All is blinding white. In the far distance, the Water lies still, paralysed into stone, its surface glittering in the cold light. Dark clouds tinged with red fire, as if made of the spoils of bonfires, hang low over the trees, growing densely around the borders of the meadows, their strangled limbs woven together in a tangle of webs and knots.

Frodo's gaze passes from one horizon to the next as if measuring in his mind, the distance between, sensing that it is shrinking even as he watches. He is sure that once it was possible to sit on the riverbank and look to the distant purple swell of mountains. But perhaps that was just a dream, it is hard to tell these days; his mind is not as sharp as it once had been.

He suppresses a shiver.

And yet the room is so warm; a roaring fire is blazing, the flames fawning and licking around the huge ash logs piled one on top of another; there are more in the basket. Lamps glow warm in every corner and on his desk, beside his papers and pens, so that he might write until his heart's content, long after the sun has set. There is also tea, kept warm beneath a cosy and a plate of delicacies, in case he hungers as he works.

Frodo looks at the books sitting parcelled on his desk, newly arrived in sweet-smelling brown paper from Frogmorton. He doesn't remember ordering them himself, so he assumes they are another gift. He used to chastise Sam for spending his money on him, but Sam would not listen, arguing that it was his pleasure, and Frodo could say nothing in response, but sigh and shake his head, slipping his penknife from his pocket to slit the strings.

"What you do for me…"

Sitting down in his chair, Frodo runs his fingers over the glossy paper and the knotted bands of string, trying to imagine what might be revealed. This is the sweetest pleasure, the anticipation, a burning in his fingertips as he presses into the imprint of the ghostly letters hidden beneath.

Unwrapping with slow care, he closes his eyes as the paper falls apart, letting the dust settle a moment before looking down. It is a little volume - red leather binding, engraved with gold. It looks precious. Elegant letters curl around the spine, and when he flicks open the front page he sees that the frontispiece is etched with a beautiful illustration of two lovers entwined, roses tangled around them, as if they have laid there so long that time has passed without their knowledge. Frodo troubles over this for a moment, before brushing back the petal-thin page. On the following page is a poem. It is not long and Frodo reads it with slow deliberation. There is nothing to translate, for this is written in Westron, as are all the books that Sam gifts to him. The words are beautiful and solemn and speak of a deathless love that endures.

Frodo smiles and presses his palm lightly against the black marks, as if he could brand them into his skin.

"Do you like it?"

Frodo looks up in surprise. "Oh! I didn't see you there."

Sam leans against the doorframe, laundry draped over his arm as he watches Frodo with a soft light in his eyes. "I hoped you'd like it…"

Frodo looks down at the book once more; the frontispiece has fallen back, covering the words. The lovers lie, their hands buried in waves of luxuriant hair as their eyes catch and cling, drowned and dead.

"It's beautiful, Sam." Frodo replies, softly. "Thank you."

"I know you don't like me buying you things, but I can't help it when I see something so fine." Sam steps into the room and, walking over to the fireplace, throws another log on top of the others, which are still burning fiercely. The wood snaps and spits.

"Won't we run out, Sam?" Frodo frowns, feeling the heat enveloping him, stuffy and stifling.

"There's plenty more where that came from, never you fear…"

Frodo smiles thinly, slipping open the top button of his shirt and puffing a little. "Do you know, Sam, I'm almost too hot?"

"You might think that, sir, but it's fair set to freeze again tonight and I ain't taking no chances. Trust your Sam-love, I'm taking care of you…"

Frodo stands up wearily and stepping up to Sam, winds his arms around Sam's neck.

"I know, my dear and I am grateful for it, believe me. I don't know what I'd do without you, sometimes. I would be so lonely here now that…"

Sam's arms clench around Frodo's waist and he buries his face in his master's hair. "Ssh now, Mr Frodo, don't you go fretting over those old troubles, now."

"I know," Frodo sighs, "and I am content, Sam...it's just… I wonder whatever became of them."

"Don't you go thinking like that, it just hurts you, Mr Frodo, and I won't have you hurt again, not no more," Sam replies, rubbing slow circles on Frodo's back. "They didn't love you the way I do."

Frodo closes his eyes tightly and breathes in the warm scent of comfort, lying beneath the ash and embers. "Don't mind me, Sam. I'm in an odd mood today."

Sam pulls back, holding Frodo's hands within a loose grip. "Would you like me to bank up the fires and bolt the doors?"

