| My Lady's Gift |
Author's Note: This story is an FPS/RPS crossover, and the first Sam/Frodo I ever wrote.
He stands alone on the brow of a low hill, overlooking the bay of his arrival. A cool salt-
laden breeze caresses his face, bringing to his ears the silver voices of the elven mariners,
borne across the sea from Alqualondë. The fragrant grass is soft under his feet and the
pale blossoms of elanor and niphredil glimmer in swathes along the gentle slope that leads
down to the sea. The nights are pure magic in this land, strands of star-encrusted
gossamer that knit together the unchanging days. He could have been so happy here…
His body is etched in starlight, gilded in moonlight, and darkness wraps her inky fingers
around his soul.
He has long been healed of his wounds, even that dealt by the Witch-King, but his spirit has
not found peace. He is whole in body, but bereft of half his heart.
Patience, they counsel. He will come; time flows strangely in Aman, and though long years
will pass in Middle-Earth, here those years may be but a blink of an eye. He will come… he
will come...
He wants to believe them, but he can’t. Even in the Undying Lands, he cannot go back –
cannot be the hobbit he once was. The wars of the Ring have wrought too profound a
change in him.
He had loved life once, enjoyed its simple pleasures. The heavy scent of roses growing by
the door and the aroma of frying mushrooms, the soft warmth of his big featherbed and the
luxury of a hot bath by the fireside - the loving company of good friends. He had welcomed
each day with joy and optimism, trusting to a kind fate the ordering of his life. It had
served him well, that innocent trust, in the dark caverns of Moria, when Gandalf fell and
hope grew dim; in the tower of Cirith Ungol, when despair threatened, and the ring
tightened its evil hold on him. He still had faith then, and Sam had been the embodiment
of it. His Samwise, strong, steadfast and loving, his burden and his joy.
That trust is gone now, scoured out of him by the fires of Mount Doom. His memories of
home are tainted - smeared by the filth of Sauron. He can’t allow himself to hope. So
many things could happen, so many threads could break, and keep Sam away from him
forever.
There’s an aching void inside him, an emptiness filling with regret. Regret that he hadn’t
shared the love that swelled his heart to bursting, and given voice to the helpless longing
that kept him sleepless, tangled in his sweaty sheets. He’ll never see Sam’s face alight
with passion, never feel the gentle hands touch his body with tenderness and delight.
His love could have been a princely gift, or a burden shared by two. He’ll never know.
He sinks down on the rippling grass, and his luminous eyes are dark with remembered
pain. The pain of regret for the self-absorption that would have condemned Sam to a lonely
journey home, were it not for Gandalf’s kindly thought. He hadn’t been able to make
amends for that, either. He looks up at the field of stars and tears well up from deep inside
him.
Ah, Lady, I miss him so. He needed to be whole…but so did I. It’s too late. I can’t go back
now. I should never have come. I made a mistake…and I can’t make it right…not ever.
He sleeps that night on his lonely hill, and he dreams. A half-remembered dream he’s had
uncounted times before. His dream-self stands in formless shadow, before a window,
shuttered and silent. His moon-pale fingers scrabble at the stubborn wood, and the
shutters part. It’s like peering through smoked glass, into a darkened room – he’s never
been able to make out what lay beyond. He turns away in quiet despair, and a sudden glow
catches the corner of his eye. A candle burns where none had been before, and draws him
like a moth into the light.
His body is as light as thistledown, bobbing in an unfelt breeze. The gentle attraction still
has him in its grip, and he drifts with it, incurious and unafraid. The light surrounds him,
and outside its protection, forms of chaos lurk. He can’t tell how long he travels,
suspended in the candleglow, and a glimpse of a naked arm is all he sees before his
journey ends.
Hot velvet fire consumes his skin, and he is open, raw. Soft darkness soothes the agony,
and wraps around his body like a glove. His eyes burn, and his ears resound with a
measured beat that fills the space around him. He knows it - it is a familiar rhythm, the
beating of a heart.
The bed is soft beneath him, and the sheets slide like elven silk across his skin. He
stretches, catlike in delight, and his breath escapes in a soft sigh – and he can hear it. He
opens his eyes, and he can see. There is a strange quality to his vision, a blurring shifting,
a struggle to focus. Strange thoughts touch the surface of his mind, and he understands,
as dreamers are quick to do. He is the interloper here.
