Querencia: I heard this means "A place where one draws their strength, or feels most at home. where they can be their true self." Google Translate says it's Spanish for "haunt". Which is also appropriate.

She stares upward at the ceiling, her tired eyes making shapes and patterns in the plaster and white paint.

She is tired. So why doesn't sleep come this evening?

It's not reached so easily these days. Everything around her is quieting down, but her mind is being very loud. She can't stand it.

Scrubbing the heel of her hand across her eyes she gives an annoyed chuff.

Sam is a very simple hobbit, thrown into very unsimple circumstances. There was a time, just a year hence in fact, when her greatest concern was aphids, mildew, and earning enough coins each week. The Shire had always seemed just the right size, and she never traveled far from her own doorstep. Now, she's been made aware that the fertile valley halflings have found refuge in for generations upon generations is actually quite small in this great world. And she's glad.

Right now, she feels like a little fish thrown from its little pond into a raging river, or the ocean even. She feels smaller than she already is, swallowed up by this great big world. Others towering over her not only in stature but in greatness she can't even begin to comprehend. It makes her homesick for the small, cozy, and familiar.

Another lass might've curled up into a ball and wept like a babe, and the temptation is there. She however responds with a weary sigh and trudges right on forward. Like she's always done. One step at a time.

But soon, she reminds herself, all four hobbits will be making their homeward journey, accompanied by Gandalf. Aragorn has been crowned, seated on the thrones of his fathers. there is nothing more that they must needs do here.

Meanwhile, it's soon clear she isn't getting any sleep here in this dirty great room, all big and spacious and pristine when she's used to her little bedroom at Bagshot Row, cluttered with personal affects and shared with her youngest sister. She's not slept alone in years, not since that time she got the mumps and had to be secluded from everyone. Even in the quest there was always someone roughly within arm's reach. She feels like a little pea rattling around in an empty kettle.

Surely it would do no harm to walk a bit in the long halls, perhaps look at the stars through the big windows.

Sliding over the edge of the bed, landing softly on her feet and wrapping herself in a dressing gown, more for modesty than warmth, she pads out the door.

She won't deny it, the Citadel of Minas Tirith is stunning. A lovely place to visit, but she wouldn't care to live here.

Spying a large window with a decent seat, she plops onto it, looking out at the sky vaulting far overhead, stars like spilled salt glittering.

She isn't quite sure how long she's been sitting there when she hears the soft footsteps behind her, followed by her employer's whispered, "Sam?"

She looks over her shoulder to see his curious expression, his skin and eyes holding the light of the celestial bodies.

"What are you doing up?" He asks. "Could you not sleep either?"

"Ah, no." She laughs. "Dunno why. Felt like stargazing, for some odd fancy. "

He nods, returning her smile, and walks over to set himself on the sill right beside her. "The stars in these skies are so different from the Shire, the clusters and constellations, I mean."

"Really? I didn't notice. 'Course I wasn't really looking to begin with, not the way you do."

His gaze lifts heavenward. "It truly brings to home how far we have traveled, the other side of the world, almost."

Almost. She cannot fathom being any farther, yet she knows there is so much more to the east than Gondor and what's left of Mordor.

"Soon we'll be goin' home, though." She brings up.

"Yes indeed."

"And everythin' will go back to... well...near normal."

"Perhaps." His voice sounds flat.

This twitches her attention. "Aren't you homesick?"

He shoots her an odd look from the corner of his eye. "Yes, of course. Do I seem like I'm not."

"Not nearly as much as I."

He gives her a rueful smile. "You have more to go home to than I."

She ducks her head. "M,sorry. Thought never occurred to me."

She thinks back wistfully to when things were less complicated.

"Sometimes..." She continues. "I wish as though it all never happened. As if nothing'd changed."

It takes a moment for him to respond. "Nothing? Absolutely nothing?"

