Yeah, I first published this in AO3, hope you like.

The hobbits's first winter home turns out to be rather disappointing. They had been looking forward to crisp snow, flakes on their brows and lashes, and frost-ferns on the windows.

Instead they end up with this grey wet slush; a rainy, blustery sort of weather with all of Winter's curses but none of her charms, just as cold as the others, but far more wet and bone chilling. It's the sort that is most likely to condemn any hobbit caught out for even a few minutes to a week of sniffles and running noses. .

Ah well, at least they're home again.

This is the thought that crosses Frodo's mind one particularly dreary morning as he finishes Elevensies, when snow and rain are falling together and mixing into some horrid, grey, muddy sludge. He sips his steaming cup of chamomile as he watches the little streams and rivulets trailing down Bag End's windows. No right minded hobbit would be out in such a nightmare.

That moment a shadow passes his kitchen window, startling him.

Is it a hobbit? Or perhaps a deer wondering from the woods. That happened on occasion, deer finding themselves at Bag End.

He walks to the window and peers through the glass, squinting through the streaming water.

It is far too blurry to make out any distinct shapes, but he can see a splotch of orange and dark mossy green; colors woodland creatures don't usually come in.

He rears back in surprise.

Surely she wouldn't.

Dashing to grab a coat and umbrella, he leaves the warmth of his smial and opens the door to wind and sleet. He quickly opens the umbrella over his head and looks to the intruder.

By Valar, she is!

"Samantha Gamgee, what on earth are you doing out here in this horrid weather?!"

She straightens up from where she was stooped over the snapdragons, stumbling back a step in her surprise. The second-to-youngest of Hamfast and Bell gives him a sheepish grin, clothes sodden, her shawl so wet it's rendered useless, her gold curls matted against her face.

"Oh... ah... Good Mornin'." She stammers. "I was just on my way home from helping Missus Bracegirdle with her baking, and as I was passin' by I thought I'd just stop and take a peek at how everthin's holdin' up, if you catch my meaning."

He fights the urge to shake his head. Instead he walks closer to hold the umbrella over her. "Everything is holding up perfectly well, thank you. Now come inside where it is warm, for goodness sake."

She wipes her mud-caked hands on her skirts. "No time, begging your pardon. I'm already later than I said I would be home; by twenty minutes, I reckon."

He makes a shooing gesture with his free hand. "Go home then, and change out of those wet clothes as quickly as you can!"

"Yes sir." She chuckles, slogging away, turning one last time to wave before disappearing from his sight.

Only after that does he run back inside.

Four days later, at her usual time, he instead sees the Gaffer come to tend Bag End's garden.

"I'm doin' the lass's work for the rest of the week." He explains as he wheels the barrow from the potting shed. "Fool child stayed out too long in the freezing rain, chilled herself to the bone, now she's stricken with a nasty cough."

"I saw her." Frodo says, giving a smile that's both understanding and tired. "I warned her, and even asked her to come inside and sit by the fire for a spell, but she refused."

Hamfast shakes his grizzled head. "The lass thinks she's invincible; she might've shaken it off if she had only stopped and rested as soon as she started feeling poorly. As it was, we practically had to tie her to her bed."

Frodo laughs at that, picturing it all too clearly. "Well, your daughter is the sort of person who hates to be inactive for any period of time; she equates it with being useless."

"Very true." The aged hobbit gives a long-suffering sigh. "Well, she'll be to rights before the week is ended; just you wait."

She isn't.

Three days after their conversation, when he returns to Samantha's rounds, Hamfast is looking considerably less jovial. He reports that Sam's croup has gotten quite nasty and settled in her chest. But, he continues, Doctor Boffin has prescribed a tonic of licorice and thyme that will aid her recovery.

Four days after that he's back, looking grim. It takes a bit of persuading for him to give full details; apparently Sam is fighting a bad fever and her respiratory problems continue to get worse.

"Is she doing all the doctor ordered?" He asks.

"Aye." The Gaffer sighs. "But nothing works; she grows steadily worse."

Frodo doesn't know what to make of this.

Poor, dear girl.

Sam is the sort of person who hardly ever gets ill, and when she does, it rarely lasts more than three or four days.

"Is there anything I can do?" He asks, though knowing he's not capable of any true help.

"No." The Gaffer runs a weary hand over his weathered features. "Just keep hoping, and praying."

