Frodo had gone out with his cousins somewhere in the city. The three hobbits had disappeared just after dinner, but Sam didn't know to where.
Hurt that Frodo had left him behind, whether by accident or in-tentionally, Sam considered going in search of them, but Minas Tirith was huge; its level-upon-level of circular streets were confusing even in daylight, and more so after dark. What would he do if he got lost? Better to stay here, but he couldn't think of sleep until his master had come safely home. So, instead of going to bed, he took a chair by the fire in Frodo's room, and sat up to wait.
It was past midnight and Sam had almost nodded off, when he was jolted into full wakefulness by the sound of high-pitched laughter in the courtyard, followed by urgent shushing. Hands fumbled at the latch on the kitchen door and bare feet shuffled on the stone floor of the lower corridor. Then he heard a shout, a thump, and more shrill laughter. Sam went out.
The trio had gotten as far as the half-flight of stairs between the scullery level and the floor their bedrooms were on. The four steps were a little high for hobbit legs, but easy enough to run up and down in normal circumstances; in their present, wobbly condition, however, it was too much. Pippin sat on the stairs, giggling hysterically, and Frodo lay sprawled at the bottom. Merry stood over them, looking from one to the other as if he couldn't decide which to go to first.
"Here, what d'you mean coming in at this hour?" Sam hissed. "Do you want to wake up the whole house?"
"Sorry!" said Merry. "We didn' mean to wake anyone up."
"Didn' mean to," Frodo echoed. He was shoving at the floor with both palms in an effort to push himself up, but wasn't able to manage it. "Ssh. Must be more quiet."
Sam went down the stairs to him. "What've you been up to?" he demanded of Merry, who seemed the most sober of the three, or at least the one who had kept his head best.
"We only went down to the Steward's Arms for a few pints."
"Whole pints?"
"They don' have any ha'fs!" said Pippin.
"And how many did you have, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked as he crouched over his master.
"Three or four... maybe five. I lost count."
It was a wonder that he'd gotten home at all! Sam threw an angry look at his master's cousins. "You let him drink that much?"
"Don' blame us." Pippin had crawled to the top of the stairs and leaned on the wall near the door to the room he and Merry shared. "'s not our fault."
"You always think we get Frodo into trouble," said Merry with a tone of injured dignity, "but he did this on his own. We didn' drag 'm off to the pub, you know. When he heard we were going, he asked to come along. If he drank more'n was good for him, he's only got himself to blame, not me and not Pip."
"'Tisn't fair," Pippin added sulkily, head on his drawn-up knees. "Most unjust of you, Sam. I'm think I'm gonna be sick." He scrambled into his room and pulled the chamber pot from under the bed. Merry went after him.
Whether this was true or not, Sam felt certain that they could have stopped Frodo if they'd wanted to. He slipped both hands under Frodo's ribs to help him up; as Frodo gained his feet, he flung an arm around Sam's neck and focused on his face.
"Sam..." he said, as if he were only now aware of who was helping him. "My Sam." Frodo smiled and stretched up to place a moist, ale-flavored kiss on his cheek before nestling his head in the hollow of Sam's shoulder. "Thank goodness y're here. You'll get me off to bed, won't you?"
Merry, who had paused at the bedroom doorway, chuckled. "Now's your chance, if he isn' sick first."
Sam gaped at him, but before he could answer this astonishing remark, the sound of Pippin retching came from the bedroom. Merry turned and went in to take care of his cousin.
Once they were alone, Sam caught Frodo's legs behind the knees to scoop him up, and carried him up the steps. Frodo lay quietly in his arms; except for one or two unintelligible but pleased-sounding murmurs against his shirt collar, Sam would have thought that his master had fallen asleep.
In Frodo's room, Sam lifted him up onto the high-posted bed with some difficulty and tried to set him on the mattress, but Frodo's arms remained firmly around his neck; once Sam put him down, he was pulled down himself. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled on top of Frodo, face very close to his.
"Sam..." Frodo focused on him again. "My wonderful Sam. You don' know how wonderful you are. In all the worst times, you're there. Where would I be without you? Lost. Hopelessly lost." More sloppy, ale-flavored kisses landed on Sam's cheeks and jaw, until Frodo found his mouth.
Sam tried to draw away, but he was caught by the arms around him and unable to break free without fighting Frodo harder than he wanted to.
And, in truth, part of him didn't want to pull away. He'd never dared hope for anything like this to happen. It wasn't proper--didn't he know that well enough!--but he had his dreams, scarcely acknowledged even to himself: one day, all his devotion and care would count for something. Frodo would see his love for what it was.
Maybe Frodo did see it, if tonight was any sign. Mr. Merry, with his smart remarks, certainly did! Perhaps the truth was bound to come out sooner or later--Sam knew he was no good at keeping his feelings hidden--but if Frodo had seen, he'd been a gentleman about it up until now...
Why must it be now?
If Frodo had been lonely at Bag End and invited him in, or had turned to him for comfort during those worst days on their way into Mordor, Sam wouldn't have said 'No.' Even if this had come about here at Minas Tirith in the ordinary course of things, he would have been happy to do whatever Frodo asked. But not like this! Not because Frodo was the worse for too much ale and didn't know what he was doing. If Sam let anything happen between them tonight, it would be taking advantage of his master in a moment of weakness, and he would never be able to forgive himself for it--nor would Frodo, come tomorrow morning.
Maybe he wasn't a fine gentleman, but he knew what was decent.
Frodo's kisses were growing less insistent. His head fell back onto the pillow, and he murmured, "My Sam..." one last time before his arms dropped limply from around Sam's neck.
Free of the clinging embrace, Sam pushed himself off and sat up, huffing for breath. Once he was calm, he turned to look back at his sleeping master; Frodo was obviously out for the rest of the night. Sam considered undressing him and getting him into his nightshirt, but decided it was easier--and safer!--to let Frodo sleep in his clothes.
He pulled the quilt over his master, and crept out of the room as quietly as he could.
Site Info
We are the home of 1292 authors from among our 2553 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, Lerina.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
Tipsy Hours by Kathryn Ramage
Story notes: January 2004
