Frodo stumbled and fell, badly bruising his hip on a sharp rock. He would
have thrown out a hand to protect himself much sooner, but he had been
holding onto the ring and stroking it with his thumb.
'Now, mister Frodo' said Sam as he ran up behind him, his voice full of concern, 'what would mister Gandalf say if he could see me, letting you get so tired as this? It's time for you to rest, let's find you somewhere to lay down'.
Eventually they came to an overhanging rock, hardly enough to shelter them from the weather, let alone the prying eyes of Orcs should Gollum have informed them of their coming.
The pitiful creature had not been seen for several days now, and there was no clue as to where he had gone.
Sam fussed over his master, trying to make him as comfortable as possible in the barren wasteland.
The path into Mordor seemed impossibly long and arduous.
Frodo appreciated all Sam's efforts, but he knew he would not be able to sleep that night . . or any night. The ring felt impossibly heavy on the chain around his neck, and he found himself rubbing it between his fingers constantly, just to assure himself it was still there.
He had not had a full night's sleep since Lothlorien.
His sleep, such as it was, had been fitful, full of dark and sinister dreams. He often woke suddenly and violently, the image of a great fiery lidless eye burning in his mind.
Not to mention the fact that, no matter how he curled up and wrapped himself up in his elven cloak, Frodo always felt bitterly cold.
Once he was satisfied he could do no more to aid Frodo's comfort, Sam lay down to sleep. He was out in a moment.
Frodo tried in vain for a very long time to get to sleep. When he finally did, he reawoke with a start. He had dreamed that one of the Nazgul was descending on his mountainside hideaway (little more than a slight indent in the rock, really), Morgul blade raised, ready to claim the ring.
Frodo awoke to see that there was no such threat, and shivered both from the cold and from exhaustion.
He was so cold!
He looked jealously towards Sam, who was breathing steadily with a contented half-smile on his face.
Frodo moved closer to Sam, so as to share the corner of Sam's cloak. As he wrapped the corner of Sam's cloak around him, in a vain attempt to conjure some warmth from the freezing air, he felt Sam's warm breath on his face. It smelt, somehow, of mushrooms and ale, although neither had tasted these delicacies for many moons.
It made Frodo think of home, of the Shire, a place he was resigned to never seeing again.
Frodo was still shivering, so he slid himself right under Sam's cloak until he tentatively pressed his body to the sleeping form of his friend.
Frodo rested his hand on Sam's chest, and snaked his arm around his waist.
He was not worried he would wake his friend, as Frodo knew how heavily Sam slept in comparison to his own fitful sleep.
The feeling of having Sam so close to him, their breathing falling in rhythm, the smell of Sam's skin in his nostrils, the faint feeling of Sam's warm breath rustling his hair, gave Frodo a profound sense of comfort.
He closed his eyes, snuggled closer, and found himself in his warm, cosy bed at Bag End, all tucked up for the night with the expectation of some huge party the next day.
Before he knew it, he was in a deep, refreshing sleep. He slept as if he hadn't slept in months, which was, in a way, true.
As Frodo slept, Sam's eyelids fluttered open and their owner returned to consciousness. He was stunned to find he was being held in a tight embrace by his long-time secret love.
Sam's head was filled with a whirlwind of emotion and conflicting explanations - perhaps Frodo had moved like this naturally, in the course of a dream; or perhaps it was entirely platonic, just a sensible idea to share body heat. What Sam hardly dared believe was that Frodo might know of and . . . just maybe . . . return his love.
Feeling Frodo's heartbeat against his was almost too much for Sam, and he trembled with excitement. He snaked his own arm around Frodo and, with his elbow in the small of his back and his hand between his shoulder blades, pulled him closer.
To smell Frodo's hair, and feel his soft, warm breath caressing his neck, was so much greater a sensation than Sam had ever imagined it - and he imagined it often. It was hard for him to be sure that this was real, and not just another wonderful dream.
Sam traced his hand to the top of Frodo's back, and with feather-light fingers explored the back of his delicate neck.
He began to tangle his fingers into Frodo's hair, when Frodo reacted unconsciously to the soft sensation by raising his chin, moving his head backwards.
Sam looked at his face, mesmerised. There was no rapid eye movement, fear or panic on Frodo's face, as Sam had seen so much recently. There was just a sense of peace. Frodo's lips were moist, and slightly parted. It took all of Sam's will power not to incline his head and kiss Frodo's sleeping mouth.
'Why shouldn't I kiss him?' Sam thought, 'Why, he's fast asleep, he'd never know'.
