LOTR: Samwise Gamgee: 096. Writer's Choice
Title: Haven
Fandom: LOTR
Character: Samwise
Prompt: 096. Writer's Choice
Word Count: 6,842
Rating: G
Author's Note: This was my first LOTR fic, written about two years ago. It's my favorite of all the LOTR fics I've written to date. (And the longest!)
Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, and East of the Sun
-- The Return of the King
i.
Samwise Gamgee stopped in his tracks as suddenly as if the Crack of Doom had split wide the path before him.
What if there's no boat waiting at the shore?
So abruptly did the thought strike him that he rocked back on his heels and nearly lost his balance.
Only now, when Sam was finally within sight of his destination, did he realize that so basic a thought had never occurred to him. Why, he had been so determined to see his course of action through to the end that not once had he paused to question how he actually intended to do so!
What, indeed, if there was no boat at the quay? What if he arrived at the Grey Havens and found it deserted? How then would he make his way? He was no fine elven craftsman or able hobbit carpenter who could devise such a vessel for his use. Nor could he swim that vast grey sea - even supposing he could swim, which he could not.
For a fleeting instant despair threatened to overshadow his heart, but Sam was made of sterner stuff and shook his head defiantly.
None of that, now, Samwise! he admonished himself.
He had always been a very positive-minded hobbit and possessed of such a kindly nature that he could not help but find the best in any given circumstance. In his stout heart was a faith in all that was good and true and fair, and in that heart he believed that his path would not lead him astray.
What if there's no boat waiting at the shore?
"That's as may be," Sam concluded in his practical way. "We'll see what there is to see at the end, and no use worrying about it 'til then, as me Gaffer used to say."
A short distance away, the narrow track sloped downward and out of sight around one final hill of Mithlond to the Grey Havens beyond. The taint of salt was on the late September air and Sam could see the glimmer of the wide grey sea on the westward horizon like a distant mirror.
"I'm comin' at last, Mr. Frodo!"
Sam shrugged his shoulders to shift the straps of his travel pack a bit more comfortably upon his back. For good or ill, his long journey was nearing its end.
Now's for it, he thought as he strode forward once more. One last go and then we'll see.
The knees and legs of the aging hobbit ached in protest as he followed the descending path. His had been a long, slow trek from Hobbiton, with few pauses along the way. It was long and long a time since he had undertaken such a journey on foot and his limbs complained of it the entire way. As the path became a steep incline, he used his walking staff to help him maintain his balance. He slipped once upon the damp earth and barely caught himself in time, wrenching his knee slightly and sending a sharp pain up his thigh.
"Don't you go overdoing it again, Samwise Gamgee," he recalled the gentle voice of his beloved Rosie. In his mind's eye he could see her still, standing by the hearth and holding the ladle she often waggled before his nose to emphasize a point. "You may still have the heart of a young hobbit of 50, my dearest, but your body isn't up to that sort of exercise no longer!"
Sam smiled to himself as he fondly remembered how he had caught her within the circle of his arms and shown her exactly what kind of exercise a hobbit of his advanced years was capable. Their youngest boychild, Tolman-lad (called Tom), had been the fruit of that exertion.
A tear rolled down Sam's cheek at the thought of his cherished Rosie, gone from him this Midyear's Day. The last few months had been painfully empty without her -- Rosie of the flashing eyes and sunny smile, whose girlish laughter always made his heart sing. In spite of a wealth of well-meaning friends and children, Sam had not felt so alone and helpless since the long ago day he had faced the tower of Cirith Ungol in search of Frodo.
Indeed, it was the void that Rosie's absence had left within his heart that had set him on his present path. It was a road he had once yearned to travel, only to be gently turned away by a wiser, loving hand.
Once upon a time Sam had been a soul torn in two - torn between a fierce love for the beautiful Rose Cotton, his sweet wife and companion, and Frodo Baggins, his most beloved friend and master. O! how he had longed to share his future with these, the most cherished people in his life! But Frodo was leaving Middle-Earth forever while Rosie with their firstborn maidchild, Elanor, remained at Bag-End and patiently awaited his return. Sam's passionate love for Rosie and his selfless devotion to Frodo had threatened to rip his heart apart. He could not bear to leave either of them and yet he could not remain with both.
In the end, it was Frodo himself who had comforted Sam and set him upon the right path.
"Do not be too sad, Sam," said Frodo kindly on that bittersweet day when he set sail from the Grey Havens for the West. "You cannot always be torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and be, and to do!"
And so Sam had done with Frodo's blessing, and lived his long life with great joy in his wife and children and their children's children. For many years he took pride and joy in tending to the Shire, made all the more beautiful through the loving toil of his own hands and the enchanted gift of Lothlorian's departed Lady Galadriel. Why, he'd even been elected Mayor of the Shire for an unprecedented seven terms! Yet through the years Sam's thoughts often turned to his absent friend and master, and wondered how he fared over the Sea.
Of late those thoughts had become a yearning. Sam was aged and weary, a hobbit of more than 100 summers, and no longer torn in two. Without his Rosie, he soon came to realize that there was little else to keep him in Middle-Earth. Not long thereafter, he went out from the old familiar door of Bag End, turned onto his intended road and never looked back. Bill the Third, descendant of that most stout and surefooted pony of the same name, he eventually left at the edge of the Shire with a kindly pat and a soft word of parting.
This final journey Sam would make alone.
ii.
Elanor the Fair, firstborn daughter of Rose and Samwise and wife to Fastred of Greenholm, looked down upon the well-worn and much loved plain leather cover of the Red Book upon her dining table and said, "You're going."
There was no accusation or recrimination in her sweet voice or manner, for she had known this day would one day come, as had all her sibs.
She brushed a strand of golden hair from her eyes and looked up from the book to search her father's careworn face. There was sadness in her cornflower blue eyes but an understanding as well. It would avail her nothing to try and convince him to stay; she knew he could not be swayed once his mind was made up. Nor would she have done so, but --
He was leaving!
Elanor tried to show a brave face for her father's sake but her flow of tears could not be recalled. She struggled to offer him words of encouragement but a bit of a sob caught in her throat and left her speechless.
Blinded by his own tears, Sam rushed forward and caught her in his arms, hugging her tight to his breast as he had oft done when she was small.
"I ... I wanted to say ..." she struggled to tell him, but found she could not continue.
"I know, my flower," he gently hushed her. He breathed in the sweet scent of heather and clover in her hair as he lay his cheek upon her head and whispered, "I know."
"Mama always said this day would come," Elanor sighed against his broad chest.
"Aye, and your mama was as wise a woman as ever graced the Shire."
Elanor was loath to leave the loving warmth of her father's arms, perhaps for the last time, but she knew that she could not prolong the inevitable heartache of his leaving.
"Will you say farewell to the children?" One glance at his expression and she sighed resignedly, "No, I thought not. You'll not delay, I see."
"It would be less hurt to the little ones, I think, if I go my way unseen," he replied, but thought to himself, And I do not think my heart could bear the parting.
Eleanor nodded her understanding but knew that she would be drying many tears that eve in addition to her own.
"Do you think he's ... well?" she asked, changing her intended wording at the last, for Elanor would rather face a hundred fabled Nazgul than wound her father's feelings or dash his hopes.
But Samwise knew his firstborn well and understood what she had intended to say. "Is he alive, d'you mean?"
She nodded, her expression anxious. "It has been many long years, Papa, and no one knows what happens in that land over the Sea. Or if it even exists!"
"All the more reason for me to be findin' out," he replied resolutely. "Tho I've oft wondered myself, truth be told. It has been long and, true, Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo may both be dead and gone after all this time ... but I choose not to believe so."