Frodo shivers and smiles, moving close enough to feel the heat of Sam's skin, drunken heat pulsing against his lips. "Yes, Sam. I think that would be best."

~~~

Sometimes this is how it must be, when it all becomes too much.

Here, in this place of intimate space, dark and cloistered. Sam offers to light the lamp, but Frodo prefers the moonlit silver sliver of night-sight as he slips out of his clothes and huddles into the blankets.

"Here, here Mr Frodo."

Frodo pushes up against the pillows and opens his mouth willingly, tasting the bitter herbs in his mouth as he swallows, a blinding light racing around Sam's golden head in a ring of fire. He is used to the taste now; he hardly notices the bitterness. It is his healing draught, the one for the cold sickness and the one he takes for the heat. Sam says it will stop the dreams and the fears, and it does for a time, relaxing his muscles and letting his mind spin free, spiralling into lust as Sam lays the mug down and clambers onto the bed.

"Shall I go?" he asks, as he always does, although Frodo is certain Sam must hear the thick throbbing of his blood, taste his skin and salt-flesh in the gathering heat.

"No, Sam. Come – come to me!"

Sam smiles and starts to take off his clothes, but Frodo is impatient, and hangs onto him as his hands move over buttons, which refuse to yield, his little mouth sinking into hard sinew, making Sam laugh out loud.

"Slow, me dear, there's no hurry, your Sam-love's not going to leave you." Sam untangles Frodo's fingers, gasping a little as he shucks off his breeches, impatient fingers helping to tug them off his flailing feet.

"Here now," Sam murmurs, lying down on his back and breathing hard as Frodo clambers over him, swaying in a crouch; his mouth pressing hot, hard kisses over Sam's neck and throat. "Your Sam's here…always."

"Yes, Sam," Frodo whispers, his voice strangled by desire. "Let me…"

Sam raises his legs as Frodo settles himself between them, his mouth already seeking hard flesh. Sam's flat palm presses against Frodo's head, holding him there and Frodo stills instantly, his breath fanning warm over taut skin. Breathing fast, he rests his head on the smooth arc of Sam's inner thigh, smearing kisses there, where a deep pulse throbs.

"I need you," Frodo whispers, and the word is so raw, he is almost afraid of it.

~ ~ ~

The hard, silent winter lasts for months, and Frodo spends long hours closeted away with the company of books, whilst Sam rattles about the smial, setting things to rights. Troubled by tiredness and frailty, Frodo is happy to sit beside the fire until his eyes grow weak; then he will sleep, sometimes for hours, until woken by a soft touch on his shoulder.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Oh, not so long, sir," Sam replies, dispelling the gloom with the flaring of the tinder, as he sets light to the mantel lamp.

"But it is dark."

"It's just the snow, sir," Sam smiles, twisting up the wick and watching the glass engorge with light. "It's always dark early."

Frodo sighs. "This winter seems interminable."

"It will pass, Mr Frodo. I've seen green shoots peeking already. Never you fear, spring is on its way."

Frodo rolls the blanket off his shoulders and stands, dizzy for a moment, and clutching hold of the mantelpiece. Sam is at his side at once, supporting him.

"Easy now, don't get up so sudden…"

"I'm all right!" Frodo snaps, surprised by the sudden twist of irritation he feels.

"You've not been well, you need to take things slow." Sam urges Frodo back down onto the settee and settles the blanket over his lap.

Frodo brushes it away again, impatiently. "I'm not an invalid, Sam!"

Sam steps back, a bruised look on his face, his hands clutching and twisting in his pocket. "I'm sorry, Mr Frodo," he mutters. "I'm only trying to help you."

Frodo groans and runs his hands over his face. "I know, Sam, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me…I just feel so helpless at times, and I wish – I wish I could remember things more clearly! It feels like my head is full of wool." He digs his fingers deep into his own skull, tugging fistfuls of hair. "I want to remember!"

Sam watches him for a moment and then settles himself at Frodo's feet. "You've been so bad, Mr Frodo, so bad that none of us thought you would ever be the same. I'm just happy to see you reading and smiling again. Almost your old self…"

"Were it not for this…" Frodo hesitates a moment, absently tracing circles over the arm of the settee. "I don't know… this confusion I feel."

"All you need to worry about is getting better, that's all you need to do. Let your Sam do the rest."

"So many black spaces…and the dreams…"

"Just dreams, nothing to fear," Sam rests his head on Frodo's knee and curls his arms around his master's legs, clutching tightly.

"Last night I dreamed I was in a dark tunnel and the sides were so narrow and so close they crushed me as I crawled, pressing in tighter and tighter until I was sure they would suffocate me." Frodo's voice is soft and emotionless as he continues, almost trance-like. " I could smell the foulness in the damp old stone, feel the slickness under my feet. I could sense something evil in the heart of that place, waiting for me, although I never reached it."

Sam shudders under Frodo's hand, causing him to break off sharply, as he looks down in concern. "Are you all right, Sam?"

"Aye, sir, it's just the draught blowing under the door."

"Then come and sit with me." Frodo moves up to make room on the settee and, opening his arms, cradles Sam close, wrapping the blanket around them both.