He retreats into the shadows and essays a tentative probe. A tingle travels down it, and he
is engulfed in alien memories. Children of Eru, thousands strong, metal monsters and
soaring buildings swirl around him in a dizzying vortex, and he screams soundlessly, but
holds fast. Then the images steady, and a calm descends – and he is looking at – the
Shire. The fields, the gardens and green, rolling hills, the smials and the trees, all strangely
ordered, but so familiar. And a name.
Frodo.
His shock is so great that he loses his grip and is shunted aside. This Other is Frodo too?
He recovers quickly and presses forward eagerly – if Frodo is here, surely Sam cannot be
far away! He finds the errant memory, and follows it, and the meshing is easy – almost
like coming home. He is still apart, though his body has put on the Other like a skin, for
hobbits, although altogether inquisitive and gregarious, are still very private creatures, and
his mind refuses to meld completely with his host’s. What the Other feels, so does he, and
he becomes slowly aware of a smothering warmth that blankets him, of a body pressed to
his. The form above him is featureless in the dark room, and inevitably, his memory
supplies a face to it.
Sam.
And the Other echoes his thought. My Samwise.
Soft lips touch his mouth, gentle and demanding, and he responds with all the pent-up
ardor in his heart. His fingers weave through thick curls, and he arches up into the kiss,
untutored, yet intent. His mouth opens like a flower, and his timid tongue flicks out to
taste the nectar offered to him so sweetly. Their lips move softly, languidly, and time
seems to hold its breath.
Strong hands move over his body, and he is achingly aware of his nakedness. Then the lips
move lower, and trails of fire follow in their wake. His nipple disappears into the seeking
mouth, and he hears himself moan in painful pleasure; he feels a burgeoning hardness
between his legs and his hand slips down to grasp its silky length. His hips are starting to
move despite himself, and the hands settle upon them and hold them still. Then the hands
move lower, and he feels a wet coldness between his nether cheeks and gentle fingers
working him slowly open.
He is strangely unafraid, though he knows what is to come. It is his first time, after all.
The warm lips reverse their journey, and settle once more over his waiting mouth. He
responds with eagerness and his hands shape the lovely curve of the strong back above
him, pulling it down to press upon his urgent need. Then the weight shifts and he feels a
probing down below, a warm shaft seeking entry, trembling with insistence. He gasps at
the sudden stretching pain and lifts his legs, opening himself further to intrusion. The burn
eases and his love moves in him, opening him up to such pleasure as he has never
imagined. He shudders with desire and his climax begins to build...
And his traitorous mind whispers: This can be mine alone – I deserve this joy, this
enchantment – for am I not the Bearer of the Ring?
A sinister thought - an echo from the dark months of his ordeal. For this is his own legacy
from the Ring, that it is far easier for him now to feel the pangs of anger and despair, than
the warmth of happiness and love. The Ring is gone, but the paths of emotion the evil
thing had carved are with him still, and a frenzy takes him, born of frustration and thwarted
longing.
His will, honed by the months of resistance and privation, is brought to bear upon the
Other, and resistance crumples like paper in a gale. Triumph sings throughout his mind,
and suddenly, he pauses...
Triumph? Am I like Sauron then? This is not so different from what he did to me!
He trembles with indecision, and a voice surfaces in the turmoil of his mind. A familiar
voice brimful of love: Mr. Frodo, me dear! Don't go where I can't follow! I will come, I
promise you. Samwise Gamgee keeps his promises - you know that well. Wait for me...
He had failed in Mordor once, and Sam couldn't save him then. Now he holds the beloved
voice in his heart and rejects the darkness utterly. He withdraws his will, gives way, and
the Other surges free. His reward comes swiftly. He is splintered into shards of starlight,
his soul released in poignant ecstasy. He rides the waves, exulting, and he feels his
Samwise with him, all the way.
~~~~~
He wakes upon his lonely hill, and his face is wet with tears. As he stirs, he feels another
wetness on his belly. The fragile petals of elanor and niphredil lie shredded on the grass
around him, mute evidence of his struggle with temptation. He lifts his pale face to the
darkling sky, and high above him, a lone star shines, putting all the other stars to shame.