She realizes he's staring at her intently, studying her. Beyond that she's not certain what he's feeling. It's the strangest thing.

Mister Frodo's never been able to hide his emotions. Whether his face is pasted with a smile or suppressing one or somewhere in between, those large exprssive eyes display each emotion as clearly as if he'd written it in a book.

But right now, she can't put a name on what she's seeing, and it's... unsettling.

"M'sorry, but I don't know what you mean." She admits.

"Never mind." He says dismissively, which of course, makes her more curious.

"Frodo..."

He turns back to her, corners of his mouth twitching upward faintly.

"You've been calling me 'Frodo'."

"Aye, so?"

The shadow of a smile becomes a real smile. "Just Frodo."

With a start she realizes, the habit of using honorifics has strangely been broken. Everything has been so mad, so fast-paced, it was difficult to remember the usual formalities. She's greatly embarrassed at this slip, though she knows he doesn't truly mind it, being the understanding sort. But she mustn't forget, he's her better.

She must never forget.

"I'm terribly sorry 'bout that, sir. Wasn't truly thinking, is all. Won't happen again."

The faintest shadow comes over his face, barely perceptible, but she sees it.

"Did I say something wrong?" She can't help but ask.

"Not at all." But his tone doesn't sound quite happy. At least that's some clue. "You said what's expected of you."

But...?

"What's troubling you?" She murmurs.

He looks away and back out the window. "Nothing. I'm merely tired, is all."

Something in her doesn't quite believe him.

"Well sir," He flinches with just the faintest tense of his shoulders "If you're needin' a listenin' ear, I'm always here."

His voice is level. "Thank you Sam. I know you are."

She fights back a frustrated sigh. it's in her nature to comfort. She simply must figure out what's bothering him so.

"I know it's not rightly my place," She begins cautiously. "But I'd very much like to know what's on your mind."

"'Not your place'?" He echoes . When he faces her again, and that strange, indeterminable look is even stronger, overwhelming. She can scarcely meet his gaze. "What is your place?"

Her mouth turns dry. Somehow, she's done something wrong, very wrong, said something. But what?

She must tread very carefully. "My place... I'm your gardener. I work for you."

The faint pall returns. "Is that all you think you are?" He asks in a tight voice.

She blinks, trying to get the wheels in her head turning. He seems strangely hurt by this. "No... no I'm not, I s'pose. I'm also your friend."

He relaxes and his gaze softens. "Yes. You are my friend, my dear friend." another smile makes its way out. "I hope you never forget that."

Reaching for his hand she promises. "I won't."

She meets his gaze. There is something else there, very soft, but very clear affection.

He leans forward slightly. "Can I make one request of you, my dear friend Sam?"

"Anything."

He wets his lips hesitatingly. "I don't want you to call me sir."

"Eh?"

"Or Mister, or Master, or anything but just plain Frodo."

She wishes she could, but it goes against everything she's been taught since she was a wee little lass, barely higher than her father's knee."But... Now I don't mean to argue, but it's not real proper-like."

He gives a light shake of his head. "How many things have we done in the last several months would you consider proper-like?" He asks with a smile that borders on playfulness.

"Well, weren't nothing could be done for those. We had no choice, whereas..."

He nods. 'I see what you mean." He has an understanding smile, but there is what appears to be the smallest flicker of... disappointment? "It was merely a request. the decision is entirely up to you."

"I just... It's only that... begging you pardon... I'd much rather things go back to as they were. Now I know you're not quite wantin' the same thing, but I hardly see how things are better, 'sides the Ring bein' destroyed and Strider becoming king."

That inscrutable look returns a third time. "You have changed."

"Me Sir?" Is he disappointed in her answer?

He smiles again, as if reading her thoughts. "Oh don't misunderstand me Sam. That was not a criticism. It was part of my point."

"I don't quite understand."

His expression grows softer. "You now know what you are truly capable of, how strong you can be. We both do."

