To Sleep Perchance To Dream

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“Sam…”

Samwise Gamgee startled to wakefulness, dragging himself from a darkness without thought, and listened.

Even though he’d taken the first watch, Sam realized he’d been sleeping. He’d volunteered, seeing the exhaustion lining his master’s face, insisting that it would be all right. Yet only moments after they’d settled into a protected rock niche where they’d made a small shelter, sleep had overwhelmed him. He’d closed his lids for only a moment and that had been his undoing. His eyes had been so tired and the dark so inviting, yet Sam knew this was not a safe practice in the danger-ridden lands of Mordor

Guilt flooded his heart. The voice had been his master’s – barely a breath, a sigh in the dark behind him. Or had he really spoken at all. Sam couldn’t be so sure. He had been asleep; maybe it had only been a dream.

As his thundering heart stilled, Sam heard it again – a moaning whimper, a quiet cry.

“Sam…”

It was Frodo, crying out in the blackness of the shelter behind him. Had some creature, that Gollum perhaps, stolen in while Sam lay sleeping and now sought to cause his master harm. Sam spun around, grabbing Sting from where it lay at his side and peered cautiously into the dark, prepared to fight whatever was causing his master distress. And if it were Gollum…well, nothing was going to stop Sam from finishing with him this time.

The shelter was quiet. Frodo lay sleeping, his back to Sam, knees curled up toward his chest. The orc cloak Sam had found for him at the tower of Cirith Ungol lay bunched at his feet as if cast hastily aside. A corner of Sam’s elven cloak, which the sandy-haired hobbit had offered as a poor pillow for his exhausted master’s head, lay clutched in Frodo’s grasp. An edge of the soft gray material covered part of his face, as if his nose had grown cold, and Sam relaxed with a smile.

‘My poor dear Mister Frodo,’ he thought, laying Sting back on the ground. ‘He’s cold I ‘spect, with that cloak all askew – nasty thing that it is. Don’t worry, Sam will make it right for you.’

The stout hobbit crawled from the shelter’s opening back to where his master lay. There was very little light, but as Sam approached he could see that Frodo’s face was flushed, his breathing fast.

‘Poor dear,’ Sam worried, ‘Probably still sick from that spider bite.’

He touched his hand lightly to Frodo’s forehead, not wishing to wake him. The flesh was warm and moist with a light sheen of sweat but not fevered and Sam sighed. ‘Good, no sign of fever.”

Brushing dark curls aside, Sam held the back of his hand lightly against Frodo’s flushed cheek. The sleeping hobbit’s lips parted slightly and he moaned softly, deep in his throat. He shifted in his sleep, rolling to his back, and tossed his head slowly side to side.

The young gardener leaned back, afraid that his touch would cause Frodo to stir. Sam did not wish to wake him particularly since, for his master, sleep came so seldom these days. He kneeled there, remaining a bit back from the sleeping shape, watching as his chest rapidly rose and fell. Frodo seemed agitated or distressed somehow, and Sam worried. Was it the Ring? Was it somehow tormenting his dreams just as it did his waking hours? Sam could see the dreadful golden circle glittering at Frodo’s throat and he shuddered. Such an evil thing it was. Sam couldn’t wait until they were rid of it. Sometimes he truly wondered if that day would ever come.

Again, Frodo groaned bringing a hand to his mouth and pressing it to his dry lips then to his forehead.

‘He must be fevered,’ Sam thought, watching the hand tremble, then lay still, the back of it resting upon his brow. ‘Best cover him up again, before he catches his death in this foul air.’

Sam reached for the cloak that lay at Frodo’s feet, turning briefly from his dark-haired friend. As he untangled the course fabric, he could feel Frodo shift his body again, raising his left knee and laying the sole of one furred foot on the ground.

“Oh, my dear Sam…” Frodo sighed again, his voice still barely a whispered breath.

“Yes Mister F…” Sam started to answer, but Frodo’s name froze on his lips as he turned again to face his master.

Frodo lay as before, still very much asleep, his breath panting in the cool air. But Sam’s face couldn’t help but blush as the reality of the situation struck him. Suddenly he realized that his master wasn’t ill – as he had first suspected. Nor was he caught up in the memory of some terrible danger.

He was aroused.

