Sleepless in Moria

by KayRey

The Mines were a fell omen where they had hoped to find luck. Moria's dark was impenetrable save for the glow of Gandalf's staff, and Frodo Baggins kept his eyes fixed on that. Slowly the Fellowship climbed the wide stairway — hundreds of steps, broad and deep and filmed with dust that clouded about their feet, fouling lungs and eyes. Clouding spirits, too. Frodo tried very hard not to notice those who had been left behind, reminders of battles waged and lost, broken bodies garbed in broken armor. But Moria fogged against them, lending a sense of movement where there should be none.

Those fallen were more to be pitied than feared, Frodo rebuked himself. Anyway, he should be used to fear by now. Yet in the pale ray of the wizard's staff, he caught glimpses of more stairs, soaring arches, and other passages. Sloping up or running steeply down, each new path opened to nothing except unrelenting dark and the dread of what lay hidden there, biding its time.

But so far, all remained quiet. The Fellowship seldom spoke, and then only in hushed whispers. There was no other sound except for their own feet, the dull stump of Gimili's boots walking close to Gandalf, the light footfall of Legolas, and the heavy tread of Boromir beside the long, firm stride of Aragorn guarding the rear. The soft patter of hobbit-feet was all but swallowed in the gloom. But that was well with Frodo; more quiet meant least noticed. He hoped. Still, he remained aware of his Samwise, following close behind, and took comfort from that dear presence. There was hope to be had from that. They were still alive, he and Sam, although both chilled through - not just from damp clothes. The terror of the Watcher in the pool would be hard forgetting, if forgetting were actually possible.

No one spoke of Balin, Gimli's cousin and master of Moria's realm; all feared the worst. Frodo thought of Bilbo and his uncle's long friendship with the dwarf, of Balin's visit to the Shire. It seemed a thousand years ago and on the other side of the world. The memory settled like a stone in his heart, almost as heavy as the Ring against his breast. Frodo shivered, but it was more than the draft that lapped against his skin.

When at last they reached a wide platform of a landing, Gandalf paused at the head of the stairs. He held his staff high as the Fellowship gathered around him. The wizard then consulted with Gimli, debating which of two equally ominous tunnels to venture into. Frodo stifled a sigh and shifted the weight of the pack across his shoulders.

Pippin gave a little groan and dropped down to take a seat on rough stone while the two continued their deliberations. "If they're just going to talk, I'm going to have a rest," he declared.

"Don't get too comfortable, Pip." Merry warned.

Pippin settled back against Merry's leg, peering up from sea-green eyes. "What comfort, cuz? If you find some here, be sure to point it out."

"I will that." Merry laughed quietly, reaching down to smooth honey brown curls.

Pippin rubbed muscle-sore calves and ankles. "Who built these stairs anyway? It must have been the very tall dwarves."

"Could have been elves," Merry said. "Maybe that's why the falling out."

"Do you think Gimli would know?"

"Perhaps. But I'd wait until we're out of Moria to ask him. He's in a foul enough mood as is."

"Oi," Pippin sighed. "Aye."

Frodo smiled and let his glance slide to Sam. His cousins' affection warmed his heart better than the miruvor of Rivendell.

Sam returned his smile. "Would you like to have a sit yourself, Mr. Frodo? You look like you could do with one."

The hobbit shook his head. "We could all use a good rest, Sam. But it's not the best idea, not for me. I don't think I could get up again — not as easy as Pippin."

"What makes you think it's so easy?" Pippin demanded, wearily.

"Easy or hard, young Peregrin, we'll be moving on now," Gandalf announced, gesturing towards the right hand tunnel. "It's that way I think."

The hobbits exchanged a look. "He thinks?" Merry said.

"Don't worry, Merry. I'll trust a Gandalf 'think' as much as I'd trust the stars if we could see them," Aragorn said. "Do not be afraid. He will not lead us astray."

"Thank you for that endorsement. I'll do what I can to live up to it, especially since I'd like to move beyond this place myself. And now, if you please, Peregrin…." Gandalf turned and strode towards the left.

"Weren't you just pointing the other way?" Merry asked, frowning.

"Quite right." Gandalf corrected his direction. "Just checking your powers of observation, Meriadoc."

The Brandybuck cousin cocked an eyebrow. "Right…"

Boromir laughed, leaning down to take Pippin's hands in his, pulling him up. "On your feet, little one," he said. "You don't want to be left behind."

"What I want is dinner — with hot meat pies and lots of crispy potatoes and Bilbo's trifle and all the ale I can drink," the youngest hobbit groaned. "And a hot bath and a big soft, clean bed, and no waking up till I'm ready to wake up."

"And two breakfasts," Aragorn added with a knowing smile.

"No. Three," Pippin corrected. "Or maybe four." He paused, savoring the fantasy until Merry called, "Come on, Pippin," and he had to scurry to catch up. Boromir's sympathetic back-pat helped him on his way.

"I'd just like to be out of these mines," Sam muttered grimly as they resumed their march.

"I'd drink to that," Frodo agreed quietly. "If we had drink to spare."

"Or wine worth the drinking," Gandalf returned, over his shoulder.

The Fellowship moved on, anxious to finish the journey as quickly as possible. They walked for several more hours and tried not to think about four days of Moria dark. The way became more perilous, pocked with cracks and riddled with loose stones, easy to stumble over when moving in haste. Black wells opened at random on either side of the path. Fissures and chasms lined the walls and floors.

Frodo's spirits had risen for a while during their stop, but a sense of unease returned and grew over him. He had changed since his stay in Rivendell. Whether it was the Morgul blade or the elvish healing, he couldn't say, but his senses were sharper. He could see more in the dark then any of his companions save Gandalf and Legolas. And he was more aware of the Ring. Isildur's Bane would not be ignored.

