Pairing: Frodo/Sam

Summary: Frodo and Sam continue their journey to Mordor but they will face more than the lure of the Ring. This can be read as a continuation of my story, "Just for a Moment" or can stand alone.

Disclaimer: Needless to say, these characters belong to Tolkien (except for the obvious original character). No profit is made, nor offence intended.
Rating: PG-15, Angst, UST, some violence
Feedback: Always appreciated - perhobfan@yahoo.co.uk

AN: This story deviates from both book and movie cannon but its only a little detour along the way.

Part 1

Sam's night time ritual began. First, the shaking out of the blanket and then the laying down of the blanket, and finally the wrapping himself inside of the blanket. Frodo was already snug within his own cocoon, assuming the foetal position, facing Sam, less than an arm's length away.

Whilst Frodo would sleep, fitfully, Sam would lie awake most of the night, alert for any sound which might be out of place. A genuine, happy laugh would be out of place here, he thought to himself bitterly, the sweet giggle of a child, gentle rain, the silly songs of the drunken revellers in the Green Dragon at Hobbiton... here there were only the strange calls of unseen night birds and the constant scampering of what Sam assumed must be rats. He shuddered and tried to garner much needed warmth from the thin blanket, now dirty and dusty from their journey. Their endless, thankless journey.

Frodo whimpered softly in his sleep and Sam shifted his weight to better see the slight form of his master. The muffled cry stopped and was replaced by steady, if shallow breathing. Sam was frustrated beyond belief, to be so close to Frodo but unable to help him, to see him like this day in and day out, and far into the night, never fully at rest. It was a burden almost as heinous as that of the Ring on its Bearer. Sitting up, Sam shook his head to ward off sleep and watched the rise and fall of Frodo's chest under his blanket. It hurt, a tangible hurt to his heart to see him like this. The Frodo he had grown up with, the laughing Frodo, the mischievous and merry Frodo, seemed like a distant memory now, but Sam would bring that Frodo back if it took every ounce of strength in him.

After an hour of watching, exhaustion finally took hold and he fell asleep, quite unable to resist the urge to close his eyes. Sam fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

In the shadow of a rock, silent and still, the Orcs waited and watched. They waited because their Captain commanded them to, they watched because they had never seen halflings before. Instinct urged them to bear down upon the sleeping figures in the defile below, but fear of their Captain stayed their impulse, and he was an Orc greatly to be feared.

The company had followed their Captain over long leagues, covering much ground and losing several of their number along the way. Now they were six, including the Captain, but he alone was worth three of them, taller and stronger than they. As the company waited and watched, their Captain stood apart, his amber eyes gleaming in the light of the moon, and many thoughts surging through his head.

Frodo was dreaming. It was a dream that had visited him many times and one which he welcomed. He was in the Shire. It was summer and he was walking in a lush meadow not far from Bag End. In his dream, as is the way of such things, every sensation was exaggerated and intensified. There were butterflies of every hue and variety imaginable, swarms of them, their wings batting wisps of air around Frodo's face, their velvety softness encompassing him until he was a brightly beautiful field of dancing, swirling colour. Birds sang, honest and sweet birdsong of the Shire, the sky was clear and clean and he was home.

The tall grass of the meadow pulled at him until Frodo lay down and breathed in the good soil and felt his spirit soar. And turning his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes met those of Sam. How wonderful to find him there, his dearest friend who, in the land of dreams at least, was fully aware of the love Frodo felt for him and which he, in dreams at least, reciprocated fully and completely.

Together they lay, side by side in the sweet grass of a meadow above Hobbiton, needing no words to express themselves, only their eyes and then after a time gentle hands and finally warm, lazy mouths. It was so good to be home in the Shire.

Frodo awoke to find the earth beneath him hard and unyielding, the air cold and rank, and Sam nowhere to be seen. This had happened before, this sleepwalking away from safety but he had never managed to get so far away. Cold fear gripped him as shakily he got to his feet. Shivering without his blanket and disorientated, Frodo cast around for some clue - which way back to the camp, which way back to Sam?

The terrain was evil in daylight, at night it was worse, much worse. Every bird call was a mocking shriek, a biting wind had sprung up from the east and black clouds scuttered across the hoary moon.

Frodo felt small and very alone.

A sound, movement close by, a displacement of air. And then amber eyes in the darkness, unblinking eyes glinting in the pale moonlight told him he was not alone.

Sam felt the weak rays of the morning sun on his face and his first thought was that another miserable night was over, for which he was thankful.

His second thought was that he was alone.