and kissed him gently taking him totally by surprise.

“What was that for?”

“I hadn’t thought to thank you for saving my dad,” she told him.

“Thanks . . .?”

He got no further as she kissed him again. Her proximity was intoxicating as she lengthened the contact. Suddenly his arms were around her, pulling her against him, his lips crushing hers, a sudden unquenchable rage of desire burned within him. Rosie pulled away and stared at him. Sam was horrified.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Rosie. I was just so . . .” What could he say? Horny? With instant clarification, that was the only word that sprang to mind. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” she replied. “But I better get back to the house.”

Then she was gone. Sam mentally kicked himself. If he could make it up to her he would, but he truly believed he had frightened her away.

The fighting was brutal and continued long after the dawn. Sam was injured along with several others and taken to the nearest hobbit hole for tending. Bagshot Row was suddenly a house of healing, filled with hobbits of all ages. Rosie was serving ladles of soup and binding nasty wounds with clean cloth. Sam watched her intently. Each time he did so her head turned and their eyes met Sam looked away, embarrassed until finally it was his turn for soup and there was no looking away.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she told him kindly. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a long time, just never expected to be snatched up so fast,” she giggled.

Sam smiled, or at least tried to. “It’s not really as funny as it looks, Rosie. I mean it. I think I’m sick with something. It making me feel funny inside, and wanting to do things that ain’t gentlemanly,” he whispered so as not to be overheard.

Rosie gazed down at him and smiled. He looked up at her in surprise. He had expected her to leave in disgust, run away and find another hobbit to love, but there she was beside his bed. She brushed the damp hair from his flushed face and smiled reassuringly.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she told him, as if reading his thoughts. She told him to rest and returned to her work.

Sam took to watching her for most of the day between short naps, but the feelings intensified. Finally Tolman Cotton peered down at his fevered brow and tisked softly.

“Get up to BagEng with yer, Samwise. Mr Frodo is needing a little help.”

“He can’t be moved yet, dad,” Rose cut in quickly. “His wounds are still bleeding. Can’t he rest a bit?”

Tom harrumphed. “I suppose . . .Sam here’s not looking too good, as I see it. I’ll let Mr Frodo know.”

Rose returned to the stove to start preparing something for the family’s evening meal, her mother already chopping vegetables at the table. The stove felt warm, but not as warm as she would have liked and she looked in the wood basket. It was empty.

“Mum, there’s no wood left. Is there some in the woodshed?”

“There’s some by the back door,” her mother replied, but then stopped to think. “No, it’s in the woodshed,” she decided.

Rose turned for the door, basket and lamp in hand.

“Wait,” Sam called, stopping her in her tracks. “I’ll help you fetch it in,” he said, rising from the cot to join her. “Carrying wood is not work for a lass.”

Rose smiled and continued along the passage to the back door. It was cold outside and there was rain in the air. The clouds had covered most of the sky, but a portion of it was still clear, showing the darkening horizon. The sun was already down and the sky was a deepening blue. Within minute even this last vestige of dusk would be smothered by the approaching weather.

Sam opened the shed door and looked in, Rose shone the lamp onto the almost empty room. If all things were as they should have been, the shed would have been full at this time of year. As it was, there was a small pile of split logs in the far corner. The full horror of Saruman’s meddling had not been totally clear until that moment, and it shocked Sam to the core.

“This won’t get you through the winter,” he voiced.

Rose squeezed passed him to get inside. “I know, but at the momen, there’s nothing we can do about it. Mr Frodo has asked that you go up to Bag End. Apparently all our food, wood and oil is up there in his cellars and storehouses. It was pinched from all over the Shire. Must be a lot,” she added wistfully.

Sam swallowed. “I better hurry up and get better. Frodo’s in no shape to do hard work.”

Rose turned to him, her eyes large in the dim lamplight. “Nor are you,” she said softly, her breath dusting his cheek.

Sam shuddered softly. It was more than his resolve could take. Her turned and kissed her, catching her by surprise. He gasped. “I’m sorry, Rose. Don’t know what came over me.”

“Do that again,” she whispered.

So he did. Kissing her deeply, but gently, she stepped back against the wall of the shed. He pressed against her, deepening the kiss as the passion took over. Rose shuddered with delight, and Sam drew back.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. “That was . . .it’s not the time for it.” He looked into Rose’s eyes and sighed softly. “You’re very pretty, Rose.” Rose smiled brightly. “We better get the wood in afore we get caught doing something we shouldn’t,” he said.

The land round about looked peaceful, if a little bare, and nothing much was doing. A short walk in the early afternoon air was suggested and he took up the offer. Upon reaching the field, with the stump of the party tree behind them, Sam had been feeling light-headed, but not alarmingly so. He sat down in the grass. He had lost a lot of blood, but now he could feel his strength returning to him. His wounds had healed well and in the morning he would be off up the road to Bag End to help Frodo. The food and other supplies had to be distributed across the shire, and Frodo could not do that alone.

Rosie sat down beside him, her hand reached for his and he laced his fingers with hers. There was more than the insatiable lust in his eyes for her. He had loved her for a long time, but these strange feelings were beginning to get the better of him. He needed her like he had never needed anyone in his life. It was time to see if Rose felt the same.