The pain he'd felt when Gimli struck the Ring with his ax at Elrond's council returned to gnaw his mind. The blow that gave no harm to the Ring hit him as if it would cleave him in two. What would happen, Frodo wondered, when he cast the Ring into the fires of Mount Doom? How could he survive that agony? Worse - as Gandalf said, the Ring had a will of its own and an intelligence that grew with each passing day. The Presence that lived within became more aware with every step he took towards Mordor and its destruction. He wondered if Sauron's red, blazing eye still watched him in the depths of Moria's Mines. Whether or no, the Ring itself called out to its allies and servants, seeking their aid and bringing danger and pain, not just to himself, but to those he held most dear.

And yet what choice did he have but to continue? "It's one thing to risk myself," Frodo thought miserably. "There will be no return for me. But to risk the others … to risk Sam…."

Samwise Gamgee was always first to put himself in danger for his much loved master, confronting Aragorn at the inn at Bree and Nazgul at Weathertop. He was the first to Frodo's side when that tentacled monstrosity tried to drag him into the pool, hacking away at the beast — freeing him while the rest of the Company stood rooted in shock and terror. Only when the beast had beaten Sam aside had Aragorn and Boromir rushed to his aid.

The quest would then have finished quickly and badly save for their help, this Frodo understood. He also understood how horror had frozen them all at first and, if anything, he loved them the more for it. It made them more hobbit-like.

Too bright blue eyes flickered shut. But if if harm came to Sam - and on his account - he would not be able to live with that.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam closed the small distance between them, falling into step beside his master. "Frodo, are you all right?"

"It's nothing, Sam," Frodo whispered. He scrubbed at his face with the back of his hands and offered a smile. "All this dust — it hurts my eyes."

The set of his mouth gave Frodo the words Sam kept to himself. Sam didn't believe him.

"And my leg hurts a little," he added quickly. It wasn't a complete lie.

Sam accepted that. "We should find a place to camp," he said in a tone that suggested "Right now."

"Oh, please," Merry agreed. "If we can't find a nice inn, I'm willing to take any clear patch of ground."

"Have patience, Meriadoc," Gandalf said. "We'll stop soon."

"Then we should do it," Sam said firmly. "If this trip's supposed to take four days, then there's no use trying to walk it all in one, if you take my meaning."

"Just a little farther," Gandalf soothed. "We'll camp at the first likely site. I'd like to get us off this path."

They trudged along with renewed purpose. Rest was an attainable goal and all were ready to share it. Dinner, too, such as it was. Too much had been left behind in the mad scramble to escape the Watcher.

The trail, however, was not amenable to their plans. They picked their way through more debris, evidence of a fierce battle, long past. The ground and walls were pit-marked and badly cracked. They were stained, too, as if the memories of carnage had refused to fade. All conversation stopped until they reached a break in the path that gaped more than seven feet across. Endless midnight glared up at them while the noise of churning water bubbled far below.

One by one, they crossed over well enough, rallying their strength, until it came time for Pippin's turn. The youngest hobbit hesitated, rooted several feet away from the edge, arms folded tightly across his chest.

"Pip?" Merry's call came wearily from the other side. "Let's go."

But Pippin answered quietly. "No."

"There's no time for games now. Come on!"

"No." The voice sounded even smaller than before, yet more determined.

"What is it?" Aragorn called.

"I can't do it," Pippin said.

"Of course you can do it," Merry said. "It's no wider than Tuckborough Creek back home and you've jumped that plenty of times just for the lark of it."

"No. Can't." Pippin shook his head and backed farther away from the edge.

"Pippin - you can." Merry's fatigue gave way to a mixture of exasperation, fear and confusion.

"What's the matter, Peregrin?" Gandalf asked.

"What's that sound?" Pippin asked back.

"Water," Gandalf said. "I suspect it's an underground river. But it's too far and too dark for me to see properly. I don't want to try my staff's light down there. Hard to say who or what could be watching."

"Exactly. What if that Thing's down there?" Pippin's whisper barely reached the other side.

"Well, what if it is?" Gandalf asked, not unkindly. "Are you going to stay over there forever? It's not as if you can simply back up and go home."

Pippin had no answer for that. He suddenly found himself trying too hard not to cry.

"Pip — it's going to be all right," Merry coaxed as cheerfully as he could. "Don't worry. If something tries to grab you, Boromir and I will kill it. Just please … come on over."

"I'll go for him," Boromir said. "I can bring him across."

"No need," Gandalf said. "Pippin can do this himself."

"Who has rope? We could throw it across. Master Pippin can tie one end to himself and we'll keep him secure while he jumps. That should help the young one."

"We don't have any rope, Gimli," Legolas said.

"Rope," Sam muttered. "I knew I'd want it, if I hadn't got it."

"Sam…." Frodo squeezed the gardener's shoulder.

"I'll get him," Merry insisted. He glared at Gandalf, jaw set, defiant. He stepped back, preparing to run for the edge and jump.

But Gandalf took his arm, staying him. "Just one moment, Meriadoc. He's just getting ready."

"Ready for what?" Merry demanded.

"For whatever comes along," the wizard said gently.

"But he's scared!" There was outrage in Merry's voice.

"We're all scared. That's a normal condition under these circumstances. But it doesn't change anything." Gandalf smiled softly. "Frodo knows that. So do you, Meriadoc."

Frodo took in a deep breath, striding towards the chasm's edge. "Come on over now, Pip," he said. "We need you. Merry needs you."

