Watching the Sun Rise
Pairing: Sam/Frodo
Disclaimer: Don’t know these people. No offence intended or money made.
Although Sam, a practical hobbit from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, would never dream of admitting it to anybody, there is a special time of day; a day he considers ‘his’. A time when the rest of the world is asleep, and he can indulge in a decent pipe and the kind of imaginings that would make his gaffer’s eyes bulge.
His special time is just as the sun rises, glorious and golden in the summer, cold and orange in the winter, shining through the thick foliage of the woods, or struggling to burn of f the frost and fog of a cold autumn day.
Spring is his favourite time. There is a moment – brief as the blinking of an eye – when all the world holds its breath, even Sam, just for a second, doesn’t breathe. And then suddenly the world bursts into full-throated song and the day begins.
The same moment in the height of summer is different. The world then is full and golden, dizzy with a string of long, sun-filled days, bloated with fruit-laden trees and fields of wheat and barley. Then, the glory of the day is quickly burned away as the sun begins its long path across the sky, but for that second, Sam feels the bounty of the earth in every fibre of his being.
Autumn. A time of shutting down, pulling in to face the cold days ahead. But still, a glorious moment when the sun, low in the sky now, forces its way through the fading leaves to bathe Sam in its meagre warmth.
In the winter, there is no sense of the world holding its breath. But Sam knows that if he listens carefully enough he will hear it – the sound of the earth as she sleeps, her breast rising and falling steadily, the solid beat of her heart all around him, promising him that she will wake again, and together they will revel in the beauty of her sunrise.
Sam had never told anybody about his special time; it was his and his alone. There was never anyone who would appreciate it anyway; most sensible hobbits would just laugh at him, cuff him on the back of the head and tell him to get on with his work.
Until a young lad arrived in Hobbiton; a young lad with a soft smile and the dream of ages in his eyes. Sam had hoped … but it was a foolish dream, he had always suspected. He had kept his peace, knowing his place.
Foolish, foolish Gamgee! He knows that now, as his arm tightens around Frodo’s shoulders and they look out at the dawn of the world.
"See?" he whispers, not wanting to disturb the silence. "It’s magic, of a kind." He rests his lips in soft dark hair, because he can; because he has the right.
"It is," Frodo replies, his own voice soft, matching Sam’s. "Magic of the best kind. Real magic." He is silent for a moment longer, a smile on his face as he listens to the birds begin to sing. "Thank you," he said finally. "Thank you for showing me this special time."
"Can’t think of anybody else I’d rather show it to." Sam lowers his head, and Frodo, catching the movement, raises his own. A slow, sweet kiss follows, as magical in its own way as the glory around them.
"Will you watch with me again?"
"Yes," Frodo says immediately. "I want to watch with you through all the seasons, want you to teach me about the earth." He smiles, his lips brushing Sam’s. "Now, will you come back to bed with me? Let me show you what I do best?"
"What?" Sam says, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Read poetry, maybe?"
"Yes, that’s right." Frodo pushes away from Sam and stands up. "And then I thought I’d amaze you with my translating abilities. I’m very good at getting my tongue around – awkward shapes."
Sam pushes himself up as well. "I’m all a-quiver with anticipation," he says carefully. "Shall we go?"
They walk slowly up towards Bag End, close enough for their shoulders to brush together, but no more. Nothing that looks out of place between the Master of Bag End and his faithful Samwise.
Around them, the world bursts into song.
The End
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