Old Winyards

Chapter: Vignette
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Authors: Thuri and Catherine
Rating: A
Warnings: SPOILERS! Schmoop; a wee bit of angst.
Summary: Frodo and Sam spend their first Christmas together.

Author's note: This vignette contains spoilerish references, though nothing of major import is revealed with great clarity. It is set a few weeks ahead of where we are in the story, so be warned!

Happy Christmas, everyone! You may not be celebrating it, but I hope that you have a very good day, whether you're cooking for the ravening hordes, lying in for the day, working the holiday shift, unwrapping gobs of laughable gifts or preparing to celebrate (or recovering from) your real Holiday.


Sam finished wrapping the small parcel and gazed at it. "It ain't much, but I hope he likes it." He added it to the other two parcels he'd wrapped, and adjusted the gold ribbon on the sapphire paper. He set the lot under the tree and went to find Frodo in the library.

Frodo was sound asleep, an open book in his lap.

Sam kissed him and took the book from his hands. "Frodo-love?"

Frodo jumped.

"Frodo, it's just your Sam..."

Frodo blushed, relaxing. "Oh. Hey, Sam... what's up?"

Sam sat on the arm of the chair. "The guests have all gone home and we have the place to ourselves, now. Come with me to the sitting room? I have some things I'd like to give you..."

Frodo yawned. "Mmm, all right. But I have to get your present, first... I'll meet you there?"

"All right." Sam leaned in and kissed Frodo.

Frodo kissed him back, for a long time. "Mmm...."

"Ohhh I don't think I need anything after that," Sam sighed.

"Me either," Frodo agreed. "Kiss me again?"

"Oh, yes please..." Sam slid into the kiss as he slid down into the chair, fitting himself on and around Frodo, losing himself.

"Whoa... Merry Christmas to me."

"Oh, no... That'd be Merry Christmas to me... Didn't need that brain, anyway."

"What brain?"

"Ummm... can't remember..." Sam closed the tiny distance and kissed Frodo again, melding himself to his lover.

Finally, Frodo pulled away. "If we don't stop now, we never will."

"I don't know as I'd mind that," said Sam.

Frodo smiled. "Well, we do have those presents to open..."

"I can think of one I'd like to open," growled Sam, snaking his hand into the neck of Frodo's sweater.

Frodo squirmed. "Sam!"

"Oh, all right!" Sam pulled back. "Sorry about that," he said, more seriously, rising and offering Frodo a hand up.

Frodo blushed. "Well... I want you to, but if we do, then I'll fall asleep and I wanna see my present."

"Oh-ho! Now we have it!" Sam grinned. "Come on, then..." Sam tugged gently on Frodo's hand.

"I have to get yours, remember?"

"No, I don't remember. I lost me brain."

Frodo laughed, and kissed him. "I'll be in soon."

Sam squeezed Frodo's hand and wandered toward the sitting room.

He could have been floating through the air, for all that he couldn't feel the floor beneath his feet. "Frodo," he whispered to himself. "And Christmas... Stars and glory!" He settled himself in the half-light of the fire, gazing at the lit tree. He'd seen it for many years through the window at this hour, but had never thought to see it thus, when all had gone home and Bag End was quiet and shut and private. The effect was stunning. The tree was magnificent, of course, but there was still an intimacy to it, even in its glory. The decorations were the accumulation of findings and gifts over at least a lifetime, some of them going back to Bungo's time. Sam could lose himself in them forever.

Frodo sighed, carrying the slim package, and paused in the doorway. Bilbo was gone, and there was the accustomed ache with that thought as he watched the tree, lit and shining. It should be his uncle in there, ready to share eggnog and a few stories of times gone by, family and ancient fairytales alike. And Frodo loved Sam, deeply, but... it wasn't the same. Still wonderful, still good, but undeniably different, and he ached for what he'd known, before, for just a moment.

Sam heard the rustle of movement and turned, his heart leaping at the sight of Frodo in the firelight, and then he stopped, watching him. The aching emptiness was plain on his lover’s face, and Sam’s heart fell. I'll never be enough, he realised. He didn't move from the shadow, watching Frodo collect himself and enter the room.