A sniff and a swallow floated back to them. That was it then. There was nothing for it but to try, pit-dwelling monsters or no. Pippin very deliberately turned his back. He took twelve hobbit-sized steps away from the edge and a very deep breath as he turned to face his companions again. "All right, I'm coming," he called out. "Catch me."

Pippin sprinted for the edge and gave a leap, spanning the chasm, eyes and fists clenched shut tight. He landed several feet beyond on the opposite side, skidding into the clearance the Company made for him. Merry caught him up in his arms as soon as he touched ground and held him hard. Both were shaking.

"Well there's no need of rope here." Gimli's voice boomed out against the stone hall. "Not with hobbits who fly like birds!"

"Why didn't you tell us you had wings under that cloak?" Boromir demanded, laughing. He reached out to encircle both Pippin and Merry. "Holding out on us, were you?"

Pippin looked up from Merry's shoulder. His skin was very pale and he swallowed audibly. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to make trouble."

Merry grabbed a fistful of curls and shook his cousin gently. "That's no excuse," he said fondly. "Everyone knows the word for 'trouble' in hobbit is 'Pippin.'"

"When they're not saying 'Merry,'" Pippin shot back and wiped at his nose with his sleeve.

"If we could move on now," Gandalf said, "I'd like to make camp some time tonight. Though it's impossible to tell night from day in this black hall. But just a little way further, I think. We should find a good spot…."

"I'll be content with good enough," Sam said, wearily, falling back into step beside Frodo. The two trailed close behind Pippin, now sandwiched, content, between Merry and Boromir.

"I'll rest better with some distance between us and that water," Frodo said. "I don't like it either."

"Well, that makes two of us, Mr. Frodo. Three counting Master Pippin."

"Make that four, Sam," Legolas said. "Meaning no disrespect to your people and their accomplishments, Gimli, but I'll not be sorry to leave this place."

The dwarf sighed sadly. "Nor I," he confessed. "This was not the homecoming I imagined."

Silently, the elf placed his hand at the back of Gimli's neck, willing comfort. The dwarf gave a small grunt of acceptance and fell back into silence beside his tall companion.

The Company moved on, pushing each step now, until they reached a large, wooden door. It was half closed but swung open easily enough onto a spacious hall cut into the stone. Gandalf entered cautiously while the others trudged behind. He held his staff aloft to discover two more passages leading off from the main shelter.

"We could secure this easily enough," Aragorn said.

"We should be safe here," Gandalf agreed. "I'm spent, regardless. Let us all rest if we can."

"Try and stop us," Sam groaned. He guided Frodo to a sheltered corner, the flat of his hand planted squarely on his master's back. "I'm worn to the knees."

Too tired to reply, Frodo sank to the ground where Sam led him, falling back against the wall. In half-doze, he remained aware of the Fellowship settling in nearby, of Sam removing his pack, and all the other familiar sounds of making camp. "I should help," he thought and made an effort to open his eyes and move.

"Just you be still." Sam laid his hand against Frodo's cheek, a welcome warmth in Moria's chill. "I'll get Strider to have a look at that ankle."

"I can help," Frodo murmured and made another effort to rouse himself. Yet the calm of Sam's touch smoothing sweat-damp curls away from his face proved irresistible. "I'm all right…."

"Of course you are, Mr. Frodo," Sam soothed. "Rest those eyes, me dear. Let your Sam watch over you for a while. You've done your share today…."

There was no stopping it. Frodo felt himself drifting into a kind of half-sleep where he still remained aware of activities taking place around him. There was Gandalf's voice and the light that was always near the wizard, staff or no. He felt the firm hand of Aragorn on his leg. Like Sam's, he would know that kindly touch in any darkness.

Frodo's eyes flickered open briefly to find himself - surprise - lying down, his head in Sam's lap. Aragorn was still nearby, his healer's bag open on the ground beside them. The Ranger cradled Frodo's heel in one hand and rubbed a salve into his ankle with the other. It was a much more pleasant sensation than when the Watcher had grabbed him and whipped him up from the ground, dangling him over head. In an instant, that blackened maw opened before him again and Frodo shuddered. There'd been time enough to wonder back then, despite the terror, "Will he eat me or tear me into pieces?"

He must have made some sound, because the next thing he knew, Aragorn had stopped tending his ankle and was looking at him directly. "Did I hurt you?"

"No…" Frodo shook his head listlessly. He wet his lips and swallowed. "You have a healing touch, Aragorn. I was just remembering a little."

"There's no need to be doing that," Sam murmured. "Forget now and rest."

"This wound would go worse with almost any other man. There's few who could've walked on today the way you have," Aragorn said. "You're quick to heal, Frodo. Is this the way of it with all hobbits?"

"Most hobbits don't never have much chance of finding that out," Sam said gruffly. "Lucky for them."

"Yes. Indeed," Aragorn agreed. "Keep his foot elevated through the night. Try to get him to eat something. He should be well enough to move on tomorrow."

"Well enough…?" Frodo wondered at that. Of course he was well enough. But before he could protest, his eyes flickered shut again and he began to dream….

…Of food. Dinner. He smelled apples and onions and the sharp scent of raw turnips. Was it only a year ago he stood in the kitchen at Bag End, feeling the heat of the stove against his body? There was enough January chill to enjoy the warming oven as he peeled and sliced tart green apples, some carrots and onions into an iron pot. He diced the turnips into smaller bits and added those. Frodo ladled in a lump of butter and added a good inch of cider to cover before placing the lid on the pot.