He turned to her then and kissed her, cupping her cheek in his palm. As he kissed her he rolled her onto her back. Covering her with his body, he felt her thighs part as he kissed her. Her body was warm and inviting, feeding the fire within him. His need increased as he laid there, feeling her body beneath him, and the yearning tightened his pants like a vice. He was ramrod hard, and she was beneath him.

Of its own accord, his hips slowly gyrated against hers as they kissed. A hand wandered up to cup a breast, thumbed in nipple through her clothing. She shuddered, and Sam looked down at her, expecting to be told to stop. Rose looked up at him, but said nothing. Her even breath was deepening, but not as strident as his.

Sam lowered his mouth to hers, the tip of his tongue exploring her lips. A shudder of delight shot through him as her tongue emerged to meet his. His hips rocked harder, pressing the tip of his need against her body.

“Samwise?” a voice called from the lane beyond the hedge above their heads.

Sam gasped and shot to his feet. “I’m here, Gaffer,” he called back, pulling Rose to her feet. “I just came out for some . . .some air, if you get me,” he added.

Gaffer’s face appeared over the top of the brown hedge, looking down at them. “Frodo is calling for you,” he said. “He wondered if you could possibly go up to Bag End today. Folks are running out of food. Some are starving. He wants food sent out to them tonight afore people start popping clogs.”

“Yes, dad,” Sam agreed. “I’ll go now.”

Giving Rose a chaste kiss on her cheek, he left her side and climbed up the bank and squeezed through a gap in the hedge he hadn’t used since he was a small lad. Wriggling through it reminded him why he hadn’t used it since he was a small lad. A thick hazel trunk stood to one side of the gap, and wriggling passed it brought his hard need against its hard surface. It was all he could do not to stop and hump it, anything for some relief, but knew that his only relief would come from taking himself a wife; how he knew, he didn’t know.

Sam stepped inside the hobbit hole, a place he had not been inside for more than a year. The place was filthy, crammed with ale barrels and pipe weed crates and all manner of sacks and packages. It was worse than his worst imaginings, and this was just the front hallway.

At the far end sat Frodo, finger pointing as he counted crates in his head, which he then scribbled down onto a piece of paper he was holding. Then he sank back against the wall. He was already tired, and looking like he had been up all night. If his bedrooms were anything like this he probably had been, Sam thought.

“How long have you been at this?” Sam asked, closing the door behind him.

“I don’t know,” Frodo replied. “What time is it?”

Sam nodded, all serious. “That long, then. Let’s find you a warm bed and something to eat.”

“I’ve eaten,” Frodo replied, getting to his feet. His stomach grumbled.

“Course you have,” Sam replied, astutely, leading him down the hall to the study. A meagre pile of bedding lay on the floor, tucked beneath the window behind the desk. Frodo sank onto it gratefully.

Sam passed him a thick chunk of granary bread and a glass of water. “It’s not much,” he said apologetically.

“It’s fine, thank you,” Frodo replied, almost asleep with fatigue, and began eating with his eyes closed.

Sam watched him, remembering those dark hours in Mordor. The setting had changed, but the hunger and the tiredness had not. “Get some sleep, Mr Frodo,” he said softly.

Frodo’s eyes opened a small amount. “I’ve written down everything I’ve found so far,” Frodo told him sleepily.

Sam slipped the piece of folded paper from his hand and with it came a stick of soft lead. He opened the paper and read what was written on it. It was a list of everything in the kitchen, the smallest bedroom and the hallway. The list was extensive, and confirmed what he had already suspected. Frodo had been working non-stop since getting back to Bag End.

“How long will it take you to finish it?” Frodo asked on the edge of sleep.

“I don’t rightly know,” Sam replied, looking round him at the mess. “If I was to make a guess, I’d say about two days, at least, to make a full account.”

At that moment, Pippin and Merry stepped into the light of the unwashed window. “Frodo, we have been called out to Overhill,” Merry said.

Frodo nodded, slowly chewing a morsel of bread.

“We’ll need the roads clear for supplies to get through,” Sam said.

“They will be,” Pippin promised. With that they were gone.

“Everything needs to be distributed to every home in the Shire, Sam, and quickly. Wake me in an hour.” Sam sighed and was about to comment, but Frodo had already fallen asleep.

Frodo woke to a cold house. He shivered as he pushed the blankets off him and stood up. The flag stones were even cold to his feet.

“Sam?” he called out, but there was no answer. Feeling hungry but refreshed, he set about looking for his friend. Knowing that he would not be far, he did not worry, but the hole was bitter cold. He took a blanket with him, wrapped around his shoulders, but it was a poor substitute for a warm fire. None of the fires were lit.

Rose came up the lane with hot water in a lidded bucket. Sam was chopping wood. He looked up and smiled. “Hello, Rose,” he said.

“Hello,” she smiled back. “Mum said to bring you this. Dad said it looks like bad weather tonight and with the fires out here, he said you would need something hot.”