He runs into May Gamgee at the market, the very next day. The dear girl gives him a smile that doesn't reach her eyes and bids him a good morning.

Of course he must ask. "How is your sister this morning? Is she any better?"

He smile fades, not that there was much of one to begin with. "If you want the truth Mister Frodo, she's doing terribly."

"How terribly?"

The older hobbit worries her lower lip with her teeth, shifting uneasily on her feet. "This fever... more often than not there are times when she sees naught around her... when she doesn't seem to recognize us or her surroundin's. And that wretched cough... as if there were evil in her lungs."

There is a cold weight in his chest, the first icy fingers of dread at the base of his spine.

Suddenly May's mask fades, and he sees the weariness and fear. "I'm worried sick Mister Frodo."

He stifles his own fear, ignores the clench in his heart. He reaches out to clasp her hands firmly. "And you have every right to be. But you must understand," He says. "Your sister is one of the strongest, most tenacious of beings I have ever met; I have faith she will make it through this."

This comforts her, and she nods.

After an understanding silence, she gently pulls away. "I must get goin'. Thank you sir."

Yes. He tells himself as he watches her walk away. All will be set to rights.

The folk of Hobbiton talk about it all the time. It's the most eventful thing to happen in Eru-knows-when.

" Did you hear about that gardener's daughter ? They say..."

" ...has such a fever, don't think..."

"...sounds like an old hound barking, it's dreadful!"

He hears every time he goes outside. Whispers, clucking's of polite sympathy.

"...Boffin says..."

"...Won't be long 'till..."

"... such a shame, really."

Their tones are dire, convicted. He grows more and more annoyed with them each passing moment.

How can they renounce her so easily? The poor fools; she is as strong as the Shire itself. Don't they see that?

Word of Sam's condition reaches Buckland and the Great Took Smials, and his other two traveling companions come down to see for themselves what is happening, and what is only hearsay. They both stay with him at Bag End, in search of answers, or so they say, but he suspects another reason for being with him personally.

One evening as they sit for dinner, quiet in their repast, Pippin breaks the silence with, "D'you think we can go visit her?"

This is the first time in hours either of them mentioned her. Frodo pauses, chewing his lip. "I don't have an answer for that. I'm certain she would enjoy it immensely, seeing you both, but I fear it would be too exhausting."

"Perhaps it'd be wise just to let her be." Merry says in a heavy voice, as if it is a painful decision to make. "She needs to keep up her strength; we may do more harm than good."

Pippin purses his lips inward, hands fidgeting, like a child with a thought they are shy about expressing. "I know but..." He pauses. "Supposing... we don't get another chance? This may be the last time we can..." He's unable to finish.

"You can what?" Frodo finds himself asking. Pippin doesn't answer, but looks entreatingly to Merry.

"You can what?" He asks again, an edge rising in his voice.

The young Took bites his lip. "I just thought... what if she...?" Again he trails off.

"She what?" Frodo feels a pang of anger and annoyance. "She does what, Pip?"

"He means nothing by it."Merry said quickly. "We just don't know when either of us will be back in Hobbiton."

Frodo's fingers curl against his palms, clenching into fists. Don't they know her? Don't they have any faith?

He quietly gathers the empty dishes, his frustration undoubtedly palpable. As he heads to the basin he overhears Merry whisper to Pippin, "Be careful what you say to him. I'm not certain he's ready to face this."

He fights the urge to scream.

Hamfast comes to the garden a fifth time, looking very tired and aged.

"She isn't gettin' any worse." He says. "But likewise, she's not gettin' any better. Doctor Boffin's stumped, and there's no mistake."

Frodo only nods to show understanding as the aged hobbit unloads his tools from the wheelbarrow, and begins to weed around the foxglove plant.

After a brief and uneasy silence, the Gaffer says quietly. "I know she would love to see you sir, if just for a spell."

"I've been wanting to." He says. "The only thing that's been keeping me is the concern that I may tire her."

The Gaffer nods. "That may be, and yet..." He pauses to momentarily glance at the master of Bag End over his shoulder. "I feel it might do her a world of good."

He knows by now when Hamfast is making a suggestion, and when he's making a statement that sounds like one.

He mulls it over in his head. "When is the best time?"