Sam nestles his head under Frodo's chin and winds himself around his master. Frodo rocks him gently in his arms, murmuring into the thick nest of golden curls, grown heavy and long and shining. "Dear Sam. How I love you," he sings and Sam burrows closer in response, pressing his face hard into the soft wool of Frodo's green waistcoat.

"I could stay like this forever," Sam whispers.

"You help me forget these evil visions, Sam. When I hold you it is as if all else fades and there is nothing but us and the fire burning." Frodo tips up Sam's face and bends to press his lips against his in a brief caress. "They seem so real at the time, but now they are nothing more than fancies."

"It's the sickness talking, sir. You spoke a lot about strange things when you were bad, ramblings so fearful I put everyone out of the room and sat there with you alone."

"Do they think I'm mad?"

Sam looks up into Frodo's glistening eyes. "Don't talk of it, Frodo-love. Don't think of them…"

"Why won't they come?" Frodo keens, stiffening in his seat.

"Folks forget, they get carried away with their own lives…"

"But Merry at least!"

"Merry's master of the Halls now, he's too busy to be traipsing all over the Shire. Lordly now, he is."

"I can't believe that he would forget me…"

"I'm sure Mr Merry loves you in his way, and Mr. Pippin too, and I'm certain they mean to visit, it's just that life carries them off and one day passes then the next, until before they know it, months have fled by."

"I miss them, Sam."

"You still have me." Sam presses hungry little kisses over Frodo's throat, making him arch back into his seat. "I ain't going nowhere."

"And I am so glad you're here. I would be lost without you…" Frodo's head falls back as Sam began to work open the buttons of his shirt.

"Let your Sam take care of you," Sam continues, revealing inches of pale flesh and burning kisses there.

Sharp as a rattling drum, the knocking splits the silence and Sam freezes, staring like a cornered hare.

"What's that?" Frodo sits upright, breathing hard, his cheeks pink and his shirt tangled around his elbows.

"Stay there, Mr Frodo." Sam's voice is set and determined as he hurriedly straightens his breeches. "Don't you go worriting over it. Whoever it is, I'll set them right."

Frodo stays seated on the edge of the settee, listening to Sam's retreating footsteps, his heart racing. It has been so long since a visitor has knocked unannounced. Might this be Merry come at last?

The front door creaks open and Frodo can hear the muffled sound of Sam's voice as he addresses the stranger. Unable to stifle his curiosity and finding it near impossible to stay silent in his seat, Frodo steals quietly to the door and then slips out into the passage, alert to every sound and footstep.

"There ain't no use coming round here, now you know all is well. We don't need help from no-one…."

Frodo inches further forwards, keeping to the shadows under the curving walls.

"There's naught I can do. He's my duty now…."

Frodo can hear notes of anger in the stranger's voice and a hardness in Sam's, that surprises him, for he has never heard it before and it seems at odds with his gentle nature. Whoever this visitor is, it seems they are not welcome.

Silently, Frodo creeps into the dark parlour and climbing up onto the windowsill, he rubs his arm over the icy glass and peers out into the darkness. There is a black figure standing in a pool of lamplight spilling over the front step. Sam is shaking his head, his face stern and set, turning his back. The stranger mutters an oath and then turns to leave, and as he does so, the thick woollen hood falls from his head and Frodo's heart churns and pounds, remembering the phantoms of his dreams.

But the face beneath the cloak is old and drawn and troubled, and Frodo can see no evil there, only sorrow that has sunk so deep it has lined the skin. Frodo wouldn't have recognised him as Sam's father, were it not for the baffled love that breaks in his watery grey eyes as he turns away into the ice and snow.

Frodo is dreaming of darkness and a mansion so deep and cavernous, if you lost your footing you might fall for eternity. Rocks and stone shift under his feet as he runs, the patter of crumbling masonry on his back and the scuffle of hands and feet climbing and scampering. Faster, faster, but as his legs struggle to climb, the ground is already shifting, breaking and tumbling down into a pit of flame.

Someone is shouting, telling him to run, run as fast as his legs could carry him, but he is rooted to the spot, mesmerised by the flickering flames, waiting for the great darkness to reveal itself, as he knows it must. Heat sears his skin as the earth is splitting beneath his feet, bubbling, caving in…

Frodo wakes with a gasp, sweating and clutching at his own throat.

"Fire…" Frodo hisses, staring into the darkness.

Sam is awake; sitting on the edge of the bed and polishing something cupped in his palms, with a soft white cloth, intent on his work. "Go back to sleep, Frodo me dear," he says softly, his fingers rubbing and rubbing in the candlelight.

Frodo watches the movement of Sam's hands. "What have you there, Sam?"

"Nowt, just a mathom, go back to sleep love." Sam continues to rub and caress, his eyes fixed on his work and his mouth full and soft as if swollen with kisses.

Frodo feels a strong surge of lust, and crawling over the bed towards him, snakes an arm around Sam's neck. "Sam…" he whispers, trying to draw him back down onto the bed.

Sam visibly flinches and closes his hand into a fist. "You're dreaming, go back to sleep," he repeats, staring at nothing.

"I'm not dreaming, I'm awake…" Frodo runs a curled tongue around the point of Sam's ear, tasting bitter herbs.