Sam looked at the lass before him, considering what the hottest thing around Frodo’s back door was, but quickly snapped the thought from his mind. “How did you know the fires were out?”

Rose giggled softly. “There’s no smoke coming from the chimneys. I have a message for Mr Frodo, as well.”

“Oh,” Sam replied. “Here, let me take that. Frodo will be glad of it, no doubt.” He took the bucket inside and emptied it into the enamelled sink in the kitchen. Bringing it back to the door, he met Rose in the archway leading to the door. They both stopped, momentarily wedged together in the tight space. Sam sucked in a sudden breath, feeling her body against his. They stared at each other before sharing a kiss, lips moved together long and slow. Sam moaned softly against her mouth and suddenly lifted his head.

“I have . . .chop wood . . .for the fire,” he said, mentally willing his body to obey him. It was getting more and more difficult to stay in control. Sliding passed her out into the small courtyard, she followed. The rain had started, at first light, but increasingly heavy as the minutes wore on.

Sam was aware of her eyes on him as she watched him chop the logs into usable pieces. He shivered as cold drops of rain slithered down his back. Rain dripped from his hair, and he noticed hands collecting the pieces into a basket, slim delicate hands with creamy, soft skin that could wander over his heated flesh . . .

Sam gasped. Where had that thought come from? With barely concealed frustration he struck the block he had been using as a base, leaving the axe embedded in its top. There was a sizeable amount of wood in the basket that Rose was carrying towards the door. He watched her go, he body slim and lithe, supple with youth, curved with womanhood. He swallowed a growl of appreciation as his mind’s eye imagined her naked, and beneath him.

Rose returned to find him shivering, but not with the cold. “You’re shivering, Sam,” she said. “Best get inside and warmed up before you get a fever.”

“I already have a fever,” Sam replied huskily. His hands went to her hips and he walked her backward into the overhanging roof of the open-fronted woodshed. Holding her against the brick wall, his hips flexed hard against her as he claimed her lips with his own. He moaned through a breath as he felt her arms around him. She was clinging to him, as much as he was clinging to her, his hips thrusting almost desperate to feel his skin on hers.

His need poked at her centre, sending shafts of need through her body. His breaths came as ever deepening gasps of raw passion as he pushed his hands up under her skirts. Underneath she was naked, his searching hands exploring the soft curves of her body. Pulling her buttocks closer, he lifted her skirt up and pressed his hips to hers.

Thrusting against her, he held her to him, kissing her throat, his fingers reaching to the buttons of her blouse. She was shuddering, her breath uneven as was his. Suddenly a thready voice filled that air.

“Sam?”

Sam groaned in frustration. “Coming, Mr Frodo,” he replied. A grunt of unrestrained need welled up and growled in his throat. He swallowed, feeling a cold rush sweep across his skin, and whispered. “Literally.” He panted hard, regaining his control, and pulled her skirt down. “We better get inside. Bag End is as freezing inside as it is out. And I have work to do.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Rose offered. “With the fighting turned north, my work is done. The Tooks from Long Cleeve have taken over tending the wounded, they’re closer to it all. They have more supplies too, on account of them finding a stockpile up there. They broke into the buildings and found food that will help us get through the worst of the shortages, until what you have here can be shared out. They’ve brought some to Hobbiton in cart loads.” She looked up at Frodo where he shivered on the doorstep. “That’s what I came to tell you. They should be here in about an hour or so.”

Frodo looked white with cold, but was clean and refreshed, his fringe wet with water.

“You found that water, then,” Sam noted.

“I did, thank you. But the fires are all out.”

“I’ll get to lighting them all now, Mr Frodo. Is good news from Long Cleeve, I say,”

Frodo smiled and nodded. “Come inside. You are both soaked through.”

A knock came at the door of the pantry, unnoticed by the two hobbits hard at work inside. Sam had shifted practically everything from one side of the room to the other, stacking sacks and baskets like with like. Four enormous sacks of grain lay against one wall, and over them Rosie was draped like a blanket on soft grass.

It was true, he was working hard, but not on the task that was originally set. Or, perhaps he was. He had returned to the Shire to make Rosie his own, and he was close to achieving his goal. Mouthing the sweet flesh of her neck, he pushed the fabric of her skirt upwards over her hips. As a rule hobbit lasses didn’t wear undergarments, and not for the first time Sam was glad of it. No fewer than four times had they been interrupted so having to remove clothing would have wasted time.

Journey-roughened hands smoothed over delicate Shire-protected flesh. This was as far as he had got last time. Gentle but urgent sweeps brought his fingers to her centre. She was already wet, and very aroused if her thick impassioned breath was anything to go by. He gave an exploratory thrust of a single finger, smoothly stroking across an engorged ridge he found there. Rose abruptly jerked and released a shuddering sigh.

Sam smiled at her and did it again, and again, quickening the pace. He was enjoying watching her body undulating as his fingers moved. It was like all the best poetry.

Her fingers, not to be outdone, smoothed over his shaft, while her other hand pulled him closer. Her knees raised, urging him. Their lips met, parted and tongues duelled as he rolled towards her. Their fingers continued for a moment more, hips moving in time, until he took her hand away.