"What do you believe?" asked Elanor, genuinely curious, for of such hopes her father had seldom, if ever, spoken.
"I choose to believe that it's a wonderful place, full of sunshine and elves and music and great joy. A restful place." He lightly touched her smooth cheek with a palm callused from long years of lovingly tending to plants and soil. "I believe the elves live forever and can share that gift with others they think worthy. And I'm thinkin' there's no one more worthy than Mr. Frodo after all the hurt and sadness he suffered as the Ring-bearer. He'll be there, of that I'm sure."
Elanor caught his hand between her own slender fingers and held it to her heart. Tears still glistened within her eyes but she gave him her most encouraging smile and said, "I hope you find him so, Papa." For your sake.
Sam kissed her upon her pert little nose and said, simply, "I mean to."
And so it was that Elanor the Fair was the last to see Master Samwise, son of Hamfast, called Elf-friend and Stoutheart, upon the lands of Middle-Earth. In her keeping he left the Red Book and its tales of the Age that was past. Although Elanor was never to know if her beloved father found his way, she handed down to her children, and they to their children's children, the tradition that Samwise took passage o're the great Sea to the West as the last of the Ring-bearers.
In her heart, Elanor could not bear to believe otherwise.
iii.
Sam stood alone upon the beach, the rough grit of damp sand beneath his bare feet and the sharp sting of salt spray against his face. A biting wind teased and tangled his grey hair with chill, taunting fingers. Blue-gray water tumbled toward the shore on rough, frothing waves that scoured the sand before gurgling back into the vast expanse from whence it came. On the westward horizon a pearly white mist blended with the sea to become a leaden canvas, devoid of life.
At the end of his long road, Sam had found the gates to the Havens slightly ajar and unattended. Of Círdan the Shipwright, elvish keeper of the gates and the passage to the West, there was no sign -- nor did it appear that anyone had traveled this path in many a season. The massive, ornate gates were overgrown with thick vines and rusted slightly ajar. With some effort, Sam managed to squeeze himself into the gap and through to the other side. Although apprehension grew within his heart, he refused to abandon the last of his hope until he had seen the Havens for himself. But upon that ancient beach he found his greatest fear realized. No living trace remained of the elvish inhabitants who had once called the Mithlonds home. Gone, all gone! Haven no longer, the quay was a hoary ruin, made weak and decrepit by neglect and the harsh lash of the elements. The beautiful wood, carved with delicate, intricate runes in a fine elvish hand, stood broken and abandoned at the water's edge like jagged teeth. No ship waited there, nor had for many a year.
Sam stood upon the beach and mournfully looked out to Sea, a lonely grey-green figure in his worn elven cloak. It was out there somewhere. The Western Shore. The Undying Lands. The last haven of the elves, across the Sea and far to the West, out of the reckoning of the lands Middle Earth and it's Age of Men. In that ancient land he had envisioned a host of elven-kind, elegant, beautiful and serene in their fabled sanctuary, ageless and deathless. Perhaps the last of the great oliphants were also there, walking side by side with the lost Entwives of which Merry and Pip so often spoke.
He vividly recalled the day Gandalf and Elrond and Galadriel, proud bearers of the untainted Elven Rings of Power, had sailed from this very shore for that distant land. It was a bittersweet day, for with them had gone Bilbo Baggins -- old Bilbo, who used to regale a young, wide-eyed Samwise with the most astonishing of tales, full of dragons and dwarves, of mithril and gold, of dark caverns, riddles, mines and mountains, and a ring ... The One Ring.
With old Bilbo had gone his young kinsman Frodo, weary and tired and deeply hurt by his bearing of that accursed One Ring. He had suffered much to save his beloved Shire - and so all the lands of Middle-Earth! - only to have to leave it behind in the end.
It wasn't fair!
"It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger," Frodo had comforted his dearest friend. "Someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them."
Frodo's words echoed in Sam's mind still. The salt spray that misted his face mingled with the hot tears that rolled from his brown eyes and down his cheeks. At last a sob escaped him.
"Oh Frodo!" he cried in anguish to that distant shore, his words caught by the harsh wind and swept away. "I'd be with you if I could!"
Sam sank wearily onto the cold, damp sand and hung his head between his hands. His heart was leaden. There was no boat waiting upon the shore nor sail upon the distant horizon. Only grey and wet and cold. The promise of the West was denied him.
And why should that be any surprise? whispered the melancholy voice of doubt and despair. You weren't much of a Ring-Bearer after all, were you, Samwise Gamgee?
Indeed, he had borne the cursed One Ring for a very short while; a heartbeat only compared to the grueling months Frodo had carried the burden upon his breast, left to struggle in body and mind with its insidious evil. Surely no ship waited because Sam did not deserve to join the Ring-Bearers who had gone before. They had endured a unique misery and hardship to which Sam could not lay claim.
"Yer as foolish a 'obbit as ever there was, and no mistake," he berated himself, his face raw from the tears that scalded his cheeks. "I don't deserve the name Ring-Bearer; not for a few days and me doin' nou't but keepin' it safe for Mr. Frodo."
When Sam had last stood upon this shore, he had looked out upon the sea with tear-filled eyes until the elven ship that bore his friend and master disappeared into the misty horizon. Long after it had passed from sight he had stood, until night had fallen and he could no longer stand. Until Frodo was long gone. Yet in his heart he had held the belief that it was not truly goodbye. Why, it was just another road going out from the door where it began, and his path led just a bit astray of that taken by Frodo. All of these long years he had held onto that hope and dreamed that one day he would see Frodo again ... a Frodo free of the deep hurts inflicted upon his body and soul by the bearing of the Ring. Frodo of the Shire, his childhood friend and beloved master, no longer haunted by the pain of Frodo-Nine-Fingers and the shadow of Isildur's Bane.
"Don't you lose him, Samwise Gamgee. That's what Mr. Gandalf told me," Sam said mournfully into his hands. "But I s'pose I did in the end, didn't I?"
His hope of ever seeing Frodo again slipped from his heart like grains of sand.
iv.
And what now, Samwise? demanded his practical hobbit self.
What indeed? Perhaps there wasn't anything more.
There was no denying he had lead a full and adventurous life. More beautiful, loving and kind a wife he could never have asked than his Rosie, and all of their children were a blessing and a joy. There was the Shire, more green and lush than he could ever remember as a young hobbit at his Gaffer's knee, guided and made so over the years by the toil of his own hands. He had met and dined with elves, seen things both marvelous strange and terrible, and had been greatly honored by the King. And he had shared the rare love that only two devoted friends can experience who are not blood kin and walk together into mortal danger - into the very fires of Mordor.
A full life, indeed! But now, as with all things, there was an end in sight. His beloved Rosie was gone, as dear to his heart as she had been in life. His children were grown and had families of their own; capable young stewards of the Shire who would see it continue to thrive for the many future generations of hobbits to come. Merry and Pippin were quite content in their old age and spoke often of returning to Gondor. Perhaps one day they, too, would leave the Shire behind.
Deep down inside, Sam knew that his time upon Middle-Earth was nearing its end. He was old and tired and ready for rest. There was nothing more to be done, even had he the strength to do it.
Tho' truth be told, I hoped the tale would have a happier ending, he thought resignedly.
Oh Sam! It's not like you to give up hope, Rosie's voice whispered, filled with concern and compassion. How oft have I heard you tell the wee ones that there is always a way, no matter how impossible the task may seem at the first? I've never known you to believe otherwise, my dearest. Listen to your heart, my Sam... Only but listen...
