Your Turn, Then Mine - The Lord of the Rings, Sam (m)

[AngelEyes]

I love how Sam is arguing so hard with Frodo not to go off, and Frodo is like Sam be realistic, and then it hits him, oh yeah, I was faking him out, no wonder he's worried. Um, there's something I have to tell you.... LOL!

[Masking]

<3 The two of them are so worried about each other and I love it.

[Spoo]

23 hours ago, angora48 said:

“Look at you,” Frodo said gently, sitting down beside him and putting a hand on his shoulder.  “Your hands are shaking; you can’t go, Sam.”

The feels are still strong with these two, even after Frodo came clean! I love them.  

[angora48]

On 8/17/2017 at 8:57 AM, Aliena H. said:

Poor Sam, he's having a really bad time. He couldn't know when he was cutting the grass (and spying) at Bag-End that it would lead him here...

I don't know what you're talking about, Aliena H. - Sam ain't been dropping no eaves!  ;-)

Here's Part 10.  We're off with Frodo, so Sam isn't IN this part much, but he's still very present in Frodo's thoughts.

 

 

The going was harder than Frodo had expected.  After almost two hours, he’d not come upon so much as a trickle – even the rainwater he’d lamented two days ago had by now all dried up.  He’d hoped to find water much sooner than this.  There was Sam to think of, back at the campsite, and Frodo himself was feeling the effort of his exertions.

He stopped, only momentarily, to catch his breath, lifting up his water satchel to swallow a mouthful.  Before he’d left, he’d poured Sam’s remaining water into a pot, so the poor fellow wouldn’t be without after Frodo took his satchel.  Seeing how little had been in it, Frodo had wanted to give Sam what was left of his water as well.

“Oh doh,” Sam had insisted, surprisingly forceful considering how ill he was.  “You keep that for yourself, Bister Frodo – bakig your way throu- through…” Gasping, he’d caught a strong “huhhhhhhhh-ihhhhh-CHIIOOOOOOO!” in his handkerchief.  “-Rough terrain,” he’d continued, sniffling but scarcely missing a beat, “you’ll deed it bore thad I do.”

Frodo had wanted to argue that Sam, with his fever, was most certainly the one more in need of water, but he’d realized he couldn’t press the point.  Sam was only letting Frodo make this excursion on his behalf because he was all but literally too weak to stand up, and even then it was under protest; Frodo had seen his friend would never agree to any arrangement that involved him taking what was Frodo’s.

Now, in the middle of nowhere without the faintest idea when he’d find what he was searching for, Frodo was grateful for Sam’s insistence.  He took another swallow, just enough to wet his lips and mouth.  Looking uncertainly about him, Frodo forged ahead, tucking his water satchel into the small sack slung over his shoulder.  Inside was the two water satchels, along with two pieces of lembas bread Sam had urged him to take (“I won’t need more than one,” Frodo had said, though in truth, he knew he wouldn’t even eat as much as that, but Sam would hear of no less,) and Sam’s handkerchief, inside a little pouch.

The latter had been Frodo’s idea.  “Here,” he’d said to Sam.  “We’ll swap again.  You take mine, and I’ll wash this one for you.”

“You deeded’t do that, Bister Frodo,” Sam had replied, stifling a cough.  “This wud’s fide as,” he sniffled, “as it is.”

“I don’t think your sore nose would agree with that,” Frodo had observed, and Sam, conceding defeat, had accepted the handkerchief Frodo held out to him.

He hoped Sam was able to sleep; a part of Frodo feared that he was just sitting up, alert, watching for Frodo to appear coming back over the ridge.  The dear fellow had looked anxious as Frodo had left, his tired face etched with worry – Frodo knew that Sam didn’t quite believe he was all right.  He’d wanted to tell Sam, reassuringly, that it wasn’t likely to be long, that he’d almost surely be back in time for afternoon tea, but he’d decided against it at the last moment, and now he was glad he had.  Better not to offer up an overly-ambitious time, or else Sam would get nervous at Frodo’s long absence – the last thing Frodo wanted was for Sam to decide he’d been gone too long, for Frodo couldn’t dismiss the possibility of his friend staggering to his feet and setting out to look for him.