Sam stroked his master's hair tenderly; spellbound by the way in which Frodo's full red lower lip trembled slightly with each breath that troubled it. He ran his fingers gently across Frodo's forehead and down his cheek, and around the outline of a delicately pointed ear. His touch was virtually imperceptible, so gradual and caring.
Sam brought all his fingers round and cupped Frodo's chin, softly running his thumb across his lips.
He traced the outline of Frodo's mouth with his forefinger, drinking in every curve. He fully expected this to be the only time he would ever get this close to him.
Sam delicately placed the tip of his finger in the middle of Frodo's lower lip. He found no resistance at all, as the finger pressed the soft flesh and found itself just in front of Frodo's teeth, feeling the soft insides of his lips, feeling each breath rush past like a miniature tornado.
Sam brought his hand round the back of Frodo's head, twisting his fingers smoothly into the curly hair. He gazed at Frodo's face, entranced, and then inclined his head, just for a moment, to touch his own lips to Frodo's.
Just a gentle brushing of lips, no force or pressure. But it was enough to make Sam tremble, to make his head buzz and spin with pleasure.
He leaned in again, with the same lack of force, but for just a little longer. He was becoming more confident.
Pulling away, after what seemed like an eternity, and yet like no time at all, went against everything Sam had dreamed of up until this moment. So he did not pull fully away, but closed his lips until he could just feel Frodo's full lower lip between them, and let his tongue run lazily across it.
Again, Sam tried to exercise self-control and pull away, but the realisation of years of dreaming was too great a price to pay for a little bit of self-discipline. He kissed Frodo, sucking gently on his smaller lips and running his tongue where his finger had been just a few moments earlier.
It took Sam a moment to understand what he was feeling when he felt another tongue slip through parted teeth to caress his own. He responded instinctively, darting carefully around, slightly increasing the pressure his lips made on that porcelain face.
Frodo moaned softly, and slid his hand up Sam's back and neck, to hold his head closer.
Sam didn't know how long Frodo had been awake and conscious of his actions and, somehow, it didn't matter.
Sam kissed the end of Frodo's chin, and then continued down his neck, sucking and kissing in equal measure. But Frodo brought his head down, level with Sam's, and brought it back up again with the force of his kiss.
They held each other, hands twisted in hair, holding necks and gripping backs, as tight as they possibly could, as if they were afraid that, at any minute, the other might disappear in a puff of smoke, and prove to have been no more substantial than a dream.
They kissed as if the world was ending, which it quite possibly was.
Sam broke away, a new wave of paranoia flowing through him. What if mister Frodo was having some kind of a dream, thinking he was someone else, and would be shocked to wake and find himself kissing an ugly, fat gardener?
'Sam, what's wrong?' said Frodo.
'I'm sorry, mister Frodo sir, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean . . .' and he began to shrink away, ashamed of his presumptuousness and arrogance.
But Frodo griped his shoulders, saying 'Sam, please! I need you close to me, can't you see that you are all I have left?'
Saying this, he curled himself tightly between Sam's shoulder and the ground, half pulling Sam on top of him. He pulled Sam into him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other in the small of his back, as they kissed again and again.
It was Frodo who pulled away this time.
'What is it mister Frodo? Is there something wrong?'
'Oh Sam, can't we be any closer? I still feel so cold!'
The only barrier left between them was their clothes, which they began to remove rapidly, kissing in between garments being pulled over heads. Soon they had only the elven cloak blanket, and each other, to keep them warm.
Frodo ran his hands all over Sam's naked back and shoulders, around his neck, across his chest. He found it hard to convince himself that this apparition, this dream-spectre, in front of him was really real, but he seemed solid enough.
Still rubbing his back and neck, Frodo put his lips to Sam's ears and whispered:
'Hold me, Sam.'
Sam did as he was told, his strong arms wrapped right round Frodo, holding him as close as it was possible to be, without two people fusing into one. They were completely naked, except for the chain which Frodo would never mindfully remove from around his neck. It was the only thing between them. Sam felt that if ten thousand Orcs were to come, he would take them all on to protect Frodo.
Their legs entwined, their bodies pressed together, the two hobbits kissed passionately.
After a while, the kissing stopped, and Frodo rested his head in the crook of Sam's shoulder.
Both hobbits slept.
Safe, warm, loved, a haven of bliss radiating warmth into a cold, unforgiving night.
The next day, they knew, they would have to face even more trials and miseries. But just for one night, they found comfort in each other.