Sam scrubbed his right sleeve across his eyes, smearing the grime of the road with the stain of bitter tears. With a heavy sigh, he turned his face to the salt spray, cocked his head and listened. He heard the grumble of the waves as they played tag with the shore and the keening of the wind as it raced among the jagged ruins of the dock. He heard the distant cry of a bird and the hushed rustle of the thick sandgrass that lay like a carpet on the hillock behind him.
And softly, from a place deep within his heart, Sam heard the fragments of a tune in a voice that was his own. Long forgotten but familiar, the words rose from the depths of his despair and bore with them the tiniest jewel of hope.
...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 Stars for ever dwell...
The words came suddenly to his tongue out of long memory and in a hoarse voice Sam sang aloud, "I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell."
There was strength and assurance within those words, last sung by him in the hostile, lonely dark of Cirith Ungol. Unbidden then, they had come to him again at a moment when he was in danger of giving sway to his hopelessness.
Let's have no talk of endings! You're made of sterner stuff than that, Samwise Gamgee!
"And so I am!" Sam cried aloud as he struggled to his feet. A sudden and fierce determination swelled within his breast and gave route to his despair. "I wouldn't be left behind all them long years ago at Rivendell and I'm not about to start now. So I'm comin', Mr. Frodo, sir!" he told the waves with grim defiance. "I don't know how, but I'm comin'! Even if I have to walk the whole way across the bottom of this blasted Sea!"
"RING-BEARER!" A shrill, screeching cry answered his exclamation from high overhead.
Startled and suddenly fearful, Sam stumbled backward as a dark-winged shadow glided toward him across the sand. His right hand instinctively fell to the hilt of the elvish sword at his belt as he looked up into the misty overcast for the shadow's author. He almost expected to see one of the dread airborne black riders - a Nazgul, come from the depths of Mordor to claim him at last.
"Ho, Master Samwise!" called a strident voice, gently mocking. "There are better ways to greet a friend. And better ways to travel then getting one's feet wet walking across the wide seabed!"
Sam's hand slid from the hilt of his sword as his mouth dropped open in awe. An enormous bird soared in a large, lazy circle high overhead, its dark shadow running in mirror image across the sand.
A Giant Eagle! Oh, how marvelous and graceful a creature it was! And how terrifying!
Sam had only the faintest recollection of having seen a Great Eagle before, and absolutely no memory of his one and only ride on one. It was on that terrible day when he lay exhausted and choked by the poisonous fumes that belched forth from the dying Mount Doom. The Quest was over and an exhausted Frodo lay unconscious beside him, his wounded hand upon Sam's breast. In those final moments when all the world seemed to be shaking to pieces around them, Sam had looked to the North in hope of one final glimpse of the lands now free of Sauron's evil. As his vision began to fail, he imagined he saw the dark clouds part before three magnificent shapes, sunlight bright upon their wings as they glided into Mordor. It was a glorious vision indeed and the last thing Sam saw before he finally succumbed to darkness.
Surely this majestic creature was kin to the Great Eagles who had caught up two limp, half-dead hobbits from that terrible mountainside as it crumbled into ruin!
"We have met before, Master Samwise, although I doubt you have memory of it," called the Eagle, as if following Sam's thoughts. "I am called Meneldor, Windlord's brother, and it was I who bore you from Mordor."
"Bless me!" exclaimed Sam in astonishment. Not only of the same race, but the self-same Eagle! "And here I am, never once having had the chance to thank you!" he cried. "You and your brothers were gone long before we woke. But better late than never, as me Gaffer used to say, so if'n I may, I thank you now, Great Windlord! Not only for myself but for saving Mr. Frodo - a thousand times thank you!"
"Ho! Let it not be said that the Halflings lack fair speech!," laughed Meneldor as he dipped a wing in reply. "It was my honor to bear you upon that day. Indeed, it is my hope that you will permit me to do so again!"
Meneldor's meaning was not lost on Sam and hope burst anew like a radiant sun within his heart. "Across the Sea?"
"Across the Sea, Elf-Friend," confirmed the Eagle, "For is that not your heart's desire?"
"It is! More than anything!"
"Then that is where your heart and my wings shall bear you."
In so saying, Melenor began to descend toward the beach in graceful, ever smaller circles. Sam watched the Eagle's approach with mixed awe and excitement. His eyes were alight with joy and anticipation. At last, he was going to the West!
The nearer the Eagle came, the more imposing its visage. It's great, sharp beak was twice as long as Sam was tall and it's talons were like great curved swords. The span of its wings were smoothly beautiful and imposing, and it seemed to Sam that they were nearly as long as the whole if Bagshot Row! He began to wonder how he would ever keep his hold on such a massive creature, or did it intend to take him up in its claws and fly him across the waves?
With a final glide, Melendor alighted upon the sand a few feet distant. He towered over Samwise, standing taller than had the Party Tree in the heart of the Shire.
"Come! It is time we left this place."
"I'm more than ready," said Sam boldly. "I may not be young, and I fear these old hands no longer possess the strength they once boasted, but I'll hold on tight as a burr as long as may be."
Melendor cocked his head to the left and looked down upon the hobbit with a clear yellow eye. "You are fearful of falling into the Great Water?"
"Well, sir, truth be told, I can't swim."
"Indeed! Yet you would risk all to undertake this journey?"
"I would and will," said Sam, resolute. "Or die in the trying!"
"Brave little Halfling! You have the heart of an Eagle, I think."
Sam blushed. "That's high praise and I thank you for it," he replied with an awkward little bow. "But I'm just an old, tired hobbit with one final journey to make, however I can manage it."
"Then may it comfort you to know that you can set your fears aside, little one, for such a thing has been taken into account by wiser heads!"
Melendor crouched down upon his legs until his breast brushed the damp sand. Stretching, he extended his left wing until it's tip was at Sam's feet, creating a gently sloping path onto to his broad back. Shouldering his pack and leaving his walking staff behind, Sam slowly climbed up the mighty wing as if it were a ramp. He marveled at how soft the feathers felt against the soles of his bare feet and yet how sturdy, like a supple matting made of mithril and goose down. Even so, it took Sam several minutes to manage the climb, for his old legs were tired and ached in protest at the exertion. Melendor waited with unflinching patience.
At last Sam reached the Eagle's shoulder and could finally see from above what he could not from below. Upon his back, Melendor bore a hobbit-sized basket tightly woven of fresh green vines and sapling wood. Interlaced throughout the weaving were silver threads and the blossoms of delicate white flowers whose fragrance cut the salt air with a sweet perfume. With a gardner's joy, Sam recognized the beautiful petals as elvish elanor and tiny athelas (called kingsfoil in the Shire). The basket and its decorations spoke of elves and fair shores. Of the West!
Careful not to disturb a single blossom, Sam eagerly hoisted himself over the edge with only the smallest grunt of effort. Inside the basket he found a suitably hobbit-sized stool and a woven silver belt, apparently to strap himself firmly into place.
"Come, Stoutheart," said Melendor as his passenger settled into the elvish contrivance. "It is time we were gone from these lands."
"Aye, that it is," agreed Sam softly.
The Great Eagle spread its might wings and sprang skyward. Samwise never looked back.
v.
A thousand thoughts and doubts ran rampant through Sam's mind during that wondrous journey. What would he find at journey's end? Would he be welcome in the West? Surely Meneldor would not have come for him else. Was Gandalf still there, and Elrond and the Lady Galadriel, and what would they think of their aged hobbit gardener now? And Frodo? It had been long and long a time since the Ring-Bearer had gone West. Had he aged as Sam had done, or did the Elves share with him their gift of longevity and youth. What if he didn't recognize a much older Sam, or no longer remembered him at all? What if absence had weakened the bond of friendship? Even worse to contemplate, what if Frodo had died as Elanor had feared?