"I don't rightly know; there's no schedule she goes by." He sits up a moment to think, wiping his hands on his breeches. "The best thing for it is to go down and wait 'till the lasses deem she's fit for visiting. You may even go now, if you'd like."

"Perhaps I will." But before turning he catches a glimpse of the weed Hamfast is pulling up. A simple, low-growing cluster of leaves with tiny white blossoms. An inconspicuous plant, yet there is something familiar...

His mind goes back to Aragorn dropping handfuls of leaves into boiling water, releasing the scent of snow, orchards, and starlight.

"Wait!"

The old gardener jumps, startled, then looks up.

Frodo points to the foliage. "Is that kingsfoil?"

Hamfast glances down at the weed in his hand."Aye, that it is."

A thought comes to him. Perhaps... His breath catches at the implications.

"Did Sam tell you about it? What our friend Strider did with it?"

The older Hobbit glances up at the sky, trying to recall. "I don't quite... yes, now that you mention..."

The Ring Bearer crouches beside him. "Gather as much of this as you can, and perhaps get some from other gardens!" He uproots a handful as he speaks.

He arrives at Bagshot Row, cargo in hand, his knock answered by Marigold. Her face is as heavy with dread as her father and Sister's.

"Mister Frodo?"

He musters his most reassuring smile. "I'm here to see Sam, whenever she's well enough, and have something that may help her."

Her eyebrows lift, he sees a ripple of hope mingled with curiosity, then skepticism. What can he do that Hobbiton's good doctor hasn't tried already?

She stands aside and opens the door wider, indicating he may enter. "She's asleep now, but you are welcome to stay until she's wakened, though it may be for a while yet."

He pats her shoulder. "I can wait as long as I need to." He then holds up the athelas. "I need to boil these, may I borrow a kettle?"

He ends up waiting little over two hours. He passes it by assisting Sam's sisters with cleaning the house and preparing dinner. They converse and even laugh, but this does nothing to remove the dreadful pall cast over the smial. Every now and again there is a deep, harsh, barking cough from the bedrooms that causes the three girls to flinch. The precious herb is washed and laid on the kitchen counter-top, ready to use.

Daisy checks on her every twenty minutes or so, and finally returns with a hopeful smile. "She's awake, and seems to be in her right mind for now." She turns to Frodo. "I asked if she would ever like a visit from you, and she quite liked the idea. I didn't tell her you were already here, or else she'd let you in out of mere courtesy."

"Well done." He says approviningly, then says to Mari, " Now, I need you to set the water to boil, like I asked, and put the herbs in. As soon as that's done you must take the kettle from the stove and to her room."

He feels heavy apprehension the short distance from the kitchen to the bedrooms. Daisy leads him and knocks at the door when they arrive. She then opens it just enough to pop her head in. "Sam, Love, you have a visitor.' She opens the door wider to let him in.

The moment his eyes rest on her, his breath stutters in his chest.

Nothing could prepare him for this.

Nothing.

He has seen her covered with soot and grime, exhausted nearly to the point of death. he's seen those in Gondor's Healing Houses, wounded by the Nazgul, stricken with the Black Breath.

Neither of these have prepared him for the sight of Samantha Gamgee lying pale and ashen, invalid, on her bed.

Skin that was once golden and freckled from hours under the sun is now sallow and bone-white, soft eyes sunken, underlined with shadows. She's listless, bundled and propped up with pillows and he can see she's lost a good deal of weight. Even her hair seems to have lost some of it's sheen.

She is pleasantly surprised to see him, giving a weak smile, eyes rheumy. "Mister Frodo..." Her voice sounds as faint and brittle as wind moving through dry grass, hoarse from hours of coughing.

There is a sinking sensation in his belly.

He composes himself, giving her a warm smile. "Dear Sam, I've come to see you."

The blankets are pulled up to her chin, but she folds them down to rest her arms over her belly, inclining with her head for him to draw closer.

Once he does, she whispers. "Can't talk much...sorry."

"Don't be," Is his assurance. "You need to preserve your breath."

He pulls up the stool already placed at her bedside and sits, lightly taking her hand and notes its clamminess. "I've brought you some athelas. Remember it?"

She nods lightly.

His thumb moves in light circles on the back of her hand. "I'm not truly certain how well it works for more serious ailments, but if it helped me, Merry, and Eowen, it can probably help you."