As the day dragged on and Frodo kept stumbling forward, the Ring’s whispers were like insects buzzing in his ears.  He shook his head, then shook it again, trying in vain to clear it.  Back at the camp, he’d been able to ground himself, but out here, on his own, the Ring was asserting itself.  It seemed almost to pulse with his every footfall, each pulse sinking it deeper and deeper into his spirit.  Frodo shuffled to a halt, and, standing stock-still in the middle of nowhere, he listened to the Ring.

Look at you, you beauty, he thought, the Ring filling his vision as he closed his eyes.  He stroked it lightly with the edge of his thumb, and his very fingers seemed to spark as he touched it.  You’re mine, you came to me, why shouldn’t I slip you on, just for a moment…?

Frodo was holding the Ring in one hand, hovering inches over his finger, when he came back to himself, jerking into awareness.  It was as if he’d sleepwalked into a bog and didn’t wake until he was half-sunken – in his mind, he had to flail and drag himself to get out from under it as it bore down heavily on him, wanting to pull him under.

Pressing his palm against a large rock to steady himself, Frodo took in gasping breaths.  Its words in his head, gold around the edges of his vision – no!  No, you must fight it!

Searching for something, anything to hang onto, Frodo forced his thoughts back to Sam.  It took effort, like he was dragging himself hand over hand across bare rock, but little by little, he made his way back.

Frodo fumbled for the water satchel again, endeavoring to fill his head with nothing but Sam.  Sam wincing from a headache.  Sam blotting his nose with Frodo’s handkerchief.  Sam apologizing for oversleeping.  Sam in a hurry to get Frodo out of the rain.  Sam feeling so ill and wrung-out that he broke down in tears.  Sam offering Frodo a portion of his blanket.  Sam stirring uneasily in the night with fever.  Sam’s glum face when he realized he wasn’t well enough to accompany Frodo.  Sam, Sam, only Sam – Sam, who was everything the Ring was not.

He lowered the water satchel from his lips, barely aware that he’d taken a drink.  He was all right, for now – he was in control.  Carefully, Frodo proceeded on his way, keeping Sam in the forefront of his thoughts.

Frodo should have never let things get as bad as they did.  The first morning Sam woke up ill, Frodo ought to have made them stay put.  Ten- or fifteen-minute stretches of rest in the midst of long, draining days of traveling over harsh landscape wasn’t enough, not nearly enough.  And of course, Sam could be stubborn and would have argued, but Frodo could have made him listen.  He could have made it an order, relying on Sam’s deference to his rank.  Frodo didn’t like to think of their differences in station – Sam, to Frodo, had always just been Sam, his dear friend – but in this case, he should have.

Not the most pleasant of thoughts, naturally, but regret was a sharp sensation that kept his attentions focused.  If Frodo had been looking after Sam properly all this time, as he needed, the poor fellow likely wouldn’t have gotten into the state he was in yesterday.

He wished for Sam’s sake that they had more shelter, any kind of shelter.  What Frodo wouldn’t give for a rundown shack, or even a lean-to, to keep the wind out.  Someplace with an inside where they could keep a fire lit without having to worry about it being seen at night by evil creatures who were after- but no, Frodo wouldn’t think of that.  Someplace to sleep that wasn’t the hard ground.

Really, Frodo wished for the Shire.  Now, back in Rivendell (it seemed a lifetime ago,) he himself had recovered well enough from – no, he wouldn’t think of that, either – but there was nowhere quite like the Shire for comfort and recuperation, and that was what Sam needed now.  To be at home, dry and warm and safe, tucked cozily into bed with a cheerful fire crackling in the hearth and a whole stack of handkerchiefs sitting neatly on the end table.