Just behind him, Sam finished rolling out a short-crust on the kitchen table. Frodo picked up an extra chunk of apple and held it up, eyes questioning. Sam obliged, opening his mouth for Frodo to deposit the treat. The gardener could light and warm the room with the power of his smile alone. Pleased, Frodo sank down at the table to watch Sam work. He chose another apple from the basket and cut it into sections. He placed a wedge between his lips and sucked on it, savoring tart white flesh.

"You're not helping," Sam said with a bit of an edge to his voice.

Frodo smiled, well aware of his tease. "Have some more?"

"I'll have you and sooner than we both thought. Keep that up and there'll be no dinner tonight."

"That would be a mistake, Sam. Especially since I'm thinking you'll need your strength later."

Sam blushed. Frodo laughed, delighted that even after all this time, Sam could color at the thought of them together. Yet, he considered, the things they'd done in each other's intimate company was enough to make a bird blush. Being with Sam … it was all he'd ever hoped love could be, tender and randy, passionate and playful. Comfortable. Frodo felt his own skin grow warm and leaned up to pop another slice of fruit into the gardener's mouth. Later, when he stole a kiss in the garden, Sam's tongue was like a slice of warm apple in his mouth.

Sam continued with his preparations. He placed a nice piece of pork on the crust he'd made. Then sprinkled in some thyme, a pinch of marjoram, some dill and fresh ginger. He finished with a dusting of ground black pepper, then layered thick slices of mushrooms over the surface and carefully sealed the dough. He placed it in a shallow roasting pan and brushed the top with egg white to glaze. Then he placed it in the oven.

"I'll make a sauce for that later," Sam said, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel.

Frodo nodded. "Will you make popovers, too?"

"If you like."

"Oo." Frodo smiled under raised eyebrows. "I like. Please."

With a coat, it was just warm enough to go outside and watch the sun set over the hill. Sam's skill meant there was always something green in the garden, no matter the time of year. Frodo topped off their wine glasses as they made their way outside. Sam snagged a plate of bread and cheese. Frodo had opened a jar of Mrs. Bracegirdle's pepper-pear chutney and they'd had some of that, too, sitting side-by-side in the glider, plate balanced on their thighs. The chutney's sweet-hot sting was bracing against the chill of dusk.

After dinner, they sat in the parlor by the fire. The talk was light although Sam grew serious speculating about the spring planting. Would the coming summer be as dry as the past year's? Frodo read some of the work he'd translated during the day and they debated word choice with the passion only poets and hobbits held for such things. They grew quieter as they cleaned up the kitchen and, by the time they reached the bath, there was hardly any need, or use, for words at all.

The bath room was warm and humid with steam, the air fragrant with woodsmoke and the herbs Frodo had tossed in the fire. Elbereth bless him, Bilbo had loved the luxury of his bath and spared no expense in achieving a level of comfort that would please even the most particular hobbit.

Frodo removed his weskit, slipped his braces over his shoulders and took off his trousers. He folded his clothes neatly, laying them on a chest that wasn't intended for that purpose, but had become convenient to use over the years. He was unbuttoning his shirt when he looked up to see his Sam watching him.

His Sam. Frodo loved the way that thought came into his mind and caught there, like the brush of sun-warmed fur on a cold day.

Sam stood with his back to the fire, shirt undone, trousers open. The gold of flame danced over him from the crown of corn-ripe curls to the curve and arch of his feet. It waltzed across his chest, shimmering on fur-defined muscles as he breathed, deeply, in and out, the sound of it a low rasp in the closed room. They were in the center of Winter, yet Sam's skin still held the nut-brown glory of Summer. He was so handsome, his Sam. Strong and stout, capable and wiser than any would ever give him credit for. Firelight created shadows to highlight the curve of his cheek and the line of his jaw; it flashed in dark eyes that, right now, looked to Frodo as if they might just hold the heart of all Middle Earth.

It was so easy for others to misjudge Samwise Gamgee, to think of him as only a simple gardener. Laughter caught in Frodo's throat. They didn't know Sam at all. No one knew him like he did, a blessing for which Frodo gave thanks each day he woke and each night that carried him to sleep in Sam's arms.

"What?" Sam asked, curious at the long silence

"You." Frodo took in a deep, long breath. "You are so beautiful."

"Oh no." Sam blushed, dropping his gaze. He shook his head. "Not me, Mr. Frodo. You're the beauty here and there's no mistaking that."

"Don't you argue with me, Samwise Gamgee. Who's master here anyway?"

"By last reckoning, that might be you."

"Might be?"

Dark, green-flecked eyes lifted to blue, sparking with humor and more across the short space. "A true master would know how to take what he wants."

"Even when the master is taken first?" Frodo slipped his shirt over his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

And then there was no more space between them. Frodo's arms closed around Sam and Sam's around him. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch of skin and cotton and wool and heat — not from the fire or bath. He felt the rough caress of Sam's loins pressed to his, hard and ready.

They held to each other for a long while and kissed with their eyes closed, hands carefully exploring. There was no need to rush; the whole long night lay ahead, full of promise. Frodo opened his eyes to discover that Sam had opened his, too, and they were looking at each other from no less than a half-inch away. They regarded each other, smiling, enjoying the promise of shared pleasures. Then Frodo darted his tongue into Sam's mouth and giggled, a rich, bubbling, half-smothered laugh that Sam took into himself and returned. For a time, they stood pressed together like that, kissing and giggling with eyes wide open.

Then they closed their eyes and the giggling stopped.

Dreams fading, Frodo stirred restlessly in his sleep, awakening to the touch of Sam's hand on his brow.

And Moria. He couldn't stop the quick intake of breath at the shock.

