Soil

He plunged his hands into the loose soil and filled his senses with the good black earth. Above him, first light streaked the sky over Ithilien, and the early morning stillness surrounded him. Dampness seeped through the legs of his breeches where he knelt in the soft ground on the edge of the beech-grove, but the familiar coolness was as welcome as the feel of the earth in his hands.

Sitting back, he lifted handfuls of soil up, letting it slip softly through his fingers. His eyes closed, and he remembered…

...They opened again, haunted. The last of the soil fell from his trembling hands, flowing to the ground like blood. Like the thick black Orc blood in his memory.

He jumped up and wiped the dirt from his hands savagely as if it burned. But it wasn't the ground that seared him. It was the memory, and the shame of it, that could not be brushed away.

He fled to the nearest beech tree, taking refuge beneath the low-hung branches, seeking shade to match the darkness in his soul.

There was a day, perhaps two left in this place and then they would be leaving to travel with Aragorn to Minas Tirith; riding away from his chance to speak the words he feared. There would be no time for the likes of Samwise Gamgee and his foolishness once the King returned to the city. The duties would press heavy upon Aragorn then, and Sam would have failed to save his master from pain and torment yet again.

He steeled himself against that thought, and the uncertainty that went with it. No more delays; it would have to be today. Even as he set himself to the task, his will faltered. What if he were wrong? He would do more harm than good if he spoke out of turn.

Tears blurred his vision as the images returned, once again overwhelming him. Of all the long days in their dark journey, these memories more than any others remained etched in his mind…

***The orc standing over his master, whip raised to strike.***

***The sight of the orc's whip hand falling free of its arm, black blood spurting.***

***Bright red blood smeared on his master's bruised thighs.***

Sam shuddered violently, wrapping his arms around himself. Even now, he couldn't be certain where the blood on Frodo's legs had come from. He'd found no cuts when he'd carefully wiped away the crimson stains, and the way Frodo recoiled from his gentle touch made him suspect…

Sam had been filled with a cold fury then, driven to acts he could barely believe he'd committed. Certainly he had told no one else of those long minutes alone in Cirith Ungol, when he had gone in search of clothing for his master. He never even hinted at how he had desecrated the dead bodies, severing heads and limbs, reveling in the stench of spilled blood and the feel of Sting sinking into flesh and cleaving bone.

Only the awareness of his master's needs had saved his sanity then, giving Sam the strength to fight the black-tinged hatred that had its claws in his soul. He would have liked to blame the Ring, to make It the cause of his madness, but It was with his master again, and in the back of his mind Sam knew that the cruelty and viciousness was his own.

Alone in Mordor with Frodo's life in his hands Sam had been able to put his actions in the tower aside, but the reality could not be hidden away forever. He knew what he had done, he had to accept the truth of himself.

Unclean.

He looked down at his hands. They would never be clean enough to touch Frodo now, save for the few casual touches he stole in his weakness. A thief. His master was right to have called him that, though it wasn't the Ring Sam coveted.

Distant noises brought him out of his dark thoughts. The sky was brighter and he knew he should get back to the tent before Frodo awoke. At least he could still serve his master, pouring his love into tending to Frodo's needs.

Sam knew it was more than he had a right to.

Fear took him again, as it often did these days. If he told Aragorn what he suspected had happened in that tower the King could heal his master's hurts, but if it were not true. Surely Frodo would send Sam away then, for shaming him. Or it were true but Frodo couldn't remember.. Much of their days in Mordor were lost to his master's memory already. What if this foul thing were gone? Wouldn't it do more harm to make him remember?

With a half-sob, Sam collapsed, his head pressed against his knees, tears flowing freely as he cried out his loneliness and pain.

Merry found him like that, his head still pressed into his knees, his body grown stiff from the tension. Without a word Merry took Sam in his arms, drawing him up and holding him even as he tried to pull away, sure that he didn't deserve such comforting.

"Be still, Sam," Merry ordered, softening his words with a small laugh. "You're more stubborn than Pip."

"I've got to get back," Sam insisted. "Mr. Frodo will be wanting his breakfast."