Sam could see that Frodo’s hands were moving now, slowly stroking two peaked nipples that pressed tautly against the fabric of his shirt. The dark-haired hobbit licked his lips with a pink tongue. His one hand caressed lower, moving across his belly while the other continued to press against and squeeze one of the hardened nubs on his chest. Already Frodo’s passion was apparent, evidenced by the bulge that stretched his trousers.

“Oh Sam, yes…” he whispered again, his soft voice husky.

The gardener hobbit was embarrassed and bewildered. His master had said Sam; there could be no mistaking that. His name on Frodo’s lips now could mean only one thing, a thought Sam couldn’t even dare to believe might be true. Frodo was thinking of him, right now – he was dreaming of him.

“Oh my sweet Mister Frodo,” Sam barely breathed, his heart pounding anew.

Sam couldn’t begin to count how many long years he had dreamed of this himself, craving more than Frodo’s kind and gentle friendship. How many nights had he lain awake, touching himself, much as his sleeping master was doing now, dreaming of creamy white skin and soft dark curls?

Sam had loved Frodo from their first meeting. He’d been just a child then, tagging at his Gaffer’s heels while he tended the gardens at Bag End, and Frodo not yet a tween. Everything about the delicate sprite of a youthful hobbit had enraptured the humble gardener’s son. He’d worshipped him from afar to begin with, finding himself tongue-tied and shy whenever Frodo spared him a kind word. As they had grown into a cautious friendship, Sam found himself taking every opportunity to be near him - to always provide whatever Frodo was lacking. When Gandalf had bound him to Frodo at the beginning of the quest, Sam had been relieved, no longer in need of a clever excuse to follow his master wherever his path may lead. It was Sam’s mission in life to always be what Frodo needed most.

Now it seemed, at least in dreaming sleep, what Frodo needed was Sam.

Fearful, Sam watched as Frodo lay there, his hands still absently caressing – now reaching under the shirt to fondle bare flesh. He trembled and mumbled something Sam couldn’t understand, then tossed his head once more from side to side.

Oh how Sam wanted to touch him but he was afraid of what might happen if he did. What if Frodo awakened? What if he didn’t remember his dream? What if Sam was somehow wrong? What if he was simply seeing what he most desired to see?

In agony, Sam gazed at Frodo with all the longing he’d kept hidden for so many years. He wanted to help his master, to bring him peace. Could this be the way to do it, even if only for a fleeting moment?

While he watched, Frodo rolled once more to his side, drawing his knees up again and placing one of his hands between his legs, touching the bulge that lay there. With his other hand he pressed the fabric of the elven cloak – Sam’s cloak – to his cheek. He buried his face into it and sighed, breathing deeply.

‘Courage Samwise Gamgee,” the gardener hobbit thought as he inched closer to his master, ‘Let’s think this through.’

He knew Frodo was asleep…as deeply asleep as he’d been in many days. Sam also knew that he was involved in his master’s dream, and that involvement, he could be sure, was an intimate one having more to do with tending Frodo’s needs than the needs of his garden. Now if he could just help Frodo along with this somehow, his master might stay asleep awhile and get the rest he so desperately needed.

‘Courage Sam. Trust what your heart has to say.’’ Sam reminded himself. ‘Your heart won’t lead you wrong.’

Sam eased as close to Frodo as he dared, then paused and watched. Engaged in his amorous play, the sleeping Frodo made no indication that anything was different. He continued to stroke himself, alternating from chest to belly to between his legs without any pattern. He groaned, trembling and rocked where he lay, pushing into the hand that cradled his growing need.

Once he was sure Frodo was still sleeping soundly, Sam lay down behind him, not quite touching but close enough to feel his heat and breathe the warm scent of his body.

‘How wonderful he smells,’ Sam thought, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. ‘Sweet and fresh like the earth after a summer storm. Like a memory of home.’

Tentatively, Sam reached out one hand and placed it lightly on Frodo’s waist. The flesh felt warm through the course material of the stolen orc shirt Frodo wore. Sam found that he needed to take a deep breath then, just to fight down the fear that clutched at his belly.

‘Oh what am I doing?’ he thought, thinking himself completely mad.

Yet for all his fear and doubt Sam found that now that he’d started he could not stop. He let his hand lay there a moment, barely touching Frodo’s body, until he was sure his master was not going to snap awake in a fit of wrath. Then slowly he moved his hand from Frodo’s waist to his hip, following the gentle curve of his master’s body, allowing his fingers to lightly caress as they went.

