Sam Gamgee by Lbilover

Originally written in 2005 for the Toilanddrouble “Other Authors” challenge. Begins with Tolkien, ends with Brontë (and you can guess which line :-)) The rest is a pastiche.

“When are you going to move in and join me, Sam?”

A pause.

“Why are you silent, Sam?”

I was in agony, a torment greater than I had ever imagined. A fiery hand clutched at my vitals. I must renounce the one I loved and worshipped. One drear word comprised my intolerable duty: Plot.

“’Tis Rose Cotton, sir.”

“Rose Cotton?” thundered my master. “What the devil has she to say to anything?”

“She’s expecting me to marry her, sir.”

“Marry her? You shall climb the statues of Argonath first.”

“But, sir. The Plot.”

“Sam, Sam,” he said in an accent of bitter sadness that thrilled along my nerves, “do you mean to marry Rosie then, and send me to the Havens?”

“I do.”

He seized me about the waist, and devoured me with his lips. “Do you mean it now?”

“I- do.”

Livid colour suffused Mr. Frodo’s cheeks; his voice quivered; his nostrils dilated; his eyes blazed. "Is it better to drive a fellow-hobbit to despair than to transgress a mere Plot device? My deep love, my wild woe, my frantic prayer, are all nothing to you?”

“Well, I reckon if you put it that way…”

Reader, I married him.