She begins to protest. "Weren't nothing that wasn't expected..."

"No." It's soft but it silences her.

"Samantha Gamgee, you went far above and beyond anything we could've asked of you. You've faced orcs, wraiths, and armies, soldiers twice or three times your size, and you act as though it were only in a days's work? You are incredible."

No one has used that word to describe her before. Incredible. Least not within her hearing. As long as she can remember she's nothing more than plain, steady Samantha Gamgee, second-to-youngest child of Hamfast and Bell Gamgee, a gardener like her dear old Da. Loyal as an old hound. Nothing quite remarkable or noteworthy.

She's never tried, or particularly wanted to be remarkable. She just wanted to keep Frodo safe: nothing more, nothing less.

But, as she looks back at all she's done, the things she's faced for his sake, the horrible monsters and dreadful, unmentionable atrocities, she thinks to herself, I really did that?

"T'were you." She finds herself saying "Because of you, I did all those things. To protect you." She looks at him.

His face looms large and beautiful in her vision, the faintest crease in his brow is the only sign he's heard her. His presence seems to somehow fill the hall. Those eyes, the look in them is soft but overwhelming. She can't look away from them. They're...

They are getting closer.

Her heart and stomach lodge squarely in her throat.

Then his eyes disappear beneath their lids. There is the faint brush of his lips against hers, like a promise. On reflex her own eyes close. She can neither move nor breathe. The next moment his lips return, firmer, head angled to give a better, proper kiss.

All thought evaporates into a puff of smoke, ceases utterly.

His lips are every bit as soft as they look, bringing her nerves to fire. Then they are gone just as suddenly as they arrived.

She opens her eyes, mind still silent. She faintly feels her hand touching her mouth.

Frodo reels backwards looking mortified.

"Oh Sam!...I... Eru! I didn't..."

A tiny thought makes its way forward in the clouded numbness of her brain, and pushes up out her throat, through her lips.

"Why?"

He flinches. "Why what?"

Her voice sounds so very tiny. "Why d'you do that?"

He blinks, licking his lips and looking down at his lap, uncharacteristically shy.

"I've... wanted to. For so long."

He admits this with all the timidity of a little child, confessing something such as breaking a prized heirloom, sneaking a scone right before dinner, some such thing they knew very well they oughtn't.

His words swirl around her head, ringing.

I've wanted to. Wanted to. Wanted. So long. So long.

"Since when?" She challenges.

He plucks nervously at the linen of his nightshirt, a faint smile coming."Ever since you found me, and rescued me, from the tower of Cirith Ungol." He looks back up. "You came back even after the unforgivable things I'd said and done. You..."

He trails off and resumes his gaze downward with a heavy sigh.

"I don't deserve you."

She swears that, if her heart hadn't stopped already, it does so now.

I don't deserve you. No. She is the one who is undeserving.

This strikes a note in her soul, deep in her bones. The impossible is happening. Not even in her wildest dreams had she dared to believe...

This new-found knowledge fills her with such joy and courage. Her heart swells up so, it feels too big for her body.

"Frodo." She soothes, purposely forgoing the honorific. "Dear Frodo." She cups his face with both hands. He looks back up, uneasy.

She feels this moment that anything is possible. Smiling, she asks,

"Might I kiss you back?"

He blinks, then relief flushes his features, hand-in-hand with joy. His smile is the biggest she's seen in goodness-knows-when, more luminous than the moon. "If you truly want to."

"I do!" She assures him. Admitting to herself for the first time. "More than anythin'!"

He leans forward and they meet in a slow melt, sliding his nose beside hers. Everything, and nothing, like she's dreamed. Her pulse is hammering in her ears

When they separate he speaks in a rush. "This is how you've changed, dear friend." He beams brighter than the sun. "Would you have asked to kiss me before the quest?"

She gives a little chuckle. "Begging your pardon, but I asked to return a kiss. Which is entirely different."