But then Frodo's eyes met Sam's, and a breathtaking smile spread across the older man's face. "I'm glad you're here with me, Sam."

Sam took a shaky breath and smiled. He walked forward and took Frodo's hand, shyly. "So am I." He raised Frodo's fingers to his lips and kissed them.

"I love you."

Sam blinked. "I love you. And... I'm sorry Mr. Bilbo ain't here."

Frodo hugged him close. "So am I. But I'm so glad you are... I know I can't make up for not being home, but I hope it makes it better, having me..."

Sam threw his arms around Frodo. "Oh, Frodo-love! Nothing's better'n having you!" Sam dropped his face to Frodo's shoulder.

"Oh, Sam..."

"Frodo..." Sam hugged him very tightly, pressing his cheek to Frodo's. He pulled back and turned away, swiping at his eyes.

"What is it?"

"Oh, just me, being all emotional again... Honestly, you'd think I was a waterworks on a rainy day in England. Don't mind me."

Frodo kissed him softly. "I always mind you. I love you."

"I love you, too. And maybe one day I'll stop crying about it. I just..."

Frodo held him close. "I know."

Sam kissed Frodo and hid his face briefly before pulling back and wiping his eyes. "Well. Christmas is supposed to be merry and snowy, not sad and drippy. You've got presents to open. And not just mine, I might add. Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin brought you a veritable horde of them. I don't think the entire Gamgee family ever saw that many things in all the years we've been here!"

Frodo blushed, the slim volume of Welsh poetry he had for Sam suddenly seeming inadequate. "Did they bring anything for you?"

"I didn't check. I wasn't expecting nothing, so I assume they didn't..."

Frodo shook his head. "You didn't check? I'll bet half those gifts are for you."

Sam took his turn to blush. "No, Frodo, they couldn't be! They have to be for you. You're the one they love..."

Frodo raised an eyebrow, and went to check the gifts. "Hmm. To Sam, from Pippin. To Sam, from Merry. To Sam, from ‘Uncle’ Pal. They don't all seem to be for me, unless someone changed my name..."

Sam dutifully turned scarlet. "That can't be right... And begging your pardon, but I'm a bit scared to open that one from your uncle..."

Frodo nodded. "Don't worry, we always saved his presents for last."

"Do they explode?" asked Sam.

"They've been known to," Frodo said, setting the two boxes aside gingerly.

"Oh, god..." Sam looked at the enormous pile of gifts, then at the dangerous parcels from Paladin, and then at Frodo. "Frodo-love, do you suppose I could save yours for last? I want to end on a good note..."

Frodo smiled. "Of course, Sam."

"Right, then," said Sam, brightening. He rubbed his hands together. "Let's dive in..."

There were clothes, of course. Shirts, sweaters, trousers, even a scarf for each of them, Frodo's in an elegant charcoal and Sam's in a mossy green to match his eyes. Sam held his up, admiring it and puzzling over it. "Cashmere? For me?"

"Why not?" Frodo asked, fondling his own. "Mmm, this is nice. There's a benefit to Merry being allergic to anything cheap..."

Sam laughed at that. "Well, yes, I suppose so... And they do feel nice..." He looped his over Frodo's neck. "And they have some practical purposes..." he tugged on the ends of the scarf.

Frodo giggled. "They do, do they?"

"I'd say so..." Sam tugged a little harder, pulling Frodo closer and kissing him.

Frodo kissed back and smiled. "Mmm, I'm lucky in you, Sam."

"Not half as lucky as I am in you," murmured Sam. He shook himself. "But we should be getting on with all this," he added, gesturing at the presents.

"Can't we just have the ones from each other, and leave the rest for later?" Frodo asked, around a yawn.

Sam looked at the mountain of gifts. "As long as Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin ain't planning on showing up tomorrow," said Sam. "And I'm wanting just to spend some time in bed with you. Best present I could ever have..."

Frodo smiled, and handed over the wrapped book. "I hope this is good, too, cariad."

