Spatters of afternoon sunlight danced over the floor of the airy bedroom as Sam sat, holding his master's hand, but he did not see them. His brown eyes, anxious and now filled with a tremulous love, were fixed on the pale face of Frodo, his slender body demeaned to nothing in the enormous, white-robed bed.
The features of his face appeared more delicately beautiful than ever, but still and bloodless like those of a carven effigy. His long dark lashes curled on white cheekbones; but for the steady shallow movement of his chest with his breaths he might have been an Elven statue of old, so still and beautiful and yet somehow tinged with a deep sadness.
For days he had lain thus, a frailly entrancing creature of bone china, and Sam had held limp, slim fingers tenderly in his own rough brown hands, praying for life to return to the body he guarded. Frodo may have been lovely as he lay, but Sam did not want such a shallow, heartless loveliness. He only wished for a flutter of his master's eyelids to herald life returning; knew that the eyes of a blue beyond credulity, now hidden, held an indescribable vitality and charm. Waking, moving Frodo was a creature of great grace and elegance, loveliness and charisma, litheness and strength. His quick smile instilled such a sense of awe and happiness in Sam that no lifeless, fragile beauty could ever equal it.
Sam loved him. He loved him so much that the pain of the blade entering his master had stricken deep into his own heart; so much that Frodo's name on his lips twisted and turned like cut glass in his heart as he impotently watched the life ebb away from his wounded body. All he wanted now was to scoop Frodo like a child into his arms and breathe life into him; give his own blood so that Frodo could live.
If only such a feat were possible. Dolefully his fingers stroked Frodo's wrist up inside the pale nightshirt he wore, tracing over the smooth skin in a manner that would have been intensely irritating to a waking person. A convulsive twitch of Frodo's white hand caused Sam's fingers to leap nervously away before hope flooded back to him and he returned his hand to Frodo's. "Please, he begged, "Please let him wake."
The frosty eyelids flickered and slowly drew back. The familiar blue eyes found Sam's face. Slowly the curved lips smiled; painfully, but painful because of a lack of use, not a lack of motive.
Sam could not conceal his joy. He knew that he must be grinning like an idiot but he did not care, not now that Frodo's eyes were on his and the fingers he held were warming slowly. A thought crossed his mind that he ought to let go, but truly all he wanted to do was to throw his arms about his master and hold him tight. He didn't answer to this irrational urge, but nor did he release Frodo's hand.
He watched Frodo's face scrupulously as the cracked lips silently formed some indistinct word. Sam patiently waited, and on the second attempt sound flowed. One syllable. His name. "Sam." The word expressed only relief.
The grin Sam wore threatened to crack his jaw and he raised Frodo's hand to his face. The fingers curled on his cheek and Sam stammered, "Are you all right?"
Frodo smiled weakly and nodded. "Where are we?"
"Rivendell, sir."
"Rivendell!" Frodo laughed, and it seemed as if strength was flowing back into his body with every inhalation of air. "I suppose you've seen a lot of the Elves, then, Sam?"
"Well..." Sam looked away. "A little. I've been -"
"You've been here all the time, haven't you!" interrupted Frodo. "Sam! Have you been eating?"
"Couldn't eat, sir. Not while you were ill."
Frodo sighed. "Sam, you're -" He broke off. "Well, it doesn't matter now anyway," he resumed. For a moment he regarded Sam's face pensively. His hand stroked over to cup Sam's jaw and Sam closed his eyes. "C'mere," Frodo muttered softly, and obediently Sam bent forward. Frodo reached up, propped on his spare elbow, and kissed him gently low on his cheek. "I love you," he murmured in Sam's ear.
Something seemed to break inside Sam, tearing with the memory of Frodo's darkened face as he had lain after the Morgul blade had pierced him; the image of the pain settling over Frodo's light like a snuff on a candle wrung anxiety from Sam's very soul. Nevertheless he grasped the opportunity to say the words back to Frodo, meaning them with all the sincerity born of his relief and newfound hope.
He felt Frodo's smile softly curving against his neck and then his breath, still coming in jagged little puffs. "I thought I was dead," he whispered. "Dead...without my Sam to help me."
"I'd a' followed you, Mr Frodo," Sam insisted quickly. There was a pause, and then Frodo laughed awkwardly. "Don't say that."
"It's true."
"I wouldn't wish that upon you, Sam," Frodo said softly. "If something takes me, I do not expect you to follow me immediately before you are forced to. There'd be no hurry. We shall be together...in the end." He gazed searchingly into Sam's face for a moment, and then Sam lowered his eyes, blushing. He tried to pull away, but Frodo caught his hand and leaned against him.
"No, don't go yet," he said sleepily. "Stay, while you may. While I'm here."
And so Sam waited until rhythmic, light breathing told him that Frodo had fallen asleep. Tenderly he disentangled himself from Frodo's arms, laid him back upon his pillows and covered him gently with the blanket.
Then, as quietly as possible, he tiptoed across the room to the door, and with one final glance at Frodo he slipped out into the corridor and shut the door behind him.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he whispered, and behind the heavy oak door Frodo smiled softly without opening his eyes.
"Tomorrow, then," he said.
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