That's enough of that, Samwise! No use fretting over what is or isn't and working your stomach into knots. Cross that ferry when you come to it!
Sam could peer over the edge of his travel basket but it took some time before he found the courage to look down. He could just see over the edge of Meneldor's great wings to glimpse the wide grey sea below. The water scudded by so quickly that Sam had to sit back and close his eyes or lose himself to dizziness. After a short while, they climbed so high that all was grey mist and wispy white cloud. The air was briskly cold and Sam was grateful for the warmth of his elven cloak. He wrapped the cloak tight about himself and settled back against the wall of the basket. In spite of all his anxiety and excitement, Sam's eyes began to grow heavy. The weariness of his long journey had caught up with him at last and he slept.
Pleasant dreams graced his sleep, bringing to him fond memories of the Shire and his childhood. Bright, joyful images flashed by him like dazzling motes in a crystal. / Old Bilbo beneath the Party Tree, young hobbit lads and maids seated at his feet in rapt, wide-eyed attention as he spun a yarn of three terrible trolls. Frodo and Sam side by side, equally eager to hear the tale's end even though each had heard it more than a dozen times. / Beautiful Rosie Cotton, dancing at Bilbo's 111th birthday party and giving Samwise a coquettish glance that made his heart flutter. Gandalf the Grey, laughing until his beard shook as he threw dazzling displays of light and sweets into the air to rain down upon eager hobbit children. / Merry and Pippin diving under a hedge that young Sam was clipping, barely stifling their giggles as moments later an irate Farmer Maggot appeared and demanded if the young gardener had seen two scalawags with an armful of pilfered mushrooms. / His much younger self running through a field of tall, fragrant grass. Turning to look over his shoulder, Sam laughed to find Frodo close upon his heels. Soaked from head to toe thanks to Sam's having pushed him into the Brandywine, Frodo's wide blue eyes were alight with joy and mischief and promised revenge. Reaching out, he caught the tail of Sam's homespun shirt. Both hobbits instantly went down in a tumble of arms and legs and laughter as they wrestled upon the sunwarmed ground.
Sunshine, warm and pleasant upon his upturned face. A warm breeze ruffling his hair and carrying the fragrance of summer flowers.
Sam blinked, opened his eyes, and found that his dream had followed him into waking. He was surrounded by beautiful clear sky and a brilliant afternoon sun dipping to the west. Eagerly, he looked over the left edge of the basket and down upon a sea of crystal blue. A flash of silver scales darted through the water, so near that Sam thought he could reach out and touch them. Excitedly, he turned to look over the right edge of the basket and gasped aloud his awe. Beneath them was a beach of glistening white sand and golden trees. The wood stretched for many leagues before becoming a rolling green country that went off into the horizon beyond Sam's sight. How glorious a land it seemed and how fragrant the air! Surely he must still be dreaming!
Melendor swooped downward toward the waiting shore and with the gentlest of bumps landed upon the beach near the water's edge. He unfurled his great wing as before to create a ramp from his back to the ground. Sam quickly unbuckled the silver belt, shouldered his battered old backpack, and scrambled over the edge onto the soft feathers of the Eagle's back. He fairly ran down the ramp of the Windlord's wing, for once unmindful of the protests of his old joints. The first touch of the sand beneath his bare feet was pleasantly warm and almost instantly seemed to sooth the aches of the long miles. Sam sighed in wonder and content.
A great wind swirled around him and he turned to see Melendor shoot into the dazzling summer sun.
"Fare thee well," he heard the Eagle's parting cry.
"Good-bye!" exclaimed Sam with a wave. "And thank you! With all my heart, thank you!"
Melendor dipped his wing. "It has been my great honor to have borne you a second time, Last of the Ring-bearers!" he called, even as he seemed to vanish into the brilliance of the sun.
Last of the Ring-bearers! Sam looked out at the wide blue sea and saw another flash of silver leap into the sunlight as if in salute.
Well, here I am at last! he thought. He had truly made it to the fabled lands of the West!
But where were the people? Where were the elves? Although Sam looked to the left and the right, he could see that no living soul walked the sand of that beautiful shore nor rode the waves beyond.
Perhaps they were deep within the wood and high up in the trees. Why not? Galadriel had been the Lady of Lothlorien; perhaps she reigned here still in a home akin to the one left behind on Middle-Earth. Perhaps it was in the wood that Sam would find the elves. So positive a hobbit was he, that it never once occurred to him that he might be alone in a strange land.
Sam turned his back to the sea and faced the wood at the edge of the shore. The trees bowed and swayed in the gentle breeze, their lush green leaves whispering on golden boughs. The trunks grew close together and shadow filled the spaces between them. The smallest movement and a bright glimmer caught his eye, much closer to the ground than the lofty branches. Sam turned his gaze toward it, shielding his eyes from the brilliant sunlight with the flat of his hand. He perceived a lone figure cloaked in shadow looking back. It took a single step forward from beneath the trees to stand within the light. Small of stature and bare of foot, the warm sea breeze tousled the figure's salt-and-pepper hair and tugged at the hem of the green elven cloak. A hint of mithril silver glinted from behind the open collar of a white linen shirt and waistcoat, reflecting back the rays of the sun with breathtaking brilliance.
"Sam?"
There was hope and joy and love in that single soft word, carried to Samwise on the breeze in a voice he had so longed to hear. It was as dear to him as that of his Rosie and it brought tears to his eyes afresh.
Was he dreaming? Was he still high above the world on Melendor's back? Or still lost upon the cold and lonely shore of the Havens, senseless with grief and longing?
Such thoughts were instantly dispelled when the small figure at the forest's edge suddenly shouted aloud, "SAM!" With a joyous whoop, Frodo Baggins ran across the sand toward his friend.
Tears streaming down his face, Sam stumbled forward to meet him and his legs gladly carried him without pain or protest. Although the years did not drop from Samwise as he ran, for his youth was gone and could never be recovered, he felt as if the aches and pains of age melted away with each springing step upon that enchanted soil, until the whole of his body and soul sang with strength and gladness.
Into each other's embrace they flew, both hobbits babbling a thousand questions and thoughts all at once as tears streamed down their careworn faces.
"Oh Sam! I've waited so long to see you!," cried Frodo. He hugged Sam tight, as if fearful his friend would vanish in his arms like a wraith.
Samwise clung to Frodo and merely sobbed, suddenly speechless with joy.
They stood that way for many long minutes, two aged hobbits tight in each other's embrace and unashamed of their tears.
"I must have asked Gandalf a hundred times when you would come," said Frodo at last. "Every day for years!" His bright grin seemed to smooth the wrinkles on his face. "But you know Gandalf ... always inscrutable and mysterious. Soon, he'd say. Always soon! And still you did not come."
Through his tears of joy, Sam finally took a good, long look at Frodo. He was now more than 110 summers old and his hair had begun to grey, but to Sam it seemed that he looked upon the beloved friend and master that had set out from the Shire for Bree, long and long ago. Frodo's eyes were as wide and blue as he remembered -- older, yes, and full of memories both joyful and dark, but no longer haunted or hurt or saddened.
For his part, Frodo also saw beyond the advancement of age to the Samwise Gamgee of his youth. The sandy-hair was now fully grey but his old friend remained robust and gentle, with laughing, sensitive brown eyes and a gardner's strong hands. Here at last was his boyhood companion, who through many adventures had become more than dear friend but his heart's own brother.
