The Swing by Lbilover

Originally written in 2008 for the request 'playful post-Quest Frodo'. I hope Frodo had playful moments after the Quest (with Sam, of course...)

“Look, Sam- it’s a swing!” Frodo pointed to a wide wooden plank that hung suspended from a branch by two thick ropes. A sudden, unexpectedly child-like delight lit his pale face. “Shall we try it?” He took Sam’s hand and pulled him toward the stately lebethron tree rising out of a tangle of overgrown grass.

Frodo and Sam had chanced upon the neglected garden when they ducked through an arched opening in a wall, evading a crowd of people who they knew from experience would follow them. The Gondorian fascination with the pheriannath showed no signs of abating, and there were times that it wore a little on a hobbit’s nerves.

“Let me test it first, Mr. Frodo,” Sam cautioned. “Them ropes could be frayed and weak. I don’t want you takin’ no tumble.”

Frodo stood impatiently by while Sam examined the ropes and the tree branch. He tugged hard on the twisted flax, before bringing his full weight to bear on the swing and grunting his approval.

“Seems sound enough,” he proclaimed, starting to rise, but Frodo said: “It’s wide enough for both of us, Sam. We can swing together.”

He settled lightly down, and there was indeed room for two hobbits, especially ones as lean as they still were, but with little to spare. The two hobbits were pressed tightly together along the length of one side; Sam flushed bright red and muttered, “Playin’ on a swing at my age. Don’t know what my old dad would say.”

But Frodo only laughed and pushed off strongly with his feet, and the swing began to glide over the ground, a little off-kilter, so that Sam had perforce to kick with his legs, too, to straighten its course. It took but a few passes for them to match their rhythm, so that the swing rose smoothly and evenly. Stray strands of grass tickled their feet at the bottom of each arc, and Frodo giggled, a sound Sam had not heard since the old days at home in the Shire, and he blessed whomever had set the swing there for them to find.

Higher and higher they rose, clutching tightly to the ropes and each other. The cloudless sky was deep cerulean blue, dizzying and dazzling overhead, seeming close enough to touch. The ropes creaked and the wind whistled in their ears, and they laughed for sheer joy.

“Oh Sam, it’s like we’re flying!” Frodo gasped breathlessly, turning his head to look at his companion.

Frodo’s eyes were even bluer and more dazzling than the sky; his face was mere inches from Sam’s. It seemed natural, even inevitable somehow, for Sam to lean in and kiss that laughing mouth. Frodo’s lips clung, his arm around Sam’s waist tightened, and all was forgot in the magic and wonder of that first kiss.

Unnoticed by either, the swing began gradually to slow, and then finally stop.

But it seemed to them both that they were still flying, boundless and free, toward the sky.