As he gazes, the star glows brighter, and begins to pulse. A warm wind springs up out of
nowhere, redolent with unearthly fragrance, and ghostly fingers caress his cheek. With that
touch, the last vestige of the Ring's baneful influence vanishes, though he does not know it
then.
He lies in the Undying Lands, where the gods dwell, and a smile lights his weary face.
Gilthionel! A Elbereth! O Lady of Stars, he breathes. I thank you for the gift...
The stars wheel above him, and his face is bright with hard-earned peace. Deep inside his
mind, he feels the tenuous connection fade to a thin thread, but he knows that it will
always be there. Somewhere, somehow, Frodo has his Sam, and the knowledge is enough
to help him endure the lonely years of waiting.
~~~~~
Sean slips gently from his lover and pillows his head on the heaving chest, listening with a
smile to Elijah’s heartbeat as it slows to a more normal rhythm. Then he raises his head
and plants a kiss on the soft lips.
“That was fucking incredible, Lij! Like our first time, almost. The vibes I got from you were
amazing – I – I can’t quite describe it...”
“Yeah, I felt it too, Seanie,” Elijah answers, his fingers carding through Sean’s hair.
Sean regards the thoughtful face on the pillow curiously. “I thought I had hurt you for a
moment, there. You went kinda rigid, and you had the most peculiar look on your face.”
“It wasn’t you, Sean,” Elijah assures him. “Um – my head felt sort of tight all of a sudden; I
couldn’t breathe – and I couldn’t move, y’know? I feel perfectly ok now.” He adds
resentfully, “ It happened just as I was coming, too!”
“Bummer. Never mind, Lij,” Sean nuzzles his lover's soft neck. “I’ll make it up to you in the
morning, I promise.”
“Mmm...I’ll hold you to that, you know. Samwise always keeps his promises, right?”
Sean lies back and gathers Elijah to him in a close embrace. "Some promises are easy to
keep, Mr. Frodo. Don't you know?"
He kisses the smooth forehead softly and whispers, "They are the ones I make to you."
END
He stands alone on the brow of a low hill, overlooking the bay of his arrival. A cool salt-
laden breeze caresses his face, bringing to his ears the silver voices of the elven mariners,
borne across the sea from Alqualondë. The fragrant grass is soft under his feet and the
pale blossoms of elanor and niphredil glimmer in swathes along the gentle slope that leads
down to the sea. The nights are pure magic in this land, strands of star-encrusted
gossamer that knit together the unchanging days. He could have been so happy here…
His body is etched in starlight, gilded in moonlight, and darkness wraps her inky fingers
around his soul.
He has long been healed of his wounds, even that dealt by the Witch-King, but his spirit has
not found peace. He is whole in body, but bereft of half his heart.
Patience, they counsel. He will come; time flows strangely in Aman, and though long years
will pass in Middle-Earth, here those years may be but a blink of an eye. He will come… he
will come...
He wants to believe them, but he can’t. Even in the Undying Lands, he cannot go back –
cannot be the hobbit he once was. The wars of the Ring have wrought too profound a
change in him.
He had loved life once, enjoyed its simple pleasures. The heavy scent of roses growing by
the door and the aroma of frying mushrooms, the soft warmth of his big featherbed and the
luxury of a hot bath by the fireside - the loving company of good friends. He had welcomed
each day with joy and optimism, trusting to a kind fate the ordering of his life. It had
served him well, that innocent trust, in the dark caverns of Moria, when Gandalf fell and
hope grew dim; in the tower of Cirith Ungol, when despair threatened, and the ring
tightened its evil hold on him. He still had faith then, and Sam had been the embodiment
of it. His Samwise, strong, steadfast and loving, his burden and his joy.
That trust is gone now, scoured out of him by the fires of Mount Doom. His memories of
home are tainted - smeared by the filth of Sauron. He can’t allow himself to hope. So
many things could happen, so many threads could break, and keep Sam away from him
forever.