Frodo rested his hands upon Sam's shoulders and said, "I've missed you, Sam. I don't believe I've ever missed anyone as much as I've missed you."
"And I you, Mr. Frodo, and that's a fact," said Sam as warmth flushed his face.
"I'm very sorry about Rosie."
Samwise nodded. "I miss her something fierce," he admitted, "But I think she'd be happy knowin' as how the story ends."
"I think she would at that," agreed Frodo. "Just like one of Bilbo's old stories. 'And they lived happily ever after, to the end of their days.'" He gave Sam's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Come along, then. It's time we were going!"
"Going?"
"You don't want to stand on the beach all day, do you?" asked Frodo with a glimmer of mischief in his bright eyes. He grinned at Sam's confused expression and said, "I may have convinced the others to let me meet you myself, but I don't think they'll be patient much longer. They're anxious to see you, too!"
"To see me?"
"Yes you, my dear, dear Sam!," the Ring-bearer said fondly. "Why, they've been preparing a feast in your honor for days!" He leaned close to his friend's ear and said confidentially, as if someone might be straining to overhear, "I have it on good authority that they're going to serve those little elven mushrooms you were so fond of at Rivendell."
"Bless me! Mushrooms?" exclaimed Sam, his eyes alight at the very thought. "Well, I wouldn't want to be keepin' anyone waitin' on my account, if you catch my meaning!"
"I do, Sam. I do!" laughed Frodo. "Better still, I know a shortcut!"
Advanced in years but young in heart, the two hobbits left the shore arm in arm, chatting and laughing animatedly with the sheer joy of each other's company. They were met by the distant, lilting music of elvish voices as they entered the golden wood, feet once more upon the same road.
And they lived happily ever after, to the end of their days.
Fandom: LOTR
Character: Samwise
Prompt: 096. Writer's Choice
Word Count: 6,842
Rating: G
Author's Note: This was my first LOTR fic, written about two years ago. It's my favorite of all the LOTR fics I've written to date. (And the longest!)
Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, and East of the Sun
-- The Return of the King
i.
Samwise Gamgee stopped in his tracks as suddenly as if the Crack of Doom had split wide the path before him.
What if there's no boat waiting at the shore?
So abruptly did the thought strike him that he rocked back on his heels and nearly lost his balance.
Only now, when Sam was finally within sight of his destination, did he realize that so basic a thought had never occurred to him. Why, he had been so determined to see his course of action through to the end that not once had he paused to question how he actually intended to do so!
What, indeed, if there was no boat at the quay? What if he arrived at the Grey Havens and found it deserted? How then would he make his way? He was no fine elven craftsman or able hobbit carpenter who could devise such a vessel for his use. Nor could he swim that vast grey sea - even supposing he could swim, which he could not.
For a fleeting instant despair threatened to overshadow his heart, but Sam was made of sterner stuff and shook his head defiantly.
None of that, now, Samwise! he admonished himself.
He had always been a very positive-minded hobbit and possessed of such a kindly nature that he could not help but find the best in any given circumstance. In his stout heart was a faith in all that was good and true and fair, and in that heart he believed that his path would not lead him astray.
What if there's no boat waiting at the shore?
"That's as may be," Sam concluded in his practical way. "We'll see what there is to see at the end, and no use worrying about it 'til then, as me Gaffer used to say."
A short distance away, the narrow track sloped downward and out of sight around one final hill of Mithlond to the Grey Havens beyond. The taint of salt was on the late September air and Sam could see the glimmer of the wide grey sea on the westward horizon like a distant mirror.
"I'm comin' at last, Mr. Frodo!"
Sam shrugged his shoulders to shift the straps of his travel pack a bit more comfortably upon his back. For good or ill, his long journey was nearing its end.
Now's for it, he thought as he strode forward once more. One last go and then we'll see.
The knees and legs of the aging hobbit ached in protest as he followed the descending path. His had been a long, slow trek from Hobbiton, with few pauses along the way. It was long and long a time since he had undertaken such a journey on foot and his limbs complained of it the entire way. As the path became a steep incline, he used his walking staff to help him maintain his balance. He slipped once upon the damp earth and barely caught himself in time, wrenching his knee slightly and sending a sharp pain up his thigh.
"Don't you go overdoing it again, Samwise Gamgee," he recalled the gentle voice of his beloved Rosie. In his mind's eye he could see her still, standing by the hearth and holding the ladle she often waggled before his nose to emphasize a point. "You may still have the heart of a young hobbit of 50, my dearest, but your body isn't up to that sort of exercise no longer!"
Sam smiled to himself as he fondly remembered how he had caught her within the circle of his arms and shown her exactly what kind of exercise a hobbit of his advanced years was capable. Their youngest boychild, Tolman-lad (called Tom), had been the fruit of that exertion.
A tear rolled down Sam's cheek at the thought of his cherished Rosie, gone from him this Midyear's Day. The last few months had been painfully empty without her -- Rosie of the flashing eyes and sunny smile, whose girlish laughter always made his heart sing. In spite of a wealth of well-meaning friends and children, Sam had not felt so alone and helpless since the long ago day he had faced the tower of Cirith Ungol in search of Frodo.
Indeed, it was the void that Rosie's absence had left within his heart that had set him on his present path. It was a road he had once yearned to travel, only to be gently turned away by a wiser, loving hand.
Once upon a time Sam had been a soul torn in two - torn between a fierce love for the beautiful Rose Cotton, his sweet wife and companion, and Frodo Baggins, his most beloved friend and master. O! how he had longed to share his future with these, the most cherished people in his life! But Frodo was leaving Middle-Earth forever while Rosie with their firstborn maidchild, Elanor, remained at Bag-End and patiently awaited his return. Sam's passionate love for Rosie and his selfless devotion to Frodo had threatened to rip his heart apart. He could not bear to leave either of them and yet he could not remain with both.
In the end, it was Frodo himself who had comforted Sam and set him upon the right path.
"Do not be too sad, Sam," said Frodo kindly on that bittersweet day when he set sail from the Grey Havens for the West. "You cannot always be torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and be, and to do!"
And so Sam had done with Frodo's blessing, and lived his long life with great joy in his wife and children and their children's children. For many years he took pride and joy in tending to the Shire, made all the more beautiful through the loving toil of his own hands and the enchanted gift of Lothlorian's departed Lady Galadriel. Why, he'd even been elected Mayor of the Shire for an unprecedented seven terms! Yet through the years Sam's thoughts often turned to his absent friend and master, and wondered how he fared over the Sea.
Of late those thoughts had become a yearning. Sam was aged and weary, a hobbit of more than 100 summers, and no longer torn in two. Without his Rosie, he soon came to realize that there was little else to keep him in Middle-Earth. Not long thereafter, he went out from the old familiar door of Bag End, turned onto his intended road and never looked back. Bill the Third, descendant of that most stout and surefooted pony of the same name, he eventually left at the edge of the Shire with a kindly pat and a soft word of parting.
This final journey Sam would make alone.
ii.
Elanor the Fair, firstborn daughter of Rose and Samwise and wife to Fastred of Greenholm, looked down upon the well-worn and much loved plain leather cover of the Red Book upon her dining table and said, "You're going."
There was no accusation or recrimination in her sweet voice or manner, for she had known this day would one day come, as had all her sibs.
She brushed a strand of golden hair from her eyes and looked up from the book to search her father's careworn face. There was sadness in her cornflower blue eyes but an understanding as well. It would avail her nothing to try and convince him to stay; she knew he could not be swayed once his mind was made up. Nor would she have done so, but --
He was leaving!