"Fine then." He laughs. "Would you have asked to return a kiss, way back then?"

She thinks back, to a time that seems eons away.

Before, she would have reminded him, and herself, that this couldn't happen. That the gap between their social standings was too great. You're a Baggins, and I... I'm naught but a gardener. She would have been too frightened of the outcry from all the fine families who, she is certain, will absolutely not sit around and watch this happen. She would have pointed out that hobbits pride few things other than their lineage, and the finer folk don't mix with servants. What's between them now just simply isn't done.

And she would have claimed, nay, insisted, that he didn't truly feel this way. That he, a fine gentlehobbit, book learned and everything, the most remarkable being she's ever had the great fortune to know, didn't, couldn't, see her like this.

But none of these trouble her now. Such concerns are far from her mind, simple irritants to deal with when they face them.

"No. I dare say I wouldn't 'ave."

"See how much braver you've become?" He continues, affection shining in his face. "You've always had a humble soul, but I felt as though you thought too lowly of yourself, that you didn't amount to much. But now, now you see how indispensable you truly are. "

She doesn't deny this. Before the War, she had been content with herself, though with moments of wistfulness, wishing to be thus or that. Contentment is good, but...

As time had passed, she grew more and more grateful for being who she was. How many hobbits would have fought Orcs in Moria? How many Lasses would have faced monsters worse than their darkest nightmares to save their dearest friend?

Not many, that was certain.

Sam has never wanted honors heaped on her, nor fame. But she could now see that, where it anyone else, Frodo might have died.

At this last thought she kisses him again.

It's like rolling down the side of a grassy hill, as she used to as a child. No, more thrilling than that. It's like running into the fray, sword drawn. It's thrilling. Its powerful. But there's the soft edge, warmth tightening in her chest. Pleasant tingles and flutters settling in her belly.

They re-tilt, separate, and rejoin several times. She finds herself suckling softly at the full lower lip, thrills when his hands reach to cup her face, to stroke her hair. Her own hands aren't idle, they begin to roam his arms, shoulders, chest, not quite sure what she's aiming for, taking it all in with the feel and taste of his mouth.

She could do this for hours, days, and never grow tired of it. his tongue lightly slips beneath her upper lip and she opens wider. Her head is spinning, but she'd sooner stop breathing than stop kissing him. So this what it's like? Being loved in turn by the one you love?

Somewhere in the outskirts of awareness, she feels his hands smooth down her back, around to stroke her waist, resting on her hips. She pushes closer, pressing against him, suddenly remembering in a rush that they have only a few, rather thin layers between them and underneath,

This last thought makes her pull away to catch the breath that's strangely left her so suddenly, but the moment it's caught it hitches in her throat at the feel of his warm lips trailing kisses along her jaw. She tilts her head to the side and shivers when He catches the lobe of her ear delicately with his teeth and rolls it between his tongue and upper lip.

Oh, heavens that feels...

Distractedly she feels her own hand smoothing across his thigh (how'd it get there?) Her back starts to arch, when he curls an arm around her and pulls her closer, close enough so she can feel the warm outline of his body. Too warm. The dressing gown is too warm. She struggles to pull it off without leaning too far from him, and he ends up helping her, his kisses returning to her face. he parts momentarily, pointed nose nudging the hinge of her jaw, lips ghosting over the side of her neck in ways that feel more exciting than an outright kiss, his four-fingered hand drifting over her knee, beneath the hem of her gown. She feels her breath huffing in and out of her chest heavily, as if running up an incline, places a hand on either side of his head to keep him still a moment so she can nuzzle her nose briefly to his, then kiss him. Kiss the small space between his nose and upper lip, his cheekbone, his brow, anywhere her mouth stumbles upon.

She finally stops and pulls back. His eyes are dark and momentarily unfocused.

For a beat they don't say anything. Something's taken the words from their heads.

