[font=Book Antiqua]<center>Epilogue</center>
The mallorn tree was blooming.
It was still fairly young, at least by the reckoning of the immortal people from which its seed had come. Its sprawling silver branches towered high above the green landscape, with delicate golden blossoms here and there. It had been planted nigh on sixty years before.
Not two yards away, the ground was scarred. Brown remnants of ancient and rotting roots spread from a hollow stump. The tree that had once been on the spot had been huge; it had been the pride of an entire countryside. Its majesty was forgotten, save in the memories of the generation that was dwindling away now. The party tree. It had been replaced by the elvish beauty that stood there now, its grey-silver bark glimmering in the moonlight.
A small, forlorn figure sat leaning against the trunk. It was enveloped in a cloak that was such a grey that it seemed to disappear against the great tree, and the fabric that trailed on the ground blended easily with the moon-kissed blades of grass. The hood was drawn up, the head it concealed was bowed, and the figure was caressing a golden blossom between calloused and browned fingers.
The figure drew a great shuddering gasp, as one who has been crying and out of breath for a long while. The blossom fell to the ground as the hand drew itself across the hidden face, brushing away tears that had fallen unheeded for many hours. Indeed, night was drawing to a close, and the faintest grey tint could be seen on the eastern horizon. There was a chill in the air, and the dew was forming.
Sighing, Samwise sat up straighter and pulled the hood back. His once reddish-gold, curly hair was now tinged with gray in far too many spots to go unnoticed. Indeed, he was nearly 100 years old now. He stood up with some difficulty, for his age and years of gardening had caught up with him and his back. He ran his hand over the smooth bark of the tree, looking up into the labyrinth of branches and remembering the Elves.
He had planted this tree after he had returned to the Shire sixty years before. He and his companions had returned to find their hometown ransacked and overrun by ruffians, and a fell wizard. It had taken more work than he could ever have imagined to restore order.
He had only then remembered the small grey box, adorned with one elvish rune.
Galadriel.
Sam frowned slightly, and closed his eyes, trying as hard as he could to remember that day, in Lothlorien…
They had stood on the borders of the great forest. He and Meriadoc and Peregrin and Gladriel and Strider and… he had stood beside… Mr. Frodo. And the elves had adorned them in the grey cloaks woven by the Galadhrim, and with brooches in the likeness of a leaf veined with silver. The Lady had sipped with them the cup of parting, and presented a gift to each of the Fellowship in turn. Sam had stood quietly rooted to the spot, exchanging a glance with Frodo as the Lady moved ever closer.
She had come before Sam, holding a small box. He had looked up at her gentle smile, as she placed something into his hands.
“For you, little gardener, and lover of trees, I have only a small gift. Here is set G for Galadriel, but also it may stand for ‘garden’ in your tongue. In this box there is earth from my orchard, and such blessing as Galadriel has still to bestow is upon it. It will not keep you on your road, nor defend you against any peril; but if you keep it and see your home again at last, then perhaps it may reward you. Though you should find all barren and laid waste, there will be few gardens in Middle-earth that will bloom like your garden, if you sprinkle this earth there.” (Tolkien, Book II, pg 366)
But she had not spoken the entire truth. Inside, nestled in the soil of Lorien, was also a silvery acorn.
And Sam had despaired, in Ithilien, that somehow in his dark dangerous quest that box had been lost, but Gandalf had returned it to him.
After the great Battle of Bywater, and after peace had been restored to the Shire, he had toiled around the country, using one grain of the fine dust in each planting he made. And the silver acorn, he had planted where the Party Tree used to be.
Wistfully he remembered those sweet days. He closed his eyes and could almost feel Frodo standing next to him, softly murmuring, “You’re a marvel, Sam. To think all this came from that little box!” He remembered Rosie, sitting in the garden with him as he planted.
His face fell at the memory. Frodo had left for Valinor with Gladriel, Gandalf, Bilbo, and the Elves many years ago, and Rosie, his Rosie, had died just that morning, with him by her bedside, both their hands clasped together.
It was just then that Sam decided.
Maybe it was time to go.
~~~~~~
“Da! Where have you been?”
Sam had reentered Bag End only to be swept in by his two youngest children. Four hands reached out, taking him about the shoulders and bringing him inside to the parlor. He put his hands up in mock surrender as they brought him to his chair and bade him sit. Tolman collapsed into the chair facing him and put his face in his hands. After a moment he looked up again, looking his father in the eye. Sam had never realized it before, but his son had Rosie’s eyes.
“It would have been nice for you to tell me where you were going, at the least, Da,” he said softly.
“I know, Tom, but I just needed to get away for a while, to do a bit of thinking,” Sam countered, rubbing at one of his swollen eyes.
Tom bit his lip, watching his father staring thoughtfully into the hearth. He stood up hurriedly and brushed away the tears that had started in his tired eyes, and went to help his sister with the tea.
Sam got up, using the mantelpiece to steady himself, and made his way towards the study farther to the back of the hobbit-hole. It was the place where Sam could usually be found, if he wasn’t in the garden or cooking. He had kept it in generally the same arrangement for the sixty years it had been his. Frodo’s burgundy dress-coat was still draped over the back of the writing-chair. It had not moved nor been disturbed since the day that Frodo and Glad had departed beyond the Grey Havens. Sam had sat in that chair many a year, drawing small comfort from that piece of his friend sitting behind him.