Frodo trembled and moaned deep in his throat at Sam’s soft touch. Sam smiled as, much to his relief, his sleeping master did not awaken at this new sensation, but only responded. Emboldened, Sam inched forw– cl– closing the space between them – until he lay full length against his master’s back.

The dark-haired hobbit snuggled into the warm body that pressed into him from behind and sighed. He tilted his head back into Sam’s chest and neck and lay there softly panting, his white throat taut and glistening with sweat.

Sam’s hand still rested on Frodo’s hip and heughtught it back again to caress his master’s waist, rubbing with his palm as he went, this time sliding the hand up under the shirt. Sam could feel Frodo tremble as he grazed the soft hairs of his belly and chest. He heard Frodo’s breath catch as a callused thumb and forefinger found a still hard nipple and cautiously squeezed it.

“Oh yes…” Again the words were whispered, dreamy, and Sam could see that Frodo’s eyes were still closed. “Yes…ah…”

With lips parted, Frodo leaned his head further back until Sam’s face was filled with a mass of dark curls. Sam carefully eased his lower arm from between them, and when Frodo lifted his head to cry out as the sandy-haired gardener pinched his nipple again, Sam slipped his arm underneath to cradle his master’s neck and head.

‘There,’ houghought, ‘Much more comfortable for the both of us.’

Sam gently stroked Frodo’s chest and belly, running fingertips across the soft flesh, memorizing every inch, every scar. His poor Mister Frodo, never a harm to him before this quest and now look at him. Stabbed and whipped, nicked by swords and bitten by orcs – his poor Frodo. If only he could make all the hurts disappear.

Growing bolder, Sam slid his hand lower, following the soft line of hair from Frodo’s belly button to where it disappeared into the top of his trousers. Frodo’s own hand was no longer between his legs but had reached up to stroke the arm that supported his head. The sandy-haired hobbit let his hand glide over the bulge in Frodo’s breeches, feeling its size and hardness even through the thickric.ric. Frodo cried out breathlessly and pressed into Sam’s hand eagerly accepting the touch. Demanding more.

For an instant Sam hesitated, fear and just a little guilt gnawing at him. Was what he was doing right or was he somehow taking advantage of his Mister Frodo?

As if in answer, Frodo moaned again, and once more whispered his name. “Sam…”

‘Oh Frodo.’ Sam thought, as he moved carefully to work at the trouser buttons. ‘Please let this be right. Please don’t let your poor Sam be making a mistake.’

Sam tried to ignore the fire that his name on Frodo’s lips had kindled in his own belly and below. The insistent press of his master’s back against his chest and firm rounded bottom against his own hardening member was a sweet torment. He continued to work diligently at the buttons and tried hard not to think about the throbbing in his own groin. He tried to push the thought of his Mister Frodo, lying there all hot and inviting out his mind by chiding himself. ‘This is for Mister Frodo,’ he reminded his own aroused body. ‘That’ll have to wait for some other time.’

He could feel Frodo’s shaft straining against the breeches as he finished undoing the last button. Cally,lly, he slid his hand into the opening and stroked the throbbing flesh that waited there. The dark-haired hobbit’s body arched into him as if struck by lightening and he cried out loudly in the dark, the sound echoing in Sam’s ears.

Frodo was larger than Sam had imagined him to be and his member was hard and hot where it lay in Sam’s hand. The hobbit gardener relished how naturally it felt in his palm – as natural as his own. Sam knew how to give pleasure like this; he’d certainly done it enough to himself to gain some experience. He could tell that Frodo’s body was more than ready, the cock’s head already beading with slick white drops. Sam smoothed the liquid over the head and shaft with his shaking fingers and gripping the shaft firmly he began a slow, measured stroking.

