| Heart's Ease 2~ Yearning |
Confound and be-bother it. He'd forgotten to light the lamps again.
Sam clucked in dismay at his woolly-headedness as he felt his way down the dark hallway that ran the
length of the hole. Should he stop, and do it now? he wondered. He cast a glance over his shoulder
and shook his head. Better not. Bath water wouldn't hold hot for any hobbit - not even the Master of
Bag End.
A little way along, sunlight slid through the thin gap in a doorway, painting a golden streak across the
hallway floor and up the opposite wall. He stopped just short of the glowing line, the hairs of his toes
glinting in the reflected light, and shut his eyes for a moment, just as he always did. He didn't need to
look beyond the door to know what he would see.
At this hour, the late afternoon sunlight would filter through the delicate tracery of honeysuckle that
framed the window. It would pour like warm honey across the polished floor, and dust motes would play
hide-go-seek in the shimmering air above it. It would glance off the faded golden runes on books and
scrolls that littered every flat surface in the room - piled high like a dragon's hoard. He often thought
that here was the real wealth of Bag End. Knowledge - not mewed up in musty libraries, but nurtured
and cherished for its own sake. He made himself dwell on this fancy for a moment, before the eyes of
his memory continued its circuit around the room.
The flickering light of the hearthfire would meet the sunshine halfway, and where they melded into one,
there he would be, his dark head bent over Master Bilbo's old desk, his softly rounded bottom planted in
the Master's old chair. A treasure, dearer than crowns, more beautiful than dwarf-forged mithril, and -
just as unreachable to Sam Gamgee as such baubles were. If only...
He shook his head briskly and plucked himself out of his dreaming with a sigh. Ninnyhammer, he
muttered under his breath, and pushed the door open all the way.
His eyes widened, and his breath caught in his chest.
Wonder of wonders - Mr. Frodo wasn't hard at his books after all. He sat at the desk, but with his chin
cupped in his hand, staring out the window at the garden, at the garden Sam had made for him, and on
his face was a soft half-smile.
Sam's undisciplined heart leapt up to clog his throat. The image he carried in his memory broke apart,
dissolved, and reformed, irrevocably changed. He would always remember the room this way now. He
would always remember him - the perfect profile, so un-hobbit-like, pale against the dark wood of the
desk, eyes of corn-flower blue lost in some elvish dream. What did he dream about? Who did he dream
of? And if he chose to believe that Frodo smiled at memories of their loving, whyever not? It was his
remembering, after all.
Frodo turned his head at the creak of the door. His eyes were glazed, his mind still wherever he was
before, and the rosy lips were parted round in startlement. The eyes cleared and warmed, and the
surprise slid into a welcoming smile - but only for a moment. Then Frodo's face held nothing but an
inquiring arch to his brows and the warm regard of a master for a well-loved servant. Nothing more.
"Yes, Sam?"
Well, I suppose not, Sam thought dispiritedly. His heart sank back to where it belonged. His wanting
was making him see things that weren't there. This wouldn't do; not at all - and especially not if he
wished to work for Mr. Frodo still. And he did - oh, he did. Just to be near him and care for him was all
he asked for. Not that the master would want to keep him on, if he went about like a moon-calf with its
head stuck in the clouds. His work was mucked about enough as it was. So. No more of that, Sam
Gamgee.
"Mr. Frodo, your bath's ready," he said, his voice bright with determined cheer. "And the water'll get
cold if you don't come right quick, Sir."
Frodo shot a quick look out the window at the gathering dusk and frowned. "Is it that late already? I
hadn't noticed, and I've wasted most of the afternoon, it seems."
"You oughtn't to spend so much time at your books, Mr. Frodo, " Sam said reprovingly. "It's a lovely day
out - well, it was," he amended, glancing out at the fading light. "You'll get all stooped and
round-shouldered at this rate, sir - even Mr. Bilbo, bless 'im, always took a turn out in the sun, like. You
need to smell the roses, so to speak. If I may say so. Mr. Frodo. Sir."