He was against her, arching towards her entrance, aching wet flesh to hot tip, desperation urging them on. Little thrusts brought him closer and closer, dipping just inside her entrance. He closed his eyes as her virgin body opened for him.

There was a knock at the door. Sam stilled and groaned, his head dropped to Rosie’s shoulder.

“Maybe they’ll go away,” Rosie whispered.

“And maybe they won’t,” Sam whispered back, entirely convinced the whole world was all in cahoots to keep him from his goal.

Frodo, in another cellar room, had heard the first knock. He lifted his head, a frown ghosted across his face wondering why he hadn’t heard the door being opened. Wondering where Sam and Rose were he got to his feet, inching his way around the horded foodstuffs. He could hear noises to his left. Turning he saw them.

In utter astonishment he stopped, gazing at them where they lay locked together in a passionate embrace. A second knock broke him from his surprise and he slipped back into the shadows. He couldn’t get to the door without passing right by them. Sam was going to have to answer the door; that is if he could right himself before the visitor became impatient and decided to simply open the door themselves and walk right in.

A second later, they proceeded to do just that.

“Anyone home?” a voice called. It was Rose’s father.

Frodo, in horror for his dear friend’s embarrassment, and possible death, peered round the corner. There was no sign of Rose and Sam was busy carrying a large sack on his shoulder.

“Evening, Mr Cotton,” he greeted politely. “I didn’t hear the door.”

“That’s all right, Samwise,” said he. “No harm done.” He observed Sam’s flushed cheeks and smiled. “’Tis hot sweaty work, you got here,” he noted.

Sam replied promptly, “Humping in sacks is always hard work, if I might say so.”

In the shadows Frodo saw his friend’s Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed having realised too late what he had said. Frodo smothered the desire to laugh. “I - er - have a sack of taters I was just about to bring over,” Sam stuttered.

Sam noted a movement out of the corner of his eye, a face wreathed in a huge amused grin. Sam coughed, but made no comment.

“It’s a good size yer have there,” Tolman commented appreciatively as Sam lowered the sack to the floor, face positively glowing at the double-intender. “I best get it home to the misses.”

“There’s a fair weight to it, Mr Cotton,” Sam said in concern. “It might be too much for you, if you get me.”

“Aye, it is heavy, but not too much. Thank’ee for yer concern, right enough.”

“You’re welcome, Mr Cotton. Are you sure you can carry it home?”

“No problem now that I’ve had a good meal inside me. My strength’s all returned. How long will it take yer to finish the job?” Old Cotton asked, innocently missing the permanent embarrassment on the young Hobbit’s face. He was eyeing the organised chaos while Sam was too focussed on the chaos with his hormones, which were reading for too much into the conversation.

“Not sure, as yet,” Sam replied. “But a full list of what’s here will be ready as soon as I can manage it.”

Sam noted a movement out of the corner of his eye, a face wreathed in an amused grin. He groaned inwardly, hoping Tolman would leave quickly. Old Cotton, neither seeing Frodo or noting Sam’s pun, smiled hefted the sack onto his shoulder and was off with his potatoes.

Sam sighed and sank against the wall of boxes. “Oh boy,” he muttered. “I thought I was a goner.”

“You would have been if Mr Cotton had not stopped to knock,” Frodo remarked. “You need to control yourself a little.”

“I try, but it’s hard . . .” Sam noted the look on Frodo’s face. “If you get my meaning,” he added quickly.

Frodo smiled gently. Well, try to use a little more discretion.” He thought for a moment, looking about them. “We had better get this finished.”

Sam watched him leave the room and suddenly felt very selfish and guilty. Hobbits were good folk, honourable and honest and sometimes trusting to a fault. They were loving and friendly too, but with sudden clarity Sam realised something that had not occurred to him before.

Frodo had been an only child, and the only child at Bag End of over eighty years, and would probably never marry. There would be no hobbit lass worthy enough for his Frodo.

Sam felt a warm form beside him, her gentle arms around him. Her turned to her, holding her close. “We shouldn’t have gone so far,” he whispered. “Made Mr Frodo uncomfortable, we did.”

Rose smiled softly.

Much later Sam was sweeping the hallway clean of dust and grains that had slipped out of a loose corner of a sack. Finally his work was done. The list of the horded food was on Frodo’s desk, all sixteen pages of it.

Storing the sweeping brush and pan in its cupboard, he went off to find Rose. He knew she was still in the house somewhere, but Bag End was bigger than any other hobbit hole he knew, except maybe Buckleberry Hall, which by all accounts was more like a rabbit warren.

He found her eventually, making up a bed in one of the many spare rooms. What surprised him more was that none of the bedding was Frodo’s.

“What are you doing?” he asked gently.

“Mr Frodo gave us this room.”

“He what?”

Rose laughing softly, amused at Sam’s expression. “You’re daft sometimes, my love,” she said. “I talked to your boss earlier.” Sam went white. “And you’re Gaffer; he says you’re more of an old goat than he was.”

“My Gaffer!” Sam blurted out in alarm. “He knows?”

“’Course he does,” Rose smiled. “Didn’t he tell you about the Itch?”