"Shh…" Sam whispered. "I'm here. I've got you. It's all right." He waited as some of the tension eased out of Frodo's body. When his master looked up at him again, he smiled and said, "Pleasant dreams, Mr. Frodo?"

"Very pleasant." He returned the smile. "Until I woke up and found we were still here."

"I'll wager I can guess what you were dreaming of."

"I won't take that bet, Sam. You'll win my money too easy."

"Begging your pardon, but it's not your money I'm wanting."

"What else is there?" Frodo caught Sam's hand and pressed his fingers to his lips. "You already have my heart."

Sam reddened happily. "Here. Sit up now. I've got dinner for you."

Frodo struggled into a sitting position, leaning against the stone. Sam had placed them in a secluded and secure nook, several feet away from the rest of the Fellowship. All were sleeping now save Legolas, who never took rest like the others. The elf sat a bit apart himself, locked into inward contemplation. Aragorn kept the watch, alert and on guard. He caught Frodo's eye for a moment from the far side of the camp, smiled, and returned to his vigil. Merry and Pippin were curled tight together in a knot of cloaks and curls, too exhausted to move. Still, they looked at peace with their dreaming.

Reassured, Frodo settled back into their small shelter. He accepted the dried meat and hardbread Sam gave him. The meat looked like dried leather and the bread…. Well, the bread was hard.

"It'll wash down better with water. And this." Sam took a small and somewhat battered apple from his pocket and held it out.

Frodo's hand closed over the apple and Sam. "I'm so sorry about Bill," he said.

"Should've guessed you'd know right off who I'd been saving that for. Meant to give it to him before, but things happened so quick like, there weren't any time for it." He faltered, then turned away. "Poor old Bill. Wolves and snakes … I hope he's all right out there. It wasn't right to treat him so, after him being so good and all."

"Bill's a smart pony, Sam, and very brave. He has as good a chance of making his way back to Rivendell as any of us. Maybe better." Frodo took a bite of the small apple. "Here's to Bill. We don't have wine, but we'll share this and wish him the best on his journey, no matter where he travels."

Sam darted a little look at Frodo. He took the apple and then took a bite, very serious. "To Bill. Shire Heart speed his way."

"And Elbereth — keep him safe from all harm."

"Aye. Let him be waiting for us, fat and sassy, when we return."

They finished the apple between them soon enough. Frodo then took a bite of dried meat and drier bread, which was nowhere near as tasty. He followed with a drink from the waterskin, which was stale and harsh. Still, it washed the food down his throat all the same.

Frodo sighed. "After a bath, what I look forward to most is your cooking, once we get out of this dark hole. But what about you? Did you get dinner?"

"Aye. Pippin brought it over a bit ago, enough for us both. I had mine while you were sleeping. We didn't want to disturb your rest, you were that done in."

Frodo finished his meal and tried not to think about popovers. Or porkloin wrapped in crust. Or the wildberry pie, still oven warm and drenched in cream they'd had after for dessert. "How's Pippin holding up?"

"Well enough, all thing's considered," Sam told him. "Feeling a mite shamed he was so scared today and trying hard to make up for it. Mr. Merry's looking after him, though."

Anger flashed in blue eyes. "Pippin's got nothing to be ashamed of."

"I know that and so does the rest of the Company. But he's young. He feels it more."

"This is hardest on him. Elrond was right. Pip should never have come."

"Like any of us could've stopped him?" Sam shook his head. "Mr. Pip and Mr. Merry wouldn't have let you run off to Mordor by your lonesome no more than I would."

"But I'm not alone, Sam. There's Gandalf and Aragorn —"

"Aw, there's no need of naming name's to me," Sam returned with more heat than Frodo expected. "I know right well who's here."

"You sound angry."

"Is it that I should be glad?"

"What's the matter?"

"You know I don't like to speak ill of one's betters, especially good men like Mr. Gandalf or Strider." Sam folded his arms across his chest. "I wasn't brought up to it and the Gaffer would warm my backside for thinking it even, old as I am, like as not, if he ever found out."

"Well, whether you speak it or not, you're certainly thinking it. And loudly, too," Frodo chided gently. "Your secrets are my secrets, Sam. I won't give them up. Tell me."

"It's just that not a one of them others knows the true way of hobbits, no matter what Mr. Gandalf says. Us taking two steps to every one of theirs. And three steps for every one of Strider's, whether you be hurt or not, and not stopping for proper food or rest." Sam's hands curled into fists in his lap. "We're the halflings — the little people. Little enough to fly like birds when there's trouble and eat half as much as the big ones. Don't any of them know what all a bird's got to eat just to keep up with the day and not be made a meal out of his own self?"

"They walk the same road we do and bear the same hardships," Frodo soothed. "I've seen them at dinner, we both have. And I don't think they like stale water and old leather any more than we do. This is no holiday we're on. The others are in as much danger as we are."

"No! No, that they are not. Don't you talk at me like I was a child, Frodo Baggins."

"Sam, I would never —"

"Every evil thing in the land's been chasing you — and just you — since we left the Shire, meaning to do you harm. And any fool can see there's more to come. More to come and trying to hurt you. Trying to take you from me. Don't tell me it's the same for them as it is for you. Or for me." Sam clamped his jaws shut. Unwilling to say more, his lips went tight.

Gently, Frodo reached up and placed his hands on Sam's mouth. He pressed his fingers to the gardener's lips. Sam was shaking hard, the way a child does after he's cried himself out. His eyes had gone Moria grey; they met Frodo's sheer blue, dark-lit with fury and glistening with unshed grief.