Sam remains still, his fist trembling, even as his body hardens. "I'm tired, Frodo."

Frodo lets go at once and watches as Sam stands up, sliding his hand into his pocket, still teasing the thing in his palm, "and you need to rest. I'll bake you muffins for breakfast if you like."

Frodo's heart stills and a creeping cold freezes his blood, as he watches the hand moving in restless circles. Sam seems to notice the direction of his eyes and his face pales visibly, eyes widening in shock, as if he has been caught pleasuring himself. Tearing his hand from his pocket, he stands in the doorway, looking at Frodo crouching on the bed in the moonlight, his thighs outspread, trembling; his eyes wild and strange.

"Sleep well, me dear." Sam doesn't smile as he closes the door with a quiet snick.

Something stirs in Frodo's memory, something of gold and the sour tang of metal, but as he tries to focus his mind on it, it slips from his grasp, deserting him with an empty howl of loss.

~ ~ ~

Frodo wakes late the following morning. Already the sun is at its height in the pale red sky and the snow is thinning on the grass to a thin crust, dark tufts of sodden grass peeking up through the grey ice. At last, the thaw has come!

Rising in the chilly room he splashes water over his face and dresses in his warmest breeches and woollen shirt, pausing to smile thinly at his own reflection in the glass, ruddy with the sting of cold water. Walking down the passage, he checks the dial on the barometer and notes that the arrow has swung to "change". The movement cheers him and he feels brighter than he has done in months, thoughts of the coming spring filling him with a positive sprightliness.

"Good morning, Sam!" he cries as he hurries into the welcome heat of the kitchen, sweet with the smell of dough.

Sam is cooking muffins in the buttered skillet, turning them carefully with a fork. "Morning, Mr Frodo," he replies, easing a golden muffin onto its back.

"They smell delicious," Frodo beams, sitting down at the table and helping himself to tea.

"There's hot water if you need it," Sam says, his eyes flicking towards his master for a moment. Frodo caught them and pauses, his hand halfway to the sugar bowl. "Sam, you look exhausted. Didn't you sleep well?"

Sam shuffles the muffins about in the pan. "I had a bad night, I couldn't seem to lie right at all."

"You should have stayed with me, at least I would have been company." Frodo stirs the sugar into his tea thoughtfully. "Sam, I'm sorry if I upset you last night."

"Upset me?"

"Troubling you when you were tired." Frodo sips his tea and watches Sam from over the rim of his teacup, carefully noting the dark circles under his eyes.

"Don't you apologise, sir, it should be me that's saying sorry…"

"Now, now, Sam, why sir?"

"Force of habit, sorry me dear…" Sam takes up a plate and carefully lifts the muffins onto it, golden and steaming. "Would you like some of that blackberry jam?"

"Yes, please." Frodo fell pensive a moment. "Shall I get it?"

"No, no, it's all right, I can manage well enough."

"Well when you've found it, come and sit yourself down!" Frodo calls to Sam's retreating back as he disappears into the larder.

Returning some moments later with the pot, Sam sits himself down at the table, with a heavy sigh. Frodo lays his hand over Sam's and looks at him questioningly. "Rest now, my dear, and have some food." Splitting a soft muffin in half, Frodo spreads it with butter and a glistening layer of sweet blackberry and presses it against Sam's mouth. "Here, eat, you look bone-tired."

Sam opens his mouth obediently and bites into the muffin, chewing slowly and watching Frodo all the while, his eyes delving and seeking, so that Frodo begins to feel dizzy and turns back to his tea. "If you need to visit your family, I would understand, you know that, don't you, Sam?"

Swallowing, Sam sits back in his chair, a faint look of surprise crossing his face. "You're my family now, Frodo-love, I don't need no other."

"But you must miss your sisters and your Gaffer. It's only natural to want to see them and spend some time in the company of those who are closest to you. I wouldn't be offended, not a bit."

"No, it's all right, I see them in passing and we share a few words, but I don't feel close to them no more, not the way I feel with you."

"But it's a good thing to see others besides the one you love, or else you might forget there's a world out there!" Frodo laughs, liberally spreading jam over his muffin. Sam doesn't respond, and when the silence stretches until it is nearly unendurable, Frodo looks up once more, feeling he must acknowledge it, even though he is afraid to, like realising the existence of a ghost by speaking its name. "Sam, what is it, what are you listening to?"

Sam seems to shake himself and smiles, rubbing Frodo's outstretched hand encouragingly. "Nowt, just the birds."

"I can't hear them. They must be a long way off." Frodo chews the delicious bread and frowns. "Truth be told, I've not heard any song birds for a long time. Everything's so quiet!"

"I've been putting out food, but the weather's been so hard, many have died of cold."

"Poor things. But a change is on its way, the snow is melting a little on the grass and the barometer is set to fine!" Frodo pours himself another cup of tea. "And do you know Sam, I'm feeling much better, almost back to my usual self again, thanks to you!"

"And it cheers my heart to see it," Sam replies, his eyes wandering to the window. "See, even the sun is smiling."

"So it is!" Frodo rises from his seat and smiles brightly. "Do you know, I might even venture out for a walk?"