Groaning, Frodo clutched Sam’s free hand in his own. He licked and bit at the gardener’s fingertips, then sucked on them, caressing them with his warm, wet tongue. His soft lips circled the digits with a delicious, hot, wetnand and Sam thought he’d go crazy with the feel of it. He could almost imagine the tenderness of those sweet lips on his own, could almost feel the thrust of his master’s tongue deep into his own mouth – keeping time with the thrusting of his hips. He wondered what Frodo would taste like…

‘Oh Frodo,” he thought, groaning softly and feeling his own passion burn. ‘How I love and want you…”

The dark-haired hobbit moaned deeply – almost painfully, thrusting his hips into Sam’s hand and arching his back into Sam’s body with each stroke of the gardener’s skilled hand. He panted and so did Sam, their bodies locked in a rhythm that quickened with every passing moment, until Sam thought they would both catch fire from the intensity of it. He could feel Frodo’s hot brean hin his hand, could feel his muscles tensing with each thrust and knew his climax couldn’t be too far away. Sam feared the finish might be their undoing. What would happen if Frodo awakened right then – at the peak of his passion?

‘It’s too late to be thinking about that now Samwise,’ he reminded himself. He kissed the back of his master’s neck, allowing his tongue to briefly taste the salt and musk of Frodo’s sweat. He wanted to cover Frodo in kisses, wished for more freedom to explore the beautiful body that pressed against him. He had dreamed of it, of course, could see it even now in his mind’s eye and yet still he knew it was not meant to be. He didn’t dare to do more than he was already doing.

‘This is for Frodo.’ he kept thinking to himself. ‘For Frodo.’

Sweat beaded Sam’s forehead and trickled into his eyes and for a moment he leaned his forehead against Frodo’s shoulder to dry it. He felt hot, burning with his own des He He wanted to clutch at Frodo, to hold him so closely that their two bodies would become one. With great restraint he had to dissuade himself from pressing too strongly against the body in front of him in hopes of finding his own release.

“For Frodo,” he panted.

The impassioned cries from Frodo’s lips had become rhythmic now, escaping with each breath he exhaled. Sam quickened the pace, knowing his master was close, so very close. “Come on Frodo,” he breathed into his master’s ear, nibbling the lobe, licking the pointed tip, savoring the very taste of him. “My sweet Frodo….”

“Oh Sam…Sam…” Frodo repeated his name, over and over again, crying out until he was completely lost in the passion.

When Frodo’s climax came at last, it gripped him without mercy. He thrashed and thrust against Sam again and again, the actions so strong and unrelenting that it startled and frightened the gentle gardener. Sam’s heart felt tight in his chest and his throat constricted as Frodo went rigid in his arms, his organ pumping in completion. He cried out in pain or pleasure, Sam couldn’t be sure which, until there was nothing left in him – no seed, no voice, no strength.

When it was done, Frodo lay there as if death had overtaken him. Sam trembled in fear, his ardor shriveled up inside of him. He could feel the light touch of breath on his arm, the only sign that his master still lived. Otherwise the body that had until a moment ago been alive with passion was now limp and as still as the grave.

Sweat slicked them both and Sam shivered in the cool breeze that blew in from the shelter’s opening. Some part of him wanted to remain there forever, holding Frodo in his arms. Some other part of him wanted to shrink away, forget what had just happened and pretend that nothing had changed. But it had changed. No matter what happened when Frodo awakened, no matter what Frodo did or did not remember, Sam couldn’t imagine how things would ever be the same. He shook his head, feeling sweat drip from the hair that curled on his forehead, and sighed.

‘Best to be up,’ he thought, ‘No telling what fell creatures might be about. This is still Mordor after all.’

He moved his arm slowly from under Frodo’s neck, careful to place his sleeping master’s head gently back on the bunched up elven cloak. He wiped his other hand, still sticky with Frodo’s seed, on a small tussock of prickly grass then tore loose a square of cloth from his already tattered shirttail. He retrieved his water bottle, sipped a mouthful to ease the dryness that lingered in his throat, then wet the rag just enough to dampen it.

‘Carefully now, Samwise,’ he cautioned himself, easing to where Frodo still lay. ‘Just a quick clean up and no one’s the wiser.’

Sam washed Frodo, just enough to wipe away the remnants of his climax, and quickly rebuttoned his trousers. After pulling the shirt down to cover his belly and waist, Sam draped the heavy orc cloak over his master’s sleeping form and tucked it in around him. Resisting the urge to kiss Frodo’s soft lips just once, Sam caressed his cheek instead and was relieved to hear the softest of sighs whisper from those rosy lips.

In his heart, Sam hoped that everything would be all right.

“Sleep now, Mister Frodo,” he ordered softly, turning from his master and crawling to the shelter’s opening. “Sleep without dreams – either good or bad.”