Again, she see's some look in his face that's never been there before. A very different one than before, something wild. But she only sees it for a brief second before he blinks and is suddenly himself again, wide eyed and bewildered. At her? At his own thoughts?

What are his thoughts, exactly?

What's happening?

All she knows is, several boundaries are suddenly gone. Perhaps more than she thought initially.

"I..." He tries, his voice just a croak. Clears his throat.

"T'was..." She begins. But the words just don't come.

The whole time their gazes never break. There's some odd sense of expectancy hanging heavy over them.

He briefly glances at her hands, now resting on his chest.

He tries to speak again. "I've..." then decides against it.

But the silence is becoming almost uncomfortable. "Aye?"She asks.

He lightly places his hands over hers, inhaling slowly. "I've wanted..." Stops again.

"You've already told me."

His hands slide over her wrists. "No." He's almost inaudible, voice nearly drowned by the breeze moving through the vast halls. Those blasted eyes of his again... They're pulling her in.

"No?"

"Not this." His fingers cup her cheeks, thumbs tracing. "Not..."

"Frodo?"

He breathes heavily, turning his thoughts over in his head, trying to come to a decision. Suddenly his expression grows serious."Right now, I want to do what you want. "

All she can do is blink. "What?"

He leans forward, his stare sharp enough to bore through stone, as if trying to read her thoughts. Or perhaps project his own. "This very moment, Sam, what do you want us to do?"

Do? Who says they have to do anything? She's still a bit disoriented. Just a moment ago they were kissing and she felt wonderfully warm and ...

And...

Oh.

Something stirs in her chest. Anticipation quickens in her belly, clenches.

Along with it comes fear.

Defiance.

Longing.

Relief.

Love.

It has to happen. It has to happen right now.

"I want... I want to lie with you... tonight."

The words feel thick on her tongue. It almost feels like someone else is saying them. Surely not her. Surely not straitlaced, shy, retiring Samantha Gamgee. She would never...

Yes, She tells herself. She would.

He exhales slowly. She doesn't miss way his pupils dilate a degree further, or the way his cheeks darken.

"You're certain?" The question is barely audible. Every bit of him is tensed, as if ready to spring away...

Or spring forward.

Is she? Really? Only a few moments hence they'd had their first kiss. Is now the time to give him herself in her entirety, and vice versa?

She feels the corners of her mouth pull into an ecstatic smile."Yes... oh yes!"

They go to her room, nerves all a-jumble yet giddy.

They pull themselves up onto the bed then just sit there, staring at each other, waiting for the other to act.

She's completely floored by the level of wonder and awe in his eyes, hidden beneath nervousness, self-consciousness.

For some reason, she feels a laugh bubbling up in her center, and lets it make its way out. He looks surprised and almost petulant for a moment, then his own smile widens, becomes less forced, and he joins her in laughing. And like that, the tension melts away.

He's probably thinking what she is.

It's only you, my dear friend. My dearest friend, now my love. I've known you so long. What have I to be afraid of?

Their mouths meet, a slow give and take that faintly echoes what other parts of them will soon be doing, Eru willing. Her courage returns, hands smoothing and petting over his torso, feeling the lines and contours of his body before pulling his nightshirt over his head, It gets tangled in his arms, making him sputter and the both of them laugh harder. After a bit of maneuvering it finally slips off.

She finds herself staring. He's watching her, face avid and pink-cheeked, bare shoulders slender and white. He reaches forward and fiddles with the hem of her own shift. She lifts her arms, there is the flicker of white linen over her face, then the night air on her skin, along with his admiring gaze.

"Eru, you're beautiful." He whispers warmly.

"So are you." Is her sincere response.

She marvels at the contrasts between their bodies. He is light where she is dark, dark where she is light, hard in the places where she is soft. She's determined to leave no bit of him untouched, unexplored. They're not feeling particularly urgent this moment, so she has the luxury of getting acquainted with him in ways she wouldn't have dared to otherwise. He smiles indulgently as she kisses his eyelids, his nose, his fingertips and wrist, fingers trailing at the crease of leg meeting hip, the hollow of his knee.