Sam looks startled and dropping his knife with a clatter, stumbles to his feet, his chair scraping across the floor. "I don't think that would be a good idea, Mr Frodo."

"Why ever not? I won't walk far, only to the top of the hill and back. I feel it would do me good."

"Then I'll get my hat and coat," Sam replies, swinging around to the coat pegs.

"No, Sam, really, there's no need, I'm sure I can hobble as far as the hilltop. I'll take my stick with me for support." Embracing him gently, he presses a kiss into Sam's hair. "I know you want to help me, and I know how you worry, but really, I would like to try this one thing alone. I won't be gone long, I promise."

Letting Sam go with an encouraging squeeze, Frodo takes his warmest coat from the hook, and pulls it on, buttoning it up to the throat. The dark blue wool brightens his fair skin to roses and his eyes shine blue as jewels.

Sighing, Sam leans in to kiss him solemnly and deeply, his mouth moving silent and slow. "Don't be long," he whispers against moist lips. "I'll be here, looking out for you."

~ ~ ~

Peace envelops him as he walks out into the frozen garden, feeling the ice relent a little under his feet as he steps onto the grass, splintering and crumbling. The apple trees are still dark and leaf-less. Hard black buds star the branches, but there is no sign yet of any uncurling green shoots. He runs his fingers over the knots and twigs, wondering why the spring is so late in coming.

The air is cold, but there is the promise of rain in the air. Surely that will melt away the infernal snow and ice, water the grass and trees and soothe them back to life?

At first, Frodo had thought the winter was beautiful. Never before had he seen such a pure, unbroken blanket of white, nor such sculptures of ice. It seemed calm and new-born and filled him with a serenity that helped him to heal, the icy weather a good excuse to wrap himself in blankets and curl up in the warm safety of the smial, and Sam's welcome care. But lately, a restlessness had begun to grow and the snows had changed their face, growing hard and cruel; a muffling blanket, suffocating life. He had begun to look for specks of green growth poking through the terrible white, but there had been no sign until now, of any life at all.

Standing on the road, the ice glints in an unbroken ribbon winding to the Water. No cart tracks disturb the sweep of white. No cattle lie in the water meadows and no hobbits toil at the banks of snow that had gathered there, like boulders against the thorny black hedge. The silence is so thick and so deep; it rings in Frodo's ears, broken only by the stifled hitching sighs of the river as it struggles to breathe beneath plates of drifting ice.

Suddenly, he feels possessed by the thought of breaking that white blanket, curling his dark footprints into it, despoiling its faceless beauty, like running ink over a blank page. Opening the gate with cold, unresponsive fingers, he steps out into the field, struggling to loop the icy knotted rope back over the gatepost before he turns towards the sweeping hill.

Perfect for sledging, he thinks, remembering how once he had flown, screaming down the Buckland hills on a tin tray, and he wonders once again, how this snow has remained so pristine. Why had no young hobbits rolled and run and carved it into smials and boats and dragons? You could fly like the wind on this hard-packed snow, even as far as the river.

Once, when the Brandywine had frozen many years ago, there had been skating on the ice. Paladin and Esmerelda had danced in their red cloaks, spinning and gliding between the shuffling and sliding of the younger hobbits, and Frodo had held onto Merry's hand and watched them from the edge of the ice, enthralled but afraid to walk over the water, imagining what horrors may lie beneath.

Merry had tugging hard on his hand, desperate to try his feet on the ice, but Frodo would not move; he was casting spells, keeping the ice in its place, holding up his aunt and uncle as the ice sprayed out from beneath their glittering blades. Everyone cheered.

Merry wailed, angry with his cousin. Frodo's lips were pale where he had bitten them, but Esmerelda laughed and lurching towards them, pulled them both onto the ice with her, and swooping them under her arms like a great bird, she bore them up beneath wide scarlet wings, and suddenly the fear melted away, and all that was left was exhilaration and cries of joy.

Lost in memory, Frodo walks slowly down the hill, his stick sinking inch-deep into icy snow with a soft crunch. He enjoys the ice under his feet, the cold slicing of the snow as he leaves his mark. Looking up, the sky is a clear pale grey, soundless and echoing – a void.

When he reaches the river, Frodo stops and stares at the water bubbling and heaving under the ice. He pokes a splintered plate with his stick and watches it bob and sink, revealing its black underbelly. It is colder here by the water and he shivers, thinking of the warm fire that will be blazing in the parlour. Looking to his left, he sees the bridge and the mill, both quiet and still as a painting, more beautiful in the snow than ever they seemed when they lived and thrived during the summer months, splattered with mud and the chaos of hobbits meeting and colliding with carts and cattle, yet soulless.

Bending a little, he turns his stick in the water, watching the little ripples chasing its tail. As he leans further over the bank, his eyes catch a glimpse of something blue under the white snow. It seems to glow as he brushes off the ice and cups it in his hand. It is beautiful; a fragile thing, roughly the shape of an anemone, although he has never seen one grow so wide and so blue, its petals falling open in the warmth of his palm, velvet to the touch. He sniffs, but there is no scent, only the dirty tang of melted ice. It seems a shame to pick it, this one bright spot of colour in a dead white world, so he leaves it there and walks away, looking back every now and then to see it, bright as a blue flag.