Sam smiled back at Frodo and reached for the parcels he'd put under the tree. He blushed as he handed Frodo the small oblong box. "I hope this is good for you, love. And I couldn't resist that paper..."

Frodo smiled softly. "Oh, Sam..." He opened it slowly. "Oh, Sam!" He gasped when the fountain pen was revealed, made of warm ivory, carved into a relief of Michelangelo’s Apollo. "This is amazing..."

"It reminded me of you," said Sam, quietly.

"It's beautiful," Frodo said, all but launching himself at Sam and hugging him close. "Thank you so much."

"I'm glad you like it, sweetheart," said Sam, holding Frodo, tenderly, before reaching behind him to the Christmas tree. "I got you some proper paper to go with it." He handed Frodo the other two parcels.

Frodo opened the two packages to find parchment and vellum. "Oh! This is all so nice... I'm afraid to use it!" he admitted, blushing.

"Don't be. You've a beautiful hand, and you should have beautiful things to write with so you can show it off."

Frodo blushed. "Thank you. Open yours!"

Sam tore his eyes away from Frodo and turned his attention to the parcel in his own hands. He opened it carefully, unwilling to rip the paper. His eyes widened at the small volume. It was bound with fine, supple leather in shades of rich tan, and its pages were gilt. The title was Welsh, and when he looked inside, the book contained verse after verse of poetry, all in the language he had come to love hearing from Frodo's lips. "Oh, Frodo... I don't understand a word of this, but I'll go take a course, or go to Wales, or --"

"I thought I could teach you," Frodo offered shyly.

"Oh, love..." Sam pulled Frodo close. "I'd love that, more'n anything."

Frodo kissed him, snuggling close. "Do you want me to read some of them to you?"

"Oh, yes, so much!" Sam kissed Frodo, eyes glistening. "No-one's read to me since I were small..."

Frodo kissed him again, before taking the book, settling back in his arms and reading from a poem written in his hand on the end pages. "This is actually a pop song, but it's really pretty as a poem. It's called 'The Sound'." He cleared his throat, and began.

"Awn ni o ma i le uchel,
Draw i ffridd yr adar ffraeth;
Rhown ein dwylo ar hen delyn,
Efo clustiau llym rhwng y trum a’r traeth;
Wnawn ni ddisgwyl,
Disgwyl am y sŵn.

Ella daw fel cri’r pregethwyr,
Mewn hetiau duon a ‘sgidiau bach du:
Llosgwch y crwth, rhowch heibio’r ddawns;
‘Dach chi’n gw’bod bod hi’n bechod treulio’r
Sul yn chwara’.

Ella daw fel llais dyn haearn
Ella daw’n chwardd fel Dafydd ap Gwilym
Ym mreichiau’r morynion clws o hyd.
Ella daw fel cwyn Siôn Cent,
Yn bwrw ei sen am ben y byd."

Sam kissed Frodo's temple as he began to read, the worry over his own inadequacy fading as Frodo read the liquid syllables so beautifully. Holding Frodo in his arms, listening to him read and feeling the silvery vibrations against his hands and his chest, Sam wondered again at how lucky he was to have this man so entwined in his arms, in his heart, in his life. "That's so beautiful," he whispered. "What does it mean?"

Frodo smiled, bestowing another soft kiss before translating.

"We will go from here to a high place,
Over to the field of the gay birds;
We will place our hands on an old harp,
With sharp ears between the ridge and the beach;
We will await,
Await the sound.

Perhaps it will come as the cry of the preachers,
in black hats and small black shoes:
burn the crooth¹, put away the dance-
you know it’s a sin to play on Sunday.

Perhaps it will come like the voice of an iron man
Perhaps it will come laughing, like Dafydd ap Gwilym²
Always in the arms of beautiful maids.
Perhaps it will come like the complaint of Siôn Cent³,
Levelling his ire at the world."

"That's lovely," sighed Sam, drawing Frodo further back into his arms. "Just don't set me no quiz for it tomorrow. I'm likely to forget everything but you, tonight..."

Frodo smiled, leaning back against him. "I'll just have to read it again, then, won't I?"