Elanor tried to show a brave face for her father's sake but her flow of tears could not be recalled. She struggled to offer him words of encouragement but a bit of a sob caught in her throat and left her speechless.
Blinded by his own tears, Sam rushed forward and caught her in his arms, hugging her tight to his breast as he had oft done when she was small.
"I ... I wanted to say ..." she struggled to tell him, but found she could not continue.
"I know, my flower," he gently hushed her. He breathed in the sweet scent of heather and clover in her hair as he lay his cheek upon her head and whispered, "I know."
"Mama always said this day would come," Elanor sighed against his broad chest.
"Aye, and your mama was as wise a woman as ever graced the Shire."
Elanor was loath to leave the loving warmth of her father's arms, perhaps for the last time, but she knew that she could not prolong the inevitable heartache of his leaving.
"Will you say farewell to the children?" One glance at his expression and she sighed resignedly, "No, I thought not. You'll not delay, I see."
"It would be less hurt to the little ones, I think, if I go my way unseen," he replied, but thought to himself, And I do not think my heart could bear the parting.
Eleanor nodded her understanding but knew that she would be drying many tears that eve in addition to her own.
"Do you think he's ... well?" she asked, changing her intended wording at the last, for Elanor would rather face a hundred fabled Nazgul than wound her father's feelings or dash his hopes.
But Samwise knew his firstborn well and understood what she had intended to say. "Is he alive, d'you mean?"
She nodded, her expression anxious. "It has been many long years, Papa, and no one knows what happens in that land over the Sea. Or if it even exists!"
"All the more reason for me to be findin' out," he replied resolutely. "Tho I've oft wondered myself, truth be told. It has been long and, true, Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo may both be dead and gone after all this time ... but I choose not to believe so."
"What do you believe?" asked Elanor, genuinely curious, for of such hopes her father had seldom, if ever, spoken.
"I choose to believe that it's a wonderful place, full of sunshine and elves and music and great joy. A restful place." He lightly touched her smooth cheek with a palm callused from long years of lovingly tending to plants and soil. "I believe the elves live forever and can share that gift with others they think worthy. And I'm thinkin' there's no one more worthy than Mr. Frodo after all the hurt and sadness he suffered as the Ring-bearer. He'll be there, of that I'm sure."
Elanor caught his hand between her own slender fingers and held it to her heart. Tears still glistened within her eyes but she gave him her most encouraging smile and said, "I hope you find him so, Papa." For your sake.
Sam kissed her upon her pert little nose and said, simply, "I mean to."
And so it was that Elanor the Fair was the last to see Master Samwise, son of Hamfast, called Elf-friend and Stoutheart, upon the lands of Middle-Earth. In her keeping he left the Red Book and its tales of the Age that was past. Although Elanor was never to know if her beloved father found his way, she handed down to her children, and they to their children's children, the tradition that Samwise took passage o're the great Sea to the West as the last of the Ring-bearers.
In her heart, Elanor could not bear to believe otherwise.
iii.
Sam stood alone upon the beach, the rough grit of damp sand beneath his bare feet and the sharp sting of salt spray against his face. A biting wind teased and tangled his grey hair with chill, taunting fingers. Blue-gray water tumbled toward the shore on rough, frothing waves that scoured the sand before gurgling back into the vast expanse from whence it came. On the westward horizon a pearly white mist blended with the sea to become a leaden canvas, devoid of life.
At the end of his long road, Sam had found the gates to the Havens slightly ajar and unattended. Of Círdan the Shipwright, elvish keeper of the gates and the passage to the West, there was no sign -- nor did it appear that anyone had traveled this path in many a season. The massive, ornate gates were overgrown with thick vines and rusted slightly ajar. With some effort, Sam managed to squeeze himself into the gap and through to the other side. Although apprehension grew within his heart, he refused to abandon the last of his hope until he had seen the Havens for himself. But upon that ancient beach he found his greatest fear realized. No living trace remained of the elvish inhabitants who had once called the Mithlonds home. Gone, all gone! Haven no longer, the quay was a hoary ruin, made weak and decrepit by neglect and the harsh lash of the elements. The beautiful wood, carved with delicate, intricate runes in a fine elvish hand, stood broken and abandoned at the water's edge like jagged teeth. No ship waited there, nor had for many a year.
Sam stood upon the beach and mournfully looked out to Sea, a lonely grey-green figure in his worn elven cloak. It was out there somewhere. The Western Shore. The Undying Lands. The last haven of the elves, across the Sea and far to the West, out of the reckoning of the lands Middle Earth and it's Age of Men. In that ancient land he had envisioned a host of elven-kind, elegant, beautiful and serene in their fabled sanctuary, ageless and deathless. Perhaps the last of the great oliphants were also there, walking side by side with the lost Entwives of which Merry and Pip so often spoke.
He vividly recalled the day Gandalf and Elrond and Galadriel, proud bearers of the untainted Elven Rings of Power, had sailed from this very shore for that distant land. It was a bittersweet day, for with them had gone Bilbo Baggins -- old Bilbo, who used to regale a young, wide-eyed Samwise with the most astonishing of tales, full of dragons and dwarves, of mithril and gold, of dark caverns, riddles, mines and mountains, and a ring ... The One Ring.
With old Bilbo had gone his young kinsman Frodo, weary and tired and deeply hurt by his bearing of that accursed One Ring. He had suffered much to save his beloved Shire - and so all the lands of Middle-Earth! - only to have to leave it behind in the end.
It wasn't fair!
"It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger," Frodo had comforted his dearest friend. "Someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them."
Frodo's words echoed in Sam's mind still. The salt spray that misted his face mingled with the hot tears that rolled from his brown eyes and down his cheeks. At last a sob escaped him.
"Oh Frodo!" he cried in anguish to that distant shore, his words caught by the harsh wind and swept away. "I'd be with you if I could!"
Sam sank wearily onto the cold, damp sand and hung his head between his hands. His heart was leaden. There was no boat waiting upon the shore nor sail upon the distant horizon. Only grey and wet and cold. The promise of the West was denied him.
And why should that be any surprise? whispered the melancholy voice of doubt and despair. You weren't much of a Ring-Bearer after all, were you, Samwise Gamgee?
Indeed, he had borne the cursed One Ring for a very short while; a heartbeat only compared to the grueling months Frodo had carried the burden upon his breast, left to struggle in body and mind with its insidious evil. Surely no ship waited because Sam did not deserve to join the Ring-Bearers who had gone before. They had endured a unique misery and hardship to which Sam could not lay claim.
"Yer as foolish a 'obbit as ever there was, and no mistake," he berated himself, his face raw from the tears that scalded his cheeks. "I don't deserve the name Ring-Bearer; not for a few days and me doin' nou't but keepin' it safe for Mr. Frodo."
When Sam had last stood upon this shore, he had looked out upon the sea with tear-filled eyes until the elven ship that bore his friend and master disappeared into the misty horizon. Long after it had passed from sight he had stood, until night had fallen and he could no longer stand. Until Frodo was long gone. Yet in his heart he had held the belief that it was not truly goodbye. Why, it was just another road going out from the door where it began, and his path led just a bit astray of that taken by Frodo. All of these long years he had held onto that hope and dreamed that one day he would see Frodo again ... a Frodo free of the deep hurts inflicted upon his body and soul by the bearing of the Ring. Frodo of the Shire, his childhood friend and beloved master, no longer haunted by the pain of Frodo-Nine-Fingers and the shadow of Isildur's Bane.