Ahead, the dark hedge looms and beyond, dense woods crowd, the trees tall and mutinous. He would like to walk further, but he can't see a way through the woods. He is sure there was an opening once, between two holly trees, that led onto a footpath, but when he looks there, he finds shielding branches barbed with brambles and briars, impossible to penetrate. He tries thrashing at them with his stick, but they are too thick to yield and he can see no light beyond, only more of the same, growing too close, stifling each other.

Feeling a wet brush of cold against his cheek, Frodo looks up and sees fresh flakes of snow drifting down from indigo clouds, the hope of spring receding with the darkening sky. Suddenly weary, he leans against the trunk of a fir- tree, and listens to the gathering snow whispering memories.

Tears froze in Frodo's eyes and hung like jewels on his cheeks. Old memories give rise to grief and he pushes them back in irritation. For a moment he thinks he hears a sigh on the air, a disturbance like the fluttering of wings, but as he spins round, he sees only the snow falling in a grey space of sky.

He will write. He will write to Merry today, tell him that he is much improved and would like to invite him to stay, as it's been far too long a time since they were together. Perhaps he might even mention how much he is loved, dear as a brother, best of friends and dreadfully, sorely missed.

Determined to head home before the snows deepened to blizzard, he stoops for a moment beside the water to look for the bright blue flower, hoping to see it one last time so that he might better recall the shape of it to Sam and find out its name. But no matter how hard he stares, he can't seem to find it.

Mounting the steep white hill back to the smial, Frodo squints through the drifting flakes to see the dark pattern his feet have left, recording his journey like a map. He can make out two footprints running down in a slow trail, and recognises them as his own, for they are narrow and long in the toe. Yet as he stares, he is confused by another set of prints, following the pattern of his own, just a step behind. They look like the prints of his own shadow; they have trailed him so close. Curious, he places his own foot in the hollow and sees how this foot is broader than his own, with shorter toes. He wonders if someone else has walked this way, and he hasn't observed them, being so sunk in his own thoughts and memories, but the snow has covered these prints to the same depth as his own, and they look as though they are quickly fading. He is sure he would have felt someone walking beside him so close.

Ghost footsteps, he thinks, my memories following me.

Eager now for fire and home, and Sam's welcome embrace, he hurries up the hill, feeling every aching step in his tired muscles, the snow stinging his eyes, and the wind pushing at his spine, driving him back.

Frodo closes his eyes as the breath slides from his nose in a slow stream, his consciousness drifting as his body begins to relax, slowly adjusting and opening little by little.

He raises himself on his elbows as his head droops, long strands of damp hair falling into his eyes as he wills himself not to collapse.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. He stutters for a moment, panic curling with the first deep push, he has lost the memory of this rhythm and he flounders, trying to catch it.

Gasping, he tenses, large hands curl around his hips, stroking long and slow, raising them higher over wide boned hips. Sliding on sweat, they glide and curl, trembling as he waits, thoughts flying in ragged trails. Opened out.

He cries out sharply with the first push, then he breathes, feeling for the first tentative stirrings of pleasure uncurling.

Here. He finds the spark and reaches for it, his legs bending and flexing with each hard press of hips and belly, with each deep, ragged moan and sigh. Hands clutch his hips and hold tight, blunt fingers digging in with urgent restraint. Sweetness breaks on a sharp cry, then fades and retreats and Frodo is left arching towards it, wanting more, pressing back as the warmth returns, gliding deep, making him whine.

Stronger now, kisses smeared over the arch of a spine, each bone outlined against lips that trace the curve of his bowing back. Pushing deeper, further than before, Frodo flounders, wriggling, kicking, drawing breath back in. All movement stills, he forgets the rhythm. And then suddenly he is caught up again in thick, dark heat, reaching for the sweetness, drawing it back, gathering it between his own shuddering thighs, heavy as honey. He is held between strong, careful hands, as if he weighs nothing more than a bird around those straining hips. Neither move, Frodo feels light as air, spinning and flying as he waits.

Oh… he cries and then Sam sinks, his press so deep that Frodo can feel the pulsing of Sam's heart and the bursting of his seed when it comes. Sam freezes, shaking, Frodo's name breaking on his lips.

Then he falls, Frodo sprawled beneath, his face pressed against the bare scratch of floorboards as he feels warm tears spilling over hot flesh, trickling down his ribs and over his hand where it lies curled around his own cheek, feeling the last of Sam's heat slipping from him.

"I love you, Frodo, I love you. Never leave me, never leave me."

