A Fine Mess (Frodo/Sam) R 7/8
Jan. 23rd, 2011 10:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moit_ficsTitle: A Fine Mess - Chapter 7/8
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
moit
Summary: After taking a walk, a pregnant Frodo finds himself at the mercy of a camp of rangers.
Rating: R
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Genre: Drama, angst
Warnings: Yaoi/Slash, mpreg
Word Count: 1255
Previous chapters here.
Frodo was sullen and quiet for several days. Sam attributed it to the loss of their babe. He couldn’t imagine the strain it must have put on Frodo to not only lose their child, but to lose it so far from home and without his Sam by his side.
So Sam did the best he could. He prepared all of Frodo’s favourite foods, took him for walks around the Shire, and made sure he had his favourite books by his side. But nothing seemed to appease the ache in Frodo’s mind, and Sam was beginning to worry.
He even consulted the healer on the edge of Hobbiton.
“Hello?” he called, knocking on the round door.
As he was about to turn around and head back to Bag End, a wrinkled old Hobbit lass opened the door. “Yes?” she asked, squinting up at Sam with cataract-filled eyes.
“Madame Singleton?”
“Yes?” The woman squinted harder. “What is your pleasure, young one?”
“It’s my . . . partner. Might I come inside to discuss the matter further?”
Madame Singleton gave him a once-over, then seeming to decide that he was of decent folk, opened the door and stepped aside to allow Sam to pass. She set him at an old rickety table and offered him tea and biscuits, both of which he declined. She fixed herself some tea and sat across from Sam.
“Now, tell me, lad. You said your partner is having some difficulties?”
“Yes. He was—had been—carrying our . . . child.” Even now it sounded strange to his own ears.
But Madame Singleton seemed nonplussed. “Go on. He was carrying your child . . .”
“Yes. And he . . . went to visit a relative. While he was there, he . . . he lost the child. And now . . . he just isn’t the same. I don’t think he’s taking it well at all. He’ll barely talk to me as of late.”
Madame Singleton nodded sagely.
“Sounds like your lad’s gotten himself into a bit of the blues. No fear, though, young Samwise, give him some time and he should be back to normal before you know it.”
Sam pursed his lips and nodded. “Well, Madame Singleton, I thank you for you time.”
The old Hobbit showed him to the door and with a wave, he was off home. It wasn’t until he neared the gate at Bag End that he’d realised he never told Madame Singleton his name.
But as the days went by, Frodo seemed to be getting worse, rather than better. He’d almost completely stopped eating, except for when Sam would force him to eat something to keep him from starving. His clothes hung off his small frame and his face was gaunt and pallid. He looked like death warmed over.
“Frodo, please, you’ve got to eat something. For me?”
Frodo rolled over in the bed and pulled the quilt tighter about his neck. “I’m not hungry, Sam,” he said softly.
“Frodo, if you don’t agree to eat this soup, I swear to Eru, I will pour it down your throat.” Sam’s tone left no room for argument.
Frodo managed three bites before he had to push the bowl away. “If I eat anymore I shall begin to heave.”
“Well, at least you’ve something in your belly,” Sam said, rubbing Frodo’s back gently. “Can I get you anything else?”
Frodo shook his head and laid back down.
Sam stroked the curls off Frodo’s forehead. He knew that he was losing Frodo day by day, but he didn’t know what else to do. Part of him feared that he’d just wake up one morning and find Frodo cold and lifeless next to him. Frodo would barely eat, and even then he spent most of his time sleeping.
It was time for a second opinion.
Sam found a bit of parchment and a quill in Frodo’s study to pen a quick letter.
Merry,
I haven’t much time, so I am dispensing with pleasantries. When you found Frodo near Buckland, he had been in the company of a camp of Rangers. One of them—Strider—is the one who brought Frodo home.
In short, I need Strider here. Frodo’s health is rapidly declining and I don’t know what else to do. Please, Merry, you’ve got to help me.
I await your hasty reply.
Sam
Merry’s reply came not two days later. He had only scrawled a single sentence on the parchment:
He will be on his way.
True to Merry’s letter, Strider arrived the following day. Frodo was napping in the bedroom after a bit of tea and a few biscuits. It was all he could manage, but Sam didn’t want to push so hard that the small meal came back up. The harsh rapping on the door made Sam jump in surprise, but he rushed to answer the door.