When Frodo was ill, he liked chicken in his soup, but beef was Sam’s favorite, whenever he could get it.  A hearty stew then, with beef and onions and potatoes and carrots – Sam would like that.  And a thick slice of bread, still warm from baking and smeared with honey.  A steaming mug of tea.  Then, drifting off to sleep with his belly full and warm, with crumbs dotting his quilt.

That’s what Sam ought to have now, and Frodo ached to be unable to provide him with it.  He shouldn’t be sleeping on the ground, huddled under a thin blanket and drinking water out of a pot.  Sam deserved to have some comfort, but there was precious little of it to be found here.

Frodo was so wrapped up in these thoughts that he didn’t hear the sound of flowing water – in fact, he didn’t become aware of the stream until he’d nearly stepped into it, only just staggering back in time to keep himself from falling in.  At last!  He seized both water satchels, keeping track of which was his and which was Sam’s, and eagerly knelt to fill them as water rushed by.

It was a large stream, large enough that Frodo and Sam would have to take care in crossing it when they resumed their journey.  It didn’t look to Frodo like it was terribly deep, but the water was fast-moving, and it would probably be easy to get swept off your feet.  As Frodo held the water satchels underwater one at a time, the current tugged at them, threatening to pull them out of Frodo’s hands. 

Looking around, Frodo saw a fair amount of uneven terrain, but on the other side of the stream, it seemed to flatten out more before coming to another ridge.  Once Sam was well enough to travel again, they might be wise to go no further than this stream on the first day – it had taken Frodo a little over two hours to get here, and with Sam recovering, they’d probably take it more slowly than that.  A few hours of travel, then carefully cross the stream and have an evening camping near a water source and what looked to be decent shelter provided by the ridge.  It would be a good way to make a start.

Frodo had filled both water satchels and was nearly finished washing Sam’s handkerchief when a flash of movement and a glint of light on the water caught his eye.  He looked out and waited, keeping his eyes on the surface of the water.

Another flash.  A slow, genuine smile spread across Frodo’s face as he thought of the one other item Sam had entreated him to take.  Frodo had brought the pack over next to Sam, in case he woke and was hungry for lembas bread or any of the rest of their meager stores.  He’d been about to leave when Sam had rasped out, “Wait!”  Turning, Frodo had seen Sam up on his elbows, digging through one of the pockets in the pack.  “Here!” he’d said at last, holding it out.  “Take it, would you?  Just id case.”

Now, as Frodo kneeled beside the stream, he reached into his pocket.  For the fishing line and hook.

[angora48]

Here's Part 11, the conclusion of the story (it wound up taking a while to wrap things up, so it got a bit long - not that I imagine anyone will mind!)  Thanks to everyone who read "Your Turn, Then Mine."  As you can obviously see, I have a lot of affection for these two characters, and I loved trying my hand at writing them.  I'm glad to have my story read by people who love these hobbits, especially Sam, as much as I do.  Thanks for reading!

 

 

With evening drawing in and the campsite finally in view, Frodo fairly skidded down the last slope.  “Sam!” he called as he closed the distance between himself and his friend.  “Sam!”

When Frodo arrived at the little patch where they’d set up camp, Sam was blearily struggling to sit up, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.  “Frodo – what is it?” he rasped.  “What’s th- hihhhhhh-SHUHHHHHHH! – what’s the batter?”

Frodo, seeing that Sam was trying to get to his feet, realized he’d alarmed the poor fellow.  “No, nothing like that,” he assured Sam, rushing over to him.  “There’s nothing wrong.  Look!”  With honest relish, he pulled his prize – three freshly-caught fish – from the sack.

Sam dropped back onto his bottom and, for a moment, only blinked in surprise, like his mind couldn’t quite take it in.  “You- you caught those, Bister Frodo?” he finally said.