He settled into the chair, and picked up the quill. The last page of the Red Book had yet to be written on. He frowned slightly, thinking hard, and the end of the quill brushed back and forth against his chin. He inked the point and began to write.
Bilbo once told me that his part in this tale would end, and that each of us must come and go in the telling. His story has long been over. There had been no more journeys for him after his adventure with the dragon and the dwarves and the elves, save one. He sailed to Valinor as one of the Ring-bearers. And I suppose that Frodo was more alike to him than I ever thought, because he took the same road. I suppose my story is now over as well. What is left for me here? The Shire will always be here, and I have enjoyed it for longer than I ever expected to. My children are all grown, and my last joy in this world departed only yesterday. I sat by Rosie’s bedside, and she held my hand tightly and we talked for hours. We poured our hearts out to each other, and we kissed as she slipped away
He paused and drew his cloak closer about his shoulders. The flourish below the y dragged across the page. He found he could write no more. He finished the sentence, moved his hand to the bottom edge of the page, and wrote: I’m coming, Mr. Frodo. I’m coming.
Sam stared at the words for a few long moments. He dipped the quill in the well, and wrote his initials. He flipped to the front of the book, to the title page. He read the rushed scrawling of Bilbo, titling the book There and Back Again. And What Happened After. Adventures of Five Hobbits. The Tale of the Great Ring. He looked farther down at Frodo’s graceful hand spelling out The Downfall of the Lord of the Rings and the Return of the King, followed by as seen by the Little People; being the memoirs of Bilbo, Frodo, and Gladriel of the Shire, supplemented by the accounts of their friends and the learnings of the Wise in Glad’s childish letterng, most likely dictated by Frodo.
He folded his arms and sat back. No matter how hard he thought, he could not come up with any title that could possibly serve to describe all he had written since Frodo’s writing had stopped. Finally he settled on one, and penned The Early Fourth Age of the Shire: As Accounted by Mr. Samwise Gamgee.
It wasn’t all that original, but it satisfied him.
He blew on the ink to make it dry quickly, closed the leather cover, and tied the red ribbon that held it shut. He stood up, a bit too quickly for comfort; a night’s worth of sitting on the hard ground had caught up with him. He sifted a few papers apart, and discovered a map case with the Baggins family crest upon it. He walked around the room, picking up every scrap of paper he could find, folding them neatly and placing them in the case. When all was said and done, the leather clasp could hardly close, the case was so chock-full of Bilbo’s maps and writings, the occasional note of Frodo, and a few letters, snippets of paper, and meanderings scribbled in Glad’s hasty childish print, found buried under all the other manuscripts.
He gathered the quills, ink, and the Red Book into his own bag, and made for the door. But he paused, then, by impulse, took Frodo’s coat off the chair and draped it over his arm. He rubbed the velvet between his thumb and index finger for a moment, and left the study.
~~~~~~~~~~~
It had seemed so simple when he was sitting underneath the mallorn tree. He had even felt mild excitement as he had cleared the study and prepared his leave.
Now he wasn’t so sure.
His youngest children were just barely out of their tween years. They couldn’t take care of themselves on their own if he left.
Or could they?
But to lose a mother, and then their father, within such a short time would break their hearts. Wouldn’t it?
“Well, Samwise, you’ve got yourself into such a fix you don’t know which way’s up. Think straight. Don’t go running off. Is this really what I want to do?”
He was staring at the round door of Bag End, seeming to stare intently at the fading green paint upon the wood. But his eyes were turned inward, where the battle raged. He, once again, was torn between master and duty, except this time as a father.
Why do I feel like this has happened before?
He sank into his chair by the hearth, putting his face in his hands. He had never felt so torn in two before. Well, maybe on one occasion.
He frowned, closing his eyes, falling deep into thought. The fire burned itself out and still Samwise Gamgee sat, dozing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam opened his eyes and felt pressing darkness. He put his hand to his face and waved it about, and still he saw nothing. He began to panic, and began to feel about the ground, groping in the dark on his hands and knees. Stopping suddenly, laughing at himself, he yanked his hood off his face. The darkness lessened only slightly. Suddenly his grasping fingers happened upon something cold and smooth. He picked it up and heard a sloshing noise, as water makes within a glass when disturbed. He passed his fingers over it, feeling its pear-shape and the coolness of the crystal. Quite unexpectedly, words spilled from his mouth he did not know nor command.
Aiya elenion Earendil ancalima!
A white glow blazed from the palm of his hand so suddenly, he toppled backward with a yell. He recovered and stood up, marveling at the glowing phial in his hand. Galadriel’s phial.
Frodo!
As if on cue, voices clamored a distance away. Sam cautiously moved toward the noise, holding the phial high above his head, illuminating damp, rocky walls. That smell… that smell…
Where had he known that stench from?
He began to move faster, following the voices, his bare feet smacking against the cold stone ground. When he stopped to pant for breath, he quickly took stock of himself. What…?
He was wearing a heavy pack he had not noticed until then in his haste. He groped at the pack, feeling a canteen, pans, and a length of rope. His eyes widened as he noticed a sword scabbard swinging against his filthy pant leg. He drew the sword out of the sheath and…
It’s edges were tinged with an eerie blue glow.
Sting.
He cried out in wonder. What in Elbereth’s name was going on? He held it up carefully, and closing one eye, looked at his reflection. It was still the same careworn face of a century-old hobbit, with the gray still regretfully tinging his hair. He looked at his clothing… He had not worn these clothes in many, many years. Everything was worn, dusty, and filthy. The hair on his feet was matted and his legs were dirty, and he was wearing a canvas sack, his regular shirt and pants, and a vest he hadn’t seen in years. He resheathed the sword.