There’s an aching void inside him, an emptiness filling with regret. Regret that he hadn’t
shared the love that swelled his heart to bursting, and given voice to the helpless longing
that kept him sleepless, tangled in his sweaty sheets. He’ll never see Sam’s face alight
with passion, never feel the gentle hands touch his body with tenderness and delight.
His love could have been a princely gift, or a burden shared by two. He’ll never know.
He sinks down on the rippling grass, and his luminous eyes are dark with remembered
pain. The pain of regret for the self-absorption that would have condemned Sam to a lonely
journey home, were it not for Gandalf’s kindly thought. He hadn’t been able to make
amends for that, either. He looks up at the field of stars and tears well up from deep inside
him.
Ah, Lady, I miss him so. He needed to be whole…but so did I. It’s too late. I can’t go back
now. I should never have come. I made a mistake…and I can’t make it right…not ever.
He sleeps that night on his lonely hill, and he dreams. A half-remembered dream he’s had
uncounted times before. His dream-self stands in formless shadow, before a window,
shuttered and silent. His moon-pale fingers scrabble at the stubborn wood, and the
shutters part. It’s like peering through smoked glass, into a darkened room – he’s never
been able to make out what lay beyond. He turns away in quiet despair, and a sudden glow
catches the corner of his eye. A candle burns where none had been before, and draws him
like a moth into the light.
His body is as light as thistledown, bobbing in an unfelt breeze. The gentle attraction still
has him in its grip, and he drifts with it, incurious and unafraid. The light surrounds him,
and outside its protection, forms of chaos lurk. He can’t tell how long he travels,
suspended in the candleglow, and a glimpse of a naked arm is all he sees before his
journey ends.
Hot velvet fire consumes his skin, and he is open, raw. Soft darkness soothes the agony,
and wraps around his body like a glove. His eyes burn, and his ears resound with a
measured beat that fills the space around him. He knows it - it is a familiar rhythm, the
beating of a heart.
The bed is soft beneath him, and the sheets slide like elven silk across his skin. He
stretches, catlike in delight, and his breath escapes in a soft sigh – and he can hear it. He
opens his eyes, and he can see. There is a strange quality to his vision, a blurring shifting,
a struggle to focus. Strange thoughts touch the surface of his mind, and he understands,
as dreamers are quick to do. He is the interloper here.
He retreats into the shadows and essays a tentative probe. A tingle travels down it, and he
is engulfed in alien memories. Children of Eru, thousands strong, metal monsters and
soaring buildings swirl around him in a dizzying vortex, and he screams soundlessly, but
holds fast. Then the images steady, and a calm descends – and he is looking at – the
Shire. The fields, the gardens and green, rolling hills, the smials and the trees, all strangely
ordered, but so familiar. And a name.
Frodo.
His shock is so great that he loses his grip and is shunted aside. This Other is Frodo too?
He recovers quickly and presses forward eagerly – if Frodo is here, surely Sam cannot be
far away! He finds the errant memory, and follows it, and the meshing is easy – almost
like coming home. He is still apart, though his body has put on the Other like a skin, for
hobbits, although altogether inquisitive and gregarious, are still very private creatures, and
his mind refuses to meld completely with his host’s. What the Other feels, so does he, and
he becomes slowly aware of a smothering warmth that blankets him, of a body pressed to
his. The form above him is featureless in the dark room, and inevitably, his memory
supplies a face to it.
Sam.
And the Other echoes his thought. My Samwise.
Soft lips touch his mouth, gentle and demanding, and he responds with all the pent-up
ardor in his heart. His fingers weave through thick curls, and he arches up into the kiss,
untutored, yet intent. His mouth opens like a flower, and his timid tongue flicks out to
taste the nectar offered to him so sweetly. Their lips move softly, languidly, and time
seems to hold its breath.
Strong hands move over his body, and he is achingly aware of his nakedness. Then the lips
move lower, and trails of fire follow in their wake. His nipple disappears into the seeking
mouth, and he hears himself moan in painful pleasure; he feels a burgeoning hardness
between his legs and his hand slips down to grasp its silky length. His hips are starting to
move despite himself, and the hands settle upon them and hold them still. Then the hands
move lower, and he feels a wet coldness between his nether cheeks and gentle fingers
working him slowly open.
He is strangely unafraid, though he knows what is to come. It is his first time, after all.