"That'll be a treat, and no mistake," purred Sam, brushing Frodo's ear with his lips.

"It will, huh?" Frodo asked, before turning the page.

"Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant
Ar hyd y nos
Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant
Ar hyd y nos.

Golau arall yw tywyllwch,
I arddangos gwir brydferthwch,
Teulu'r nefoedd mewn tawelwch
Ar hyd y nos.

O mor siriol gwena seren
Ar hyd y nos,
I oleuo'i chwaer ddaearen
Ar hyd y nos,

Nos yw henaint pan ddaw cystudd,
Ond i harddu dyn a'i hwyrddydd
Rhown ein golau gwan i'n gilydd
Ar hyd y nos.”

Sam touched his cheek to Frodo's, feeling the words slip through his mouth, losing himself in the sound and feel as the other man brought such complex words to life so effortlessly. "You were made for this language," he murmured. "Like quicksilver, it is, just like you."

"Oh Sam... Cariad..." Frodo turned, kissing Sam deeply.

Sam cupped Frodo's face, returning the kiss in full measure, relishing the feel of his lover's mouth all the more with the flavour of Welsh coursing through his senses. "What does that one mean?" he asked, when at last they pulled apart.

"It's All through the Night,” Frodo replied. "A song... a lullaby, usually.

‘All the star's eyelids say,
All through the night,
"This is the way to the valley of glory,"
All through the night.

Any other light is darkness,
To exhibit true beauty,
The Heavenly family in peace,
All through the night.

O how cheerful smiles the star,
All through the night,
To light its earthly sister,
All through the night.

Old age is night when affliction comes,
But to beautify man in his late days,
We'll put our weak light together,
All through the night.’”

"That's beautiful," whispered Sam, a tear escaping his eye. "Me mum used to sing that to us. In English, of course, and some of the words were different. And, Frodo... I mean to be with you that way."

Frodo kissed him again. "It's a more literal translation than the normal one... Oh Sam. I love you. So much. Sing it to our children, some day?"

"Our children?" Sam swallowed. "Of course I will."

"If we have them," Frodo amended, blushing.

"Frodo... I didn't know you'd even thought about that." Sam kissed his cheek. "Do you want children, then?"

Frodo shrugged. "I always thought I'd have them, I guess..."

"That ain't quite the same thing, though, is it?" Sam stroked Frodo's back, gently.

Frodo sighed. "I'm sick, Sam."

"I know, love. But what would you want if that weren't in the way?"

"I think I’d want them, yes," Frodo admitted.

"Then we'll manage something, somehow," said Sam, his heart racing. "I didn't know as you'd wanted children," he said, pressing a kiss to Frodo's temple.

"Do you?" Frodo asked, leaning back against him.

Sam sighed at the contact. "I go back and forth," he said, folding Frodo in closer. “There are times when I really do, and times when I don't so much... And then there are the times that I think of me own brothers and sisters and think about getting castrated."

Frodo laughed to himself. "I suppose it comes of being an only child... I always wanted a big family."

"It did help," admitted Sam. "When you had someone to sleep next to in a thunderstorm..." he kissed Frodo, lingeringly, "or when your Gaffer's been screaming at you and you need someone to talk to. I suppose it's worth it, then. Only, I can't imagine what me poor mum went through, raising all of us, even with Dad's help."

"I'm sure you were the joy of her life," Frodo murmured.

Sam breathed a laugh on Frodo's cheek. "Perhaps. Leastways, when we weren't sticking pepper up each other's noses..."

Frodo giggled. "Oh Sam..."

"And then there were the times May'd use mum’s best pots to dye her jeans pink, or Ham'd tie Hal up with her stockings, or Daisy'd take up the whole kitchen with her experiments... Never could tell whether those were meant to be for cooking or chemistry."

"Maybe only one for us," Frodo managed in the midst of his helpless laughter.

"And what happened to you wanting a big family, then?" Sam nuzzled Frodo's cheek.

"Pepper up your nose? Dye pots? Tying up with stockings?"

Sam chuckled. "If we just have one, he might do all that to us." He nipped Frodo's ear.