“Itch?” Sam almost scoffed. “It’s more like a rash.” His face turned red. “Oh, so that’s what it is. I’ve been feeling like a horny rabbit on a binge. I know I’m slow, but I never thought I’d get the Itch this late on in life.”

Rose shook her head, crossing the room to envelope him in a huge hug. “You used to be slow, but not any more,” she complimented, kissing him gently, she pulled him further into the room. Her back stopped against the dresser as she cupped his face, kissing him all the way.

Sam pressed himself against her, hands smoothing up her back. Nestling closer he pushed between her thighs and thrust upward. He moaned against her mouth and did it again, relishing the feel of her pliant form sandwiched between his hardened need and the sturdy, solid wood.

Tasting her mouth with his own, one hand rose to her breast, thumbing the nipple through the thin cotton of her dress. His free hand began to unfasten the clasp at the back of her skirt. It popped open and Sam pulled away just long enough for the cloth to whisper to the floor. Pressing against her, he began to dig dry hump her, feeling her weight shift as she went weak at the knees.

He smiled against her throat, hearing her breath deepen. Her hands were on his back, and travelling downwards, pulling him closer against her centre. One of her hands slipped between them to open the buttons of his trousers as the other flicked open the back clasp of his braces. The front ones were harder, but she managed one of them. Sam’s hand reached in for the other. Cloth slipped off him, and braces followed, and an explosive ecstasy of skin against skin ensued.

Sam fair panted with the joy of it, as he unbuttoned her blouse until both hands could cup her breasts, as he nudged his manhood between her thighs. Her thighs parted to allow him entry. One hand ducked behind her buttocks to lift her leg, feeling contact between his need and hers. Lifting her slightly, he pressed forward, probing for her entrance.

His body edged closer, sliding between her lower lips, feeling her against him was almost too much. He was at her entrance, the tip nudging and withdrawing, nudging and withdrawing. He wanted her, feverish kisses at her mouth were not enough. Her breast in his palm was soft, the perky nipple hard and inviting. He was beginning to drown. Any moment now he would sink into her and be lost and that would mean . . . He had to stop or things would get out of hand, even more than they had done already.

It was a struggle, but finally he pulled away, his body still thrusting of its own accord even as he forced it to withdraw. Breathless and disappointed he gazed into her deep blue eyes.

“This can’t go on,” he told her solemnly.

Rose opened her eyes and stared at him, the look of pleasure evaporated and the deep love in her eyes was instantly sullied by the onset of tears. “What?” she whispered. “You don’t want us to be together?”

Sam cupped her cheek and thumbed away an escaping tear. “No, no. That’s not what I mean. Don’t cry, Rosie. I mean this, what we’re doin’ right now. If we keep at it you’ll be round as an ale barrel and, knowing your dad, me as dead as a door nail. You’ll have to make an honest Hobbit of me, Rosie.”

Suddenly her face lit up and she flung her arms about him and kissed him. Caught by surprise Sam toppled and lost his balance. Over he went, landing on top of Rose, and sinking into her to her hilt. Rose gasped audibly and panted, eyes wide as she looked up at him.

“Sorry,” he gasped back. “Are you hurt? I’ll get up.” He made to rise.

“No,” she replied, pulling him back. “Let’s finish this, and worry about the rest later.” She raised her knees, feeling him fill her.

In astonishment Sam gazed down at her as his body moved, a gentle glide hardly noticeable, as he sank down into her body. “Did I hurt you?” he whispered. In awe it was all she could do just to nod. “I’ll try not to do that again.”

He lowered his head to hers and their lips met. He moved again, slowly, savouring the slick ease of skin on skin. Deeply embedded in her he let out a long impassioned breath. It shuddered against her face.

Another thrust and he closed his eyes. She was tight, warm and wet. Without conscious thought he was pulling almost all the way out before sliding all the way home. Finding a rhythm that suited them both he was marching in and out, harder with each stroke until the air was being forced from her lungs with each upward thrust.

His own breath lost its gentle stride, huffing with the effort and desire mingling with hers. His senses began to slide as the heat rose. Harder he thrust and quickened the pace. A moan escaped him as his hand ran down her side to the back of her thigh, his fingertips could feel her flesh pucker and stretch. Her body arched up to meet his. His hand squeezed her buttocks, pressing her closer, grinding their bodies together in a frenzy of undulating lust.

Her sighs grew louder and he moaned in response. His breath growled in his chest. He arched closer, probing deeper into her core. Each breath grunted out of him, chorused by hers. He found he couldn’t stop now, even if he had wanted to. His rhythm faltered as he thrust faster. Something was happening, he could feel it. Her body clenched, gripping, drawing him in, his body shuddered and lurched. Hot fluid gushed from his body with such force it pushed him back a little, only to have him slide back in. He groaned long and hard several times with each spill of precious seed, relishing the joy of filling her.

Rosie’s eyes went wide, head rolling back, mouth opening to utter a shriek of release. Sam quickly covered her mouth with his own. Eyes closed, he felt her body convulse beneath him, feeling her insides kiss his head with each squeeze of its muscles.