He began to run again. The voices had gotten away from him as he tarried. They returned to earshot, and he flew around the tunneling corners and stopped short. There before him was a younger version of himself. He was hidden among pointed rocks, with his back to Sam, watching the source of the noise carefully.
“Sam Gamgee, control yourself. There’s some devilry a-going on, and no mistake. But it’s no sense losing your head over it. Why, it’s probably nothing but a dream!”
Only a dream. It was only a dream.
Sam knew. He was dreaming, but he was not yet awake. He stood rooted to the spot, waiting for what would happen next. Young Sam suddenly convulsed, reeling like a drunken man and clutching at the stone. Sam marveled as he heard a young voice he only recalled in his memories.
“You fool, he isn’t dead, and your heart knew it. Don’t trust your head, Samwise, it’s not the best part of you. The trouble with you is that you never really had any hope. Now what is to be done?”
It was Shelob’s lair. It must be. He scooted along the rock face, and peered out towards where young Sam was watching. Orcs were surrounding a small body. As small as he himself was.
Mr. Frodo.
Sam fell to his knees. He had seen Mr. Frodo within so many dreams over the years, but never in this way. Never…dead. Or so he seemed, anyway. He listened again as the vision before him spoke.
“I got it all wrong! I knew I would. ‘Never leave your master, never, never,’ that was my right rule. And I knew it in my heart. May I be forgiven! Now I’ve got to get back to him. Somehow, somehow!”
Never leave your master. Never, never. My place is by him. By Mr. Frodo.
“Don’t you leave him, Samwise Gamgee.”
“I don’t mean to! I don’t mean to.”
And with a start, Sam awoke in his chair before the fire at Bag End. “I don’t mean to, Mr. Frodo. I’m coming.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A thin film of dust covered the interior of New Row. Sam walked around his old home, occasionally taking something to bring with him. Some cobwebs were knocked loose as he pushed open the door which used to be his Gaffer’s bedroom. He brushed them away unconcernedly; he had dealt with worse before.
The sheets and blanket were still rumpled as if someone had slept there just the night before, even though it had been many, many years. Sam peered in thoughtfully, and smiled, seeing nothing worthier to take with him than the memory.
He stooped down near the doorway to pick up a walking stick and his old pack, when a sound behind him nearly startled him out of his wits.
“Splendid place you’ve got here! A bit dusty and abandoned, however.”
Sam wheeled around and his eyes met a taller figure with his back turned, standing on tiptoe to swipe dust off a wall lantern with one finger. He turned a grinning face toward Sam. One he hadn’t seen in a very long time.
“Merry!”
“All right there, Sam?”
They hugged tightly. “Why, Merry, if it’s possible, you’ve gotten even taller since last I saw you. Ent-draught must be more powerful than I thought!” Sam exclaimed.
“Either that, Samwise, or perhaps you’ve only shrunk,” Merry replied, mussing his hair. From the cellar came another voice, muffled but clear enough.
“The house may be dusty,” the voice said, accompanied by the noise of feet ascending the stairs. Pippin’s face appeared in the doorway. “But I must say, the ale has aged marvelously.” He wiped a line of froth from his lips and grinned. “Greetings from the Thain, of the house of Took, and his companion, Meriadoc the Magnificent of Buckland!” he cried, bowing low and exaggerating his hand movements.
Sam laughed and they embraced. “What’re you two doing back here? I thought I’d seen the last of you when you left for Gondor!” he inquired.
Pippin sat down. “If you must know, we were escorting a certain Elanor the Fair home to the Shire, if you will. She’s back at the Fairbairns, and she’s most anxious to see her Da,” he replied brightly.
Merry leaned against the mantelpiece. “She’s waiting for you to come by on your way,” he said. His eyes became sad, even though he was still gently smiling.
Sam opened his mouth to speak, but found nothing to say. He gave a sheepish smile and held Merry’s eyes steadily. He had no idea how they might have found out about his plans to leave, but he was not about to change his mind.
“Why are you leaving, Sam? I thought you loved the Shire. I thought that’s what kept you home…when he… she… they left.”
“I do, and you’re right. But the Shire’s not all that brought me back. I had Rosie, and little Elanor, and little Frodo Gardner was on the way, if you remember. My gaffer was here, if not for very long, and…now all of that is gone. You’ve got your duties as esquires of the Kings,” Sam said.
Merry interrupted, “We’ve been freed of duty, but we’re still welcome in Gondor and in Rohan. Go on, Sam.”
He continued, “and my children are all gone now, if you take my meaning. Even Tolman is on his own now.” He sighed. “’Never leave your master, never, never,’ was my right rule. I've disobeyed it for far too long.”
Merry stared at the floor and slowly sat down, his Rohanian chainmail clinking and glinting in the shafts of sunlight that filtered through the round windows.
He looked up. His voice was barely a whisper. “It scarred you too, didn’t it?”
That had not occurred to Sam. Slowly he ran his fingers along the back of his neck, feeling rough scars. They were permanent chain imprints that had never quite healed. He glanced at his left hand. A band of white skin showing through the tan was left on his index finger where it had rested.
He looked up at Merry and Pippin. His eyes were troubled.
“Why do you think he left?”
It was a rhetorical question, and they did not answer.
