Pairing: Sam/Frodo
Disclaimer: Don’t own these characters. No offence intended or money made.
SPRING
"Come on, Sam!" Frodo stands by the gate looking
eagerly up the lane. "I haven't been to the Dragon for so
long, and now you're dallying over your flowers."
His hair catches in the spring breeze and he pushes it back
irritably, beckoning to Sam.
"Leave them! They'll still be here when we get back, nothing
changes."
Sam stands up and dusts himself down before joining Frodo as he
begins to walk towards the Dragon.
"Everything changes, Mr Frodo. It's only natural."
"We won't," says Frodo confidently, draping his arm
over Sam's shoulders. "we'll be the same forever."
SUMMER
Sometimes, Sam can almost see it, if he looks very carefully.
It's something in the way Frodo will suddenly tilt his head or
smile and Sam's heart feels as if it will burst from his body
with the joy of it.
Summer in the Shire is always a beautiful time of year; a time to
nurture and to cherish, and as Sam watches Frodo's eyes close and
his face turns toward the sun, he realises that this summer he
has a new, green shoot to cherish.
Hope, sudden and wild, flares in him. Frodo is still there,
locked somewhere in that fragile body. And Sam will nurture him.
AUTUMN
"You're still there," he says, late one night as he and
Frodo sit at the kitchen table, the candle guttering down to
nothing. "I know you are."
Outside, the first winds of autumn began to stir the trees and
Frodo looks up, his eyes tired and watchful, but he doesn't
answer.
Reaching out, he lets his fingers touch the dark curls framing
Frodo's tired face; curls that aren't as thick as once they were,
or as richly dark.
"I'm not so sure, Sam." Frodo leans into the touch, the
warmth of Sam's hand breathing new life and light into him.
"I'm not so sure."
WINTER
"I can't, Sam," Frodo says fretfully, pushing the bowl
away. "No more." He shivers and pulls the blanket
closer around his shoulders. "I'm cold."
Sam throws another log onto the fire and walks to the window,
making sure that the winter wind can't squeeze in through any gap
he may have inadvertently left. The room is as warm as toast,
maybe even too warm, but still Frodo huddles closer into the
blankets.
"Mr Frodo?" As Frodo looks up, Sam's heart aches. He's
not there, not now. Bright, sunlit Frodo has gone and in his
place has been left this broken, empty vessel that won't see
another year turn.
"What is it?" Frodo asks peevishly.
"Nothing, Sir. Nothing at all."
The End
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