FIC: Halves

TITLE: Halves
PAIRING: Sam/Frodo
RATING: PG-13
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Sam awoke with a jolt. Rattling from the smial's kitchen roused Rosie from his side, lifting her head from the crook of his neck. "Sam…?"

"Not again," breathed Sam, his voice heavy with sleep as he climbed from the bed and drew on a pair of breeches over his nightshirt. Another bang made Rosie jump and gathered baby Frodo from his cradle and to her breast. Sam rubbed his bleary eyes, lighting a candle and stepping into the hall.

A loud crash made him nearly jump out of his skin. As he neared the kitchen, the sounds increased. In the pale candlelight, he could see the figure of a hobbit. With a heavy heart he used the candle's flame to light a lantern; illuminating the smial with a pale yellow glow. Frodo stood with his back to Sam, his head bowed in search, his frail body quaking in naught but his nightshirt.

"Where is it, where is… Where… Oh, where has it gone?" Sam's ears found the low babbling unpleasant, but not unfamiliar. Lantern light kissed the frantic form, wildly tearing apart shelves and drawers. Raven curls fell in distant blue eyes, glazed with sleep and trance. "Where… Where…?"

"Have you lost something, Mister Frodo?" Sam went to his master, touching his arm gently to let him know he was there. Frodo tore away from the touch, growling and throwing an upended drawer to the floor when it turned up fruitless. He knew what it was he sought. It was the same every night.

"M-mister Frodo, please…" Sam gripped his arms tightly, holding him still. Frodo fought, gnashing his teeth.

"N-no, need…! It's gone…!"

"Yes, gone, Mister Frodo. We were rid of it, don't you remember?" He still wasn't sure if Frodo could hear him when he was in one of these trances, yet he still murmured quietly to calm him.

"No, h-have to find—!" Frodo struggled, but his frail arms were caught fast in Sam's broad hands.

"There is nothing to find, Mister Frodo! Please, sir, you're not yourself!" Frodo would have none of it. Giving a cry like a wounded animal, he twisted free and hit Sam hard across the cheek.


"H-have to find it...!" he hissed rigidly, continuing his frantic search, a clay trencher smashing upon the floor where Sam sat staring.

Never before had Frodo struck him, awake nor asleep. Never so much had raised a hand on him, even as a clumsy hobbitling prone to breaking a flower pot or two against the garden flagstones. Something was terribly wrong.


Clutching his burning jaw, Sam heaved himself to his feet and grabbed Frodo roughly and threw him down on the table, twisting his arms behind his back, his fist tight in dark curls, slamming an ivory cheek to the wooden surface.


Frodo wailed loudly. Sam was unrelenting; his Frodo wasn't awake yet. The hobbit beneath him twisted and squirmed and hissed, baring his teeth, but realizing he could not get free, quieted beneath Sam's solid weight.


"M-mister Frodo, wake up… It's your Sam, sir…" Sam murmured half-heartedly.


His chest heaving, Frodo gave a jerk and drew a sharp shaky breath. A weak sob escaped his trembling lips, and he lay will-less over the table. He was awake. He always awoke in tears.


Sam carefully drew his weight up, off the smaller hobbit, gathering him into his arms. "S-sam," Frodo wailed, "Sam—!"


"I'm here, Frodo, please don't weep." Sam's voice quivered with relief, burying his hand in the dark curls and pulling his master's face to his shoulder. They stood like this for a long while, Sam attempting to hush Frodo's cries the best he could. "I'm here, I'm here… Hush…"


"Papa?" A blond curly head appeared around the rounded door jamb.


"Hush, Elanor. To bed with you."


"Is Uncle Frodo hurting again?" Sam's heart leapt into his throat.


"No, my lamb. It's only a bad dream." The hobbit-lass' eyes were fixed on her uncle's shivering form. She tentatively stepped forward into the room. "Elanor—! To bed with you, or I'll lick you good, make no mistake!!"


The hobbitling scurried from the room, fear in her eyes. Sam grew red in the face. He hadn't meant to frighten her so. It was for her own good.

After a moment, he let Frodo go, reaching for a basin and cloth. Taking his arm, he led the still quietly-crying hobbit out the back door and sat him gently on the garden bench.


The night was hot and still, the moon high and full above them. The smells of warmed earth and wood-smoke drifted in the air, the buzzing of night insects like static. With a gentle brush to his swelling cheek, Sam let Frodo know he wouldn't be long.


He made his way to the water pump and filled it with cool well water. Toting it back to his master, he knelt before him and wet the cloth, wiping gently at Frodo's hot damp cheeks. The hobbit had ceased crying, and now sat ashen-faced and forlorn. The voice startled Sam.


"I did it again, didn't I, Sam?" Frodo asked weakly, shame in his tone. Sam hesitated, glanced up at Frodo's face through the dark, and nodded.