~~~~~~~~~~~
The western road had hardly changed since last they had traveled it. The two-day journey proved mostly silent except for the birdsong and the rhythmic clip-clop of their ponies’ hooves.
They were approaching a fork in the road that, if they went straight, would bring them to the Grey Havens, a day’s journey from that point on. Branching left, southward, would bring them to Westmarch, to the Fairbairns. It was still a good distance away.
Pippin softly began to sing the old traveling-song:
<center>The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began
Now far ahead the Road has gone
And I must follow, if I can
Pursuing it with eager feet
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet
And whither then? I cannot say… </center>
He trailed off. He knew, somehow, that there was more, but he had never quite learned the rest. The path ahead sloped steadily upward. The westering sun suddenly came back from behind the hills, which had been hiding its brilliance, and blindsided the three hobbits for a moment, as they rode on. They ascended the hill and Sam could just barely see the sparkle of the Great Sea on the horizon. The sight choked him for a moment.
But perhaps he was only imagining it. Indeed, the vision passed as quickly as it had come.
The crossroads appeared in the road ahead. Words familiar, yet out of long-ago memory, came unbidden from Sam to fit the simple tune:
<center> Though here at journey’s end I lie
In darkness buried deep
Beyond all towers strong and high
Beyond all mountains steep
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And the Stars forever dwell
I will not say the day is done
Nor bid the Stars farewell. </center>
They all fell silent as they turned their ponies southward on the weather-beaten road. Beyond a few hills lay Westmarch.
~~~~~~
“Da!”
As they rode up to the small hobbit hole, a green-clad figure came flying from the round door. Sam dismounted his pony quickly, shading his eyes against the westering sun.
“Elanor?”
“Dad!”
She flew into his outstretched arms, and he hugged her tightly.
“I missed you, Da!” She squeezed him once more, tightly, and let go, grinning at him. Her blonde curly hair held a reddish tint from the setting sun, and her bright blue eyes sparkled. She was still as slender as ever, with gracefully pointed ears. In Gondor, it had always been maintained that she looked more like an elf-child than a hobbit.
He kissed her cheek. “So it’s Elanor the Fair, now, is it? So glad they’ve made it official. I knew it all along.” He tapped her nose and smiled at her. She blushed and grinned at her father. Sam spotted something glimmering at her neckline. “What’s that? Some pretty token...?” he said, smiling, but his expression changed when he realized what it was. She drew it out and let it rest on her palm. It was a beautiful silver eagle, hardly bigger than a daisy-head, wrought around the flaming green gem at its breast. Sam gazed at it, and his thoughts flew to the day he had first seen it...
Then she lifted from her lap a great stone of clear green, set in a silver pendant that was wrought in the likeness of an eagle with outspread wings; and as she held it up the gem flashed in the sun shining through the leaves of springs.
“This stone I gave to Celebrian, my daughter, and she to hers, and now it comes to you as a token of hope. In this hour take the name that was foretold for you, Elessar, the Elfstone of the house of Elendil!” (-Tolkien, book II, pg. 375)
“It’s the Elfstone, isn’t it? The pendant Strider wore…the Lady Arwen’s…” he breathed.
“She gave it to me just until I returned... I suppose to keep me safe. I don’t know nearly enough about elven virtue, but I suppose it could work.” She smiled.
He took his eyes from it. “You best keep that safe,” he said, returning the smile.
Merry and Pippin hung back, watching. Pippin leaned over to Merry’s ear and whispered, “You told her, didn’t you?”
Merry looked at Pippin sharply. “I thought you said you would!”
Pippin’s eyes widened. “Neither of us did?” he cried weakly.
Merry bit his lip and saw Elanor laughing at something her father had said. “I suppose it’ll have to be something he breaks to her. Look at them…it’ll break both their hearts, won’t it?”
“Maybe not,” Pippin said softly. “I think they understand one another better than we think.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They were all seated around her table inside the house, enjoying a pint of ale as midnight crept nearer. Elanor bustled about, chatting cheerfully and taking dishes and being every bit the housewife she had always been. Finally she ceased her whirlwind and sat down with a mug of tea.
It had been about three months since Rosie had died, and Sam had found it nearly impossible to take pen to paper and write all this children to tell them. But he felt sure now that it was worth the strain. It was one less sad parting he would have to break upon his daughter that night. He had one yet to confess. Contrary to what he had thought was true the entire trip, Elanor had no idea of his intentions. Pippin had whispered it in his ear offhand as they crossed the threshold.
Presently Elanor stood up with a gasp. “I nearly forgot!” She went to the mantle and picked up a small envelope with a green seal upon it. She handed it to Merry. “Someone came by with this just yesterday; they missed you on the road. Said it was of utmost importance.”
Merry took it and carefully broke the seal. His grey eyes flicked across the yellowing parchment. His forehead crinkled into a frown as he read, and without lifting his eyes from the paper, beckoned Pippin over to him to read.
Sam looked at Elanor, frowning, asking with his eyes. She shrugged.
Merry finished, whispered something to Pippin, and hurriedly put the letter away. He smiled at Sam, who was eying him quizzically.
“Nothing. It’s nothing. Just a letter from…a friend, that’s all. We’re needed.”
Sam sighed. He knew that the time to part with his dear friends had to come eventually, but he had hoped it would be at least a week before it happened…
He took a last sip of ale, and stood up. He picked up his pack and slung it onto his shoulder.
“Elanor, follow me. I have something I want to show you.”
