His Own Master
Mr. Frodo Baggins, on self-pleasure bent, carried with him into his bedroom two kinds of oil, and a clean cloth to wipe up with afterwards. Also a bottle of water, tucked under his arm, in case he grew thirsty, and the ring he inherited from his cousin. Not that he felt the need to become invisible, in his own hobbit-hole with the door locked behind him; it was just that he carried it in his pocket on a chain everywhere he went.
"Sam! What do you want for Our Birthday?"
"Me, sir?" Sam sat back on his heels, eyes wide as if startled. "I--I hadn't thought on the matter."
Didn't want to say anything in front of the others, Frodo guessed. Did he want a dance at the Assembly? "What is it, Sam?" he said, getting up. "You can tell me."
Sam hesitated still. Frodo tried not to sigh, and crossed the grass to stand right in front of him, so the lad could whisper it if need be. At last Sam looked up. He didn't look shy at all. "A kiss," he said.
Will Keep There
The Ring is changing me--already has changed me. So has the Morgul blade that pierced my shoulder, and in more ways than just making my arm twinge of a cold morning. I cannot see your heart as clearly as you can see mine, but I can see enough. I know what you would offer.
My Sam came home again tonight. Not more than a fortnight, he'd said when I asked him when he and Mr. Frodo would be back this time. It had been that and a few days more. His cheeks were streaked silver, as if he'd been crying, and he stopped in the doorway when he came in, to stare around at the lamp by my sewing-chair and the fire on the hearth as if he'd never seen light before in his life.