And he promises him he will not go.

"I never want to see you suffer again."

He swears he has not suffered, but something within him denies it, even as he speaks. The memories huddle and hoard, but he won't listen to their clamour. He reaches for Sam, for his lover, and Sam takes the outstretched hand and eases him onto his back. Sam's face is wet with tears and Frodo wipes it with both hands, telling him not to trouble himself the way he does - that there is no pain in life, only joy, and in that moment he means it with all his heart.

Sam kisses him until his lips feel swollen and bruised and then he takes Frodo's aching cock in his hand and caresses with long swift strokes, slicking the head with his thumb as he twists and slides, and it is not many moments until Frodo is arching up and whining and calling Sam's name with desperate love.

"Mine! My love! Oh…" Frodo whimpers as the strokes quicken and grow surer, too sweet to resist and he arches up, reaching for the pleasure, pumping into Sam's tight fist.

As he comes, he looks up into Sam's eyes and sees such possession there, it thrills him almost beyond believing, his ecstasy blinding him to all else as it bursts like a star.

Sam strokes him until he lies gazing dark and quivering and then he wipes Frodo's pale belly clean with a soft cloth, licking the remainder from the back of his hand as he walks over to rinse his face at the kitchen sink, his finely muscled body starkly defined in the golden firelight.

Frodo thinks he looks finer than he had ever seen him, almost a different hobbit, the soft roundness hardening to muscle and sinew.

"Sam? When did you grow so tall and strong and beautiful?" Frodo mused aloud, watching Sam rubbing his face dry on a towel.

Smiling, Sam gazes at his lover and whispers, "While you were asleep. I needed to be strong for you, me dear."

Sitting up, hugging his knees to his chest, Frodo laughs. "Surely you are the finest hobbit in all the Shire!"

"Oh no," Sam grins. "That ain't me."

Rolling his eyes, Frodo flops back with a sigh. "I've decided to write to Merry."

Sam doesn't respond, but carefully and slowly dries his hands on the cloth. When he has finished, he settles himself down on the floor and crosses his legs and Frodo moves closer to nestle his head on Sam's outspread thigh, kissing the soft cock tenderly with little nips, that make Sam jump and wriggle his fingers into Frodo's unruly curls.

"You won't like this, I'm afraid, Frodo-love, but I have to say it…there's been no post for months and months, no-one's travelling in this snow."

Frodo brushes his lips up and down thoughtfully, feeling a flicker of response moving in the defeated curl of flesh. "Surely there is a way one can send a message to Brandy Hall, even in this weather? I remember the year the ice lay inches deep on the Brandywine; we sent a crate of Old Winyards across to my Uncle here. I don't know how they managed it, perhaps by ice? Skating runners? What do you think?"

Sam sighs; Frodo can feel the sinking of his stomach against his cheek. "And who do you think would be happy to do such a fool thing?"

"Hmmm…I don't know…I was a marvellous skater in my time, you know?" Frodo grins blowing teasingly on Sam's flesh, making him yelp and bat his head away.

"Skating is for gentlehobbits," Sam reprimands, teasingly. "We stay well clear of icy rivers, as any hobbit with an ounce of good sense would do."

"You've never skated, Sam?" Frodo exclaims, in disbelief.

"Nor would I want to!" Sam retorts; toying with a long curl that had snagged itself on Frodo's ear tip.

"Then you're missing a treat, Sam, for there is no greater feeling on this earth."

"None?" Sam teases, pulling Frodo back against him and gently biting his neck.

Frodo squeals and laughs. "You must come with me, Sam, let me show you!"

Sam's arms tighten around him and his voice drops low and solemn when he speaks. "No, Mr Frodo, we can't do that."

"And why not?" Frodo wriggles up against hardening flesh, kissing Sam's throat.

"Because there are better things to be done…" Sam replies firmly, reaching down to take Frodo in his hand, and rubbing in slow circles.

"There's time enough for that, Sam, the ice won't be here forever! We should go tonight, the moon is full and there's enough light to see where we are walking. We don't need skates; we can dance on our feet! We can dance down the river as far as we wish to go."

"You're not up to it, Frodo." Sam's voice is hard and made Frodo stiffen in his arms.

"I'm feeling very much better, Sam. If I'm up to what we just did, surely I will survive a dance on the ice?" Frodo's voice is steady, even though there is stifled panic rising beneath.

"You should sleep, you've done enough for one day. There's time enough for skating…"

Frodo stands up abruptly, his hands fluttering as he backs towards the door. "There is a thaw on its way, I found a flower by the river, a beautiful blue flower, it looked like an anemone. There's no time – we shall go tonight and I will show you how far we can get!"

Sam follows, rising slowly to his feet, a gold light burning in the depths of his eyes as he looks at Frodo. "Come to bed."

"I want to skate!" Frodo cries, barely heeding the absurdity of his pronouncement as he walks, stark naked, to the kitchen door and throws it open onto the moonlit snow.

"It's a beautiful night," he announces, looking out with longing and fear.

Stepping up quietly behind, Sam speaks softly, urging. "Come to bed, Frodo-love."

"Where are my clothes?"

Sam lifts the hair from Frodo's nape and presses a hard kiss there, making him shiver. "Stop this."