"Don't you lose him, Samwise Gamgee. That's what Mr. Gandalf told me," Sam said mournfully into his hands. "But I s'pose I did in the end, didn't I?"
His hope of ever seeing Frodo again slipped from his heart like grains of sand.
iv.
And what now, Samwise? demanded his practical hobbit self.
What indeed? Perhaps there wasn't anything more.
There was no denying he had lead a full and adventurous life. More beautiful, loving and kind a wife he could never have asked than his Rosie, and all of their children were a blessing and a joy. There was the Shire, more green and lush than he could ever remember as a young hobbit at his Gaffer's knee, guided and made so over the years by the toil of his own hands. He had met and dined with elves, seen things both marvelous strange and terrible, and had been greatly honored by the King. And he had shared the rare love that only two devoted friends can experience who are not blood kin and walk together into mortal danger - into the very fires of Mordor.
A full life, indeed! But now, as with all things, there was an end in sight. His beloved Rosie was gone, as dear to his heart as she had been in life. His children were grown and had families of their own; capable young stewards of the Shire who would see it continue to thrive for the many future generations of hobbits to come. Merry and Pippin were quite content in their old age and spoke often of returning to Gondor. Perhaps one day they, too, would leave the Shire behind.
Deep down inside, Sam knew that his time upon Middle-Earth was nearing its end. He was old and tired and ready for rest. There was nothing more to be done, even had he the strength to do it.
Tho' truth be told, I hoped the tale would have a happier ending, he thought resignedly.
Oh Sam! It's not like you to give up hope, Rosie's voice whispered, filled with concern and compassion. How oft have I heard you tell the wee ones that there is always a way, no matter how impossible the task may seem at the first? I've never known you to believe otherwise, my dearest. Listen to your heart, my Sam... Only but listen...
Sam scrubbed his right sleeve across his eyes, smearing the grime of the road with the stain of bitter tears. With a heavy sigh, he turned his face to the salt spray, cocked his head and listened. He heard the grumble of the waves as they played tag with the shore and the keening of the wind as it raced among the jagged ruins of the dock. He heard the distant cry of a bird and the hushed rustle of the thick sandgrass that lay like a carpet on the hillock behind him.
And softly, from a place deep within his heart, Sam heard the fragments of a tune in a voice that was his own. Long forgotten but familiar, the words rose from the depths of his despair and bore with them the tiniest jewel of hope.
...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 Stars for ever dwell...
The words came suddenly to his tongue out of long memory and in a hoarse voice Sam sang aloud, "I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell."
There was strength and assurance within those words, last sung by him in the hostile, lonely dark of Cirith Ungol. Unbidden then, they had come to him again at a moment when he was in danger of giving sway to his hopelessness.
Let's have no talk of endings! You're made of sterner stuff than that, Samwise Gamgee!
"And so I am!" Sam cried aloud as he struggled to his feet. A sudden and fierce determination swelled within his breast and gave route to his despair. "I wouldn't be left behind all them long years ago at Rivendell and I'm not about to start now. So I'm comin', Mr. Frodo, sir!" he told the waves with grim defiance. "I don't know how, but I'm comin'! Even if I have to walk the whole way across the bottom of this blasted Sea!"
"RING-BEARER!" A shrill, screeching cry answered his exclamation from high overhead.
Startled and suddenly fearful, Sam stumbled backward as a dark-winged shadow glided toward him across the sand. His right hand instinctively fell to the hilt of the elvish sword at his belt as he looked up into the misty overcast for the shadow's author. He almost expected to see one of the dread airborne black riders - a Nazgul, come from the depths of Mordor to claim him at last.
"Ho, Master Samwise!" called a strident voice, gently mocking. "There are better ways to greet a friend. And better ways to travel then getting one's feet wet walking across the wide seabed!"
Sam's hand slid from the hilt of his sword as his mouth dropped open in awe. An enormous bird soared in a large, lazy circle high overhead, its dark shadow running in mirror image across the sand.
A Giant Eagle! Oh, how marvelous and graceful a creature it was! And how terrifying!
Sam had only the faintest recollection of having seen a Great Eagle before, and absolutely no memory of his one and only ride on one. It was on that terrible day when he lay exhausted and choked by the poisonous fumes that belched forth from the dying Mount Doom. The Quest was over and an exhausted Frodo lay unconscious beside him, his wounded hand upon Sam's breast. In those final moments when all the world seemed to be shaking to pieces around them, Sam had looked to the North in hope of one final glimpse of the lands now free of Sauron's evil. As his vision began to fail, he imagined he saw the dark clouds part before three magnificent shapes, sunlight bright upon their wings as they glided into Mordor. It was a glorious vision indeed and the last thing Sam saw before he finally succumbed to darkness.
Surely this majestic creature was kin to the Great Eagles who had caught up two limp, half-dead hobbits from that terrible mountainside as it crumbled into ruin!
"We have met before, Master Samwise, although I doubt you have memory of it," called the Eagle, as if following Sam's thoughts. "I am called Meneldor, Windlord's brother, and it was I who bore you from Mordor."
"Bless me!" exclaimed Sam in astonishment. Not only of the same race, but the self-same Eagle! "And here I am, never once having had the chance to thank you!" he cried. "You and your brothers were gone long before we woke. But better late than never, as me Gaffer used to say, so if'n I may, I thank you now, Great Windlord! Not only for myself but for saving Mr. Frodo - a thousand times thank you!"
"Ho! Let it not be said that the Halflings lack fair speech!," laughed Meneldor as he dipped a wing in reply. "It was my honor to bear you upon that day. Indeed, it is my hope that you will permit me to do so again!"
Meneldor's meaning was not lost on Sam and hope burst anew like a radiant sun within his heart. "Across the Sea?"
"Across the Sea, Elf-Friend," confirmed the Eagle, "For is that not your heart's desire?"
"It is! More than anything!"
"Then that is where your heart and my wings shall bear you."
In so saying, Melenor began to descend toward the beach in graceful, ever smaller circles. Sam watched the Eagle's approach with mixed awe and excitement. His eyes were alight with joy and anticipation. At last, he was going to the West!
The nearer the Eagle came, the more imposing its visage. It's great, sharp beak was twice as long as Sam was tall and it's talons were like great curved swords. The span of its wings were smoothly beautiful and imposing, and it seemed to Sam that they were nearly as long as the whole if Bagshot Row! He began to wonder how he would ever keep his hold on such a massive creature, or did it intend to take him up in its claws and fly him across the waves?
With a final glide, Melendor alighted upon the sand a few feet distant. He towered over Samwise, standing taller than had the Party Tree in the heart of the Shire.
"Come! It is time we left this place."
"I'm more than ready," said Sam boldly. "I may not be young, and I fear these old hands no longer possess the strength they once boasted, but I'll hold on tight as a burr as long as may be."
Melendor cocked his head to the left and looked down upon the hobbit with a clear yellow eye. "You are fearful of falling into the Great Water?"
"Well, sir, truth be told, I can't swim."
"Indeed! Yet you would risk all to undertake this journey?"
"I would and will," said Sam, resolute. "Or die in the trying!"
"Brave little Halfling! You have the heart of an Eagle, I think."
Sam blushed. "That's high praise and I thank you for it," he replied with an awkward little bow. "But I'm just an old, tired hobbit with one final journey to make, however I can manage it."
"Then may it comfort you to know that you can set your fears aside, little one, for such a thing has been taken into account by wiser heads!"
