Pairing: Frodo/?
Rating: PG15 for implied violence etc. Dark humour.
Summary: In Rivendell, someone covets Frodo.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to the estate of Prof. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. No profit is made nor offence intended.
A/N: Follows movie canon for the characterisations.
Feedback: Always appreciated - perhobfan@yahoo.co.uk
I begin to hate Sam. I had merely held him in disdain but now, after three days of this, I begin to despise him.
"Ah, Mr. Frodo, you're awake!" he says and he bounds over like some drooling dog to leap on top of his master. Frodo bestows one of his sweetest smiles on his servant and they clasp hands. Sam gazes lovingly into the startling eyes, the most beautiful eyes this world has ever seen.
"Oh Sam, I thought I would never see you again," Frodo breaths, his snowy muslin bed shirt opening just a little to reveal a tantalising glimpse of nipple. Sam is beside himself with joy. Sickening!
The solid, dependable Samwise then proceeds to slaver over his beloved master, fussing over the pillows and offering to fetch food from the kitchen. And Frodo suffers it all with his usual gentle patience, allowing Sam to fondle his flesh in that pure, platonic way they have. Any more of these brotherly shenanigans and I will lose my breakfast.
Now Sam is leaning over the bed, rearranging the blankets and he looks over to me with those big, trusting, stupid eyes and beams like the Hobbiton village idiot that he is, and I smile back, my visage stern but benevolent. I tell Frodo that Sam has kept vigil at his bedside for three days, that he has barely eaten or slept with worry for his master. Frodo's eyes are radiant as they behold Sam the Martyr, Sam the Idiot, Sam the Fool. I clench my fists within my robe.
All the evil in the world I feel ready to harness in a fiery bolt of lightening to cast at that earnest, gentle face. I want to see him writhing in agony on the floor, begging for someone to put him out of his misery, but I merely smile and wait. "Oh Sam" says the invalid. The way he says the name, the fondling in the very melody of his voice, the careless manner in which he permits his servant to keep such close proximity to him, to his body, is pure agony... I will crush the head of Samwise Gamgee in a very strong, very brutal, very sharp, well-oiled vice, and see the orb of his skull crack and his eyes bulge out of their sockets...
But I am smiling, I am wise and serene and I know that Sam suspects nothing, Frodo suspects nothing. They both look to me for wisdom and guidance, I am above such things as jealousy and lust. Such failings are far, far beneath me. To the outward eye, especially one belonging to a miserable, grimy, ignorant gardener, I am inscrutable and serene. I ponder on how best to dismember and hide a Hobbit, given the distinct lack of new building works in Rivendell...
I see the bulge in Sam's breeches (quite a big bulge, actually), see his pathetic attempt to move his leg to conceal his excitement, but nothing escapes my superior perception (how in Middle Earth can Frodo not feel that gargantuan edifice against his creamy thigh?). I know that Simpleton Sam is aroused by the sight of his master as he lays vulnerable and flushed, a light sheen on his delicate brow. In his state of undress, Frodo is irresistible and I know Sam longs to climb into that bed, longs to suckle those nipples and crush that soft mouth with hard kisses, yearns to run his fingers through that unruly mop of curls. I know because it is how I feel, but I am as a giant compared to the lumbering oaf that is Sam Gamgee. How dare he even aspire to such feelings, such thoughts about Frodo? That his coarse hands could paw at such perfection made flesh is unthinkable.
I smile my patently kindly smile as they jabber on, but all the time I feel a growing urge to disembowel Sam slowly, and then to decapitate him with a rusty Morgul blade.
"Well, I will leave you for now." I say, rising with care so as to disguise my own bulge. "Sam, do not keep your master too long. He has suffered greatly and will need more rest ere he can rise and gaze upon Rivendell", I say, with as much majesty as I can muster. "Tomorrow Frodo must attend a Council to decide the fate of the One Ring".
Just before I sweep from the chamber, Sam gazes at me with unconcealed love and admiration and he mouths a "thank you" which he takes care Frodo does not notice, and why should he not worship and thank me? Why should this lovesick Hobbit not revere me? Am I not the saviour of his beloved?
Am I not Elrond?