The barren, uncaring rocks looked on. A whole dead mountainside brought to life by the love of two little hobbits.
'Now, mister Frodo' said Sam as he ran up behind him, his voice full of concern, 'what would mister Gandalf say if he could see me, letting you get so tired as this? It's time for you to rest, let's find you somewhere to lay down'.
Eventually they came to an overhanging rock, hardly enough to shelter them from the weather, let alone the prying eyes of Orcs should Gollum have informed them of their coming.
The pitiful creature had not been seen for several days now, and there was no clue as to where he had gone.
Sam fussed over his master, trying to make him as comfortable as possible in the barren wasteland.
The path into Mordor seemed impossibly long and arduous.
Frodo appreciated all Sam's efforts, but he knew he would not be able to sleep that night . . or any night. The ring felt impossibly heavy on the chain around his neck, and he found himself rubbing it between his fingers constantly, just to assure himself it was still there.
He had not had a full night's sleep since Lothlorien.
His sleep, such as it was, had been fitful, full of dark and sinister dreams. He often woke suddenly and violently, the image of a great fiery lidless eye burning in his mind.
Not to mention the fact that, no matter how he curled up and wrapped himself up in his elven cloak, Frodo always felt bitterly cold.
Once he was satisfied he could do no more to aid Frodo's comfort, Sam lay down to sleep. He was out in a moment.
Frodo tried in vain for a very long time to get to sleep. When he finally did, he reawoke with a start. He had dreamed that one of the Nazgul was descending on his mountainside hideaway (little more than a slight indent in the rock, really), Morgul blade raised, ready to claim the ring.
Frodo awoke to see that there was no such threat, and shivered both from the cold and from exhaustion.
He was so cold!
He looked jealously towards Sam, who was breathing steadily with a contented half-smile on his face.
Frodo moved closer to Sam, so as to share the corner of Sam's cloak. As he wrapped the corner of Sam's cloak around him, in a vain attempt to conjure some warmth from the freezing air, he felt Sam's warm breath on his face. It smelt, somehow, of mushrooms and ale, although neither had tasted these delicacies for many moons.
It made Frodo think of home, of the Shire, a place he was resigned to never seeing again.
Frodo was still shivering, so he slid himself right under Sam's cloak until he tentatively pressed his body to the sleeping form of his friend.
Frodo rested his hand on Sam's chest, and snaked his arm around his waist.
He was not worried he would wake his friend, as Frodo knew how heavily Sam slept in comparison to his own fitful sleep.
The feeling of having Sam so close to him, their breathing falling in rhythm, the smell of Sam's skin in his nostrils, the faint feeling of Sam's warm breath rustling his hair, gave Frodo a profound sense of comfort.
He closed his eyes, snuggled closer, and found himself in his warm, cosy bed at Bag End, all tucked up for the night with the expectation of some huge party the next day.
Before he knew it, he was in a deep, refreshing sleep. He slept as if he hadn't slept in months, which was, in a way, true.
As Frodo slept, Sam's eyelids fluttered open and their owner returned to consciousness. He was stunned to find he was being held in a tight embrace by his long-time secret love.
Sam's head was filled with a whirlwind of emotion and conflicting explanations - perhaps Frodo had moved like this naturally, in the course of a dream; or perhaps it was entirely platonic, just a sensible idea to share body heat. What Sam hardly dared believe was that Frodo might know of and . . . just maybe . . . return his love.
Feeling Frodo's heartbeat against his was almost too much for Sam, and he trembled with excitement. He snaked his own arm around Frodo and, with his elbow in the small of his back and his hand between his shoulder blades, pulled him closer.
To smell Frodo's hair, and feel his soft, warm breath caressing his neck, was so much greater a sensation than Sam had ever imagined it - and he imagined it often. It was hard for him to be sure that this was real, and not just another wonderful dream.
Sam traced his hand to the top of Frodo's back, and with feather-light fingers explored the back of his delicate neck.
He began to tangle his fingers into Frodo's hair, when Frodo reacted unconsciously to the soft sensation by raising his chin, moving his head backwards.
Sam looked at his face, mesmerised. There was no rapid eye movement, fear or panic on Frodo's face, as Sam had seen so much recently. There was just a sense of peace. Frodo's lips were moist, and slightly parted. It took all of Sam's will power not to incline his head and kiss Frodo's sleeping mouth.
'Why shouldn't I kiss him?' Sam thought, 'Why, he's fast asleep, he'd never know'.