As soon as she's finished he embarks on a similar mission, mouth gracing her throat, then her naked chest, tentatively at first, growing bolder by the second until she's arching up, fingers of one hand tangled in his hair, moans and vaguely encouraging sounds finding their way out her mouth, a slow, warm pulse flaring in places rarely thought of in everyday life. Then it flickers and sparks as his hot tongue swirls around a nipple and paints silvery trails on her flesh.

The need notches tighter. Oh Valar, she wants to touch him, really touch him.

She reaches out blindly until her hand settles firmly on his upper thigh.

He freezes, then slowly lifts his head to give her a surprised, questioning look. One finger drifts up his hip, and the muscles in his stomach twitch.

She swallows thickly. "Might I...?"

He nods faintly, never breaking his gaze from hers.

She lets her fingers brush him lightly, hears him inhale sharply, then wraps her hand around him, and he lets the breath out in a shivery sigh.

It's... there are no words for what she feels, as she moves her hand slowly, gently, watching in rapt fascination as he reacts strongly to every minute movement, shoulders rolling back, eyelids fluttering shut, belly clenching inward, lips parting. The only sound she can hear is his breathing, throaty and shaky, getting slowly louder with each passing moment. When it becomes faint moans each time he exhales, he begins to push back faintly into her fist.

He must trust her immensely to let her do this, and see him so... vulnerable, losing control of himself and his own reactions.

As she reflects this his hands descends to stop hers, gently unlacing her fingers and lifting them up to kiss her knuckles. A little puzzled, she asks "Are you alright."

"Yes." his voice is shaky. "It's only that... I didn't want... it to happen right now, like this."

"'It'?" She has to think a moment to understand. "Oh..." Blood rushes to her face. "Erm... I see."

He laughs faintly. They've been doing quite a bit of laughing these last few minutes. Cupping the back of her head he leans in to give her a slippery burning kiss. A groan slips out from her when his tongue slides confidently over hers. She leans back and lets him settle beside her, mouths never breaking contact. He's half over her, skin not quite touching, but close enough for her to feel the warmth coming from him.

His long fingers move up the inside of her thigh, Stopping briefly.

"You can." She answers before he even asks. Then adds, "Please."

His breath his coming in little puffs over her face as his fingers finally reach the seam at the apex of her thighs, the tip of his index tracing, just barely making contact. Her hips lift faintly, prickles traveling beneath her skin. He gives a sigh that could be a moan were it any louder. She realizes he is aroused simply by feeling her aroused.

His fondling grows firmer, but remains gentle, plucking lightly like a musician at the strings of a fiddle. Her eyes fall shut, feeling a gentle, sweet ache bloom where he touches. She trusts him, as he's trusted her, surrendering all control of herself, skin tingling from the not-quite-there contact if his body.

He begins to speak as he touches her, sounding almost as though hes's thinking aloud. "You're my home. Not a place... a person." His voice wraps around her like a woolen blanket, lips pressing to her throat. "When you are with me, I feel as though I'm still home... I feel strong..."

His thumb presses against the sensitive little nub, making her body jerk, then begins to trace faint little circles.

"Frodo..." Her throat closes around her voice as one finger slides forward, inside her, where she's now so slick there's no resistance.

"Sam..." He lightly kisses her ear, which is now far more sensitive than it has any business being. "My Dear Sam..." Another finger joins the first, bringing the sweet twinge of stretched muscle, and she almost yells.

He continues his ministrations gentle but insistent. His hand quivers a little at first, but any nervousness he may have in the beginning is soon gone, middle and forefinger drawing in and out, curling against her, while the pad of his thumb keeps circling. She vocalizes, allowing herself to gasp, sigh, and whimper because it is so good...

