They remained some days in Lothlorien, as far as they could tell or remember. All the while that they dwelt there the sun shone clear, save for a gentle rain that fell at times, and passed away leaving all things fresh and clean. The air was cool and soft, as if it were early spring, yet they felt about them the deep and thoughtful quiet of winter. It seemed to them that they did little but eat and drink and rest, and walk among the trees; and it was enough. – FotR, "The Mirror of Galadriel"

Choices, Sam thought, and watched a snow of silver blossom-petals whirl around Frodo as he tipped his face up to the sun.

He looked like he belonged here, with these fey, graceful creatures; like a very small elf, with his hands stuffed into his pockets and golden leaf-dappled light on his face, with the breeze blowing his hair into his face and snaring petals in unruly raven tendrils. As strange as the elves, sometimes, and as remote – until he smiled, or opened his mouth and spoke in the gentle, slurred accent of the Shire, which to Sam's ears was no accent at all, but only the voice of home. And Sam had left the Shire to follow this one small piece of it wherever the path might take him.

He could tell himself that the choice had been made at Rivendell, but it hadn't, not really. He had chosen the day they left Hobbiton, and every day since. It was only at Rivendell that it had occurred to him to wonder why he had made the choice he had; but the only answer that came back to him was that he had taken the only path he could. The matter wanted thinking on – but not today. Not in this wood, in this odd, floating peace.

As long as he could remember, almost, Sam had loved stories about elves. Ever since Frodo had come to Bag End to tell them.

"You'd never know it was winter, would you?" Frodo said without opening his eyes.

"No, sir. That you wouldn't."

Frodo glanced at Sam and smiled; then, with the speed and deftness of a conjurer, he snatched a blossom out of the air and brought it up to his nose, holding it carefully between his fingers. "These smell so good," he commented, holding his hand out toward Sam. Sam moved forward, touched his fingertips to the back of Frodo's hand, and took a breath, inhaling the strange, rich scent of the flower; and, beneath it, the barely detectable scent of Frodo's sun-warmed skin.

"They do at that. I wonder if they'd grow in the Shire."

Frodo opened his hand and the blossom spun away on the breeze. "They would if you asked it of them."

Sam gave him a puzzled look but Frodo had already turned away, ambling aimlessly down a moss-covered path that led deeper into the trees. Sam watched him for a moment, then took a breath and followed.

"How long have we been here?" Frodo asked idly as they walked.

Sam shook his head. "Can't say, sir. I lost count of the days. Can't have been too long, though."

Frodo frowned down at the moss under their feet. "I feel so… I know how I should feel, with the Ring, and Gandalf, but…"

"I think you've felt about enough of all that to last a while, Mr. Frodo," Sam said gently. "You want taking out of yourself a bit. It'll do you good."

"I feel as if I've been taken so far out of myself that I may never find my way back," Frodo laughed. "I wish…"

"So do I."

"Sam… I haven't said thank you."

"For what?" Sam asked, a little bewildered.

"For making the choice you did. For staying with me." Frodo smiled wryly. "I don't think I deserve you. But I don't know what I'd do without you, either."

The path widened before them and slanted downward, opening to the sound of water on rock, and sunlight danced in a small pool at the mouth of a stream. Water flowed into it through a crack in the rocks above, spilling down in a tumble of gold-shot silver. "There's no need to thank me, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, feeling a little awkward and utterly at a loss as to what to say.

Frodo sank down onto the grass beside the pool, and Sam moved to sit beside him. "There is, though," Frodo said, not looking at Sam. He pulled up a long blade of grass and wove it absently through his fingers. "For so many things. For being a source of strength for me when I need it. For knowing me better than I know myself. For following me through mines and Ringwraiths and who knows what else without a word of complaint."

"I couldn't have done anything else," Sam said simply.

Frodo did look up at him then, a small, thoughtful frown on his face. "Why not?"

"I –" Sam began, then spread his hands helplessly. "I don't know. All I know is I couldn't have done different, not without losing –"

Myself. You.

"Could you have done different, Mr. Frodo? Could you have told them you'd not take the Ring?"

Frodo's hand twitched, making an abortive move upward toward his chest. "No. I suppose not," he said quietly.

Sam looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "Your hair's all full of blossoms."

Frodo shook his head sharply, scattering silver petals all over. "Gone?"

"Not yet. Here, I'll –" Sam moved closer and began combing blossoms out with his fingers. So soft, that hair… Frodo smiled and tilted his head a little, looking so like a contented cat that Sam had the sudden urge to scratch him behind the ears.

"There. They're gone now." But his fingers were still tangled in Frodo's hair, and those eyes were astoundingly blue and clearer than he'd seen them in long weeks, free of the shadow of fear even if they were still touched with grief; and there seemed nothing more natural in the world than to lean forward just a bit and touch his lips to Frodo's, just for a moment.

The moment lengthened.