“Yes – there’s a fine stream up ahead of us,” Frodo explained.  “Good thing you thought to have me take the line.  I dug on the edge of the bank to get some bait, and there weren’t any trees nearby to make a pole, but I wrapped the end of the line around a rock to anchor it and then pulled the fish in hand over hand.”

The more Sam looked at the fish, the more lifted he seemed.  His voice hadn’t gotten much stronger, he looked wearied, and from the flush in his cheeks, Frodo guessed he still had a fever, but he looked happy.  “That was right clever of you,” Sam remarked, coughing into his handkerchief.  “Add the jourdey?  It-” he sniffed, “it wasd’t too awfully hard?”

Frodo thought of how he’d struggled there for a time, how the Ring had called to him when he was on his own, but for the present at least, those thoughts had no hold over him.  “I got on all right,” he replied vaguely.  “But time for all that later!  We can have a fine supper tonight, Sam.”

“Let be do it!” Sam urged.  “Please, Bister Frodo, I’ve beed thidkig about fish for days, how I’d do ‘eb up wudce we caught sobe.  I’be dot too word out, really.”

Frodo couldn’t help but smile.  “Of course,” he replied.  “You rest a bit longer – I’ll build the fire and clean the fish, and then you can handle the cooking.”

Before long, Sam was kneeling beside the small fire, sprinkling thick fish fillets with herbs as they sizzled in the pan.  He’d boiled just enough of the water so he could wash up before cooking, and a pleasant aroma now wafted up from the fish.  Frodo, noticing that Sam had started to shiver a little, went to retrieve his blanket.

“Thadks,” Sam said as Frodo draped the blanket over his shoulders.

“Not at all,” Frodo replied, sitting down to join him at the fire.  The dear fellow seemed tired but in good spirits, smiling as he sniffled and presided over their supper.  “How did you sleep while I was away?”

Before Sam answered, he turned away, sneezing a strong “huhhhhhhhh-CHIIYUHHHHH!” into his shoulder.  “All right,” he said, but from his tone of voice, it sounded more like an admission than an assurance.

Frodo frowned.  “Something wrong?” he asked.

“Dot really – I bead, I rested like you said,” Sam explained.  “Slept whed I could, add whed I could’t, I-” he muffled a cough into his shoulder, “-I kept laying there, so it was still restig.  I’be a little better, I thidk.  Just…”

Frodo offered him a sympathetic smile.  “Hard to sleep?” he ventured.

“I was tired eduff to, believe you be!” Sam replied.  “Odly, you doh, by sdiffles were botherig be sobe, add by head-”

“Did your headache get worse again?” Frodo asked, concerned.  He brought his hand up to Sam’s temple.

“Doh, dot like that,” Sam told him.  “Bore like I could’t quiet it.  I’d lie dowd, add all I could do was thi- thidk… HAAHHHHHHHHH-shhhhhhhhhhhhh!”  Wanting to keep his hands clean, he wiped his nose with the back of his wrist.

“I told you you didn’t need to worry,” Frodo reminded him.

“I doh,” Sam conceded.  Carefully, he turned the fish.  “What about you, though?  Did it take ad awfully log tibe to fide a streab?  It seebd a log tibe to be.”

“Not as long as you think,” Frodo pointed out.  “Keep in mind, I stopped to fish…”  While the fish cooked, Frodo told Sam about his travels, leaving out his trials with the Ring.  Although he knew Sam was thinking of it (“Add you were all right?” the dear fellow kept asking.  “You were all right, though?”), Frodo didn’t want to say anything to worry him – Sam had had a rough time of it the last few days, and Frodo didn’t need to add anything further to trouble him.

When the fish was ready, Sam arranged them on plates.  He wanted to give Frodo the third filet, or, barring that, cut it in half, but Frodo wouldn’t hear of it.  “You need as much proper food as we can manage,” Frodo told him.  “Besides, I’m not the one who’s been dreaming of fish!”

“I didded’t say ‘dreabig,’” Sam pointed out, his smile small but good-natured.  “I just said ‘thidkig.’”

