Samwise took great care in all of his dealings with his master, but in this most of all: day after day, the dauntless little gardener saw to it that Frodo's wound was carefully redressed, never minding that Ránalin and Luindril stood ready to the task.

"There's no sense in you bein' here, begging your pardon m--sir--m'lady," Sam had stammered on the first night as Frodo still lay deep in cold dreaming, and for only a few nights thereafter, the pair of attendants had kept wary watch from a corner--and then the corridor--and then, none at all. Ránalin had found this halfling usurper worthy of a smile. Luindril had not.

On this evening, of all evenings, Frodo appeared to fare less than well. The Council had taken a sharp toll, which was not fully apparent until what the halflings called supper. Frodo had come to table worse than pale, and Sam, upon his own arrival, had spent a few minutes assessing this in silent anguish before working up the nerve to tell Mr. Frodo just were he was goin', and that vittles would be sent along, he'd see to it somehow. Which he found that he did not have to do; by the time he reached his master's chamber with his master leaning heavy on his shoulder, a tray full of all they might desire lay in wait.

"If I ever doubted your efficiency, I certainly shall never do so again," Frodo had remarked, laughing softly. At which Sam had taken the usual course of blushing, after which they had settled down to share a peaceful meal. There, in the cool glow of sunset, the Ringbearer seemed to brighten, take comfort in Sam's mere company. And now, meal just recently finished, Frodo took comfort in soothing hands and patient words.

"I don't want to bother with it tonight," Frodo sighed, pushing Sam's hands gently away. A fresh nightrobe hung from them, silver-white by the lamps.

Sam frowned. "Sir, but you'll catch a chill--"

"It's warm," Frodo said, easing himself back against the pillows with a wince.

Sam frowned at his master, as if, lying sprawled in nothing but his breeches, he all but blended into the white of the bed linens. "But a breeze picks up off the falls at night, Mr. Frodo, and--"

"The wound needs to breathe," Frodo whispered, fingering his bandages tentatively.

"Fine then, sir, but don't say I didn't give fair warning. Are you ready?"

Frodo grimaced. "Yes."

Sam crawled into bed beside his master, urging Frodo to sit up with a hand light on his arm. Frodo obeyed, struggling up again, the movement nonetheless easier than it had been even the day before. Sam steadied Frodo with the same hand, this time placed low against Frodo's back.

"Easy, Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured, stroking gently up to his shoulder, finding the fastenings of the wound-dressing with practiced ease.

Frodo closed his eyes and drew his breath in, hands fisting in the sheets.

"Shouldn't hurt that much, still," Sam muttered almost angrily, picking the small pins free with precision, one after the other, till all four lay harmless in his hand and the creamy weave fell away. "Here, now, lift your arm."

But Sam lifted it for him, kneeling behind Frodo as he unwound the bandage with painstaking care. Frodo's breath came quick and shallow, but it bore no audible signs of pain, not even in the slightest. Sam set the bandage aside with a satisfied hmm, lowering Frodo's arm again. "Let's have a look. They've done a right good job, and no mistake, but I still wish I had a bit o' something from home on hand--"

Frodo's laughter interrupted Sam's muttering as he sidled back around to face Frodo, and Sam added something unintelligible under his blushing. Frodo fell quiet quickly, gaze serious and trusting as Sam set one hand against his chest, running fingers along the puckered flesh with care.

"It ain't so red anymore," he murmured, pleased, "and there's not a spot left of that horrible black..." Sam pressed gently, eyes fixed immediately on Frodo's, full of concerned wariness, watching for the slightest change.

Frodo tensed and bit his lip, but again, no cry came. "No, Sam...it's...stiff, deep down. That's all."

"Aye, a bit sensitive," Sam replied, reaching for the jar of balm on the table. "Feels a little hot, probably, like coals almost gone out, now that the chill's gone."

Frodo tilted his head as Sam applied the treatment. "It's as if you knew--exactly--"

"No more'n plain sense, sir, what a wound ought to feel like by now, gotten by a wraith or no, and mark my words, if it didn't, Mr. Elrond would be hearin' a thing or two--"

Frodo laughed, voice soft and rich. "Sam, I don't doubt he's heard a thing or two already!"

Sam huffed indignantly, sat back and crossed his arms. "I've been polite, I have! When we get back, here'll be no reason for you to report aught but that I minded my place." With that, he leaned forward again, snatched up the new bandage, and set to draping it in place.

"When we get back," Frodo repeated softly.

"Yes, Mr. Frodo. Back to Hobbiton. To your dear old hole on Bagshot Row, and there'll be no more of this adventuring nonsense ever again."

Frodo stirred a bit, tilted his head as Sam fastened the dressing in place. He watched until it was complete, then reached up with deliberate care, turning Sam's head until their profiles nearly touched.