When Sam finally pulled back, reluctantly disconnecting himself from that touch so cool and clear that it put him in mind of the waters of the spring beside them, he thought: Oh, I should apologize, but I'm not sorry. I'm not.

For a moment Frodo only looked thoughtfully at him. Then he smiled, laughter sparking in his eyes. "You know, they're all in your hair too." He raised a hand to brush petals out of Sam's hair; and the sunlight glowed from the water and cast a wavering golden latticework across his arm, over the side of his face, spilling down over his throat until the shadow cast by his collar claimed the light traces into cool darkness.

I love you, Sam thought without meaning to, and when Frodo's mouth covered his, Sam closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss.

If it wasn't magic it would do to mark the spot, the way that time hung suspended in Lothlorien as if caught in amber, floating like the sun in the water. Time might be passing in the world outside and it might not; Sam didn't know and no longer cared. Here, now, all the world was this small clearing, light and water, flowers blown on the breeze, and he had all the time there was to learn the taste of Frodo's mouth and the light, gentle touch of his tongue. He ran his hand down the side of Frodo's face, fingertips tracing the point of his ear, over the soft curve of his throat to his collarbone, and felt Frodo's hand making the same exploration.

"Sam…" Frodo murmured, brushing his lips across the corner of Sam's mouth, then across his cheek. "Why haven't we done this before?"

Sam slid his hand around the back of Frodo's neck, twining his fingers into soft curls. "Because we were never here before, never anywhere like this, this –"

"Sanctuary," Frodo whispered, his lips warm and soft on Sam's ear.

"Because it was never just you and me before, with nothing between us and no one to see. Because I didn't know how much I love you, before."

"I've known…" Frodo said against the skin of Sam's throat. "I don't know. Here it seems like forever."

"Do you love me, then?"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

Sam was lying on his back and had no clear idea of how he'd gotten there; he accepted it as a sleeper accepts the abrupt transitions of dreams, because the only thing that seemed important was that Frodo's eyes were as blue and endless as the sky over their heads.

"Sam… what did Galadriel offer you?" Frodo asked, running his fingers lightly into Sam's hair.

Sam smiled and reached up to cup Frodo's cheek in a gentle caress. "You, sir. You and a bit of garden, and no more harm to come to you ever. What did she offer you, then?"

Frodo smiled wistfully. "The same. You and the Shire, and peace. But she couldn't have given them to me, not really."

"One of them was always yours."

"And I never dared to ask. Oh, Sam, I've been a fool. Can you forgive me?"

"No, now, there's naught to forgive. I didn't see either."

"I feel as if I could see forever, here," Frodo whispered, and lowered his mouth to Sam's.

Forever. Some dim understanding of it drifted at the edges of Sam's thoughts; but all that he needed of it was here, in the slow drifting breeze that nudged Frodo's hair onto Sam's face, in the soft press of Frodo's mouth to his palm and the inside of his wrist, in the upsweep of Frodo's ear under Sam's mouth, in the murmuring stream that caught their whispers and wove them into a silver flow of sound. Enough of forever there in that glade and in his arms, in the taste of Frodo's skin and the soft sounds of his pleasure; and the stream caught Frodo's abandoned shirt, half-fallen over the bank, and lifted and tossed it like a falling leaf borne on the breeze.

They moved slowly against each other at first, because there was all the time in the world, and no reason not to linger over the removal of clothing that slid across the skin so much more smoothly than Shire-made homespun. No reason not to take enough time to find the perfect way to mold their bodies together, to draw out kisses and caresses, to whisper and laugh and create an entirely new, private language out of touches and half-formed murmurs. But even in that still, floating eternity there was room in the end for urgency, for tightening embraces and whimpers of pleasure and need, for a rhythm that built and intensified until Frodo arched against Sam, crying out his name, and the glade's diffuse light flared and caught fire like the rising sun.

There was a moment of stillness, after; then Frodo heaved a contented sigh and shifted to untangle his legs from Sam's and retangle them in a slightly different way, ending with his head resting against Sam's shoulder and their bodies nestled close all along their length. Sam smiled and kissed him on top of the head, rearranging his limbs so that they surrounded Frodo in a warm, safe shelter.

Frodo yawned and rubbed at his nose. "I think we missed lunch," he said drowsily.

Sam laughed. "Maybe. I never know what time it is, here. Can't tell from the sun for some reason."

"Well, if you can't then probably no one else can either. Maybe elves don't tell time at all."

"Suits me. The world can turn any way it wants to for all of me, so long as we have time enough for this."

"I'm glad you're here, Sam," Frodo murmured sleepily.

Sam smiled and drew his cloak over the two of them. "There's nowhere you can go, Mr. Frodo, that I won't follow you sooner or later. Not as long as you'll have me." He pressed a gentle kiss to Frodo's forehead and let his eyes close.

Forever, then, my love, he heard as he drifted off to sleep.

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