"Thank you." She whispers.

He talks to her as they wait, telling her of all he's seen and heard since last they met, that stormy morning. Most of it she's probably heard already from her family, but she listens anyway. He tells her of Lobelia's loud and public argument with Lily Boffin, in which the latter called the former 'A great big sour prune", and was thus applauded by those listening. He tells her that the chickens of Bag End are hatching their eggs, and he needs to mend the coup for fear that the chicks will escape and be trod upon. He tells her that the crocuses are blooming in his garden and they look quite lovely, thanks to her diligent care.

He tells her this and many more everyday mundane subjects he can't recall afterwards. She hangs on to every word, either looking at him or staring off into space, giving a slight nod ever now and again. She interrupts periodically, too often, when she goes into coughing fits. They are even more terrible sounding up close, even when she covers her mouth, deep wet and full of phlegm, coming from the bottom of her chest, shaking and convulsing her entire body, bringing perspiration to her brow. It seems she can scarcely draw five breaths without once starting.

It wrenches his heart to pieces, seeing her suffering thus, struggling valiantly just to breathe.

Does it really take water so long to boil?

Finally... finally... Mari scurries in with the steaming brew, taking great care not to spill a single precious drop. He can smell it down the hall... that cleansing, refreshing aroma that beckons unpleasant memories, but also hope.

"Where should I put it?"

He makes a vague gesture towards Sam. "Anywhere near her head so she can inhale as much of the fumes as possible."

Nodding, she places it over a potholder on the bedside table.

Sam has been following her every move, but now, as the smell of starlight and ancient healing houses fills the small room, her eyes drift shut. Already her breathing sounds easier, less ragged.

For some reason, the other two don't speak, nor do they leave, sensing her need for their quiet presence.

Within moments she is asleep again. She had not coughed once since Mari brought the athelas.

"I do believe it's helping." Her sister whispers , the optimism ringing in her voice.

"Perhaps." He lets a tired smile adorn his features.

"How often should we do this?"

"I don't know, probably every time she has difficulty breathing."

Before leaving he briefly, gently, presses Sam's hand with his own one last time.

He is roused from his drowsiness the very next morning as he prepares breakfast by a rapid pounding at the door.

He opens it to the excited, joyful countenance of Hamfast himself.

"She's turned a corner!" He lets out before Frodo can speak.

"She... Sam? Sam is Better?" elation swells behind his breastbone.

"Aye!" The older hobbit nodds enthusiastically. "Fever's gone down quite a bit, and she's coughing only about half as much. Doctor saw her and was speechless, says it's a proper miracle!"

He heaves a sigh of relief, clasping the Gaffer's shoulders. "Oh thank heavens!"

"She wouldn't 'ave made it were it not for that kingsfoil you suggested." There is gratitude in his eyes.

"I have no doubt it was a great help." Frodo concedes.

He returns to see her again the next day, trying to pace out his visits lest he undo any recovery. He's certainly no doctor, but it's clear that she's in a far better condition than she was before. She's looking less wilted, less haggard, and she is not coughing as much, as her father said. She is also speaking more.

"Ah Frodo," She beams warmly when he comes in. "Did I truly see you the other day, or was I imaginin' things that weren't again?"

"I did visit you the day before yesterday." He affirms. "I brought the kingsfoil, remember?"

"A little, though in a foggy, muddled sort of way. Remember the smell, mostly."

When the visit is over, Mari pulls him aside.

"I... don't rightly know how we can ever thank you for this, Mister Frodo." She confides to him, eyes moist. "Were it not for you suggestin' that plant..."

"Sam did the most difficult part." He says with a fond smile. "I merely stumbled upon a way to make things a little easier."

He returns every other day, checking on her progress and keeping her company, and can't help but be surprised and overjoyed at the success of his cure. She is recovering in leaps and bounds, getting noticeably stronger with each passing day, far exceeding everyone's greatest expectations, including his.

Not twelve days after he brought the healing herb, he finds her working again in his garden, checking for mildew and frost damage as if nothing ever happened.

She is still a bit too pale and thin, under the winter sun, and it may be quite a while before she returns to her former health, but she is her normal steady, cheerful self, moving and breathing with relative ease.

Still, he asks, "Should you really be working again so soon?"

"Workin' is the best thing for me." Sam replies. "I'm right where I belong, out here in the sun, getting my blood flowin'."