Sam sank against her, spent, but his erection did not diminish. He guessed it would take a day or two before he could control it, although if his father’s opinions were anything to go by, no adult male hobbit ever did, which would account for the size of hobbit families.

He laid breathless, listening to her panting, feeling her chest rise and fall, gradually returning to normal. He wondered suddenly what Rose would look like large with his child and how many they would be blessed with.

“We better get up,” he said softly, and somewhat disappointedly, but he didn’t move. He was still inside her, engorged and ready for more. He gave an exploratory thrust and found her just as willing. Pushing up onto his hands he gazed down at her. She was in no hurry to get up either. He thrust again and spread his knees, feeling even more of his body fill her, his head against her inner door.

Picking up the pace he pushed in deeper, feeling her body kiss him at each stroke, each thrust making her body quake. Her breath was halting and shuddering as his hard thrusts rammed her. He was conscious that this could be hurting her, but she made no sign of it.

His mouth reached down to nibble at a breast, flicking it with his tongue and suckling it as he worked. This time was going to be slower, he vowed silently, but her heat was rising fast. Already it was gripping him.

He slowed, switched to the other nipple, allowing her to simmer. He thrust again and slowed, thrust and slowed. His vow slipped from memory as with the next thrust he could not hold on. Body shuddering with the effort he rammed home.

He gasped, releasing the nipple as his face went slack, the breath caught in his throat. “Rose!” he called out.

Forgetting to quiet her until it was too late, she seemed to stop breathing for a second before her cry filled the room. He realised instantly that they would have been heard and discovered. Poor Frodo, he thought silently, but with the woman jerking beneath him all rational thought left him.

Watching her, he smiled tenderly, waiting for her to calm again. With gentle thrusts he slowly withdrew, still hard as stone. That had to be enough for one day, or at least for now. He wanted her, and the more he had her the more he wanted her.

Frodo was wondering if he had done the right thing. Although he didn’t regret it, it still made him wonder what would happen if it back fired. Going behind the back of a hobbit to get his daughter together with another hobbit was quite unheard of. At least, in all his years he had never heard of its like.

He knew old Tolman Cotton. His daughter was the apple of his eye. If he found out that she was in his spare room with Sam, there might be fireworks of a different kind at Bag End. Frodo knew perfectly well what they were doing, and he was in full agreement, as was Gaffer Gamgee. Tolman Cotton, on the other hand, might be a different ham shank. Still, he had no regrets.

Frodo sighed. He had never felt the Itch, had never been interested in girls. It was something in the Took blood, he supposed, as he recalled several of that family line had never married. And his uncle Bilbo, having explained the birds and the bees to him, had never really expected him to get it. Bilbo himself had never gone through it either, as far as he knew. In truth, Bilbo found women a peculiar oddity and never quite understood their stay-at-home ways, equating the Itch to that same group. So while Frodo understood the theory, he could only guess as to its extent.

He smiled to himself, remembering Sam’s flushed face during the passed few days. He had wondered at first if Sam had caught a fever, but no one had offered him any herbal tea, not even Mrs Tom Cotton, and she fair noticed it. The glance between her and Old Tom had gone unnoticed by all except sharp-eyed Frodo.

Rosie’s parents had also caught the furtive glances between Sam and their daughter, again nothing was said. There was much more pressing business to attend to. There still was, but at present things seemed to be quiet. Frodo gazed out of the window. A movement made him sit up, alert. He swallowed. Tom Cotton was making a swift approach to his front door.

With a quick glance along the hallway, he made for the front door just as it was knocked upon. He opened it and there stood a flustered group of hobbits, Merry and Pippin in front.

“Hello, Frodo,” Merry burst in breathless. “We need Sam. Hamfast said he was here.”

“Yes, he . . .” Frodo hesitated. “He’s busy.”

“Can’t you spare him, Mr Frodo?” Tolman Cotton asked, stepping into the light of the open doorway. “What’s he busy with that can‘t wait until morning, at least?”

“Well,” Frodo fumbled, not finding a reasonable answer at such short notice. Suddenly Sam was there in the doorway, face flushed, hair mussed and tenting impressively despite wearing a baker’s apron in an attempt to hide it. “What’s up?” said he.

He ignored an amused smirk that erupted on Merry’s face. Merry wiped a hand across his mouth and made a show of concern. “Orcs are coming, about three hundred or more. We every hobbit able to bare arms.”

Sam pulled himself together and turned to grab his coat and sword belt hanging up in the hall. Buckling the latter about his wait he stepped out the door. “let’s be having them thieving orcs,” he announced, not waiting for the others. Pippin gazed after him in confusion.

“I’ll be right with you,” Frodo announced.

“No,” Merry held him back with deep kindness, a gentle hand to his. “Not this time, Frodo. You know you don’t have the strength to fight. We’ll keep you safe.”

Frodo smiled gently, knowing that he was right, glad not to have to shed more blood, but disappointed nonetheless not to be able to protect the hunger-weakened hobbits of the Shire.

“What’s wrong with Sam?” Pippin suddenly asked.

“Nothing to concern yourself with at your age, Pip,” Merry dismissed importantly. “Besides, we have work to do.”