Strider wasn’t one for pleasantries. He had clearly thrown together a few things and headed off on his horse. His clothes were splattered with mud and his hair hung lank and wet over his face. Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell, but now wasn’t a time to debate cleanliness.
“Where is he?”
Sam hurried down the hall to show Strider to the bedroom.
Strider crossed the room in two long strides and placed a large hand against the sleeping Frodo’s cheek and forehead. “He’s burning up. Sam, bring me some cold water, with ice if you can.”
Sam rushed to comply.
Strider sighed at the sight of the ill Hobbit. When he’d left, Frodo had been bad, but he hadn’t been in dire need. He’d assumed that Frodo being around his kin would bring the light back into his eyes and the blush back into his cheeks.
“What have you done to yourself, Frodo?” Strider whispered, brushing the back of his hand against Frodo’s cheek.
Frodo’s eyelashes fluttered, and he awakened, but his eyes looked more grey than the usual brilliant blue. “Strider,” he croaked. “You came.”
“You’re ill. Of course I came.”
Frodo drew in a deep shuddering breath. “I’m dying, Strider.”
“Don’t be daft, Frodo. You need to eat something. You’re not dying,” Strider replied sternly.
But Frodo’s grey-blue eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to live anymore.”
At this, Strider sat down on the bed and pulled the Hobbit to him. He cradled Frodo in his lap, rocking him gently, whispering words of comfort.
“You don’t want to die, Frodo. You’ve so much to live for. Why could you possibly believe that you don’t want to live?”
Frodo rubbed his wet eyes against the fabric of Strider’s coat. “I have failed Sam. I lost his child and I . . .” his breath hitched. “I no longer desire him. He’s been so kind to me and if I can’t repay that, then I deserve to die.”
“Frodo.” Strider turned him so that he could see the Hobbit as he spoke to him. “That is completely ridiculous logic. It is perfectly normally to lose desire after losing a child. That does not mean you need to starve yourself to death.”
Frodo toyed nervously with the ties on Strider’s sleeves. “It’s not just that I don’t have desire. It’s that I don’t desire Sam.” His eyes grew wide. “It’s that I desire you, Strider.”
In the doorway, Sam didn’t even notice as he dropped the pitcher in his hand and it shattered, spraying glass and water across the floor. His face was covered in shock and betrayal.
Author:
moitSummary: After taking a walk, a pregnant Frodo finds himself at the mercy of a camp of rangers.
Rating: R
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Genre: Drama, angst
Warnings: Yaoi/Slash, mpreg
Word Count: 1255
Previous chapters here.
Frodo was sullen and quiet for several days. Sam attributed it to the loss of their babe. He couldn’t imagine the strain it must have put on Frodo to not only lose their child, but to lose it so far from home and without his Sam by his side.
So Sam did the best he could. He prepared all of Frodo’s favourite foods, took him for walks around the Shire, and made sure he had his favourite books by his side. But nothing seemed to appease the ache in Frodo’s mind, and Sam was beginning to worry.
He even consulted the healer on the edge of Hobbiton.
“Hello?” he called, knocking on the round door.
As he was about to turn around and head back to Bag End, a wrinkled old Hobbit lass opened the door. “Yes?” she asked, squinting up at Sam with cataract-filled eyes.
“Madame Singleton?”
“Yes?” The woman squinted harder. “What is your pleasure, young one?”
“It’s my . . . partner. Might I come inside to discuss the matter further?”
Madame Singleton gave him a once-over, then seeming to decide that he was of decent folk, opened the door and stepped aside to allow Sam to pass. She set him at an old rickety table and offered him tea and biscuits, both of which he declined. She fixed herself some tea and sat across from Sam.
“Now, tell me, lad. You said your partner is having some difficulties?”
“Yes. He was—had been—carrying our . . . child.” Even now it sounded strange to his own ears.
But Madame Singleton seemed nonplussed. “Go on. He was carrying your child . . .”
“Yes. And he . . . went to visit a relative. While he was there, he . . . he lost the child. And now . . . he just isn’t the same. I don’t think he’s taking it well at all. He’ll barely talk to me as of late.”
Madame Singleton nodded sagely.
“Sounds like your lad’s gotten himself into a bit of the blues. No fear, though, young Samwise, give him some time and he should be back to normal before you know it.”
Sam pursed his lips and nodded. “Well, Madame Singleton, I thank you for you time.”