~~~~~~~
Elanor knew very little of the story told within the pages of the Red Book. As a very young hobbit-lass, she remembered listening to her father read sections of it out loud to her and her brothers and sisters, as they sat in front of the fire at Bag End.
But she, nor anyone else, had heard the entire tale. And now Sam was handing it to her.
“I haven’t seen this in years, Da! You’ve finished it?” She skimmed through the book, riffling the edges of the pages with her thumb, watching the smooth transition from Bilbo’s rushed script, to Frodos patient, neat calligraphy, to her father’s big brushhand, with a few annotations in a large babyish scrawl near the end of Frodo’s writing. She recognized it immediately, along with the rest, and smiled. Aunt Gladdy.
The last page flipped in front of her. She read the top half and began to frown, her forehead creasing in concern. He watched as her eyes flicked across the sloppy flourish he had let drag across the page months earlier. He watched her eyes move to the bottom of the page and read the last line.
Their eyes locked. Nothing was said, but she understood.
~~~~~~~~
When Sam woke up the next morning and wandered into the parlor, Elanor was still sitting in the chair by the hearth, a lock of hair twisted around her finger. The book lay open on her lap, and she read quickly, anxiously, with wide eyes. A teacup sat on the floor beside her feet, the dregs cold and hard.
He sat down across from her, watching. She seemed to take no notice as once again the last page flipped in front of her. She took the red leather cover and slowly closed and tied the book shut.
She got up slowly and handed the book to him. But he pushed it back towards her.
“I’m giving it to you.”
“But Da, the Red Book…”
“It’s yours now.”
She looked down at it, and without warning threw her arms around Sam. He held her for a long time. For those few fleeting moments, it seemed to both that it was years ago, when Sam was holding a toddler Elanor in his arms to heal much smaller hurts.
She spoke, her voice muffled with her face pressed against her father. “You never told me…you never read those horrible parts…with Mr. Frodo and the spider and Orcs and the ruffians in the Shire…you…you never told me. You never…told me you bore it too…that you bore the Ring…” she said in an almost incoherent string of words. “You never told me how much you missed him…or that he left you…”
She broke away and stood back up, drawing her hand across her wet eyes. She helped Sam out of the chair and took him by the hand, leading him toward the kitchen.
Her voice quavered from crying, but her manner had changed completely. “Come on, Da. You can’t go meet Mr. Frodo again on an empty stomach.”
~~~~~~~~~
“You also tried to give us the slip twice before, and you failed, Sam,” Merry said into Sam’s ear as he embraced him tearfully. “I suppose…the third time’s the charm, aye? Say ‘llo to Gladdy for me.”
They stood at the crossroads they had come to two days ago, saying their goodbyes in the autumn sunrise. The first chill was in the air, and the cold stung at the tears that were being shed.
“Don’t say goodbye,” Sam whispered as he hugged Pippin, as grief finally shook him. And then, to himself, as if he were trying to convince his heart it was true, “we’ll meet again.”
Before he knew it, they were cresting the next hill, trying hard not to look back.
As he stood, the back of his neck and back being warmed by the sun, a song he recalled from the Elves stole through his mind.
Namarie! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar. Maybe even thou shalt find it. Namarie!
~~~~~~~
He came back towards Elanor’s house, shoulders slumped and padding along slowly. Elanor watched out the window, and was painfully reminded of a day long ago, when she was but three years old, when her father had returned in the same manner. She had flown into his arms, unaware of his grief, laughing and mussing his curls. She hadn’t noticed the puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. She had put her tiny arms and pudgy hands about his neck and kicked her small feet gently in his arms as he carried her. She toyed with his cloak's hood as he finally laughed and held her tighter.
And now she opened the door tentatively to let him in. She could almost say the words with him.
“Well, I’m back.”
~~~~~~~
A group of Elves stood in the underpass of the road beneath the Havens’ Bridge. They conversed quietly as a lone rider approached from afar.
“Who is it?”
“Not an elf. Much too small.”
“A Man? A child?”
“No child would have that much grey in their hair.”
“A hobbit. A Perian.”
“Perhaps.”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
Sam saw the fair, grey-clad group and spurred his pony a bit faster. He reached them quickly and dismounted.
“Pardon me…” What could he say?
A sudden spark of recognition caused one elf to cry out.
“Samwise! Samwise Gamgee!”
Haldir of Lorien advanced toward Sam. Relieved, Sam greeted the elf quietly, all too aware of his height among the elven folk. Suddenly Sam was swept up and into the air by an Elf from behind. When he turned to see what of this regal race would have done this, he gazed upon a face he hadn’t seen in over 50 years.
“Hullo, Sam! My, you’ve changed since I last saw you.” Eruwaedhiel Lelria grinned, and her dark blue eyes sparkled.
“You haven’t a bit, Blue Eyes.” Sam had given her this name for her eyes were darker, bluer, and more brilliant than any Hobbit of the Shire, and is also a translation of one of her many Sindarian names, Aearhen. Additionally, she reminded him more of a young Hobbit-lass than a solemn Elf, which made him comfortable nicknaming an Elf.
“Why have you come, Samwise?” said Haldir and Aearhen together.
Sam didn’t quite know where to begin.
~~~~~~~
He could smell, even taste the seabreeze before he saw the glimmer of the lapping waves. He could hear the white gulls calling before he saw them circling in lazy flight, crossing and crisscrossing the westering sun, causing shafts of sunlight to play upon the stone pier.