He trails faint feather-soft kisses over her face, whispering encouraging words, trying to coax herfarther along. Everything, his fingers, his voice, lips, and breath, even the air in the room brings exquisite awareness. Tingling tightness travels up her chest and forms a knot in the floor of her pelvis. Something's about to happen, something's...

"Love you." Tumbles in equal parts velvety smooth and sand-papery rough from his lips beside her ear. The straw that breaks the oliphant's back.

Waves of heat wash over her belly and thighs, hands clutching empty air and sucking her lower lip between her teeth. Every muscle and sinew in her tenses and ripples, before her strength ebbs away and leaves her panting and spent like seafoam.

Her eyes slide open as he leans back, sees him lift his damp fingers to his nose. A needy sound bursts out before she's even aware of it. She'll burst if this goes any further, and it looks as though he might follow, his face tight and his breathing harsh, skin stretching taut over his chest with each intake, as if his own skin can scarcely hold him together. She reaches for him, pulling him over her body and between her legs, pleased to note that he's considerably heavier than when she hoisted him onto her back and staggered up the burning slope of Mount Doom. He presses against her, both of them groaning as he slides over her sex.

"Sam..." He gasps, speaking with great effort. "What do you want me to do? Please, I want you to tell me!"

"Need..." She's no longer able to string words into proper sentences. She cups his backside firmly and pulls him flush against her as "Needtofeelyounowplease!" comes out in a rush.

He slides his hands beneath her legs, folding her knees against her chest, then reaches down and uses his hand to join them, chest and stomach tucking against hers. She feels him push forward and her body yields easily. Her mouth falls open but she would never be certain afterwards if any sound came out or not.

She feels him, warm, alive and solid, buried deep in the hot crux of her body. Any deeper and he's touch her heart, she's certain. There is no pain, or any discomfort of any kind, really, just a bit strange at first, but not at all unpleasant. How much the first time is supposed to hurt depended on who she's asked, ranging from tearing agony with spots of blood to smooth bliss from the very get-go. In essence, it all depended on how relaxed, how ready the lass was, and how gentle the lad.

Frodo's nothing but gentle. And she is very, very ready.

He gives a faint whine, body growing taut with pleasure and head falling to bury his face in her neck. "So... gods..." He grinds out. She feels his whole body tremor, his heart beating rapidly against her breast. "Am..." He swallows thickly. "Does it hurt any?"

"No." She smiles widely, turning her head and brushing her lips to his ear. "Not at all." She gives a faint rotation of her hips, encouraging him to move. He lifts his head, echoing her movement.

It takes a few moments for them to find a rhythm together, his arms tuck into the hollows of her bent knees and rolls forward in a languorous pace, savoring. It's all so very new, so very different than she imagined, more real, more... She can't possibly describe it. Soon they're moving together, Frodo's spine arching and flexing like a cat's. Her toes curl involuntarily every time he pushes in, never prepared for the sensation of being filled and stretched for the brief humid moments until he draws back. She can almost feel the air in his lungs, the blood flowing in his veins...

Suddenly he slows to a stop, she can't help the frustrated mewl. Then his weight begins to lean to the side and she understands what he's trying to do. He nudges and wiggles until they have switched places, with him lying underneath and her atop. She looks down at him, a little surprised.

He's giving her the gift of control. Complete control. Over him, over the lovemaking, because up until now, if either of them had any control in a situation it was him, being the employer and all. That's why he's asked her to tell him, why he's waited until she gave the go-ahead before they started.

She's not quite certain what to do, but leans forward to kiss him warmly. He responds, tracing his fingers down her spine and drawing circles at the base.

She shifts her muscles. Goes back, then forward.

"Yes..." She she hears him sigh, then he lifts his pelvis in an alternating stroke.

It's a dance. A slow, languid dance unlike any she's seen either in the Shire or elsewhere. She moves almost gracefully, every shift and rock a fluid motion.