For a moment, there was a strange, tight look on Frodo's fair face, then his master took a deep breath
of the scent-laden air and smiled. "I can smell the roses fine from in here, Sam, but you're right," he
sighed. "I'll be a proper land-hobbit tomorrow, I promise. It's just that Bilbo seemed so near today,
somehow. There were so many things I needed to ask him... " Frodo shook his head. "But there, you'll
think me another Mad Baggins at this rate. I was just wool-gathering - don't pay me any mind."
He got to his feet and staggered, clutching convulsively at the edge of the desk with a cry of pain. Sam
leapt forward, his arms outstretched to counter the fall he saw coming, but Frodo recovered quickly and
looked at him with watering eyes.
"My feet have gone to sleep, it seems," he gasped. "I'm sorry, Sam. You'll have to help me to the
bathing room, if you don't mind. It would be a pity to waste all your hard work - if I waited so to walk
alone, you see."
Sam saw, all right. He saw that Frodo needed his help, and didn't want it either. He recalled the old
saying about protesting too much - but that was neither here nor there. His master needed him, needed
his sturdy body, and it was his to use, from the topmost hair on his head down to his furry toes. He
draped his master's arm about his neck and placed a tentative hand on the slim waist, sneaking a look
at Frodo's face as he did so, but Frodo didn't look up. His eyes were on the floor, the fan of thick lashes
sooty against the fine skin of his cheek, as if placing his feet just so were of the utmost importance.
Sam squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and went giddy as Frodo's scent flooded his nostrils.
Blast and confound it - this wouldn't do at all. Stop that, he told his wayward body sternly, and then
averted his eyes and tried not to breathe.
Frodo didn't say another word as they negotiated a path to the door, though he winced at the needles of
pain that shot through his feet. They left the door open to light the hallway, and as he guided his
master to his bath, Sam couldn't help remembering what had brought them to this pass.
~~~~~
It had been almost a month since that wondrous revelation in the kitchen of Bag End, when all his
dreams had come true and Frodo had laid a garden of delight before his unworthy feet. They hadn't
done much that night, although every bit of what they had managed was glorious. They were still feeling
their way through the maze of desire, secure in the knowledge that all the time in the world stretched
out before them.
Which time, as it turned out - wasn't much, after all.
For the next morning, a whirlwind of mischief lit on the doorstep of the venerable smial. Sam was quite
fond of Master Merry and Master Pip - but that early summer's day, he could have quite cheerfully wrung
their giddy necks. Frodo, for his part, welcomed his unexpected guests warmly, and hid his chagrin well
- but his rueful glance at Sam would have filled a good-sized book. Sam would have dearly loved to
read that particular story, so he would.
They scarcely had a moment to themselves for near to three weeks. Merry and Pippin seemed to think it
their bounden duty to fill every hour of Frodo's day with amusement, and bless their kind hearts, they did
it out of love. It hadn't been two years since Bilbo disappeared after all, and they knew their beloved
cousin felt the old hobbit's absence keenly. They seemed to expect Frodo to fall into a slough of
despond at any minute, and were determined to head it off if they could.
All he and Frodo had were stolen moments; in the dank buttery, in shadowed hallways and hidden
garden nooks. Hurried kisses and caresses - all too brief before a cry of <i>Frodo! Where are you?</i>
split the peaceful air and drove them apart again. And with the presence of the two scions of the
gentry, Sam felt his place the more keenly. He could never bring himself to initiate those heated
gropings, those tender encounters - Frodo did, and he surrendered himself gladly. He doggedly refused
the offers of a bed for the night too, and trudged home to his Gaffer's hole each evening, to lie awake
or dream, hot, desperate dreams, full of longing and needing, and the numb relief of release.
Not for the first time, he mourned the dearth of locks at Bag End. They'd never needed any before,
seemingly. Master Pip, in particular, seemed to take a closed door as a personal affront and saw no
need to knock for courtesy. It was unnerving, to say the least - and a death knell to desire. And Master
Merry was just as bad. Sam hadn't missed the raised brows when he had encountered them on the
doorstep that first morning - and he disheveled from a night spent in Frodo's bed. Buckland's heir was a
sharp one, he was, and there was no subtlety in his appraising glances and sharp looks. Sam knew
disapproval when he saw it.
