In those few moments, this is what goes through his head: That the day Frodo came to live at Bag End there was an east wind, and dandelion spores had whirred and danced in the air, and Sam had thought that he had never in his short life seen anything as beautiful as this tall cousin of Bilbo's with the wind in his hair and a shy smile lighting his face; That Frodo had been a kind and patient tutor, never questioning why a gardener's son wanted to learn his letters, and the smell of roses had breezed in the afternoon light across the first book that anyone had ever set in front of Samwise Gamgee with the expectation that he would shortly be able to read it; That one day he had turned to look at Frodo and been brought up short by the fact that he was tall enough to look Frodo square in the eye, and saw the same startled realization in Frodo's eyes, and the apple trees had been in bloom and filled the whole garden with their scent; That one day he had looked up from gardening to catch Frodo's eyes on him, and when Frodo had turned quickly away, unsettled, Sam had turned back to the just-ripe tomatoes with an inexplicable, fierce joy welling in him until he thought he might burst with it; That in that last moment before Bilbo disappeared Frodo had understood what was happening, and the devastation in his face had hit Sam like a blow, and the next day every room in Bag End had been awash in a sea of fresh-cut flowers; That the night they became lovers the honeysuckle had been in bloom, filling the bedroom with its scent, and Frodo had pushed his unruly hair back behind his ear and traced over Sam's lips with his fingertip, and Sam had thought then and thinks now that the combination of honeysuckle and the soft, clean scent of Frodo's skin would forever be what happiness smelled like; That the worst moment of his life had not come at Weathertop or even in Torech Ungol but on a warm sunlit day in the Shire, when he had sat under a window with new-mown grass scattered around him and his thoughts racing ahead of an old wizard's words, and the sudden terrible understanding of what Frodo was walking into, and meant to walk into alone, had made him press his head into his knees and take deep gulping breaths to keep from vomiting (and for weeks afterward the smell of grass had made him ill); That it had been the cold smell of rot and dead rock that had surrounded him when he had pocketed the Ring and leaned to kiss Frodo, whispering Wait for me against Frodo's unresponsive mouth, and at that moment it had seemed entirely possible to Sam that nothing would ever grow again in all the world, even if the Lady should blanket every inch of Middle-Earth with soil from her garden like handsful of dirt cast into a grave; That the first real rest they'd taken after Cirith Ungol, he had cradled Frodo in his arms and kissed him until he fell asleep, letting the light touch of his mouth say everything that he had he had once said with words and caresses as they made love, and after Frodo was asleep Sam had sat listening to a cricket chirp and wondering what the cricket would have thought of it all, had it known. Now in this blasted land he brushes away dark, tangled hair from a forehead as dirt-covered as his own hands, and looks into those astonishing eyes, trying to find his friend, his lover, that long-ago boy with the wind in his hair. "I can't carry the Ring, Mr. Frodo," he whispers. "But I can carry you." Back to the fanfics page Back to the home page