The sight was so devastating and beautiful it was all Sam could do to keep from crying out. The grey boat with white sails was tethered by a length of hithlain to the pier. It swayed slowly, back and forth with the cresting of the waves.
It was playing perfectly before him, a memory from sixty years ago. Everything was the same, save the fact that the elves were leading him onto the ship by means of a small wooden plank. He set foot on the smooth, sanded grey wood of the ship, and it hardly responded to the weight.
He had never cared much for ships, or boats, or even water, for that matter. He tread cautiously across the deck, and when he began to feel the rocking of the waves, hurried to the cabin in the center and grasped a handrail, bracing himself against the wall, and glancing around nervously.
Haldir laughed gently, boarding the boat. “I see, Samwise, that sixty years have all but taken away your fear of boats.”
Sam smiled queasily up at the elf. “All but,” he said shortly, white-knuckling his anchor.
“Well, at least come with me to the front of the ship and watch our boat depart. I promise I won’t let you fall.”
Sam took a deep breath and let go of the handrail. He spread his arms for a moment to steady himself, and then bravely began to walk towards the bow of the ship. Haldir followed him, his hand hovering behind the hobbit’s back, ready to help him if he faltered. Finally, he grasped the handrail at the very front of the ship, finding its height sufficient to contain him. Indeed, resting his arms on the rail and putting his chin on his hands required him to stand on tiptoe to see over the rail. He sighed, looking at the cliffs flanking the setting sun and the horizon. He pulled his cloak closer about him as the cool autumn breeze licked his face and ruffled his curly hair. Just for a moment, he looked back at the harbor, and let out a sharp cry.
“Haldir! We are leaving Aearhen! We must stop for her. She is coming, isn’t she?”
“No,” Haldir replied sadly. “She gave her place on any ship to Valinor to Gladriel Brandybuck so that she could be with Frodo. Aearhen, ocean-eyes, gave up her return to Valinor for Glad and Frodo. She loved them greatly.” He sighed.
Sam gazed at the water, downcast at this new turn of events. “I’m leavin’ Middle-earth,” he said to himself with some incredulity. “I’m leaving. Never to return…”
The immensity of the statement hit him hard, and he turned away his gaze from the harbor. At that moment, he realized Haldir loved Aearhen. A few brief seconds later, one of the elves untied the rope tethering the ship to shore, and it seemed that Haldir himself had failed to realize his feelings until then, but too late. The ship had already begun drifting away from the dock. Then the sun began to dip below the horizon, and the clouds shimmered with rose and gold, and shafts of sunlight pierced them, glowing bands of light outstretching. The sight comforted Sam somewhat in his decision.
“I’m not leavin’. I’m comin’. I’m comin’.”
Haldir turned to watch the receding figures on the shore, and the deck rocked and shuddered as it pulled off the shallows of the Great Sea. Sam took no notice. He was too deep in thought.
Have you forgotten me?
I remember you.
I’ve always remembered you.
And as the ship passed out of the harbor, and the cliffs passed out of his peripheral vision, it seemed to him that the grey rain-curtain of this world turned all to silver glass and was rolled back.
~~~~~~~~
The dim and cool cabin rose almost imperceptibly up and down with the cresting of each wave. The small window let in a circular shaft of moonlight that filled the little room with a soft, blue-white glow. The stars were visible, though partially obscured by clouds.
Sam lay curled up in the too-large bed, with the blanket wrapped tightly around him.
But sleep remained far away. He stared at the ceiling.
Did he miss me as much as I missed him? The thought stole through his mind, in a timid and doubtful way that did nothing to comfort him.
What would he say? What could serve to describe the long years in which his heart had been torn in two?
I’m coming. But will you remember me? Am I still just a thorn in your side, Mr. Frodo? After all, you said once I was the worst of nuisances.
Oh, Mr. Frodo, is that why you left?
I hope you’ll be as glad to see me as I’ll be to see you! Elbereth knows, I’ve missed you so much, I don’t know what I’ll do when I see you again, if you take my meaning. Will I laugh? Will I cry? There seems reason enough for me to do both.
I’ve been thinking a bit…I remember, when I first held my daughter in my arms, I felt a surge, a feeling I couldn’t quite name or place. I wondered… though I knew I had felt that same weight of responsibility sometime before. I wondered when? Where?
Then I remembered. It came from taking care of you, Mr. Frodo. From making sure you were safe. You were so much a part of me that all I wanted was to stay with you, comforting you when you despaired and fighting all your battles for you, big and small. I knew it was my purpose, somehow, staying by your side.
Please still remember. Remember that we were the best of friends, dearer than brothers to one another, the closest two can be.
Do you remember the way it used to be, Mr. Frodo?
I do.
~~~~~~~~
Across the sea, another hobbit remained restless, guilt tightening inside his heart and tears running down his cheek and onto his pillow.
Oh, Sam, where are you? Have you forgotten about me? Did I sail away from Middle-earth, and out of your memory? I miss you so dearly, Sam.
I didn’t realize how long the years would be without you. The journey’s hurts healed quickly enough, but I had no one to celebrate with. Glad, dear Glad, was here of course, and she was excited as anyone could be, but she was so busy with our firstborn. The immensity of the lonely years before me broke my heart, Sam. I needed –still need- someone more than Glad and the children. They weren’t with me though it all as you were, hadn’t experienced the terrors of Mordor and the Ring. I had made a choice. One I regretted. Oh, Sam, how I despaired! I believed I may never see you again, and perhaps I was right.