They said a good evening and were gone before Frodo could say a single word on the matter, which suited him well for he had yet to think of a plausible explanation for Sam being busy. Old Tom’s gaze had struck him as dumb as a boy in his tweens caught pinching a girl’s fancy behind the berry bushes on the village green. Frodo’s face turned red at the thought. In the distance came the sound of the horn of Rohan rallying the hobbits from their mental slumber just as Frodo closed the door.

“Would you like some tea, Mr Frodo?”

The question yanked him from his reverie with a start. “No, thank you,” he said. “Rose, it’s getting dark and there’s fighting nearby. If you wish to get home tonight, I will walk you there.”

Rose smiled, but was worried. “Thank you, Mr Frodo. My mum will worry if I don’t get home soon.”

Frodo agreed that he would feel the same had their places been reversed, and buckled his belt and donned his cloak. Locking the door behind him he led the lass across the road and through the trees. The fighting seemed closer than it actually was as the whole world appeared to be in silent observation of its outcome.

Getting Rose safely to her door was greatly appreciated, although Mrs Cotton doubted Frodo’s nerve for making it back. He was shaking like a leaf in a storm, his mind filled with memories he would rather not have. All the same, he did reach home without incident. The battle had shifted along the road from Overhill, and was now in the field beneath his house. Rushing inside and shutting the door behind him he leaned on it, quite out of breath from the run, and at his wits end for fear.

He locked the door out of habit more than anything, although he doubted it would keep out a determined enough orc. What made him look at his hilt was a mystery, but look he did. His sword was glowing and he drew it a little as if not quite believing his eyes. Dropping it back in its scabbard his eyes searched the gloom.

Nothing stirred and at first there was no sound. He lacked the stature of Sam, the wits and speed of Merry and the bravery of Pippin. All of his strength was spent from his journey into Mordor, the ring had sapped him physically, mentally and emotionally, and the poison from the Morgul blade and of Shelob still coursed through his veins. In short, he was defenceless.

He doubted he could he could serve the Shire in any capacity. Beyond scaring little Hobbits with his life story as Bilbo had done long ago, he was useless to them. And now, as he drew the glowing, blue blade from its sheath he wondered how he would survive at all.

Something was in his house, stalking him. Orcs and goblins were born to darkness, which meant it could see him. Frodo, on the other hand, could not see clearly in the dark, even by the light of Sting.

His ears worked undeterred. He could hear something rustling in the study. Inching his way towards the curved hall, he peered round the corner. A shadow flickered, thrown up by the firelight. The fire had gone down though, and soon would be out, plunging the hobbit hole into complete darkness.

Laboured breathing close by him made him flinch and hushed voices were coming towards him. He was trapped in his own home. Stepping backwards he hid himself behind the jumble of tree roots in the hall and waited.

“Shagbag!” a voice grumbled. “It’s cold in here. Get some wood!” he demanded.

“There ain’t any, but I have a spare shirt,” a second voice, belonging to Shagbag, offered.

“I don’t like your shirt!” the first shot back ungratefully.

Shagbag harrumphed. “I don’t like your attitude. Maybe be we can take it back and get a refund.”

A muffled thump sounded followed by an equally muffled grunt of pain.

“Keep yer mind on the job,” the unnamed companion spat. “I heard the door. He has to be in here somewhere.”

“Well, ‘e ain’t,” Shagbag returned. “And I’m hungry.”

“I heard the door,” the other voice insisted.

“’E didn’t come this way.”

“Try the hall.”

Frodo swallowed. Two of them, at least, and only one of him. Feet slapped against stone tiles, no more than an arms length from his hiding place. Cautiously he peered out. He could see them silhouetted against the red glow of the embers. One was moving towards the front door, one was watching him, possibly making sure he was doing as ordered. He had his back to Frodo. Now was his only chance.

Slipping silently out, he thrust the sword into the back of the one nearest him and ran before the dead orc could fall. He heard its head thud sickly on the tiles and a surprised snort sound came from somewhere near the front door. The snort turned to an angry snarl as the orc turned to find his fellow dead. Frodo ran into a store room. Covering himself with his cloak. The orc ran right passed him into a dead end.

“Where are you, you little scum? Out with you!” he demanded. Scrambling through the food stuffs, he began knifing sacks open in desperation. Frodo felt something bite his arm, but did not move.

With all the noise, Frodo almost missed the dark shape coming in by the back door. Its glowering eyes on the other hand were unmistakeable. The orc continued slicing and knocking things over. After several seconds the orc noticed the now two dark shapes coming towards him. His eyes grew in size as he realised he was cornered. A second later he was dead.

Sam looked at the fallen orc’s blade in the light of the torch held by the hobbit who had followed him in. The metal was stained red. In alarm he searched the shadows. “Rosie! Frodo!”

“Frodo’s here,” the other replied. “He’s been hurt, but not badly. I think the shock has knocked him out.”

“Where’s Rose? Go look for her,” Sam urged as he lifted Frodo into his arms and carried him to his bed.

The other Hobbit rushed through the hobbit hole lighting the lamps as he went, but he found no sign of Rose.