"Mr. Frodo can get his own breakfast, my dear Sam. It will do him good to fend for himself, and there are plenty of people around to keep an eye on him." Merry shifted slightly, looking hard at his friend. "Although it seems as though he might not be the one in need of looking after just now."

Sam tried to move away, yet couldn't bring himself to struggle too hard. He was keenly aware of Merry's recent injuries, and although they were healing nicely, he wouldn't do anything to bring him pain. With a sharp twist, his thoughts turned again and he hiccupped another sob. If only he could have saved Frodo from everything that had happened in that tower…

"Samwise, stop." Merry's voice was soft, almost a whisper, but it got Sam's attention. Merry released his hold and took a small step back, a gentle smile on his lips, but worry in his eyes. He wiped Sam's tears away, his touch gentle. "I'm willing to listen," he offered after a long silence.

"There's naught to tell," Sam said gruffly, his eyes not quite meeting Merry's.

"Nothing, Sam? The marks you carry would give a different answer." Merry placed his hand against Sam's stomach, a pale shadow of its former rounded glory. Moving up he touched Sam's chest, just where the Ring had lain heavy against it. Sam flinched.

"Tell me what happened in Cirith Ungol, Sam."

"How?" Sam stared, mouth agape, then quickly collected himself. "What might there be to tell of that foul place?"

"That's what I'm asking, dear fellow. I've seen your face when the name is spoken. I've noticed how you never speak of what happened there, and change the subject when someone asks. But I think I can guess at least some of it." Merry looked away for a moment, as if seeing something that wasn't there and when he turned back, his eyes were distant. "I know how it feels to deal out death." Unconsciously he grasped his injured shoulder. "Such madness…"

"Merry?" Sam cried out clutching at the other hobbit, alarmed by his sudden pallor.

"It's all right." Merry insisted, coming back to himself. His clear eyes settled on his friend, sympathy and understanding in their depths. "We did what needed doing, Sam. All of us. There's not a one of us as did anything to be ashamed of." He touched Sam's face. "Least of all you, my dear Sam. You saved us all, including Frodo."

"But I didn't!" Sam cried out, and then the words just tumbled out of him, and there was nothing he could do to stop them until the whole story of what happened in Cirith Ungol was laid bare.

Frodo's injuries, Sam's suspicions, the cold fury, and the revenge he exacted on the corpses. Sam spared himself nothing, painting his actions in the ugliest of terms. Only one thing did he conceal, keeping Frodo's accusations and demand for the Ring secret.

When it was over, Merry took Sam's hand and held it, his eyes locked onto the gardener's. There was none of the loathing or disgust Sam expected to see. Merry's eyes were kind, with a depth of understanding that drove a sharp stab of sympathy into Sam's heart. "You have to ask him, Sam. You can not let this lie between you."

"What if I'm wrong? What if he don't remember? I won't shame him, Merry. Not for anything."

"The only shame in this, Sam, is in keeping it secret. If it happened, nothing can undo it. If it didn't happen, then you should not suffer believing that it did." Leaning forward, Merry kissed Sam on the forehead.

"He's right, Sam." Pippin's voice startled them both, and they turned to see the younger hobbit leaning against the trunk of the tree, tears in his eyes and a pained expression on his face. He'd obviously been listening for a while. Now that he had their attention he hurried to Merry's side and let the older hobbit embrace him. They comforted each other, sharing a kiss that was more than friendly, purposely allowing Sam to see what they usually kept hidden. He watched them with desperate longing in his eyes.

"Frodo's been looking for you, Sam. He's worried about you." Pippin said when he finally withdrew from Merry's arms.

"Hang my foolishness!" Sam cried, blushing as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.

"We'll go back together, Sam. And after you've cleaned up and had your breakfast, you and Frodo can have a talk by yourselves. Pip and I'll make sure of it."

"As long as you're done in time for Elevenses," Pippin added. "I missed it yesterday and I don't intend to miss it today."

"You know why you missed it yesterday, Pip. And you more than made up for it at the next meal." Merry chided, laughter in his voice.

Their laughter carried as they walked to their tents and suddenly Frodo was there, hurrying towards them, relief smoothing the worry lines off his face.

