Sourire
Author: Janette Le Fay (happyhobbits@hotmail.com)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: The hobbits belong to JRR Tolkien and I make no money from my drabbles. Thank you. J
Note: Sequel to Black Hallowed. Title means 'smiling' or 'to smile'. Thanks to Rakshi for unconsciously encouraging me to write this. Drabble, drabble…
The sun is crawling slowly up over the hard line of his shoulder like a weary missionary when the door begins to open, but he doesn't see it move. His eyes are closed, long lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, clinging to the presence of heat on his arms and chest in an attempt to mask the pain. His lips are moving slightly, muttering nonsense to himself under his breath, and Sam's voice in the muted tangle of gold and darkness is a vague and shadowy call.
Sam watches anxiously as the movements of his lips slow and then finally stop, hesitantly, still half-parted as if to be ready to resume immediately if necessary. The elegant curve of Frodo's mouth draws Sam's eyes, the bow of it dipping and twisting effortlessly in the shadows of his mind. Sam tries to summon the will to call again, but suddenly his head is full of the beauty of Frodo's face in the morning's glow, light and shadow effortlessly intermingled. Sam's own hazel eyes travel slowly across the pale strong line of his cheek; Frodo's jaw is bathed in light and the underside of his nose in shadow. He is so still, so fragile; the delicate beauty of his face is unchanged and unsullied beneath new lines that snake softly to mesh about his eyes and mouth.
"Frodo," he tries to say, but somewhere between brain and mouth the words get tangled. "I love you," he whispers.
Frodo opens his eyes slowly then, as if he were waking from a deep sleep. Sam's breath catches somewhere on the sharp, snagging edges of their incredulous blueness, his throat filled with Frodo's light, suffocatingly sweet.
"Hullo, Sam," Frodo says in a phantom of his old tone, with a wan smile. "Did you say something?"
Sam's mind seems to have split into ten thousand tiny pieces; he can see the shards of it sparkling and twisting like grains of fairy dust in the air, caught in shafts of golden light like flies in cobweb. He can't think, doesn't want to; there's a great gaping hole where his comfortable hobbit-sense used to be and he's terribly afraid that the hole has consumed it once and for all. "I -"
Frodo raises one eyebrow in the old, teasing way and Sam smiles, smiles that familiar, glowing smile that spreads warmth and love and wisdom all over his whole face with enough left to spare that it radiates out into the air. Frodo holds out a hand weakly as if to catch it, but Sam misinterprets the gesture. "What's the matter, Mr Frodo? Do you need something?"
Frodo is half-aware that he's smiling inanely now; the shafts of light that lie over his shoulder pale and fade to nothing in comparison to Sam. Frodo knows, knows utterly that Sam would do anything for him, and that is the greatest warmth of all.
"Mr Frodo?"
Frodo shakes his head slightly. "I don't need anything, Sam dear. Just - would you smile for me?"
Glory of glories Sam's smile broadens at that, and Frodo disregards the fact that his mouth is curving quizzically at the edges because the glow is too much, too strong, washing away the darkness into a tiny darkened corner so far within him that for now at least it is trapped. "Smile for you, Frodo?"
Frodo nods once and then sits still, contemplating, bathing in the light. His blue eyes are calm, absent of any expression besides contentment, and although Sam is puzzled he knows at least that there is no pain there, and for now that is enough.
"Frodo?" he says softly.
"Mm?" Frodo opens one eye just enough to smile lethargically at Sam.
"I love you," Sam murmurs.
"I know," Frodo says gently, and closes his eye again against the fierce glare of the sun, now brushing the underside of his eyelid. "I know."
~~END~~
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Pretty Good Year