Frodo came to and blinked in the sudden light. “Sam?”

“It’s me, Mr Frodo. I got the murdering sneak, but we can’t find Rose.”

“It’s ok, Sam. I took her home.”

Sam sank with relief and gratitude, a hand pressing on Frodo’s right arm. Frodo winced. “Hold still. You caught a bit of a side swipe. I don’t think the orc could see you. He slashed quite a few sacks of grain and taters looking for you. Good thing you was wearing your elven cloak or you’d have been seen and gutted for sure.” Sam praised.

“Where did they come from?” Frodo asked as Sam bound his wound with a light cloth.

“There were fifty or more of them. We surrounded most of them trying to sneak off south, but some passed by us down the lane. These were the last two. The rest were wild men. Those that wouldn’t surrender are dead. The rest are being escorted out of the Shire by the Brandybucks. I pity them, all things considered.”

“I don’t,” Frodo returned. Sam looked at him sharply. “I’m still recovering from the last thing I pitied.”

Sam squeezed his hand in comfort.

“Are you feeling better?” Frodo asked.

Sam turned red with embarrassment and Frodo smiled gently, amused. “Begging your pardon, Mr Frodo, but I best ask Rose to marry me before I take you up on your offer.” Sam’s face flushed all the more when he remembered that he had already availed himself of the offer, but said nothing of it. The look on his master’s face told him that Frodo already knew that anyway. “Kind as it was,” Sam continued. “But, I think we better have the time and place where we won’t be disturbed no more.”

Frodo’s smile widened, but Sam chose not to notice. He now knew what Sam had planned. Now all Sam had to do was convince his nerves that he meant it. Facing orcs, giant spiders, soldiers of Gondor and the like was one thing, but doing what he set his mind to do now was something else entirely.

The other hobbit rushed in suddenly. “There’s no sign of Rose, but there’s a dead orc in the front hall.”

Frodo passed Rose the large round silver coins and lifted the four flagons off the bar. The Shire seemed back to its old sparkle and lustre, despite only being a few days since the last battle. The new harvest was in and after Sam’s sprinkling of elf dust, the vegetables were corkers. Frodo smiled as he noted one braggart of a hobbit showing of what must have been the biggest marrow ever grown in the whole of Eriador. The group around him were laughing gaily at his prize. Apparently it had popped up overnight in his garden.

Frodo sat down at the table with his three companions and passed each of them a flagon of ale before seating himself down. There was silence among them, knowing that all that had happened to them over the passed year would be, for the most part, unimportant by hobbit standards, or be uninteresting and ignored. Their heroism would go unnoticed and unsung, at least they thought so.

For now, they shared in a quiet moment of togetherness in peace, each in his own thoughts of his actions. Then sharing a toast they drank. Sam opened his mouth to speak, but a movement beyond Frodo’s head caught his eye. Rosie Cotton’s father had just walked in, but most of all her beautiful smile flashed at him from behind the bar. It was more than his resolve could take. Taking an even bigger swig of ale (in what we today refer to as Dutch Courage) he stood without a word and walked to the bar.

“Rose Cotton,” he announced loudly. He trembled in his boots, but he stuck to his plan. Thrusting his thumbs behind his braces, he puffed his chest out and willed his voice to at least sound just as sincere as the rest of him looked. That is what he hoped. “It would do me the greatest of honour of you would become Mrs Samwise Gamgee.” That was the moment when he suddenly became aware of the silence all about him as no one uttered a word. His courage bolted leaving him standing there staring at her smiling back at him. “That is, if you want to,” he added quietly.

“Of course I do,” she replied.

The hand that slapped against his shoulder almost killed him of an awful fright on the spot. Startled and expecting to die, Sam looked up at Tolman Cotton. The old hobbit was grinning from ear to ear.

“’Bout time, my boy. ‘Bout time. You’ve been eyeing up our Rose since you were in yer tweens.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, no sir. I mean not - not with disrespect or nothing.”

Tolman barked a laugh. “Stop wringing yer hat, there, son-in-law and share an ale with us. We have a week to prepare.”

“A week!” Sam squeaked. He coughed to clear his throat, wondering what had happed to his voice.

Tom Cotton eyed him with all seriousness, but his eyes twinkled. “We could wait a few months, if you’d prefer, but my Rose has been waiting on you a full year while you were off who knows where and several years afore that. No point putting it off longer.” The hobbit who came in with him, Hamfast, Sam’s father, nodded and made agreeing noises.

“Y-yes, Mr Cot-er-Tol-er-Tom.”

Gaffer grinned chuckling. “Has a way with words, has my Samwise,” he said and the two old friends laughed.

Then plans began in earnest for the wedding, the feast to follow and the honey month to follow that. Sam flushed deeply as his thoughts wandered to the idea of being in a house, alone, for a whole month with Rose, The pantries would be stocked up, and honey left on the doorstep each morning with the milk. That made him blush even more knowing that everyone would know what they were up to. The honey, of course, was to keep his strength up. His face burned all evening at the thoughts running through his head.

And his flagon of ale sat forgotten on the table in front of Frodo.

El fin

Zuleika von Fleuger © July 2004

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