*****

Frodo awoke some time later, stretched luxuriously and smiled. He felt so good, as if he’d spent a night in his own bed back at Bag End, and not on the unforgiving rocks of Mordor. He could see Sam silhouetted in what passed for light in this forsaken place and his smile deepened. His faithful Sam, keeping watch long after he should have been sleeping.

“Sam…?” Frodo questioned, and the gardener’s head snapped around as if it had been struck.

“Mister Frodo, you’re awake.”

Somehow Sam sounded relieved and Frodo frowned, crawling forward to sit at his friend’s side. “Yes Sam, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, no reason, Mister Frodo,” Sam muttered, lowering his gaze and staring at the ground that lay just past his bare feet. He played nervously with the edge of his sleeve.

“In fact it seems you’ve already let me sleep too long,” Frodo continued, chastising the young gardener with a soft but stern tone, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Oh Mister Frodo, don’t be cross with your Sam.” Sam pleaded, glancing at Frodo with brown eyes that glistened wetly, as if with unshed tears. “You seemed to be sleeping so peacefully – it would’ve been a shame to wake you.”

“Cross?” Frodo questioned with a smile. He touched Sam’s chubby work-hardened hand with his own soft and slender one, trying to ease away the concern that his ill thought out words had created. “How could I ever be cross with you, my dear Sam? After all we’ve been through.”

Sam nodded and trembled at the warm touch of his master’s smooth fingers. A constricting feeling seemed to grip his throat, and he found his words coming out in a tight whisper. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did, Sam,” Frodo admitted with a yawn that turned into a wistful smile. If he noticed Sam’s shaking, he didn’t let on. “Oddly enough I dreamt of the Shire, of the meadows and fields. Now I haven’t done that in longer than I can remember.”

Frodo paused, as if in thought. “I remember that I was dozing under the tree at Bag End. You were there too, working in the garden, laughing your way through one of those silly tunes you sometimes come up with. The birds were singing and a great angry squirrel was chattering away in the boughs above me. Bees buzzed in the flower beds and everything seemed to be right in the world. Hmmmm…what a wonderful dream that was, to have everything as it was before.”

“Yes, I suppose it would have been,” Sam admitted, his voice tired and without much enthusiasm. Deep in his heart, he was relieved and yet a little saddened that Frodo didn’t seem to have any memory of what had passed between them. “Too bad it’s only a dream, Mister Frodo, and all so far away. Sometimes I wonder if things will ever be right again. Nothing will ever be the same, I’m afraid.”

“But one thing does stay the same through it all Sam,” Frodo assured, taking Sam’s hand in both of his and caressing it absently.

“What’s that, Mister Frodo?”

“Whether I’m here or there, no matter where I am, the one thing I can be sure of is that you are with me.” Frodo smiled and met Sam’s soft brown eyes with his own bright blue ones. “You, Samwise Gamgee, are what keeps the Shire alive for me, even when all seems lost and only darkness remains.”

Sam gaped at Frodo, not knowing what to say.

“Though admittedly for all the world I’d rather have you safe at home,” Frodo acknowledged, before Sam could reply. “But still, I am glad that you are here with me, my dear Sam.”

Both Hobbits sat in silence, lost in their own private thoughts. Frodo clutched Sam’s hand for a moment more, as if reluctant to let it go, then smiled at his gentle friend and released his grip.

“You should get some sleep, Sam. I’m sure you’re exhausted,” Frodo observed, squeezing Sam’s upper arm, his touch familiar but chaste. “I’ll keep watch for awhile.”

Sam nodded, not trusting his voice to speak, and crawled into the shelter. He lay down where his master had been sleeping only moments before and pulled the cloak about him. He could feel the strain of the past hours in the tightness of his back and an aching in his belly. He hoped for the darkness to take him quickly and grant him peace once more and a sleep without dreams.

Yet as he lay there, surrounded by warmth and dark and Frodo’s scent, his master’s gentle words came back to flood him like no physical passion could. His master did care for him, did need him. Even if he were to share with Frodo – from now until the end of all things – no greater intimacy than the pleasure of his friendship, Sam would never doubt again that Frodo loved him.

And although Frodo may not remember what happened there – in that dark place, during that dark time – it would be all right with Sam.

Though to be sure, he would never forget.

Fini