"If--If and when we return--you'll see to this?" There was doubt in the Ringbearer's voice. Not mocking, but melancholy, somehow.

Sam was startled, but he didn't blink. "I mean to, Mr. Frodo."

"I'm much harder tending than a garden, Samwise. I think I have proved that." Frodo looked away, withdrawing his hand from Sam's cheek.

"Don't you say that," Sam chided gently, and with a gasp as if to summon all of his courage, reached up and turned his master's face back to his own.

Frodo's eyes flicked up to meet Sam's, bright and strained, and tears rolled free. "It's true. I cannot change that. And you've been drawn into something that you should not have to bear."

"No, sir. I should, and I choose it."

Frodo shook his head; this time, his laugh rang bitter.

"You didn't choose--"

"I chose more'n you think, and a long time ago, at that!" Sam snapped. And he froze then, and tears spilled down his cheeks, too. "Sir I--I didn't--"

"Never," Frodo whispered, "in all these years, Sam Gamgee, have you..."

Sam let go of his master abruptly, rising as if to leave. "I've gone and done it finally. Sir, if you leave--"

"Sit down, Samwise. I'm not through."

Sam sank back stiffly, unable to look over his shoulder, unable to do more than clasp his hands in his lap and shed heavy, silent tears.

Frodo breathed in tremulously, letting his eyes drift to the back of Sam's head and rest there, inscrutable. "Never in all these years have you raised your voice with me, and I should like to know why."

"It makes no difference, sir. I've gone and gotten myself sacked."

Frodo made a furious gesture, wiped at a fresh influx of tears. "What makes you so certain of that?"

Sam choked, rocking forward to hide his wet face in his hands.

Frodo blinked and sniffed hard, daring to extend a hand, letting his fingertips brush Sam's shoulder. "Sam, I... I couldn't let you go. Not even on such a count as this, and I don't care what your Gaffer says--"

"Mr. Frodo!--"

"Please. Tell me why, Sam."

Sam's jaw tightened. "If you'll tell me why you haven't sense enough let me go, begging your pardon."

Frodo let his hand drop. "Turn around," he whispered harshly. "If you insist on this, then that's an order."

"Yes, sir," Sam replied, though it was another long moment before he shifted to kneel and face Frodo, and even then, his eyes remained lowered.

Frodo took a shaking breath. "Look at me, Sam."

Sam closed his eyes and raised his chin, almost defiant. His eyes drifted open slowly, red and filled with pain. "Yes, sir."

Frodo's voice finally broke, as if the sight were too much. Sam watched, sobbing quietly, as Frodo leaned forward until his lips were a hair's breadth from Sam's ear. "Because it was you who brought me back, and because I cannot bear to live without you."

Sam blinked, his sobs scattering in high, disbelieving breaths. "No, sir, it was--"

"Your turn," Frodo whispered. He did not move.

Sam whimpered and swallowed. "Because...well, because I...sir, it's like--and I oughtn't say such a thing, seeing as--"

"Tell m--"

"I can't imagine a day without you, nor a night, neither! Do you follow, sir? Do you see?" Sam collapsed, weeping afresh, hardly realizing he had taken the offer of Frodo's shoulder, the stunned shelter of his arms.

"I do," Frodo whispered, lips pressing nearer at last, finding golden softness. "Oh, Sam, I do..."

Sam only cried harder, held Frodo tighter.

Frodo ran a trembling hand up Sam's back, rubbing as if discovering the gesture for the first time. "Sam...Sam, would you..."

"What?" Sam choked, his response muffled against Frodo's neck.

"Look at me again...I mean...if you wouldn't mind--"

"I'd look at you till my Gaffer didn't know his taters no more, and wouldn't mind it a bit, neither."

Frodo's next sob caught on something like a laugh. "And I'd...well, I would..."

Sam was looking at him.

Frodo's breath had fled him. "Ah, Sam...I..."

"Sir?"

"Don't call me that."

Sam flinched, ducked his head in confusion. "Why?"

"...I would do this," Frodo murmured, words all tangled in a rush, and pressed his lips to Sam's before he could protest.

For long moments, they did not move. Mouths touching, not yet tasting. Shock settling in tremors so fine that their stillness seemed to hum, a tune raw with wishing and promise. Frodo tilted into it first, parting his lips over Sam's, asking permission with a gasp. Sam nodded, opened his mouth to Frodo, stunned and quiet. The only sounds then were wet, searching, tongues finding and meeting, murmurs rising at last, as if in greeting. A choked, nervous laugh at the clashing of teeth. And then a moan, sharp and unexpected as Frodo tilted his head just a bit more and Sam surged forward, drawing Frodo's tongue deep.