Frodo shuddered. "We're doomed."

"That we are, love." Sam tightened his arms around Frodo. "But I don't mind being doomed, as long as I'm with you." He dropped a soft kiss on Frodo's neck.

"Me either," Frodo agreed. "Love you, Samwise."

Sam kissed Frodo, long and hot and sweet.

Frodo returned it, pressing close. "Mmm... more poems? Or bed?"

"Bed, I think." Sam rocked Frodo, holding him close. "But... I'd dearly love to learn that song in Welsh," he said, quietly.

"You would?" Frodo asked, still leaning back against him.

"Now that I know more about what it means... I never thought I'd have anyone to sing it to, and I'd dearly love to be able to sing it to you, especially now." Sam pressed his face to Frodo's cheek.

"Oh Sam..." Frodo kissed him softly. "I'd like that, too."

Sam sighed into the kiss and laid his head on Frodo's shoulder. "It was my favourite hymn when we were small," he murmured. "It made me love God, when Mum sang it to us. She had a way of making it so that everything was all right and we'd be loved, whether or no."

"You will be," Frodo agreed. "By me, at least."

Sam blushed, glad that his face was hidden against Frodo's shoulder. "God were good to me," he whispered, when he could.

"To me, too, if he brought us together."

"I think he did. We needed each other. Maybe I should go to church twice a year..."

Frodo shrugged. "If you want."

"I'm joking, love. Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"No. I just don't believe in God."

"What do you believe, Frodo? I never did ask you."

Frodo shrugged. "Nothing?"

"That's lonely," said Sam, quietly.

Frodo nodded. "I suppose it is. I'm not sure what I believe, Sam. But I haven't believed in God since my parents died."

"I nearly stopped believing altogether when Mum died. I certainly don't believe the same way I did before that."

Frodo nodded, and sighed. "Oh well..."

"I'm sorry, love. I just start to think of these sorts of things on Christmas. I missed my one day a year for Church, today."

Frodo blushed. "I'm sorry, I didn't think to ask if you wanted to go..."

"It's all right." Sam laughed. "It just seems odd, is all. Just when 'm thinking of giving him another chance cause he gave me you, and I flip him off, as it were."

"I don't think he cares if you go to church, if you're a good person," Frodo offered.

"There is that," said Sam. "Which makes it all the more necessary for me to be in church. At least ten times a day..."

"Oh, hush! You're the best man I know."

"Well, then, you have had a rough life," chuckled Sam, feeling the blush rise despite his best efforts.

"Well, maybe lately. But you are."

"You're the best I know," said Sam, huskily. "And I'd really like to show you how very much I love you."

Frodo smiled. "I'd like that, too. Carry me to bed?"

"Happy to, once I stop being weak in the knees at the sight of you," said Sam, nuzzling Frodo's cheek, once more.

Frodo smiled, and nuzzled him back. "Uh oh. We'll have to live on the couch forever, won't we?"

"We might, at that," murmured Sam leaning into Frodo's touch. "Except I want you in that nice, comfy bed so I can love you properly..." He leaned in and scooped him into his arms, lifting him off the couch as he stood.

Frodo smiled, and kissed him.

Sam kissed him back, walking slowly toward the bedroom. "Oh..." he said, breaking the kiss. "Are we near the bed, yet?" he breathed into Frodo's mouth.

"Not quite..."

"Oh... Well, then–” Sam covered the remaining distance on shaky legs, as quickly as he could, laying Frodo on the bed where the covers had been turned down.

Frodo smiled. "Merry Christmas, Samwise Gamgee. I love you."

Sam blinked, a smile spreading right the way through him. He stroked Frodo's face. "Happy Christmas, Frodo, my love."




¹A crooth is a form of bowed or plucked lyre, pictured here
²Dafydd ap Gwilym was a poet of the middle ages, known for his bold, free-spirited love poetry. More info is available here (For a much later and very naughty artist's rendering of him, you can toddle on over to this not even remotely work-safe picture.)
³Siôn Cent was a stern political poet of the late middle ages. More info here