Sam stroked his master's hair tenderly; spellbound by the way in which Frodo's full red lower lip trembled slightly with each breath that troubled it. He ran his fingers gently across Frodo's forehead and down his cheek, and around the outline of a delicately pointed ear. His touch was virtually imperceptible, so gradual and caring.
Sam brought all his fingers round and cupped Frodo's chin, softly running his thumb across his lips.
He traced the outline of Frodo's mouth with his forefinger, drinking in every curve. He fully expected this to be the only time he would ever get this close to him.
Sam delicately placed the tip of his finger in the middle of Frodo's lower lip. He found no resistance at all, as the finger pressed the soft flesh and found itself just in front of Frodo's teeth, feeling the soft insides of his lips, feeling each breath rush past like a miniature tornado.
Sam brought his hand round the back of Frodo's head, twisting his fingers smoothly into the curly hair. He gazed at Frodo's face, entranced, and then inclined his head, just for a moment, to touch his own lips to Frodo's.
Just a gentle brushing of lips, no force or pressure. But it was enough to make Sam tremble, to make his head buzz and spin with pleasure.
He leaned in again, with the same lack of force, but for just a little longer. He was becoming more confident.
Pulling away, after what seemed like an eternity, and yet like no time at all, went against everything Sam had dreamed of up until this moment. So he did not pull fully away, but closed his lips until he could just feel Frodo's full lower lip between them, and let his tongue run lazily across it.
Again, Sam tried to exercise self-control and pull away, but the realisation of years of dreaming was too great a price to pay for a little bit of self-discipline. He kissed Frodo, sucking gently on his smaller lips and running his tongue where his finger had been just a few moments earlier.
It took Sam a moment to understand what he was feeling when he felt another tongue slip through parted teeth to caress his own. He responded instinctively, darting carefully around, slightly increasing the pressure his lips made on that porcelain face.
Frodo moaned softly, and slid his hand up Sam's back and neck, to hold his head closer.
Sam didn't know how long Frodo had been awake and conscious of his actions and, somehow, it didn't matter.
Sam kissed the end of Frodo's chin, and then continued down his neck, sucking and kissing in equal measure. But Frodo brought his head down, level with Sam's, and brought it back up again with the force of his kiss.
They held each other, hands twisted in hair, holding necks and gripping backs, as tight as they possibly could, as if they were afraid that, at any minute, the other might disappear in a puff of smoke, and prove to have been no more substantial than a dream.
They kissed as if the world was ending, which it quite possibly was.
Sam broke away, a new wave of paranoia flowing through him. What if mister Frodo was having some kind of a dream, thinking he was someone else, and would be shocked to wake and find himself kissing an ugly, fat gardener?
'Sam, what's wrong?' said Frodo.
'I'm sorry, mister Frodo sir, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean . . .' and he began to shrink away, ashamed of his presumptuousness and arrogance.
But Frodo griped his shoulders, saying 'Sam, please! I need you close to me, can't you see that you are all I have left?'
Saying this, he curled himself tightly between Sam's shoulder and the ground, half pulling Sam on top of him. He pulled Sam into him, one hand tangled in his hair, the other in the small of his back, as they kissed again and again.
It was Frodo who pulled away this time.
'What is it mister Frodo? Is there something wrong?'
'Oh Sam, can't we be any closer? I still feel so cold!'
The only barrier left between them was their clothes, which they began to remove rapidly, kissing in between garments being pulled over heads. Soon they had only the elven cloak blanket, and each other, to keep them warm.
Frodo ran his hands all over Sam's naked back and shoulders, around his neck, across his chest. He found it hard to convince himself that this apparition, this dream-spectre, in front of him was really real, but he seemed solid enough.
Still rubbing his back and neck, Frodo put his lips to Sam's ears and whispered:
'Hold me, Sam.'
Sam did as he was told, his strong arms wrapped right round Frodo, holding him as close as it was possible to be, without two people fusing into one. They were completely naked, except for the chain which Frodo would never mindfully remove from around his neck. It was the only thing between them. Sam felt that if ten thousand Orcs were to come, he would take them all on to protect Frodo.
Their legs entwined, their bodies pressed together, the two hobbits kissed passionately.
After a while, the kissing stopped, and Frodo rested his head in the crook of Sam's shoulder.
Both hobbits slept.
Safe, warm, loved, a haven of bliss radiating warmth into a cold, unforgiving night.
The next day, they knew, they would have to face even more trials and miseries. But just for one night, they found comfort in each other.
The barren, uncaring rocks looked on. A whole dead mountainside brought to life by the love of two little hobbits.