"Please," Frodo murmured and cupped Sam's face between his hands. "Please.…"

Sam took in as much air as he could; then let it out slowly. Frodo's hands slid down from his face to his shoulders and arms, coming to rest on Sam's forearms. For a long while, they only gazed at each other.

"I know it's not the same," Frodo whispered at last. "Not for you. Not for me. You're always with me, Sam. With me — not the Ringbearer. You put yourself in harm's way for me. Every time. And every time I fear - and I fear for you."

"Me dear —"

Frodo shook his head, silencing him. "But this is something only I can do, not Gandalf, not Aragorn or any of the others."

"And why not?" Sam demanded harshly. "That's what I want to know. They're the wizard and king and warriors all. We're the 'little ones.'"

"You're right. But they mean no scorn with that and we should take none by it," Frodo said firmly. "You heard Gandalf back at Bag End. He can't even touch the Ring without fear of corruption. He's afraid of the harm he would do, just trying to do good. And now I know he's right to fear." He shivered, swallowed and went on, determined. "The Ring is different now than when Bilbo had it. Sauron is even more awake. He's been working his black magics all these long years and now he's ready. I've felt him, Sam. Every step we take, closer and closer to Mordor, I feel him. I … I've seen him. A blazing eye, like a cat's but evil and cruel … cruel beyond words. Rimmed with red flame. Bright as blood. It never sleeps. He knows me now, too, and he's watching. And waiting. And I feel … little."

"No!"

"And that's a good thing." Frodo tried to finish quickly. "If the Ring should take me, I can do but little harm. But if it were Gandalf, if it were Aragorn —"

"No one's taking you nowhere," Sam declared, furious. "Anyone who tries will have to go through me. I won't fight with you on this. I'm bigger, I'm stronger and I insist."

"Sam —"

"No. You belong to me and me to you. 'First and Forever,' that's what you said, all them years ago. Well, I took that vow to my heart, just like you, Mr. Frodo Baggins. I have every right to protect you and I will."

"As I have every right to protect you." Blue eyes flashed, equally determined. "But to be who I am … to be the one you love and what we are together, I must deal with this. I must use my judgement and what skill I have and I mustn't let fear for you or for me change anything. We risk so much, Sam, so much…. If I should fail…."

Sam looked at the hands gripping his forearms. Those hands were so different from his own, slender and white beneath the grime, and smooth, the hands of a gentle-hobbit and a scholar. The nails had always been quick bitten, the sign of a high strung spirit who felt and knew more than others and not all of that knowing happy. Sam slowly unclenched his fists. He flexed his fingers and then gripped Frodo's arms in return.

"You won't fail," he said finally. "It's not in you to give up or go wrong, Mr. Frodo. March on, we will, till the deed is done and over." He took in another shaky breath. "But it doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Nor I."

Sam looked into those grand eyes and they held him. Frodo smiled slowly, then leaned forward and kissed him, a chaste and gentle touch of lips. Sam put his arms around him and pulled him forward, deepening the kiss into something more, fierce with promise. Frodo responded in kind, opening to him, and turning across Sam's lap so the gardener could take him in his arms and he could put his arms around Sam's neck and hold on. Tight.

The next kiss lasted longer than the first and carried some body language with it. Sam ran his hand up under Frodo's weskit along the depression of his spine, feeling the smooth, slim muscles that ran parallel. Frodo groaned and arched his body against Sam's, eyes flickering shut. Shifting, Sam brought them to lie against each other on the ground, sliding his hand back down along Frodo's spine and under the waistband of his trousers. Frodo pushed up into Sam's palm as strong fingers found the front of his pants and worked at the opening. He unbuttoned Sam's shirt, fumbling with impatience. Once open, he ran his hands up along the curves of Sam's chest, greedy for the feel of him. Frodo slid his hands around Sam's back as the gardener delved into opened trousers, finding him, freeing him. Frodo shuddered under his touch, rearing up. He buried the sound of it in Sam's shoulder, sharp little teeth catching onto skin and muscle. Sam shuddered, too, eyes going shut. His fist locked in a riot of sable curls at the back of Frodo's skull, pushing his head closer — then up to claim his mouth in a bruising kiss.

Minutes stretched between them. They stared at each other, breathing hard. Frodo couldn't stop shaking; his skin felt tight with heat and blood and need. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it.

Sam caught Frodo's chin in hand, lifting him to meet his eyes. "What do you want?" he whispered.

"You. Everything."

Sam smiled at that. He leaned in and kissed Frodo's forehead, gently, the way one might kiss a child. Gradually, Frodo's breathing gentled; he laid back on the rough stone and let his hands drop into little, half curled fists on either side of his head and waited.

Not long.

They were quiet. Hobbits knew how to keep silence. That, Frodo thought, was the strangest thing about this joining. In the Shire, at home, in the field or by the stream, he was used to the sound of their love, the wordless music of mingled breath and voice and flesh sliding against flesh. He liked that sound.

It wasn't the dark that struck him now, or the dank stone of Moria's tomb. It was the need for quiet that was odd, he thought, even in the wildest moment when he gazed up at Sam, arms locked, body rigid and head thrown back with the power of climax. Sam drove into him with all the strength of his back and hips and Frodo arched into it, locking legs and arms and fists around his love, taking his own release. He buried his face in Sam's sweat-slick shoulder, seeking refuge in the flesh beneath the curl of his open shirt. The moment held them both, drawing out the pleasure. The scent of them together flooded his senses like a drug. He knew that, while they would clean the best they could after, without a proper bath, they would carry the reminder of this coupling throughout the long trail of Moria's dark.

Settling beside him, Sam regarded Frodo curiously and whispered, "What are you smiling about?"