But Frodo was firm, and so Sam got the extra fish.  The good fellow again insisted on sharing his blanket with Frodo and then, sniffling, said, “Tuck id, Bister Frodo.”

The fish, unsurprisingly, was cooked to perfection – even out here, halfway to the end of the world and running a fever, Sam took his cooking very seriously.  The last time they’d been able to get fish, they’d been considerably further from Mordor, before the Ring weighed quite so heavily on Frodo and delighted in stealing his joys.  But Sam’s enthusiasm for the meal bolstered Frodo’s own, and Frodo thought he might be able to manage his whole serving, or near to it.  He knew that, soon enough, the Ring would assert itself again and press him down, but for now, he felt all but free from it.

Though Sam was still fairly ill – his voice was a low rasp, his sneezing wouldn’t let up, and it was evident that he was still tired and feverish – he was starting to improve, Frodo could tell.  Whatever sleep he’d been able to get during the day had helped, and good food proved a great restorative for him.  The night before, when he’d been feeling so awful, it had yanked him down miserably.  Tonight, he seemed a bit lighter, more like Sam, even if he still wasn’t back to his old self.  He reminisced about fishing back home, about the various fish tales that had made the rounds at the Green Dragon.  The most fantastic (and, of course, the most dubious) was Merry and Pippin’s claim to have nearly caught a great black fish almost the size of Pippin, which they said they hooked with both of their lines and which only escaped by snapping Pippin’s line and breaking Merry’s pole (neither of which were actually theirs but had in fact been “liberated” from a nearby front garden.)

As Sam recounted the absurd tale, he and Frodo laughed until Sam started to cough, pulling the handkerchief from his pocket and reaching for his water satchel.  Frodo rubbed his back until the fit passed.  “Are you all right?” he asked when Sam caught his breath.

Sam nodded, taking a careful drink of water.  “It just figures, doesd’t it?” he said.  “The wud tibe it’s ibportat to get well quick so we cad be od our way is whed I get dear about the worst cold I’ve ever had.  That’s rotted luck.”

Frodo smiled a little, bemused.  “You think that’s all down to bad luck, do you?”

“Dod’t you?” Sam replied.  “I d- do-od’t… hehhhhhhhh…”  He lifted the handkerchief again.  “ihhhhhhhhhh-SHOOOOOOOO!  Hihhhhhhhhh-TCHIIAAHHHHHHHH!”  With a stuffed-up groan, he said, “I dod’t dorbally catch cold half as bad as this.”

Unable to stop himself from laughing, just a little, Frodo said, “No, but then, I don’t imagine you normally climb mountains or sleep out of doors with a cold, either.”

That drew a smile from Sam.  “Doh, I s’pose dot,” he admitted.  Coughing into the back of his hand, he stifled a sigh.

Frodo put an arm around Sam, rubbing his shoulder.  “Don’t worry over it,” he encouraged.  “We’ll have you well soon enough – you’ve been awfully ill, and that takes time.”

Sam sniffed, rubbing his nose.  “I doh,” he said, but the idea still seemed to leave him a bit glum.

Frodo tried a change of subject.  “What do you make of the fish?” he asked, now that Sam had finished his supper and Frodo was only a little ways behind.  He did his best for Sam’s sake to sound bright.  “Is it all you were hoping for?”

That seemed to do the trick.  “Oh, yes,” Sam said, warming up.  “Best catch this side of Buckleberry Ferry, I reckod.”  But almost as quickly, his smile began to falter.  “That is, I bead, well I thidk so.”

Frodo frowned.  “You think?  What do you mean?”

Sam’s look was a bit embarrassed, furtive almost, as he admitted, “Well, I cad’t really taste it buch…”

Frodo knew how genuinely disappointing this had to be for Sam, and to be sure, it was only the latest in several days’ worth of unpleasant happenings for him, but something about the look on his face as he confided this made Frodo chuckle a bit.  “Ohhh!” Frodo exclaimed, good-naturedly sympathetic, as he guided Sam’s head onto Frodo’s shoulder and lightly mussed the dear fellow’s sandy hair.  “I’m sorry – it really isn’t funny.”