"There you are, Sam. I was wondering where you'd got to." His hand shook just a little as he laid it on the younger hobbit's arm. "Everything all right?" There was a slight catch in his voice as he asked it.

"He was playing in the dirt, Frodo." Merry offered, grabbing Pippin's hand and hauling him away. "We're off to breakfast before there's nothing left worth eating."

Frodo watched them go, then turned back to Sam, still holding his arm. "I've saved breakfast for us, Sam. Will you come eat with me?"

Sam nodded, feeling his resolve fade away. How could he bring more pain to those beautiful eyes?

They walked in comfortable silence to their tent. While Frodo uncovered the food, Sam went to the basin to wash his hands. He cleaned and dried them carefully, taking special care with his nails. He would not share a table with his master while smelling of dirt.

They talked little while they ate, concentrating on chewing and swallowing, although neither of them was particularly interested in what they were eating. When he could no longer remain still, Sam hopped up and started to clear the small table. As he reached out to take Frodo's plate, his master caught his hand.

Frodo looked up, smiling, still holding Sam's hand. "You smell like a spring morning, Sam, after a night of steady rain."

Breath caught in Sam's throat. There was a look in Frodo's eyes that he hadn't seen in so long, he sometimes wondered if he'd only ever imagined it.

"You have such strong hands, Sam." Frodo stood, taking the dishes away from Sam, setting them on the table before taking both hands in his own, studying them, his touch soft as he traced the work-roughened palms. "Sometimes I forget…" He stopped, looking away, suddenly unable to finish.

Sam moved closer, eyes wide with worry, but Frodo pulled himself together and shook his head.

"I've forgotten so much, dear Sam. Evil, black things, yes, but also the good things. Like your hands as they guided me in the darkness, and your smile as it brightened even the blackest times in that foul land." He shook his head and stepped back, as if mustering his resolve. "I don't want to remember the evil, Sam. But I will, if it means that you do not suffer in silence and alone." He reached out to touch Sam's cheek, the gentlest of caresses. "I beg you, Sam, tell me what it is that takes you from my side at night, that makes you draw back your gentle touch."

"Oh, Mr Frodo," Sam cried, "I…"

Frodo's eyes clouded as he whispered, "please."

That broke him. Sam fell to his knees, bowing low over his master's hands, tears falling steadily as he tried to find the words. They had come so easily with Merry, but now each syllable cut deeply, wounding him as he uttered it. Frodo knelt beside him now, and only the warmth of Frodo's arms around him, holding him, kept him going.

Long after the last words faded Sam dared to look up, expecting to see loathing or pain in that perfect face. He certainly didn't expect the soft caress of breath against his cheek, nor the tender touch of Frodo's lips against his own.

"Thank you." Frodo whispered the words into Sam's mouth, letting the younger hobbit taste them. He didn't say it was all right, because it wasn't yet. The shadows in Frodo's eyes were proof of that. Yet somehow it was better than the secrets that had hung between them.

Slowly Sam rose, letting one finger almost touch his master's face before turning away. He would allow his master privacy; Frodo would come for him when he was ready. And then Sam would know the true toll of the quest; if it had cost him the love and trust of his master.

Frodo's words gave him hope, even as they mocked him. To be thanked for such blackness as that. Yet he thought he understood a little, how desperate his master was to reclaim himself without the influence of the Ring. No matter how it hurt.

Sam walked slowly, his feet carrying him back to the pile of loose soil that had soothed him a few short hours ago. He held it again, breathing in the sight and scent of it, letting his mind wander as it would.

When Frodo arrived, Sam reached out to him, drawing him down to kneel beside him, and drizzling the cool soil into his pale hands. Frodo smiled, almost laughing at the simple pleasure despite the tears in his eyes.

Sam placed a seed he'd found into Frodo's palm, closing his own hand over it. "There's all you need for growing, Mr. Frodo, a seed, good soil, some rain and the sun."

Frodo placed his other hand on top of Sam's, leaning close. "Why Sam, you've left out the most important part." The corners of Frodo's eyes crinkled up as they did when he was specially pleased. "Growing things need love."

"Why so they do Mr. Frodo," Sam responded. Or at least he would have if his lips weren't pressed right up against Frodo's.