"Yes, but you tend to be rather..." HE searches for the right word. "Well, you overwork yourself, more often than not."

She only gives a self-depreciating smile and a light shrug of her shoulders. "Can't help it, it's my nature."

"That it is." He smiles fondly. "And there is nothing wrong with your nature. I only want you to be cautious and not undo all our hard work while you are still regaining your strength."

"It's my humble opinion that this is the best way to regain it." She tells him politely.

And he must concede that she's probably right, to a degree. But he knows he'll need to create a stopping place for her.

"I'm having tea in ten to fifteen minutes. Would you care to join me Sam?"

She gives him a sunny smile. "Mighty generous of you Mister Frodo, I'd love to."

He walks back inside, smiling and lightly shaking his head.

He decides to prepare mint tea, though it's usually served in warmer weather, since it will probably be more soothing to her throat and chest. To eat he sets out crackers, spongecake, honey, and an assortment of Sam's favorite jams and jellies.

Thus prepared he calls her in. Her eyes widen appreciatively at the simple fare as she removes her gloves and washes her hands."Looks mighty fine."

The sit munching in quiet contentment. She doesn't eat as much as he does, but it's a start. Frodo can't help the tired grin when he makes this observation.

She sees. "What're you thinkin' of, if you don't mind my askin'?"

He leans back in his chair, giving hera wry grin. "Nothing much. Just that the tables have turned."

She quirks a brow. "In what way?" She asks, licking a spot of jam from the corner of her mouth. For some reason this makes his smile grow wider.

"Usually," He answers. "You are the one watching inquiring after my health, but this time I'm the one making certain you're caring for yourself properly, and you are the one saying, 'No really, I'm quite alright. No need to fret'."

She gives a hoarse laugh. "True, course it took my near death to get here and... "

Her innocent remark is like a thrown rock. Or more accurately, Master Bard's fired arrow. It strikes him where he is most vulnerable, in the chink of the armor he's built to keep himself sane and calm these last several days.

The effect feels equally devastating.

The possibilities he's shut from his mind, that he has kept hidden and locked in the darkest vaults of his imagination in order to keep the hope alive in himself and everyone else, burst forth. For the first time he is forced to think of what might have been, what would have happened if... if she didn't...

Oh Valar.

It is as if the earth is opening up beneath him.

He had refused to believe, to entertain such dark thoughts. Everyone had needed him to be strong, she needed him to be strong.

Because he can't bear the thought... Sam, brave selfless Samantha Gamgee, surviving Moria, Mordor, the Great Wilds, and Mount Doom, only for death to carry her away in her own bed at Bagshot Row because of carelessness.

He cannot breathe. He feels as if there is a hand around his throat, a stone in his chest.

"Mister Frodo, Good heavens are you alright?"

He doesn't hear her, nor does he notice that his grip on his teacup is loosening until it slips from his fingers.

It lands sideways on the table, splashing summer brew on his lap and tablecloth.

"Oh!" Sam jumps from her seat. "I'll clean that up."

Frodo stares numbly at the spilt tea. She returns shortly with a dish towel and begins mopping it up, her eyes level with his. "Are you feelin' out of sorts? You look as though you've seen a ghost." She asks him gently.

"I..." His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. "I'm alright, just..."

She stills, expression growing tender with sympathy. "There's no need to explain. You just had a spell, is all."

A Spell. That is her own rather quaint word for what comes upon the four traveling hobbits from time to time, especially Frodo. Loud sudden noises, the clanging of metal, or a horse's hoof-beats, causing them to draw within themselves with a sudden chill, remembering...

"No Sam." He corrects, his voice a bit steadier now. "That's not it, this is different."

She lightly touches his arm. "Was it something I said?"

He hesitates before saying. "Some things I have been trying to not think about, are presenting themselves."

there is a glimmer of apprehension in the earthen eyes studying him. "What are you thinking of? Please tell me."

"I was thinking what would happen if..." he tries to fight it, but the suffocating feeling begins to overtake him again. "You almost..." His breathing grows ragged, the room begins to tilt.

Suddenly her hands are on both sides of his face. "Look at me." She commands obeys.

She has summoned the most authoritative expression she can create, masking the worry. "You are not at all well. You should go lie down for a moment."