"Aye…"


Frodo's body jerked with a soft tearful sob. "I'm so sorry…"


"Hush, now, Mister Frodo. It's behind us." Sam wet the cloth again, pressing it to Frodo's brow and over his tired eyes. Carefully he stood, and, sitting beside his master, pulled him gently to lay his head against his shoulder.


He gathered the frail body to him, Frodo still quivering in his nightshirt despite the warm night. With a gentle swipe to his runny nose, he quieted him. "I'm sorry I was so rough," Sam murmured against midnight hair. "Did I hurt you?"


"No, Sam. I've told you; do what you must to wake me. In fact…" Frodo bit his lip. "I've toyed with the idea of letting you lock me into my bedsmial at night." Sam blanched, his grip tightening.


"I'll have none of that talk. What if you have another spell? I don't want you hurt."


Frodo opened his eyes. "Better hurt than destroying your home."


"My—?! Beg your pardon, Mister Frodo!" Sam swelled with anger. "That ain't right fair of you! I… I won't lock you away like some freak! You're just… ill, and that's that." There was a silence in which only the chirping of crickets and the call of a distant owl were heard. They both knew better. There would be no recovery from what ailed Frodo.


Frodo spoke quietly after a moment. "I can handle the night-terrors, Samwise. I'm no hobbitling."


Sam held his master to him gently. He knew Frodo needed him; knew he was lying. He had grown so used to lying against Sam night after long night in Mordor, that waking now alone shook Frodo into a worse panic than the initial nightmare.


Sam heard him at night, had pictured his master sitting bolt-upright in bed, clutching a pillow to his chest with those white, frail fingers, his face flushed with tears, crying out for him. It was Sam's name first to his lips as he woke. Sam would never answer to his cries, for fear of hurting Frodo's pride.


He had seen the elder hobbit flush with shame when asked how he had slept the night before, had caught him napping lightly in the sunlight upon his desk when he had claimed to be working, had seen him rise early to wash soiled sheets.

Sam stroked his master's face with the cool damp cloth, soothing him into sleep once more. Frodo's thin arm found its way about Sam's waist and clutched at his hip and breeches, the way he used to during those dark nights in the forsaken lands. It was almost habit now, the way a babe clutches at a mother's fingers.

He would sleep soundly now.
___
The morning light was pale and weak as it glowed through Frodo's bedsmial window. He awoke from a light, dreamless sleep and dressed himself methodically. Buttons were growing increasingly easier to manage with his maimed hand, he noticed as he fastened the front of his weskit.

He made his way to the kitchen in time to catch Sam before he left for work. "Good morning, Mister Frodo," Sam said from around the lip of his teacup with a warm smile. "Would you care for breakfast?"

Life carried on as if nothing had happened the night before.

"No, thank you, Sam. I may take something light with tea later," he said quietly, smiling softly.  Sam frowned, but didn't protest. He knew better than to argue.

Upon their return from Rivendell, he had assumed that, however slowly, Frodo would heal; would gradually eat more and more until his tummy was back to its normal hobbit-roundness. It didn't, however, and Sam grew worried until one day he sat Frodo at the table and, setting a full meal before him, made him finish it all.

Frodo had resisted, had called him childish, had said he wasn't hungry. Sam had slammed his fist down on the table, and, leaning on his palms lowered his face to lean over Frodo's ear. Had hissed lowly that if he didn't finish everything on his plate, he wouldn't leave the table. Slowly but surely, the plate had been cleared, not without whining and arguing between them.

But that afternoon he had found Frodo leant over the wash basin in the wash room, retching up all that he had eaten. Frodo heard him approach, and, when he felt his stomach was empty, straightened. Wiping the sick from his lips, he turned and looked at Sam with an expression that screamed of fatigue and 'See, I told you so!'

No words were exchanged as Frodo hurried past him and into his study, where he hid the rest of the day. Sam would only offer food and hope from then on.

Sam got to his feet and set his cup on the table, nodding to Frodo. "Won't you come with me, Mister Frodo? It's lovely out today, and heaven knows you could do with some fresh air."

Frodo hesitated, clearly thinking it over. "You could bring your book," Sam offered, trying not to look too hopeful. Frodo rarely left Bag End these days. "I'd enjoy your company as well."
___
"Do you remember when we were young, and the Gaffer would chastise you for getting me dirty?" Frodo asked quietly, a weak smile on his lips. He had his sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair falling in his face as he knelt over the flowerbed.

"I would get in such trouble," replied Sam, "But you loved to help." The setting sun was warm on their backs as they dug small holes in the soft earth. The Battle of Bywater had left much of the Shire in ruin, and Sam had taken it upon himself to replant trees and flora over the countryside.

"Yes, I did. I've missed this, spending time with you in your natural habitat."

"Mister Frodo?" Sam raised his eyebrows at him.

"Well you're hardly happy being kept indoors all the time, are you?" Frodo mused. "You get sort of… Distant, like you're longing for sunshine and the outdoors. Whereas I'm perfectly happy staying inside with my work."