Though the pains and hurts of the journey healed with time, I don’t think my heart ever did. Something happened to me as I pulled from your embrace. Part of my heart stayed with you, Sam. And it hurt. It hurt so badly.
Sometimes you have to give something up that you love dearly, so as to have something else…Oh, Sam, I chose wrong! I was wrong! I chose physical healing over you, my dear Sam. Can you ever forgive me? What a selfish thing I did…and now I fear you’re gone forever and I will have never gotten the chance to tell you how sorry I was.
I’m stricken with guilt. I left you when you never strayed from my side…not once, not ever. Won’t you come and tell me it’s alright? I don’t think I can live with myself if it isn’t so.
Please, Sam, my dear hobbit, friend of friends. Please don’t forget about me.
Please, Sam.
Glad slipped into bed from tending the baby, and sensing Frodo’s suffering, rubbed his back until she dozed off. Frodo never did.
~~~~~~
Valinor was just a line in the distance, a thin stripe of white flanked with one of grey-green. Sam stood on the stern of the ship once more, tiptoe, the wind whipping his curls about. He pushed them back from his forehead with one calloused hand. His eyes were shining with anxiety and watering from the cold. His nose was a dark red, and he often drew his sleeve across his face as he kept his vigil.
Finally, Haldir bade him come inside, below deck, before he became ill. Sam left his post at the stern most reluctantly, and submitted to being wrapped up in multiple blankets by a concerned she-elf.
He sat in his room for the remaining hours, shrugging the extra blankets off and pressing against his small window.
He was so anxious he could hardly stand still.
~~~~~~~
“…the last of the Ring-bearers…”
At that, Sam snapped out of his reverie, and got up stiffly, staring up the small staircase that extended from his room up to the main deck. Beside Haldir, Rùmil, and Orophin was a tall figure, all in white, holding a carven staff in one gnarled hand. Sam tentatively took two steps up, and the sun blinded him for a moment as he came up into daylight. He threw a hand up to shield his eyes, and as they adjusted, the robed figure turned to face him. He squinted up, and seeing who it was, cried out.
“Gandalf!”
The wizard exclaimed, “Sam, my lad!” He knelt to Sam’s height and received the hobbit into his arms.
They pulled apart, and Gandalf smiled broadly at him. “It is not a fool’s guess why you have come, Samwise Gamgee. And I believe I can help you find what you seek. Or rather, whom you seek.”
Sam’s eyes brimmed with tears as he returned the wizard’s smile, and found nothing to say. Gandalf stood up once more, and taking the hobbit’s hand, led him off the ship and onto the white shores of Valinor.
~~~~~~~~~
Sam took none of the scenery in as he padded softly along beside Gandalf. The trees in their shimmering grandeur, and the golden elanor and simbelmynë in the jade-green blades of grass, and the carven statues and archways held no magic for him; they did not do anything to draw his mind away from the matter at hand. Even the elves that watched silently, eyes questioning, did not make him blush or cower. His eyes stared about unseeing, serving no purpose save to keep himself from stumbling. His mind was elsewhere. Wondering. Hoping.
Waiting.
He put one calloused hand to his breast, grasping at the softened, worn fabric of his shirt. “Please…oh, Eru, please let him be happy to see me. Please.”
~~~~~~~~
Frodo sat in his study, leaning back in his chair with arms folded, frowning at the blank piece of paper before him. He was still feeling the effects of another sleepless night, one full of guilt and uncertainty, one that would only let him sleep for a little while only to be woken again by the knots his stomach had tied itself into. What was he so anxious about?
Then he remembered.
Sam.
All the emotions that had built up throughout his long years with the elves had spilled out of him last night, tears escaping his eyes until they could do no more to ease the pain; until his eyes were dry and his grief too potent to be put into words, or tears. The only thing that could receive his confession was the piece of paper.
Full memory flooded back, and he remembered almost every thought that had flitted through his mind. All that had to be done was to let it flow into his fingers and onto the page.
~~~~~~
Sam stood at the foot of the staircase, leading up into a house much like Imladris. He glanced behind him. Gandalf was a good distance away already, using his staff as a walking-stick, traveling along the path and glancing back at Sam once or twice.
Sam now felt that he could have used the wizard’s company, minutes after sending him away.
Oh, come now, Samwise. Why are you acting this way?
Sam knew perfectly well why. The trouble was he didn’t know what he was going to do about it.
Frodo’s face burst clearly into his mind, and his heart thumped painfully at the thought that he was here, a few steps away, unaware that Sam had come.
Well, he thought, as the dread suddenly left him and excitement swelled within his heart, no sense in keeping him waiting.
He rushed up the wooden steps as fast as his old legs would take him. He whipped around the corners, as doorways quickly passed him in his flight. He pivoted around a wooden doorframe and stopped short.
If his cry had been audible, the figure before him showed no indication that he had heard it.
He was seated at a carven writing desk, his back to Sam, and his left hand was scribbling swiftly across a roll of parchment with an eagle-feather quill. The hair on the back of his curly head was still dark brown. The hand that was not occupied by the quill slowly reached behind his neck for a moment, fingers rubbing at clearly imprinted red scars with invisible salve. The index finger was a rounded stump with some white scarring along its rim.
Sam felt weak. His weathered hand slid down the doorframe. Something in his chest tightened and would not release…and he knew it wouldn’t, not yet. Tears formed in his eyes, and his grief and love shook him so, that he could hardly contain himself. He took one staggering step forward, and the grey wood panel beneath his foot creaked slightly. Sam’s heart stopped.