These words don't quite sink in. Perhaps she mistakes his silence for concession, for the next minute she is firmly gripping his arms and trying to help him to his feet. Instead, his legs fold beneath him.

She gives a surprised exclamation as he lets himself sink to his knees before her. The moment he sees where he is, his arms wrap around her thighs and he buries his face in her middle. He clutches her like one may clutch a pillar in an earthquake.

"I almost lost you..." the words tumble out before he can heed them, brittle and raw, muffled by the fabric of her bodice.

She is tense for a moment, embarrassed and not knowing what to make of this situation. But then she notes the desperation in his voice, the distress.

He feels her relax in his hold, leaning forward to brace one hand on his shoulder and use the other to stroke his hair in a soothing motion. "But you didn't." She says gently, softly. "You didn't lose me. I'm all to rights now."

Tears sting beneath his eyelids, he turns his head to better speak, pressing his cheek to her belly. "I couldn't think of it... that you mightn't recover. I don't know what I would have ever done if... if..."

"Now stop thinking that," She chides tenderly. "I'm alright now, that's all that matters."

He nods lightly, eyes closing, and says no more for a while, Just kneels there as her strong fingers card through his hair, feeling calmer by her mere presence.

How could he live without it? How could he live knowing that no one would ever hear her voice, see her face, or be blessed by her kindness?

He comes to a great realization then.

"I couldn't live in a world where there was no Samantha Gamgee."

Her hand stills for a moment, then continues. "There was one once, and there will be again someday." She reminds him.

"I won't live in it then." He whispers definitely. "I won't even think of it. Not when you nearly..." He looks up and trails off.

He sees her face, still too pale and thin for the Sam he knows, but liquid softness of her brown eyes, the distinct curve of her lip, the warm and durable understanding in her expression; they are still the same.

How many times has she carried him, both literally and figuratively? So much had rested on her shoulders...

His thoughts are interrupted by a soft kiss to his forehead. "You don't have to imagine it now, if you don't want to."

He says nothing, just looks to her. There's a brand on his skin where her lips touched him.

"I am right here Frodo, and I've no mind to go anywhere." She continues, and her voice settles over him like a caress. Her gaze catches his and she contemplates something. Finally she bends lower to cautiously brush her lips just shy of the corner of his mouth.

His breath catches in his throat. Her lips are warm, slightly chapped, but still soft and pliant.

Alive. Very much alive.

She see's his expression, and remorse overcomes her, assuming she's overstepped her bounds. But just as she begins her apology he silences her with a kiss of his own.

On her lips.

Because the proof of her living fills him with overwhelming warmth, makes him feel almost drunk with the joy and peace it brings. He's certain his heart will burst straight from his chest, it holds so much.

He doesn't kiss her any longer than she's kissed him, and pulls away to see her standing dumbstruck and wide-eyed, a myriad of emotions crossing her face, surprise and bewilderment being the most prevalent. Now it's his turn to feel guilty, he doesn't quite understand what overcame him.

But then the confusion in her face melts to disbelief, then a smile curls at her mouth, a tiny bit of color rising to her wan cheeks. It isn't an understanding smile to show she forgives him for his transgression, but she seems lost inside herself with delight, even joy.

Well.

In the blink of an eye he sees, he understands what has been eluding him.

How could he not have seen it?

Not see the way she's slowly, unassumingly, and unknowingly filled the space he thought no one ever would.

He has not time to dwell on this, because she is leaning forward with a look that is expectant and shy and questioning all at once, and he realizes she wants to kiss him again. Smiling, he closes the distance.

So warm... alive ... she's alive...

He tilts his head lightly, listening to buried instinct. She moves with him, molding and yielding, pulling tentatively at his lower lip to draw it between her own. He tastes the mint and blackberry jam and something else that is distinctly Sam.

She is here... she isn't leaving... isn't leaving me...

His fingers move a trail of their own will. Skimming up the sides of her jaw to lace into her curls. Her hands cup his face and brush the calloused pads of her thumbs across his cheekbones. he pulls her lightly downward, feeling her sink before him and press close enough for him to feel her heart pounding against his own chest. His head is swimming again...

I need you...

His tongue pushes cautiously against her lower lip, asking. She opens up to him, and it's like delving into a sun-ripened peach...

I need you to be alive...

He wants to melt into her, to breathe for her.