The warm lips reverse their journey, and settle once more over his waiting mouth. He
responds with eagerness and his hands shape the lovely curve of the strong back above
him, pulling it down to press upon his urgent need. Then the weight shifts and he feels a
probing down below, a warm shaft seeking entry, trembling with insistence. He gasps at
the sudden stretching pain and lifts his legs, opening himself further to intrusion. The burn
eases and his love moves in him, opening him up to such pleasure as he has never
imagined. He shudders with desire and his climax begins to build...
And his traitorous mind whispers: This can be mine alone – I deserve this joy, this
enchantment – for am I not the Bearer of the Ring?
A sinister thought - an echo from the dark months of his ordeal. For this is his own legacy
from the Ring, that it is far easier for him now to feel the pangs of anger and despair, than
the warmth of happiness and love. The Ring is gone, but the paths of emotion the evil
thing had carved are with him still, and a frenzy takes him, born of frustration and thwarted
longing.
His will, honed by the months of resistance and privation, is brought to bear upon the
Other, and resistance crumples like paper in a gale. Triumph sings throughout his mind,
and suddenly, he pauses...
Triumph? Am I like Sauron then? This is not so different from what he did to me!
He trembles with indecision, and a voice surfaces in the turmoil of his mind. A familiar
voice brimful of love: Mr. Frodo, me dear! Don't go where I can't follow! I will come, I
promise you. Samwise Gamgee keeps his promises - you know that well. Wait for me...
He had failed in Mordor once, and Sam couldn't save him then. Now he holds the beloved
voice in his heart and rejects the darkness utterly. He withdraws his will, gives way, and
the Other surges free. His reward comes swiftly. He is splintered into shards of starlight,
his soul released in poignant ecstasy. He rides the waves, exulting, and he feels his
Samwise with him, all the way.
~~~~~
He wakes upon his lonely hill, and his face is wet with tears. As he stirs, he feels another
wetness on his belly. The fragile petals of elanor and niphredil lie shredded on the grass
around him, mute evidence of his struggle with temptation. He lifts his pale face to the
darkling sky, and high above him, a lone star shines, putting all the other stars to shame.
As he gazes, the star glows brighter, and begins to pulse. A warm wind springs up out of
nowhere, redolent with unearthly fragrance, and ghostly fingers caress his cheek. With that
touch, the last vestige of the Ring's baneful influence vanishes, though he does not know it
then.
He lies in the Undying Lands, where the gods dwell, and a smile lights his weary face.
Gilthionel! A Elbereth! O Lady of Stars, he breathes. I thank you for the gift...
The stars wheel above him, and his face is bright with hard-earned peace. Deep inside his
mind, he feels the tenuous connection fade to a thin thread, but he knows that it will
always be there. Somewhere, somehow, Frodo has his Sam, and the knowledge is enough
to help him endure the lonely years of waiting.
~~~~~
Sean slips gently from his lover and pillows his head on the heaving chest, listening with a
smile to Elijah’s heartbeat as it slows to a more normal rhythm. Then he raises his head
and plants a kiss on the soft lips.
“That was fucking incredible, Lij! Like our first time, almost. The vibes I got from you were
amazing – I – I can’t quite describe it...”
“Yeah, I felt it too, Seanie,” Elijah answers, his fingers carding through Sean’s hair.
Sean regards the thoughtful face on the pillow curiously. “I thought I had hurt you for a
moment, there. You went kinda rigid, and you had the most peculiar look on your face.”
“It wasn’t you, Sean,” Elijah assures him. “Um – my head felt sort of tight all of a sudden; I
couldn’t breathe – and I couldn’t move, y’know? I feel perfectly ok now.” He adds
resentfully, “ It happened just as I was coming, too!”
“Bummer. Never mind, Lij,” Sean nuzzles his lover's soft neck. “I’ll make it up to you in the
morning, I promise.”
“Mmm...I’ll hold you to that, you know. Samwise always keeps his promises, right?”
Sean lies back and gathers Elijah to him in a close embrace. "Some promises are easy to
keep, Mr. Frodo. Don't you know?"
He kisses the smooth forehead softly and whispers, "They are the ones I make to you."
END