The old Hobbit showed him to the door and with a wave, he was off home. It wasn’t until he neared the gate at Bag End that he’d realised he never told Madame Singleton his name.
But as the days went by, Frodo seemed to be getting worse, rather than better. He’d almost completely stopped eating, except for when Sam would force him to eat something to keep him from starving. His clothes hung off his small frame and his face was gaunt and pallid. He looked like death warmed over.
“Frodo, please, you’ve got to eat something. For me?”
Frodo rolled over in the bed and pulled the quilt tighter about his neck. “I’m not hungry, Sam,” he said softly.
“Frodo, if you don’t agree to eat this soup, I swear to Eru, I will pour it down your throat.” Sam’s tone left no room for argument.
Frodo managed three bites before he had to push the bowl away. “If I eat anymore I shall begin to heave.”
“Well, at least you’ve something in your belly,” Sam said, rubbing Frodo’s back gently. “Can I get you anything else?”
Frodo shook his head and laid back down.
Sam stroked the curls off Frodo’s forehead. He knew that he was losing Frodo day by day, but he didn’t know what else to do. Part of him feared that he’d just wake up one morning and find Frodo cold and lifeless next to him. Frodo would barely eat, and even then he spent most of his time sleeping.
It was time for a second opinion.
Sam found a bit of parchment and a quill in Frodo’s study to pen a quick letter.
Merry,
I haven’t much time, so I am dispensing with pleasantries. When you found Frodo near Buckland, he had been in the company of a camp of Rangers. One of them—Strider—is the one who brought Frodo home.
In short, I need Strider here. Frodo’s health is rapidly declining and I don’t know what else to do. Please, Merry, you’ve got to help me.
I await your hasty reply.
Sam
Merry’s reply came not two days later. He had only scrawled a single sentence on the parchment:
He will be on his way.
True to Merry’s letter, Strider arrived the following day. Frodo was napping in the bedroom after a bit of tea and a few biscuits. It was all he could manage, but Sam didn’t want to push so hard that the small meal came back up. The harsh rapping on the door made Sam jump in surprise, but he rushed to answer the door.
Strider wasn’t one for pleasantries. He had clearly thrown together a few things and headed off on his horse. His clothes were splattered with mud and his hair hung lank and wet over his face. Sam wrinkled his nose at the smell, but now wasn’t a time to debate cleanliness.
“Where is he?”
Sam hurried down the hall to show Strider to the bedroom.
Strider crossed the room in two long strides and placed a large hand against the sleeping Frodo’s cheek and forehead. “He’s burning up. Sam, bring me some cold water, with ice if you can.”
Sam rushed to comply.
Strider sighed at the sight of the ill Hobbit. When he’d left, Frodo had been bad, but he hadn’t been in dire need. He’d assumed that Frodo being around his kin would bring the light back into his eyes and the blush back into his cheeks.
“What have you done to yourself, Frodo?” Strider whispered, brushing the back of his hand against Frodo’s cheek.
Frodo’s eyelashes fluttered, and he awakened, but his eyes looked more grey than the usual brilliant blue. “Strider,” he croaked. “You came.”
“You’re ill. Of course I came.”
Frodo drew in a deep shuddering breath. “I’m dying, Strider.”
“Don’t be daft, Frodo. You need to eat something. You’re not dying,” Strider replied sternly.
But Frodo’s grey-blue eyes filled with tears. “I don’t want to live anymore.”
At this, Strider sat down on the bed and pulled the Hobbit to him. He cradled Frodo in his lap, rocking him gently, whispering words of comfort.
“You don’t want to die, Frodo. You’ve so much to live for. Why could you possibly believe that you don’t want to live?”
Frodo rubbed his wet eyes against the fabric of Strider’s coat. “I have failed Sam. I lost his child and I . . .” his breath hitched. “I no longer desire him. He’s been so kind to me and if I can’t repay that, then I deserve to die.”
“Frodo.” Strider turned him so that he could see the Hobbit as he spoke to him. “That is completely ridiculous logic. It is perfectly normally to lose desire after losing a child. That does not mean you need to starve yourself to death.”
Frodo toyed nervously with the ties on Strider’s sleeves. “It’s not just that I don’t have desire. It’s that I don’t desire Sam.” His eyes grew wide. “It’s that I desire you, Strider.”
In the doorway, Sam didn’t even notice as he dropped the pitcher in his hand and it shattered, spraying glass and water across the floor. His face was covered in shock and betrayal.