Frodo paused, glancing to the side, but not finding anything there, continued writing. Just then, another Hobbit came in through a side door. Carrying a baby on her hip, she walked over to Frodo, and brushed his curls gently. She leaned over, kissed his hair, and was about to turn and see Sam when a little Hobbit-lass flew into the room, the spitting image of her mother. Glad’s auburn curls bobed as she turned to the wails of,
“Mummy! Mummy! Sammy hurted me!:
Glad sighed, took her child by the hand, and exited the room by whence she came. Frodo had not showed any acknowledgment of it all.
Sam released the breath he was holding as a tear escaped his eye, rolled down his cheek, and died on his lips. He said, in barely a hoarse whisper,
“I’m here, Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo’s concentration broke. It had wrenched his heart to hear that voice…one that had spoken within his dreams, within his thoughts, within his memories too many times to count. It saddened him each time the memory replayed. It was never really his Sam; it was always just an echo of the past.
The quill dropped from his hand and fluttered to the floor. Frodo’s face contorted with sorrow. It had seemed so tangible this time…almost as if…
He turned around in the chair.
Sam.
Frodo’s eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat. It couldn’t be true. Sam, standing in the doorway, with graying hair and weathered skin, with his cloak about his shoulders, with the glimmering brooch, and gardener’s clothing. His face was tan and slightly wrinkled, and he was crying softly.
Frodo let out a strangled cry. “Sam!” He scrambled out of the chair, and it skidded across the floor with a sound that seemed to speak of the anguish and bitter parting the two had endured.
With two wide strides Sam rushed at Frodo and they came together in a tight, anguished, and desperate embrace. Frodo began to weep openly, tears streaming out of his eyes and being lost in the weave of Sam’s cloak, where his face was buried. Sam held on for dear life; he had never wanted to hold someone for so long, or so tightly. Both grasped at one another, holding onto the other as tight as they could for fear if they let go, it would all slip away.
In spite of themselves they laughed amid their tears, as it seemed their broken hearts were mended. Something loosened within Sam’s heart as he knew it would, once he held his friend again, after so long.
At length, they broke apart, their eyes bright and wet and fingers trembling. Neither found it within him to speak…not yet.
They stood silently in the study, gripping each other’s shoulders and staring incredulously at one another. It seemed to Sam that his master’s face had not changed at all, save for a few slight wrinkles and a tired look about his eyes. And with one swift look, all was forgiven between them, all uncertainty misplaced. All the doubts they held within troubled and lonely hearts melted away; they were together again, that was all that mattered.
“I made a promise, Mr. Frodo! ‘Don’t you leave him, Samwise Gamgee’…” His voice was high-pitched and trembling, as it always was under emotional strain.
“Oh, Sam.” Frodo cried, wrapping his arms around his friend once more, this time with a gentle, bittersweet embrace.
“I’m so glad you remembered,” Frodo cried, as tears consumed him once more. “I’m so glad.”
The words seemed inadequate. No word could serve to describe what the two hobbits felt at that moment.
Finally, when their eyes were dry and breaths stopped their ragged shuddering, they let go of one another. Frodo smiled at Sam, with a happiness that did all the more to comfort him.
“I never thought you’d come! Oh, Sam, I thought you were angry…with me, for leaving…”
“Be angry…angry…with you? Oh, Mr. Frodo, never! I just was torn in two, that’s all…I- I just couldn’t say goodbye dry-eyed, if you take my meaning…”
Frodo sighed with relief, and began to lead Sam out of the study, down the stairs, and onto a path that traced around the mallorn trees in lazy circles.
“But…what about you, Mr. Frodo? I always knew you left because you needed…well, healing, but I couldn’t keep myself from thinking…that- that I was a reason you left…that I was a nuis-“
Frodo was aghast, and cried out, cutting Sam off. “Oh, Sam! I could never… I would never…”
Despite the lack of proper articulation, they both understood one another. They both forgave one another…and themselves.
Sam choked a sob and they threw their arms about each other once more, crying and laughing and holding on. The knot of guilt within Sam melted away…all he needed to hear that it was so, that he was forgiven.
Sam looked at the grassy lawn under the mallorn trees and saw Glad, childlike yet, plying with her children, which Frodo told him were Samwise, “Sammy,” the eldest, then a little girl “Merry” for Meriadoc, a younger brother “Pippin,” and the baby was named Lobelia Hannah at Gladdy’s insistance.
“’After all, near the end Aunt Lobelia wasn’t so bad, now was she?’”
Sam looked up toward the rose-tinged afternoon sky, and the sun reflected off his brimming tears, filling his vision with many-faceted brilliance. He closed his eyes and held Frodo tighter.
“I can’t believe I’m here…that…you’re here. Oh, Eru, I can’t…”
Frodo tightened his hold on his friend, his dear Sam. “I know, Sam.” A tear rolled down his cheek as his face broke into a true smile, indeed, for the first time in many long, lonely years.
“I… I can’t believe it either.”[/font]
[font=Comic Sans MS]Credit to Perhelediel for original drafting of the Epilogue  [/font]
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Anyway, I've actually written the last chapter, and the epilogue, and it took me forever. Handwritten it's over 70 pages together! I don't have many friends who have even seen the movie version of LotR, much less read the books, so I decided to post it here. Hope you like!!![/font]