Sam watched the elder hobbit place a few seeds and a pinch of Galadriel's magic soil. "You don't have to hide away from the world, Mister Frodo, beggin' your pardon, sir."

Frodo laughed. The sound was weak and brittle, as that part of his throat hadn't been used for a long while. "Who said anything about hiding, Sam?"

Sam fell quiet, watching Frodo's disfigured hands scoop and fill the earth with such tenderness it ached. Why should he be so kind to a world that had brought nothing but hardship and pain upon him? "Beggin' your pardon, sir."

"Pass me the watering can, Sam?"
___
That night it had been the study. Papers were scattered in all directions, books strewn about the room. Maps and quills littered the floor as Frodo searched the bookcase. "Where… Where…?"

"Mister Frodo, please…" Sam begged him wearily. This was growing out of hand. "Please, it's your Sam."

Frodo came out of his daze much as he had the night before, with an argument that ended with him pinned to the rug. With trembling arms Sam lifted the sobbing frame from the floor. He'd have rug-burn on his back when he awoke in the morning. "I'm sorry, Sam… I'm s-so sorry…"

"Hush, Mister Frodo." He was so light. Sam murmured sweet nothings to the hobbit in his arms as he carried him back to his bedsmial. It was all he could do to keep from crying himself.

Setting him on the bed, he drew the coverlet over Frodo, and leant to kiss his hot face, pushing damp, shivering curls from his eyes. "Sleep now."

"I… I can't, Sam—" Frodo protested, struggling to sit up. "I c-can't, I just can't sleep without you—!"

"I'm just down the hall—"

"N-no!" Frodo sobbed, grabbing his wrist. Sam looked him in the face. "P-please, stay? I'm… I'm so, so very tired…" Those nine fingers tightened around his arm in silent plea.

Sam gave in, and climbed up onto the bed beside his master. "Just until you fall asleep." Frodo's tears subsided a bit with the warmth beside him. Sam smoothed the dark curls and hummed softly, lulling the distressed hobbit to sleep. Frodo's hand found the gardener's hipbone and clutched. He was out like a light.

"Again?" hissed Rosie from the doorway, startling Sam.

"Aye," he murmured, sighing and untangling himself from Frodo and slipping from the bed. "The night-terrors are getting worse."

Rosie scoffed, baby Frodo asleep against her collarbone as they made their way back to their bedsmial. "Oh, I'm sure."

Sam cut eyes at his wife, unlacing the front of his breeches. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I know you swore to care for him, but it's growing to be ridiculous, Sam! He sees more of my husband at night than I do!"

"Rose, he needs me!"

"Enough to coax you into his bed and get you to hold him like you were his lover?! He's like a child, constantly needing your attention!" Sam growled lowly.

"You don't know what it was like—!" he hissed, his nose twitching with a snarl. "You have no idea what he's been through, to save the lives of ungrateful gits like you!!" Rosie stared, clutching their child closer. Sam sighed loudly, sitting on the bed and holding his forehead in his palms. All malice left his tone. "I'm sorry, Rose. I didn't mean to say it…"

"But you did," she murmured quietly, eyeing him.

Sam lifted his face. "I'm so tired," he cried, "All the time! I haven't the heart to tell him, nor let it show, but it's wearing me down, Rose… He… When we were in Mordor," he said, lowering his voice at mention of the name, "He would have night-terrors, worse than these; things the Ring would make him see. I was the only one there to comfort him when he woke."

His lip trembled at the recollection. "He doesn't know any better, it's reflex by now, surely! He's just so scared, please, can't you see?"

Rosie lowered her face and flushed. "I'm sorry, Sam."

"Please, just come to bed," he sighed, his voice quivering. "He'll sleep soundly through the night."
___

Frodo drew back from his embrace, Pippin's face flushed with tears. Turning, Sam's heart jumped, and he gasped as Frodo hugged him tightly. Such strength couldn't have come from such a frail thing.

Sam buried his nose against Frodo's neck and wept softly, his cries muffled in the Lorien cloak. Frodo's maimed hand stroked his back gently, trying to quiet his tears. Please, Sam, don't weep for me.

He held him until he quieted, naught but the occasional hiccup against his shoulder. When Frodo finally drew away, Sam almost wept again. He felt cold and empty, like part of his heart was being ripped out. His lip trembled, tell-tale of tears. Oh, please, Mister Frodo, don't leave me.

Frodo's fingers flexed gently against the back of Sam's neck, and he bowed his head, closing his eyes as Frodo's pale lips kissed his brow. He withdrew, and with a final, reassuring look, (Will you be alright?) let Sam go, turning to face Gandalf. With silent pleas unheard from both lips, he would leave. This was it.
___
"My dear Sam, you cannot always be torn in two. You will have to be one, and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy, and to be, and to do. Your part in the story will go on."