There's an ache in his chest still, but it is no longer fear, no longer sorrow...

By this time Sam is sitting between his knees, every inch of her pressed against him. Frodo pulls her yet closer, perching her on his thighs and letting her weight settle over him.

She is still lighter than she should be, and this reminder brings a twinge in his chest.

No, no... it's alright... she's here...

His kisses grown more sloppy, almost ravenous, trying to taste as much of her as he can all at once. They overflow to her cheek, her jaw, across the curve of her throat, alternating between feathery nibbles and mouthy suction. Her pulse thrums beneath his lips like the strings of an instrument. She tips her head to give him more room, the vibrations increasing as a pleased mewl makes its way from the back of her throat.

The sound strikes a chord in him, strumming clear to his center.

He nuzzles and kisses his way farther down, feeling warmth, feeling life. She smells like soil and sunlight, like perspiration and thyme. He mumbles her name into her skin and feels her shiver. His lips finally reach and curve over her collar-bone, feeling it stand out in sharper relief than it once did. he braces one hand against the hollow of her back and she arches against him.

Need forms a knot is his belly. Need to feel all her, need to feel her living and breathing.

Its sudden intensity robs the breath from his lungs, he cannot remember ever feeling it this keenly.

Oh...

He lifts his mouth from her skin and she let's out a protesting, needy sound.

"I..."

"Don't..." her voice is a rather arousing mixture of breathlessness and urgency. "Don't stop...please...not now..."

"Wait..." He braces a gentle but firm hand on either side of her head. "We must... think about this for a moment."

She lets out a rushed breath, cheeks red, and her gaze averts as if she's embarrassed with herself.

"No... no, look at me." He soothes. he traces his thumbs over her cheeks.

Her eyes press shut and her lower lips folds between her teeth. "I'm so sorry..." She whimpers. "I got ahead of m'self."

"No, I got ahead of myself." He corrects her tenderly. "I thought you would die... and having you here... so close... "

Her eyes are moist when she looks up at him.

"Do you know how dear you are to me, my Sam?"

"No..."

He plants a kiss between her eyes. "If you had died, then I would have died. Simple as that."

A disbelieving smile creeps to her face. "Would you? After everythin' you've lived through?"

"Yes."

For a moment she reflects silently on this. Then she beams up at him and strong fingers thread into his curls to gently but insistently pull him down into another heady kiss.

He moans faintly as her tongue slides across his lips and sends shivers straight down to his fingertips.

There's no room for thought, only feeling, only action. He wants to fill all five senses with her, to absorb her very essence, if possible, and engrave it into his memory.

She not only allows him, she reciprocates, arching into every touch with a sigh or moan, her rough and well-formed hands trace and skim over his back and sides, over newly exposed skin.

Clothing disappears one article at a time, the two of them assisting each other with the more difficult laces and buttons and buckles. Everywhere Frodo looks he's confronted with more signs of life, and simultaneously, her near demise. Freckles scattered over paler skin, the strong, shifting muscles of her midsection paired with her slightly sharpened hipbones...

He leaves wet trails with his lips and tongue, watches his own hands move over her, nine fingers spreading out to reach as much as he can all at once. Feels her touching his own body, feels the burning trails she leaves on his own too-pale flesh and his own bones that stand out in too-sharp relief. he feels tremors in places he rarely thinks of, pulses as if he had a million hearts in as many different places.

He finds himself wondering, has Sam ever thought of him this way before? Of doing this, sharing this, with him? Perhaps not consciously, but from the way she's looking at him, touching him...

He only hopes he can make her feel at least half as loved and cherished as he does at this moment. This is one treasure, he determines, that will not be destroyed in his lifetime. "Sam... my dearest, sweet Sam...ah..."

She slowly tips backwards, back, back, down onto the pile of clothing that's accumulated on the floor. "Right here?" He says, incredulity and mirth in his voice."Shouldn't we move to..."

"No."

"But..."

"No." She repeats definitively. Burying her face in his shoulder. "If we stop... might lose my nerve..."

He smiles, stroking her back lightly, she rarely asks him of anything. "Very well."

He leans back to look at her.

It's overwhelming, all the unrestrained love and trust, urgency and awe, shining from her face.

Her legs tumble apart on either side of him and it immediately becomes very real, stealing the breath from his lungs a second time.

His eyes lock with hers, daring her to look away.