“It’s all right,” Sam replied, sniffling.  “Ih- ihhhhhhhhh-hihhhhhhhh-CHIUUHHHHHHH!”  Dabbing at his nose with the handkerchief, he added, “It is, a bit.”

“Once you’re feeling better, our path will take us to that stream again,” Frodo reassured him.  “We’ll be sure to catch some more fish, and you’ll be able to taste it properly then.”  Briefly, he told Sam about his plan to make camp by the stream on their first day back traveling.  “On the way, we can look for tree branches to make poles – I didn’t think to look for any on my way down, and on my way back, I was in too much of a hurry to think of it.”

Glancing at Sam, Frodo saw he again wore the drowsy makings of a smile.  “That’s a fide idea, Bister Frodo,” he agreed.  “Add it’ll taste eved better after a day’s jourdeyig, with a good appetite worked up.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Frodo replied.

Sam’s breath began to hitch, and he lifted his head up from Frodo’s shoulder a bit as he raised the handkerchief, sneezing, “ihhhhhhhh… hihhhhhhh-TCHIIUUUHHHHHHHH!  Hahhhhhhhhhh-SHOOOOOOOO-ehhhhhhhh!  Ehhhhhhhh… ehhhhhhhhhhhh-CHUUHHHHHHH!”

Settling back onto Frodo’s shoulder, he suppressed a small groan.  “I doh,” he said, wiping his nose with a sniffle.  “Back to bed.”

Frodo smiled.  “You’re learning,” he teased gently.  Sam might have been better for having rested and eaten, but his cold was still rather miserable.  It seemed to Frodo that it rose and fell somewhat like a tide – one minute, Sam could perk up quite considerably, joking and smiling, and the next, he’d start feeling awful again.  Though he was slowly starting to get well, the poor fellow still needed some looking after.

Leaving the plates by the fire, Frodo helped Sam move a little apart so he wouldn’t be bothered by the noise of Frodo cleaning and packing up.  “Do you want this on you?” Frodo asked, picking up Sam’s blanket.  “Are you hot or cold?”

Sam frowned a little as he settled back down on the ground.  “I’be dot sure,” he admitted.  “I- sorry, I’be a bit out of sorts.”

“It’s all right,” Frodo assured him.  He felt Sam’s forehead.  “You’re a little warm,” he remarked (an improvement, at least – Sam was no longer hot to the touch.)  “Here.”  As Sam lay down, Frodo pulled his blanket partway up, loosely.  “So it’ll be easy to kick it off it you need to.”

Sam, smiling lethargically, murmured, “Mbb hbb.”

As Frodo returned to the fire to stamp it out, he heard Sam sneeze twice more and blow his nose.  Sam gave a long sigh, and Frodo turned back to him.  “Is something wrong?” he asked, walking over to kneel beside Sam.

“Doh, I- I dod’t doh,” Sam replied, sounding beaten.  “I’be just tired, Bister Frodo.”

“All the more reason to rest,” Frodo told him, squeezing his shoulder.

Sam nodded, coughing into the handkerchief.  “I doh,” he said.  “I just – I dod’t buch like tryig to sleep add fidig I cad’t.  That doesd’t feel like rest, Bister Frodo.  Somehow, it just bakes be bore tired.”

Frodo’s heart went out to his poor, ill friend.  “Yes,” he said, “well, earlier, your trouble was that you couldn’t quiet your head, isn’t that right?  But I’m here now, so there’s nothing to worry about.”  Sam was lying on his side, and Frodo gently rubbed his arm.

“Do you thidk-?” Sam began, then stopped for a moment, sniffling.  “Could you stay for a bit – just sitting by, I bead – till I get to sleep?”

“Of course,” Frodo told him.