His knees bend and his feet flatten against the bed, lifting himself up to kiss her, then press his brow to her own. Then he says the words that undo her completely,

"Yours... Only yours."

It's madness after that. Beautiful madness. They mold and melt, cries intermingling so they can't tell them apart. Gravity pushes her down, making him reach farther into her and brush a thousand different wonderful points that create a sweet, syrupy buildup of pressure. She leans far enough to press their chests together, low enough for the damp creamy skin of his lower belly to caress the blessed little bundle of nerves. His hands and fingers stroke and grasp her flanks, trailing tracks in her sweaty skin. She traces the point of his ear with her tongue and the movement of his hips stutters, becoming a sharp, staccato of quick deep thrusts and his nine fingers curl into her skin. A string of incoherent gasps and whimpers bursts from her lips as she starts to teeter on the... very... edge...

Suddenly he slides one hand between them, fingertips pressing and circling above where they're joined and...oh!

Her throat constricts around a sob. This peak brings the one from minutes previous to shame. It tears her from the inside out, feeling like her body is flying apart into many small pieces, renting her with white-hot threads and leaving her into a mess like melted honey.

She feels him pitch and shudder beneath her, head flung back and arms clinging to her frame as he gives a happy cry. The faint lines of weariness fade away from his face and are replaced with luminous bliss, his burdens forgotten, if just for a moment. Her head droops to his chest as she feels him tense and tremble for several more moments.

"Valar...!" He gasps, before his whole body finally falls limp.

"Sam."

A soft whispering of her own name pulls her slowly, gently, to the surface of waking. AS she draws closer she's made aware of the finger tips tracing errant patterns in her skin.

"Mmh... Aye?" her eyes peer out into the purplish light. Her joints feel rather stiff, something soft, warm, and smooth is curled up around her.

The memories of the previous evening return in a warm flow, bringing a wide smile to her face.

"Am I havin' that dream again?"

He nuzzles the nape of her neck. "You've dreamed of this?" There's a definite smile in his voice.

"At times."

He leans forward and kisses her cheek. "I should be returning to my own room soon. Unless you don't mind them finding us like this."

She pushes her feet against the blankets to move herself closer. "I'd much rather not, If you don't mind."

They only continue to lie there.

"Weren't you a-goin'?" She tries not to break into laughter.

"I planned to." He murmurs, smirking and noncommittal.

Still, he makes no move to get up, and she's in no great hurry to make him leave, loving the feel of his arms draped around her and his breath ghosting over her skin. They begin to drift off again.

Then Frodo gives a faint start."Did you hear that?"

"Mwhat?" She mumbles sleepily, eyes sliding open. She turns her head to face him.

"I'm... not quite sure how to describe it." He begins to glance about the dim room, looking for some sign or source. "It was... like a faraway drum beat in that it resonated, and at the same time a clear, high note, like that from a flute, or more like a finger running along the rim of a crystal glass."

A bit of worry pricks her. Since Weathertop he's been able to see things, sense things, that she and their other mortal companions are unaware of. She strains her ears. All she can hear is the chirping of the sparrows and swallows out the window. "Perhaps it was the birds?"

He shakes his head. "Didn't sound at all like any bird. It was... more soft and subtle."

"D'you hear it now?"

He's quiet a few moments longer, lips pursed slightly and brow furrowed. "No. I'm beginning to wonder if I truly heard it to begin with, it seemed so distant."

"I shouldn't wonder that you were starting to dream."

"You're probably right." He concedes.

Sighing, and with great reluctance, Sam sits up. "It's nigh onto daybreak. You should probably start dressing."

So they forget about the odd sound, for the time being. They're far too preoccupied with the future, everything so new and powerful between them.

They don't remember until much, much later, once they are back home in the Shire.

When they discover she is carrying the next generation of Bagginses, and begin to understand its meaning.