All was well, though, until the third week - and something changed. The three gentlehobbits had been
gone for the day, away to one of the steadings in Frodo's charge. It was dark when they returned, and
as Sam served a late supper, he felt his master's eyes on him. He looked back, and Frodo looked away,
his face unreadable, and Sam felt the first stirrings of unease. The rest of the week bore out his fears.
Frodo wasn't cold to him - not at all, but neither did he pull Sam into closets or empty rooms for stolen
kisses. There was something in him now that had shut the door, inviting neither questions nor
confidings, and it would take a braver hobbit than Sam to try. It had all been so new, so gloriously out
of the normal run of his life, that it still had the haziness of a happy dream. He couldn't ask, and ruin
the dream past repair.
Was this all there was going to be, then? There was no answer. Deep inside him, he felt the fragile
petals of a budding hope curl up and start to die.
~~~~~
They halted at the bath room door. Frodo stamped his feet and sighed with relief. "Much better," he
said, and slid his arm from around Sam's neck. "Thank you, Sam," he smiled, and moved away. Sam
felt his hand tighten of itself on the sweet curve of his master's waist - then he collected himself and
snatched it away, his cheeks hot with embarrassment.
The flicker of firelight bathed the room, washing the polished flagstones with a liquid gleam. The air
was chill, but for the circle of warmth shed by the roaring blaze. Bathing sheets and soap sat on a stool
by the steaming tub, and everything was in readiness. Sam looked about uncertainly, then stepped
toward the fireplace to bank the fire.
"Sam!"
The dismay in his master's voice brought him up short, and he spun around.
His master stared in consternation at the hip-bath that stood by the hearth. "Sam, where's the new tub
we sent out for? I can't use this! It will leave me more knotted up than I already am!"
Sam nodded toward a canvas-covered bulk that stood in a shadowed corner and frowned. "You can't
use that yet, Mr. Frodo! I haven't looked it over proper and I dunno as how it will do, I surely don't."
"Why shouldn't it do? We've never had a problem before, have we?"
"This ain't of Tom Cooper's making, sir. He's laid up with his joints all swollen, and his lads have been
hard-put to keep up with the work." Sam wrung his hands nervously. "I had it from a new cooper over in
Bywater, and I don't rightly know his work, Mr. Frodo. I'd feel a sight better if you'd let me give it a
proper goings-over, begging your pardon, sir."
"I'm not going to eat it, Sam!" Frodo strode to the corner and dragged the tub out from under its
covering. "The worst it will do is leak, I'm sure. I am going to use it, and if you'll lend a hand, we'll get it
set up in a minute, all right?"
Sam shrugged in resignation, sparing a dark thought for a certain Took's prankish antics. If Mr. Pip
hadn't stoved out the old bath with his big feet, they wouldn't be in this pickle now. Sam knew the
obstinate set of his master's jaw as well as he knew the back of his own hand. There wouldn't be any
more arguing with Frodo in this mood, for certain.
He managed a quick feel around the inside of the tub and sloshed a good pail-full of boiling water
around in it to wash loose shavings away. It did look like good stavework, he supposed. The pale new
wood shone in the firelight, and the ironmongery looked sturdy. Not that it mattered now, anyway.
The bath was filled in short order, and Sam sneezed as the smell of wax rose with the steam. He went
over to the hutch set in the wall, and took down a slender flagon of oil. The scent of roses filled the
room as he dribbled a stream of it into the bath water. "There," he said, satisfied. "It won't do to have
you smelling like a candle now, would it?"
Frodo got that odd, pinched look again and turned away, his hands going to his braces. "Thank you for
your help, Sam," he said. "I will call if I need you again."
That was a dismissal if he ever heard one, and he went quickly to the door. "All right, Mr. Frodo," he
managed before edging out into the hallway. "You do that."
Behind him, a slim figure stood, fingers tight upon the tub's rim, a certain rigidity to the bent back.
Frodo's lower lip bled white where his teeth were clenched hard on it, and he stared into the steaming
water for a long moment before shedding his clothing and climbing in. The heat worked its way into his
aching body, and he surrendered himself to it gratefully, sliding deeper into the scented water as his
eyelids fluttered shut.
~~~~~
