There were a lot of burnt and chopped and empty places around Hobbiton in those days; places where it hurt the heart to look at. Winter had bashfully covered many of them with snow. Sometimes Frodo looked at the whiteness, so pretty and glittery in the sunlight, like bandages of silk, and on those days he couldn't think of anything but the wounds underneath.
On other days snow was just snow, and Sting in its sheath in a chest somewhere was just another grey relic, and the day smelled like a hundred other days before. That's when he felt like his old self again. He stood in the snow in the party field, mittened hands stuffed deep in his pockets to keep them even warmer. "Don't worry about it, Sam," he laughed. "It's natural for saplings to weather winters. Your mallorn will come through fine."
Sam was on his knees in front of the spot where the sapling was already, miraculously, pushing through the snow. "I know, Mr. Frodo, and it's growing so strong, but you never know, and it was the only seed..."
"Mallorns are like elves, I think - special and beautiful, but strong as well. It wouldn't be a very good magic tree if it died in its first winter, would it?"
Sam laughed too, then, and got on his feet, brushing the snow off his knees.
It was an early day, and a quiet one for a change. The weather was so biting that most adult hobbits stayed indoors. When Frodo and Sam wandered away from the party field, back towards Bywater, the only movement they could readily spot was a gaggle of children up on the hill, finding the most foolhardy spots to slide down.
Frodo's fingers were getting numb despite the mittens. He was even wearing soft boots today, tho Sam went barefooted and bare-headed. He blew warm breath on his fingertips through the wool and rubbed them together, but still the cold prickled like needles.
"Here, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, and pulled Frodo's mittened hand in his own; then he put both their hands in his coat pocket.
"Oh, that's much better," Frodo breathed. He could feel the ice beginning to melt.
The Cottons were scattered around the Shire, a rare event. The elder Tom and Nibs were up in Bree for the week; the younger Tom was at the frozen pond, courting Marigold Gamgee, if he could stay standing on his skates long enough. Jolly and Nick were in Frogmorton visiting cousins, and wherever Mrs. Cotton had taken Rosie was a mystery. In any case, the farm was entirely abandoned when they came in. The fire in hall had petered out, so Sam knelt to set new wood in it and get it going again. Frodo took the opportunity to slip through the kitchen door into the vegetable garden with the tea kettle to pump some fresh water for tea.
The pump was frozen and cold as ice. He'd left his mittens at the door, so he rolled down a sleeve to push at it. By the time the water had trickled into the kettle, his fingers were hurting with the cold and the effort. He was just contemplating how to get the kettle in with as little pain involved as possible and also without having to go get his mittens first and let Sam see how utterly helpless he was, when he found that he was caught.
"Come on in, Mr Frodo," he heard Sam say, and the kettle was lifted and his work once again done for him.
"You've made me completely dependant on you, dear Sam!" he said as he followed indoors. "You've always spoiled me, now you're working on spoiling me rotten."
"Can't apologise for what you're not sorry for, as the Gaffer would say," Sam said breezily as he set the kettle on the fire before walking into Frodo's arms to give him a kiss. Frodo held onto his waist for a moment, warmed more by the simple affection than the still-cool shirt and skin of Sam. It was a rare enough luxury, kissing in the middle of the Cotton house hall.
"Mint?" Sam asked when they separated, meaning tea.
"Oh, yes, please."
They drank their tea on the worn old sofa by the fire. Frodo stretched his toes towards it gratefully, tho the house warmed up nicely. They spoke a little about oaks and hollies, and the coming equinox. Tea set aside, they curled into each other. The grandfather clock ticked time in the silence, and they could hear the wind pick up outside. They were warm and comfortable, so they dozed a little.
It would soon be lunchtime. Frodo was vividly aware of this, but very unhobbitishly did not want to eat yet, not when there was this to be had, too. He woke himself up enough from the pleasant inactivity to start kissing Sam slowly. He'd begun to stroke Frodo's ear with his thumb, something he was in the habit of doing when he wanted a kiss.
They did that for a while, until a loud growl from Sam's belly made them break apart and laugh. "I suppose we must," Frodo said with a sigh.
"No, we don't," said Sam and kissed him again.
They eventually ate a late lunch at the dining room table. During dessert Frodo read Sam a love story from a book rescued from the ruffians' storage houses, and during second dessert Sam told Frodo a fairy tale. About midway into the story Frodo started asking questions, and they spent the next couple of hours making up different ways the story might go, and answers to questions Sam's mother hadn't elaborated on when she'd first related the story.
Eventually they gathered the plates and forks abandoned on the table and washed them - Frodo had long since won the argument about whether or not he was allowed to do his part of the cleaning. It wasn't long after this that Cottons started trickling in, and time seemed to pick up the pace. It seemed like only a short while until it was time to eat again, this time with a dining table lined with guests and family members, the noise level high even with two principal Cottons staying at Bree. The younger Tom attempted to sit at the head of the table, only to have his mother poke him with a fork and remind him that it ain't his house until he inherits it. The merciless Rosie brought this up repeatedly throughout the rest of the dinner.
Frodo and Sam retired early, not for sleep, but for privacy. It was an addictive luxury, and they had had a good taste earlier. It took no more than Sam's fingers twining with Frodo's when no-one was looking to let him know it was time to declare it a night.
Their room was off to the side from the hall, a small one that had room only for the bed and a chest for linen and clothes. They crawled in the cool bedclothes with a hot water bottle and snuggled in close.
They made love under the blankets, as quiet as they could, cries muffled into gasps and hands braced against the wall in a feeble attempt to keep the bedpost from clanking into the wall. The hot water bottle was kicked down to their feet when their little pocket of warmth under the blankets became hot from breath and flushed skin. Sleep came easy, afterwards.
Frodo dreamed of endless fields of warm snow, with fires set across the expanse to mark the way. In the dream he had to decide whether to follow the fires, or to stay right here and wait for someone he knew was coming to fetch him. In the dream, either way seemed right, but he knew he had to wait before he could decide.
It wasn't so bad, the waiting. For now, it was good to stay right here, where he was warm.
Site Info
We are the home of 1292 authors from among our 2552 members. There have been 2904 reviews written about our 3820 stories consisting of 10734 chapters and 29400445 words. A special welcome to our newest member, Rosamundeb.Categories
Skin Change
Donate
Help us keep one of the oldest running LotR archives available to all. Even the smallest donation helps!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
The Library, elsewhere
Other projects
Warm Pockets by Hyel
Story notes: Fanfiction: http://www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=323805
Original fiction: http://www.fictionpress.net/profile.php?userid=323805