"You have to ask?" Frodo smothered a giggle with the palm of his hand. Then turned his face against Sam's shoulder and buried the laugh as the gardener, predictably, blushed deep pink.

"You silly git," Sam scolded gruffly and tightened his arms around him.

Frodo raised his head and Sam caught his breath. When Frodo Baggins smiled, his whole self went right into it. His face flushed with pleasure - just for him; the tone of his body changed, even the color seemed brighter. Like light, somehow, spilling out from deep inside, as if he might take him into his heart and keep him there, safe and dear, in a bright, bright land.

"My Sam … I love you more than it is possible to say."

"I know," Sam murmured. He cupped Frodo's face in his hand. "I feel the same about you."

For a moment, silence returned. The connection between them shimmered and strengthened. It didn't take long for them to put themselves to rights and drop into sleep, each curled, as safe as was possible, in the arms of the other. And when the dreaming started again, Frodo welcomed it. At first….

Again, they were in the kitchen at Bag End, he and Sam, but it was much too warm. The oven was hot, hotter than was comfortable or even good for cooking. Hotter than was safe.

Frodo stood at the sink, washing his hands. He scrubbed at palms and fingers with brush and with soap, but the dirt just wouldn't come off. And his nails — they were bitten so close they bled. Tiny tears of blood welled from his fingers. He hadn't done that since he'd first moved to Bag End, decades ago.

He heard the sound of the knife against the cutting board and turned to find Sam at the kitchen table. "Why can't I get my hands clean?" That's what he'd planned to say, but that thought fell away as he took in Sam's condition. Corn-yellow hair was matted and dirty; his skin was layered with grime and old sweat, much like Frodo's own. The wear of hard travel had taken its toll on both. Their clothes were in rags — and Sam was thin. He looked near to starving.

But Sam kept cutting slice after slice of bread, never pausing to eat. The loaf was old and hard. Flecked with mold, it wasn't fit for sparrows.

"Sam…?" Frodo began cautiously. "What is happening?"

"Company's expected." The gardener's voice was a weary monotone. He cut off another slice of bread; it was so dry, it crumbled under the blade.

"We're not ready for company. Look at us," Frodo protested. "And the food. Surely we've better to offer than that?"

Sam's answer was cut off by the knock at the door. A single blow, it landed like the crash of iron, shaking the wood in its frame and thundering down the length of the hall.

Frodo wheeled about. "What was that?"

"Company's here, I expect." Sam paused in his labor. "Best answer the door."

"But who —"

The fist thundered down again. Staring down the hall, it seemed as if the green wood bowed beneath the force of it. Frodo's first step was to back away. "Who is that?" he demanded, although he was too shaken to sound forceful.

Sam handed him a clean dishtowel, moving to stand beside him. "Wipe your hands, Mr. Frodo," he said.

Frodo took the towel, drying his hands as Sam urged him towards the door. As they came closer, Frodo saw a deep, red light glowing around the threshold, spilling out in pools of scarlet on the floor and against the wall. Yet Sam walked on without comment, his square hand planted firmly on Frodo's back.

"Wait a minute," Frodo pleaded. "Wait, please. I'm frightened. Who is it? Who's there?"

"Well, you know, Mr. Frodo," Sam returned sadly. "He's been watching you. And waiting."

"No!"

Frodo dug in his heels and tried to stop, but Sam took his arm and pulled him along, gently resolute, until, finally, Frodo pulled away. He turned on Sam and thrust his arms out, shoving against him. Shaken with a terror made worse because all was so strange, so alien — so wrong. Sam stood like stone under his touch, cold to his hands. Frodo tried to drag him back down the hall, away from the door — away safe — but there was no moving him. Finally, Frodo collapsed against him in misery; he couldn't run away, much as he wanted to. He couldn't leave Sam.

Behind them, the knob turned at the door and the lock released with a gentle "snick" of noise. Frodo hooked his arm around Sam's neck. He shuddered with relief when he felt Sam's arms finally wrap around him, offering support when he was ready to drop to his knees in terror.

He opened his mouth, more questions scrambling for release, when he spied the towel he clutched against Sam's shoulder. The square of white fabric was nearly scarlet with blood; it had even soaked through into the weave of Sam's shirt.

And his hand hurt. It hurt badly.

Still silent, Sam reached up to smooth the back of his head, offering comfort despite the spell that locked him in place. Frodo frowned. This had to be magic, and something foul to put his Sam in such a state. What to do? His mind was a fevered jumble of questions and pain — no answers.

The hinge creaked as the door slowly opened but Frodo couldn't make himself turn to face it. Still, he saw the glow of red fire grow stronger, rising to cover Sam's face, the hall — all of Bag End. From the flickering light beyond the window, it looked as though Hobbiton was in flames. A low snarl of a voice sounded behind him. It spoke in a language he'd never known, yet understood all the same. It was a seductive sound, yet mocking, assuring him of agonies to come.

Frodo closed his eyes and pressed himself against Sam's body. He shielded him the best he could, understanding that, no matter how much he tried, it would be of little use. He couldn't protect Sam; he couldn't protect anyone. He was too small — too little. He could die trying, if they would let him, but the voice promised other things. Terrible things.

A large hand fastened onto his shoulder, another went to his face, closing over his mouth as Frodo opened his lips in anguished protest. The nightmare shattered around him and he opened his eyes to find Boromir looming over him.

"Hush, little one," the man of Gondor whispered. "It's just a bad dream. You're safe now."

All of Frodo's senses recoiled with protest. He did not feel safe. He could barely breathe. His fist locked onto Boromir's wrist to pry the man's hand from his mouth. The warrior released him and Frodo sat up, scurrying away. Not too far, the stone wall brought him up short. He backed against it, breathing hard.