"Oh--oh, mmm, Sam--Sam--I--"

"Hush--mmm, you--an' do what you--said you would--"

A brief, gentle tussle. They fell side by side, tangled, mouths meeting, parting, then melding again, the whispers that passed both stilted and true. And their hands seemed to wish more than limb and back and curls to hold, and Frodo's slid between them to Sam's breast and Sam cried as if he had been burned.

"My skin would...would have yours," Frodo whispered, brushing the tears from Sam's cheek, "if yours would have mine, as imperfect as...as it is..."

Frodo found his hand guided to Sam's collar, and from there, it was no difficult thing to find the first button, and the second, and the third, until Sam's skin lay bare in a strong, sun-kissed line, and Frodo kissed at the red in Sam's cheeks as if to quell a fever.

"There's naught wrong with you...Frodo, there never..."

"We'll find out, won't we?" Frodo whispered, and kissed what he had bared, and did not stop until Sam lay back with eyes closed tight and jaw slack on another cry and he wore no more than Frodo.

Frodo leaned over Sam, resting his weight on his arms, breath coming fast, uneven. He pressed his hand flat to Sam's chest again, as if to make certain that the slow spreading of his fingers, the finding of sensitive, rosy nubs with thumb and little finger had actually produced such a yell. And he leaned to quiet Sam with another kiss when it did, breathing oh and shh by turns and stroking at his stomach.

"M--Fr--Frodo," Sam panted, grasping Frodo's wrist suddenly, pressing Frodo's hand over his heart, "I never--never hoped for no--for this, but..."

Frodo drew back gently, settled beside Sam, if only to let him catch his breath for a moment. "I did. I did, and I could never have asked it of you. But if you would let me give--"

"No, Frodo," Sam whispered, touching an index finger to Frodo's lips, his own parted on breaths that were almost cries, "it's that..."

"I don't think we'll ever find what it is exactly, but I need it," Frodo whispered, letting Sam roll shyly onto him, finding that he couldn't keep his eyes open or his breath still or quiet. "Need you."

And all that Sam could whisper was yes, and Frodo did the same when Sam's hands found their way down his sides and up his belly, when Sam's mouth found the hollow of his throat and the broken line of his collarbone. Perhaps Sam found that silver tasted like nothing in comparison to skin and the way that Frodo pressed up into him when he held Frodo's waist tight, learning shape and the softness of his skin, and perhaps it was because he ached too much to last a moment longer that he let Frodo kiss him clumsily and unbutton their breeches even more clumsily, and then they were tangled again.

"Oh, sir, just--"

"Don't call--oh! don't call me--"

"--you're...Frodo...you're..."

Sam lay sprawled half atop him, staring, touching with reverence, and Frodo bit his lip against it, gave a startled wail and shook with pleasure, and Sam leaned over and gathered him close and tried to hush Frodo's gasps of I'm sorry and Sam and too soon.

"No it weren't," Sam murmured, kissing Frodo's tears, rocking him till his breath returned. "No it werent, shhh..."

"Sam--" Frodo was still panting, but his hands were pushing Sam's breeches down and Sam found it difficult to ask what, but by then, it didn't matter. Sam kicked the garment away and pressed down, and Frodo's voice in his ear and arms around him, fingers gentle down his back and backside and finally his thighs--too sweet, too much. Sam kissed Frodo hard and rocked for a bit under Frodo's hands, against his bared hips, and suddenly there wasn't anything more than sobbing and the stillness whence they had come.

Sam shifted after a while, lifting his head; the air of the room must have seemed much too vast in comparison to Frodo's calmed breath, by the startled look his eyes. When he realized Frodo was looking up at him, half-lidded and drowsy, he ducked his head again quickly, safe in the pillow, in Frodo's dark curls.

"Good night to you, too, Sam," Frodo whispered, hands working a careful path up from Sam's backside to his shoulders, taking broad, gentle strokes as if to reassure.

Sam mumbled into the pillow, turning his face closer into the curve of Frodo's neck, even so. Frodo must have understood him.

"Yes, I would," Frodo said softly, and Sam shifted away, watching as Frodo shifted with a grunt, only to fall back, breath still uneven.

"Oh, I didn't think--"

"Don't think, just help me out of them, please," Frodo laughed softly, hand drifting reflexively to his shoulder.

Sam took care of Frodo's breeches, then set a hand over the bandage. His eyes, grave on Frodo's, spoke what he certainly could not, lest he earn another rebuke, but Frodo gave it all the same.

"You heal me, Samwise. I shall have you believe nothing more than that, as long as it takes to convince--"

"I'm convinced of somethin' else, s--omethin' that...I hope..."

Frodo reached up and framed Sam's face, a moment of perfect remembrance there in his hands.

You hope well and true, my beloved.

Elrond turned from his vigil, hidden safe within shadows of vine and pillar. In a place that knew no sleep, he had seen it, and closed his eyes to the trill of a nightingale's song.