Knots. F/S, PG. Double entendre abounds!
“You
hold one end and then pull.”
Frodo gasped. “Oh Sam, that's so tight. And you did it so fast. You are a
marvel. Who taught you all these tricks?”
Sam blushed. “My Uncle Andy.”
He held out the completed knot, so Frodo could admire the intricate pattern he
had helped to create. Frodo laid it on the garden bench and picked up a second
cord. “Teach me another.”
“Well..” Sam settled himself more comfortably on the garden bench. This
being such a sunny morning, he’d decided to tie up some of the vegetables in
the kitchen garden. One thing had led to another, and before he knew it he’d
been sliding cords through his fingers, practising multiple knots. It was
simple, even relaxing, and satisfying to do nips and hitches quick and well. You
couldn’t waste time when there was a rumpussing cow waiting to be led to
market.
“This is for ponies, if you ain’t got no leather,” he explained, holding
up the halter knot.
“Very useful,” said Frodo. He started experimenting with his piece of cord,
and Sam smiled at the resulting granny knot.
“Dangerous and untrustful,” he told his master. “It either slips, or
jams.” He demonstrated with his own piece of rope. “That’s a better
version. The reef-knot.”
Frodo ably copied him. His slim fingers were quick, twining the slender strands
and setting them fast.
“And this here’s the thief-knot,” said Sam. “You tie up your gear with
this, and it looks like an ordinary reef. If someone opens the bag and reties
the knot, like, that’s what they use.”
“So you can tell the difference!” Frodo laughed, and Sam felt his heart sing
at the sound. “I should have taught that to Bilbo, he’d tie up his spoons
when Lobelia came to visit.”
“Or you could use it round your books, if they’re special like,” Sam
offered. “Don’t want no-one prying into ‘em.”
Mr. Frodo started working up a more complex knot, and Sam suspected this was one
he’d learned years ago at Brandy Hall. Mr. Frodo would have been like any
other lad making slingshots and rope swings, as well as more unusual things,
like plaited bookmarks. He’d have learned a few.
“What have you done there, Mr. Frodo?” He studied the double overhand and
shook his head. “That’s the bloodknot, that you have at the end of a whip.
Mighty tricky to untie after you’ve used it.”
The bees droned around them and the smell of roses drifted up from the garden.
Frodo frowned, then untied and smoothed his piece of cord. “What’s the most
useful knot you know?”
“The tautline hitch,” Sam responded, recalling his attention from the way
Frodo’s curls shaded his face. “Adjustable, good grip, trustworthy. A good
hold for a rescue line, if someone’s fallen in the – ” He caught himself
just in time. Oh Sam, you ninnyhammer! What a thing to say to the Master!
But Mr. Frodo was smiling at the knot in Sam’s hands. “A good knot to
know,” he said.
“Aye – and then there’s fishing knots.” He demonstrated his favourite,
working it up carefully. Frodo followed suit, and got in a tangle. Sam
hesitated, then reached over and guided the strand of cord through the loops,
aware of his fingers touching Frodo’s as he did so. Quickly he returned to his
knot, and bent to lick the cord.
“Why are you doing that?”
Frodo’s voice was low, throaty. His thigh was warm, so close to Sam’s. Sam
felt oddly weak.
“It helps the knot slide before you seat it,” he said. “Too much rubbing
weakens the rope. Makes it hot, frays it, like.”
Frodo wrapped a cord slowly around his finger, not looking up.
“I see,” he said. “You’re very good at knots.”
Sam bent his head and tried to concentrate on the weaver’s eight.
“Keeps your fingers flexible, I should imagine,” Frodo continued.
Sam stood up so fast he felt the blood rush to his head. “I’d better get
back to the garden, Mr. Frodo. Wouldn’t like your roses to wilt.”
It was dusk before he found the courage to return to the garden bench. The
pieces of rope lay on it, abandoned.
Sam straightened his back and took a breath. Mr. Frodo would have gone inside
hours ago, for supper or study, or gone for a walk. He wouldn’t still be
sitting there like a stone troll.
Sam went to pick the rope up and stopped, his heart beating fast against his
ribs.
Two heartlike shapes, loosely intertwined. A true-lovers’ knot.
Sam lifted the cord and pulled it gently tight. The hearts knotted, the cords
sliding against
each other.
He heard the squeak of a closing shutter to the left of him. Mr. Frodo’s
window? He didn’t dare look, didn’t see, simply stood in the smoky dusk,
with the sweet scents of the garden about him.
He tucked the cords into his weskit, against his skin. Then he sat down on the
bench, waiting for the front door of Bag End to open, for his master to slip
through it, into the shadowy dusk. Sam’s stomach was in knots and his tongue
as well, but he figured Mr. Frodo would be better at untying these kinds of
knots than Samwise Gamgee.