"Calm yourself," Boromir urged, softly. "There's no need to wake the others. I wasn't long at my watch when I saw you were having trouble. I'm sorry if I startled you."

"It's all right," Frodo gasped, reaching for calm, but there was none to be had. The Ring hung like a stone around his neck; it burned as if it would brand and burrow it's way into his chest. He winced and grasped hold of it, clutching it hard in his fist, willing the weight away.

"I wasn't trying to take that." Boromir's voice had gone flat and sour.

"I didn't think you were. It's just heavy. It gets that way sometimes and it hurts," Frodo explained. "You were right to wake me, Boromir. Thank you. It was a terrible dream."

Boromir regarded him, frowning. Even squatting before him, warrior's arms crossed over his thighs, the man was as large as a small house. Or at least, Frodo considered, a very large hut.

After some pause, Boromir gave a nod, accepting the hobbit's words. The storm cleared from his eyes. "It's no wonder you have bad dreams," he said. "We nearly lost you today, little one."

"And the Ring."

"Aye. That, too." The frown returned. "As I said, we should have made for the Gap of Rohan."

"Perhaps we should have," Frodo conceded softly, unwilling to argue. He drew in a long breath hoping to steady his nerves. His heart was still racing, even as the memory of his nightmare faded.

Boromir smiled at that, reaching towards him. Frodo braced himself, preparing for another annoying tousle-of-curls. But the man touched his face instead. Blunt fingers caressed his cheek and came to rest beneath his chin, tilting his head back.

"You would be safe in Gondor, I would see to that. I could teach you more of the ways of men, of our ways of pleasure," Boromir told him. "That would put an end to your bad dreams for good."

The hand traveled down, lightly brushing the hobbit's throat. A calloused thumb lingered at the pulse — as if he had the right! Frodo's cheeks flamed under Boromir's gaze.

"You blush like a virgin, and yet I know the truth of that." Boromir laughed. "You'll never be a warrior, Frodo, that, too, is obvious. But you have other gifts and it would be a fine thing to teach you the use of them."

Seething, Frodo shrugged out from the warrior's hand. "Best look elsewhere, Man of Gondor. I am not a good student."

"No? But I'm a very good teacher," the warrior chuckled. "Ask your cousins."

Boromir rose to his feet, returning to his watch. He paused a moment longer, reached down and tousled brown curls. "Sleep well, little one. Dream other dreams. Sweet ones."

"Not of you!" Frodo bit the answer back. He watched Boromir make his way across the camp to take up the watch again. He suddenly longed, very much, to be a seasoned and capable warrior because the desire to pound that one into the stone was all but overwhelming. His clenched his teeth until they began to hurt.

Frodo forced himself to relax. Weren't there troubles enough without this matter coming along? He would not speak of it to Gandalf or any of the others, most certainly not to Sam. He would speak to Boromir at the first opportunity and make his choice clear, once he was in control of himself and his words. As a man of honor, the warrior would have to respect that.

He would speak with his cousins, too. At first light. He was oldest here and family; they would heed his words or he'd know why.

The hobbit sighed. There would be no more sleep for him tonight — if night it truly was. There was just too much risk in it. Gandalf might caution against that decision, advising that there was only so much value in worry. He could almost hear the wizard, "So you've had a bad dream. Does that mean you'll never sleep again?"

But there were bad dreams to be had both asleep and at waking. Frodo groaned softly. He raised his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, then let his head fall forward until his forehead balanced between the little valley between. He stretched, wishing that Sam were awake to rub his neck and shoulders. He had been utterly relaxed beside Sam's body until the night terror claimed him; actually, he had turned into a hobbit-sized pool of bliss, comfortable enough to forget all the earlier strains of monsters and marches and Moria.

He shifted restlessly. Despite all, he would not regret the decision to travel through the Mines, especially considering that the journey through Rohan might have engendered more dangers than Isengard and Saruman. There were no good choices to be had here, only "good enough," as Sam might say.

Thoughts of Sam made him smile and he raised his head to watch him sleep. There were times when Frodo wished he could be more like his strong and capable gardener. He'd said that aloud one evening at Bag End, much to Sam's amusement. In the end, Frodo had to agree.

It was one of the special ironies about love that success lay in shared interests. A common belief, and it was true enough that he and Sam had those. But that love of which the bards sang, that song told a story of differences, of strengths and shortfalls combining to make more than the sum of the individual selves.

In fact, the only thing to enjoy about this whole business was Sam. There was so much trouble in this quest, so much that was new and terrible and so much opportunity for them to get in each other's way, yet that never happened. It was just as it was back home, only more so. Each supported the other in the way he knew best. Frodo couldn't help but feel proud of that. This journey brought out the best in all. The worst, too, body-hunger and longing not the least of it. How could he fault Boromir when the man traveled without a companion of his own? Hadn't the man proved his honor time and again throughout the journey?

More at ease, Frodo looked around the camp, letting bright eyes rest on the members of the Fellowship as they lay sleeping. Each had become dear to him, in his own way. Given time, amends would be made with Boromir and peace regained. Merry and Pippin loved the brash young warrior best of their new comrades. The three shared similar qualities — impetuous and clever, reckless and kind. They were loving souls, but they were all young, young enough to break his heart. They shouldn't be here. None of them should be here.

Frodo sighed. There could be nothing amiss with that friendship. He would have known; neither Merry or Pip would hide that from him. It was the evil of the Ring and Moria dark that made him oversensitive. Frodo turned his gaze to the watch site, apology in his heart.

And found Boromir gazing back at him with red, red eyes.