“I- IHHHHHHHH-shhhuhhhhhhh!”  Sam buried his nose in the handkerchief.  “I’be sorry to ask,” he said.

“Don’t be,” Frodo replied warmly.

“Odly I feel a little better, dohig you’re there,” Sam explained, stifling a cough.

When Frodo blinked, he found his eyelashes a bit wet.  Sam didn’t know that, earlier in the day, Frodo had beat back the seductive call of the Ring by thinking of him.  “I know precisely how you feel,” Frodo said.  Then leaning down, close to Sam’s ear, “…And I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam did have a difficult time falling asleep.  His nose and his cough were both plaguing him – as soon as one would let up, the other would start in again, and between them, it was hard for him to get settled.  For his part, Frodo sat beside his friend, rubbing his back and shoulders, massaging his temples, speaking comforting words in low, murmuring tones.

It was perhaps half an hour later, as Frodo was singing – a quiet little air about the first signs of spring – that he noticed Sam’s breaths beginning to grow long and even.  With a soft snuffle, Sam mumbled dreamily to himself.  Not the disorienting fever dreams of the previous night, but the fine dozy sleep that comes at the end of a taxing day.  And Sam’s day, Frodo wagered, had certainly been that.

“There,” Frodo said softly, “that’s better.”  Lightly, he brushed Sam’s cheek with his knuckles.  “Just sleep, Sam.”

He didn’t bed down himself, not right away.  For a long while yet, he stayed up, as the sky darkened and the moon tried to glow from behind the clouds.  Keeping watch over the dear fellow sleeping at his side.  Making sure he was all right.

[Spoo]

A truly wonderful fic.  Thank you for writing and sharing this! I hope you'll consider writing more LotR stories in the future. 

[queenie]

This was simply and entirely darling. I am so terribly worried about both of the little dears, although of course Sam had me aching and troubled as he worsened. And the writing was perfect. The bit about "say what you would about learning, these are the things Sam knows" was-- it was incredible. 

[Masking]

This whole story was so awesome. I love sick Sam, and caring Frodo was just the best! The writing was also amazing, very like the original. Two thumbs up!

[AngelEyes]

This was beautiful! What a perfect ending. I love how Frodo pulls himself back from the ring by focusing on Sam, and then,

13 hours ago, angora48 said:

“Odly I feel a little better, dohig you’re there,” Sam explained, stifling a cough.

 

When Frodo blinked, he found his eyelashes a bit wet.  Sam didn’t know that, earlier in the day, Frodo had beat back the seductive call of the Ring by thinking of him.  “I know precisely how you feel,” Frodo said.  Then leaning down, close to Sam’s ear, “…And I’m not going anywhere.”

Awww!

[frolicking periwinkle]

On 8/17/2017 at 9:20 AM, angora48 said:

“You cad’t, though!” Sam pressed.  “You cad’t hide it frob be, Bister Frodo – I’ve seed it!  These last few days, you’ve beed right poorly, add you doh it.  Dow, I- I… ehhhhhhhhhh… hihhhhhhh-TCHIIUUUHHHHHHHH!”

I can hear the desperation in Sam even though he's so sick. Poor Sam

[Shamaël]

That was a GREAT story. Thank you fo sharing it, and if you have other Sick!Sam fics, I'll gladly read them!

[angora48]

Thanks, everybody!  I have a few other LOTR story ideas (all involving hobbits) and have actually started one, but it'll be a while.  I work at a school, and once the school year starts up again, I won't have as much time for fanfic writing as I do during the summer.  But it's good to know that, when they're ready, someone will be around to read them!

[snowshie]

NOBODY writes Sam fic, so I was so excited to see this! I love the characterizations and role-reversal, and I love that you didn't hand wave away their circumstances or their priorities. And poor Sam. I loved watching him suffer through his cold. Thanks for posting this! Your work is always wonderful.

[lsbn]

As everyone said, this was fantastic. So touching and sweet... These two are so cute together!!! 😍