He pushes forward slightly, just a nudge, though is makes them both jump. Still she holds his gaze.

He pushes a little more, she suddenly holds her breath so he goes slowly, agonizingly slowly, a centimeter at a time. Hands curl into fists on the flagstone floor as he sinks into warmth as thick as honey. It smolders like embers and sends sparks up and down his spine and his mouth drops open to give a shuddering rasp of air. It is torture, exquisite torture. His whole body is trembling, shaking actually. Sam tenses, inhaling sharply and darting her hands to grip his wrists, to hold on to something.

Still, their gazes never break.

The sensations cause a flickering of light in his vision, a groan to bubble up in his throat. Suddenly he's as far as he can go and Sam's eyes fly shut, quickly biting down on her lip.

Worry mars the pleasure. "Sam...?" He manages to choke out.

She opens her eyes again and gives him a warm smile, slowly relaxing. "Doesn't hurt." She assures him in hushed breathless tones. "Just different."

He's almost giddy with relief and joy, a wide grin breaking over his face and a hoarse laugh erupting from his mouth. He kisses her again, touching foreheads.

"By Valar... I love you!" She murmurs. It resonates to his very bones.

"I love you." He echoes. He draws his hips back then surges forward, eyes finally close and his head whips back from the golden surge. He hears someone crying out and realizes it is both of them.

They are molding shapes moving with and against each other, like the surf on the shore. Forward... back... again. She melts and clenches around him, One strong leg hooked over his hip, the heel of the other pressing into the back of his spine, her hands trailing and stroking and grasping with loving desperation, her mouth skimming wherever she can reach on his face and neck and shoulders. Everything becomes a whirl of sensations almost too great to bear.

All the while she is letting out the most wonderful, maddening sounds, cries and moans and whines mingling. Sounds pour from his own mouth, and he makes no attempt to control them, control the gasps and cries and Sam's and Love's and the occasional Elvish endearment.

"Melda...Vanimelda...Mirnya... Insilnya..." Such a beautiful language, with such beautiful words, comes closer than any other to conveying his full meaning and emotions.

He isn't certain how long it lasts. An hour, a few minutes, several minutes. Not long enough, basically, the tension blooming in his belly and groin becomes nigh unbearable.

He reaches between them, touching her slick flesh above their joining while drawing a nipple into his mouth. Moments later she is there, spine arching and shuddering, sobbing out a sound that resembles his name, blunt nails scouring his back and body rippling around him.

The last thing he sees is her face twisted in joy.

And then the world tilts and vanishes, waves wracking his slight frame lost in a whirlwind of light and color sharp as glass as his body grows insubstantial.

And then he's back, everything slowly coming into focus. They are lying together on his stone floor, in Bag End's kitchen, limbs tangled and breaths still waiting to be caught. He feels heavy, pleasantly so, a creature no longer transient as before.

His eyes slowly slide open and rest on her face inches away, florid and rosy from exertion, eyelashes shining gold, lost in a bubble of contentment and bliss.

He cannot, for the life of him, stop the affectionate smile from crossing his features. He feels the need to kiss her, to make up for all the times he should have and didn't. She gives a small laugh as his lips trail lightly over her brow, cheeks and nose.

He isn't laughing. "My dearest Sam... I'm so sorry..." He whispers between kisses. "I've been blind. I didn't know... didn't see..."

"I didn't want you to." She answers softly, eyes raising to his face. "I... I didn't think you would see me in this way."

He regards her in mock seriousness, Touching foreheads again and squashing his nose playfully to hers. "Do you think so little of yourself." He asks in a playfully chiding tone.

She smiles as well and her eyes hold laughter. "No me dear, just thought so highly of you."

He waits for her to explain.

"You ... you've always seemed so far out of reach, like... I don't rightly know... a star."

"A Star?" He repeats, mirth ringing in his voice.

"Aye. Glowing, unworldly, unbelievably beautiful."

He reaches for her hand, bringing it to his lips. "If I am a star, Dear Heart, then you are the sun to me."

She wiggles closer, beaming. "The sun, you say?"

"Yes. Warm, golden, life-giving, and radiant."

He softly kisses her on the lips again.

"I cannot live without the sun."

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A.N.: Frodo's words. roughly translated into english: Beloved...beautiful and beloved. My Treasure... My flower...