fallow — read on ao3
—
"I spent all my hope on the wish that we'd both return home, Sam, alive and well. And I left none for the dream that you'd return my affections."
Sam let out something like a sob and a laugh. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but you are a right fool."
—
In which Rosie's wedding stirs up a myriad of emotions.
Sam picked his head from the muck and gaped. “Mr. Frodo! By Yavanna you should not be out in this weather!” Frodo gave a tiny laugh, eyes blinking out the water that rolled down his face. “Neither should you. I’m sure Rosie would understand if you picked her flowers tomorrow.” “Nay, these–” Sam stood, letting out a soft groan as his legs stretched. He stared down at the ground a moment, tension riding the muscles of his face. “These are for you.” Though he spoke such words he did not lift his hand to bring them up, only when Frodo beckoned did he push them outward. “Thank you, Sam–” “Come on then, in here, Frodo, I couldn’t bear to see you sick, you understand.” Sam ushered him under the tree. And while water still filtered through the gaps, the drops weren't as harsh. “Here,” Sam said, pulling his cloak down from the tree limb. It was a far cry from the ones from Lothlorien, but the wool wasn't yet wet, and wrapped around Frodo like a cocoon, it felt safe. It smelt of Sam, of petrichor and that sweet tang of earth. Frodo found himself wrapping it tighter, warming the chill in his shoulder as if it was Sam’s warm hands. The stems burned the inside of his palm from how rough he held them, it was days like this–all cold and wet, misty as a dead man’s eyes–that reminded him of the journey. It had been a great surprise he could rise from his bed this morning, never mind take tea with the Gaffer, to seek out Sam. Despair and hope raddled within Frodo now, a great storm above a greater sea; there was the thought that healing could find a way to him, and then the overwhelming feeling that it would always be just out of reach.