"Are they by the table, go and look for me will you, Sam?" Frodo continues, his voice running away with him, rising shrilly.

"Stop, please." Sam almost sobs and for an instant Frodo responds, his body relaxing back into warmth and love and safety.

"I want to show you how it feels to fly," Frodo shivers and presses a kiss to the side of Sam's neck. "Let me show you!"

"You would break your neck or else drown, and then where would I be?" Sam murmured pulling him back into the fire-lit room.

Frodo stiffens in Sam's arms and when he speaks his voice is soft but firm, as if his heart has formed a casing of ice. "Sam, let me go."

~ ~ ~

The night air is crisp and apple scented, and a dark breeze moves unseen, snapping the branches of the trees and blowing the snow into soft mounds.

Sam's gloved hand clasps Frodo's tightly as they walk slowly down the icy road, taking tiny steps and drawing their cloaks tightly against the harrying wind.

As they pass Number Three, Frodo looks for a comforting light, but finds the windows dark. All must be asleep and dreaming.

Silence hangs heavy between them, punctuated by the slow brush of Sam's thumb, hard over the back of Frodo's hand. There is a fluttering, startled fear in Frodo's heart, but he can't find the root of it.

He looks to Sam, but Sam's face is impassive, staring at the moonlight glinting off the icy river, and suddenly it seems to Frodo that a mirror has been laid at his feet and he so afraid to look into it, he starts to talk, reaching for Sam's voice like a light in the darkness.

"Tell me, Sam," he says. "Do you remember the year of the deep frost?"

"Not very well - I was young."

"I do. There were tents on the river, and stalls of food, barrels of wine and fiddlers playing. All the folk from the Hall, servants and cooks, gardeners and stable hands all joined in the skating and the feasting."

Frodo is barely looking where he is walking, his voice tripping itself up. "Aunt Esme and Uncle Paladin skated arm in arm and everyone watched and cheered. Some joined them, but others were too afraid of falling." Drawing a deep breath, Frodo stares at the sliver of moon hanging yellow and sharp in the sky. "I remember the feel of the water slipping away under the thick ice, like a shadow."

"My brothers were still at home," Sam murmurs, squeezing Frodo's hand tightly as they stand by the Water. "We all walked down to the mill to watch the fireworks. I clung onto the edge of ma's cloak and hid my head, when they burst. It sounded like ice cracking and as I looked down over the river, I was scared it would shatter like glass. The fireworks were grander than any I'd ever seen. A great big swan diving through the night sky, sinking into the water as it fell, silver stars flying like feathers…" Sam's voice rises and falls lazily. "And they reflected in the ice. It was so beautiful…I wish you had seen it."

Frodo is staring at the glittering ice, pressing one foot against the surface, wondering if it is strong enough to hold his weight. Sam's fingers tighten and restrain.

"I have something for you, Frodo," he says, but Frodo is drawing away, settling both feet on the ice and pulling back, his tough soles sliding, shaking his head.

"Come back." Sam stands at the brink, looking down fearfully at the splintering cracks that line the curve of the riverbank, digging his hands into his pockets.

The wind rises fierce out on the water, raking through Frodo's hair and down the collar of his shirt as he looks out over the edge of the sheltering woods and beyond, to where he knows the world lies waiting. He is moving swiftly now, his feet tracing a wide arc, away from the bank, towards the hidden hills, his heels ploughing up frost. Sam is calling to him, but he doesn't listen, he hears only the roaring of the wind.

As he rounds a bend in the river, he stills and catches his breath.

There are lights in the dark sky. Beautiful colours flash and illuminate the scattered tails of clouds, green and indigo, red and orange, flaring and staining. Perhaps a storm is moving far away, a sign of a change in the weather. But Frodo has never seen lightening like this. These look as spectacular as any firework display that Gandalf could conjure up.

"Sam!" Frodo shouts, as a white burst of light splits the sky. "Sam! They're letting off fireworks!"

"Come back, Frodo. You'll catch your death." Sam calls, holding out his hand.

"Look, Sam! They're so beautiful!"

"Come back. See what I have for you."

Frodo can't bring himself to tear his eyes away from the light as it sears a burning path to the stars. To his right, a green crown hangs over the trees, glowing with a pale dead light and Frodo finds himself growing cold as he watches it flicker and die. He turns back to Sam.

"What is it?" Frodo hears his voice swallowed up by the wind.

Sam opens his palm and Frodo spies the glimmer of gold and the cold fire of old stones and in his eyes is an unspoken proposal. "Come back," Sam says softly, his eyes spilling secrets, dark and intimate, offering comfort and understanding beyond words.

Frodo knows he can't leave. There is nowhere to go and besides, Sam needs him now. He is tired and careworn and somehow, it seems Frodo's own life has slipped into his hands.

Staggering and sliding to the bank, Frodo's feet loose their elegant balance and he half-falls against Sam's hard body like a graceless swan.

"Something has changed," Frodo murmurs, seeking warmth under Sam's cloak. "I can feel it."

"Stay with me, don't fly."

Sam's arms enclose Frodo in dark blood heat and Frodo burrows deeper, pressing his cheek against the thick thud-thud of Sam's heart, as if trying to recognise a familiar melody inside a discordant song.