Melendor crouched down upon his legs until his breast brushed the damp sand. Stretching, he extended his left wing until it's tip was at Sam's feet, creating a gently sloping path onto to his broad back. Shouldering his pack and leaving his walking staff behind, Sam slowly climbed up the mighty wing as if it were a ramp. He marveled at how soft the feathers felt against the soles of his bare feet and yet how sturdy, like a supple matting made of mithril and goose down. Even so, it took Sam several minutes to manage the climb, for his old legs were tired and ached in protest at the exertion. Melendor waited with unflinching patience.
At last Sam reached the Eagle's shoulder and could finally see from above what he could not from below. Upon his back, Melendor bore a hobbit-sized basket tightly woven of fresh green vines and sapling wood. Interlaced throughout the weaving were silver threads and the blossoms of delicate white flowers whose fragrance cut the salt air with a sweet perfume. With a gardner's joy, Sam recognized the beautiful petals as elvish elanor and tiny athelas (called kingsfoil in the Shire). The basket and its decorations spoke of elves and fair shores. Of the West!
Careful not to disturb a single blossom, Sam eagerly hoisted himself over the edge with only the smallest grunt of effort. Inside the basket he found a suitably hobbit-sized stool and a woven silver belt, apparently to strap himself firmly into place.
"Come, Stoutheart," said Melendor as his passenger settled into the elvish contrivance. "It is time we were gone from these lands."
"Aye, that it is," agreed Sam softly.
The Great Eagle spread its might wings and sprang skyward. Samwise never looked back.
v.
A thousand thoughts and doubts ran rampant through Sam's mind during that wondrous journey. What would he find at journey's end? Would he be welcome in the West? Surely Meneldor would not have come for him else. Was Gandalf still there, and Elrond and the Lady Galadriel, and what would they think of their aged hobbit gardener now? And Frodo? It had been long and long a time since the Ring-Bearer had gone West. Had he aged as Sam had done, or did the Elves share with him their gift of longevity and youth. What if he didn't recognize a much older Sam, or no longer remembered him at all? What if absence had weakened the bond of friendship? Even worse to contemplate, what if Frodo had died as Elanor had feared?
That's enough of that, Samwise! No use fretting over what is or isn't and working your stomach into knots. Cross that ferry when you come to it!
Sam could peer over the edge of his travel basket but it took some time before he found the courage to look down. He could just see over the edge of Meneldor's great wings to glimpse the wide grey sea below. The water scudded by so quickly that Sam had to sit back and close his eyes or lose himself to dizziness. After a short while, they climbed so high that all was grey mist and wispy white cloud. The air was briskly cold and Sam was grateful for the warmth of his elven cloak. He wrapped the cloak tight about himself and settled back against the wall of the basket. In spite of all his anxiety and excitement, Sam's eyes began to grow heavy. The weariness of his long journey had caught up with him at last and he slept.
Pleasant dreams graced his sleep, bringing to him fond memories of the Shire and his childhood. Bright, joyful images flashed by him like dazzling motes in a crystal. / Old Bilbo beneath the Party Tree, young hobbit lads and maids seated at his feet in rapt, wide-eyed attention as he spun a yarn of three terrible trolls. Frodo and Sam side by side, equally eager to hear the tale's end even though each had heard it more than a dozen times. / Beautiful Rosie Cotton, dancing at Bilbo's 111th birthday party and giving Samwise a coquettish glance that made his heart flutter. Gandalf the Grey, laughing until his beard shook as he threw dazzling displays of light and sweets into the air to rain down upon eager hobbit children. / Merry and Pippin diving under a hedge that young Sam was clipping, barely stifling their giggles as moments later an irate Farmer Maggot appeared and demanded if the young gardener had seen two scalawags with an armful of pilfered mushrooms. / His much younger self running through a field of tall, fragrant grass. Turning to look over his shoulder, Sam laughed to find Frodo close upon his heels. Soaked from head to toe thanks to Sam's having pushed him into the Brandywine, Frodo's wide blue eyes were alight with joy and mischief and promised revenge. Reaching out, he caught the tail of Sam's homespun shirt. Both hobbits instantly went down in a tumble of arms and legs and laughter as they wrestled upon the sunwarmed ground.
Sunshine, warm and pleasant upon his upturned face. A warm breeze ruffling his hair and carrying the fragrance of summer flowers.
Sam blinked, opened his eyes, and found that his dream had followed him into waking. He was surrounded by beautiful clear sky and a brilliant afternoon sun dipping to the west. Eagerly, he looked over the left edge of the basket and down upon a sea of crystal blue. A flash of silver scales darted through the water, so near that Sam thought he could reach out and touch them. Excitedly, he turned to look over the right edge of the basket and gasped aloud his awe. Beneath them was a beach of glistening white sand and golden trees. The wood stretched for many leagues before becoming a rolling green country that went off into the horizon beyond Sam's sight. How glorious a land it seemed and how fragrant the air! Surely he must still be dreaming!
Melendor swooped downward toward the waiting shore and with the gentlest of bumps landed upon the beach near the water's edge. He unfurled his great wing as before to create a ramp from his back to the ground. Sam quickly unbuckled the silver belt, shouldered his battered old backpack, and scrambled over the edge onto the soft feathers of the Eagle's back. He fairly ran down the ramp of the Windlord's wing, for once unmindful of the protests of his old joints. The first touch of the sand beneath his bare feet was pleasantly warm and almost instantly seemed to sooth the aches of the long miles. Sam sighed in wonder and content.
A great wind swirled around him and he turned to see Melendor shoot into the dazzling summer sun.
"Fare thee well," he heard the Eagle's parting cry.
"Good-bye!" exclaimed Sam with a wave. "And thank you! With all my heart, thank you!"
Melendor dipped his wing. "It has been my great honor to have borne you a second time, Last of the Ring-bearers!" he called, even as he seemed to vanish into the brilliance of the sun.
Last of the Ring-bearers! Sam looked out at the wide blue sea and saw another flash of silver leap into the sunlight as if in salute.
Well, here I am at last! he thought. He had truly made it to the fabled lands of the West!
But where were the people? Where were the elves? Although Sam looked to the left and the right, he could see that no living soul walked the sand of that beautiful shore nor rode the waves beyond.
Perhaps they were deep within the wood and high up in the trees. Why not? Galadriel had been the Lady of Lothlorien; perhaps she reigned here still in a home akin to the one left behind on Middle-Earth. Perhaps it was in the wood that Sam would find the elves. So positive a hobbit was he, that it never once occurred to him that he might be alone in a strange land.
Sam turned his back to the sea and faced the wood at the edge of the shore. The trees bowed and swayed in the gentle breeze, their lush green leaves whispering on golden boughs. The trunks grew close together and shadow filled the spaces between them. The smallest movement and a bright glimmer caught his eye, much closer to the ground than the lofty branches. Sam turned his gaze toward it, shielding his eyes from the brilliant sunlight with the flat of his hand. He perceived a lone figure cloaked in shadow looking back. It took a single step forward from beneath the trees to stand within the light. Small of stature and bare of foot, the warm sea breeze tousled the figure's salt-and-pepper hair and tugged at the hem of the green elven cloak. A hint of mithril silver glinted from behind the open collar of a white linen shirt and waistcoat, reflecting back the rays of the sun with breathtaking brilliance.
"Sam?"
There was hope and joy and love in that single soft word, carried to Samwise on the breeze in a voice he had so longed to hear. It was as dear to him as that of his Rosie and it brought tears to his eyes afresh.
Was he dreaming? Was he still high above the world on Melendor's back? Or still lost upon the cold and lonely shore of the Havens, senseless with grief and longing?
Such thoughts were instantly dispelled when the small figure at the forest's edge suddenly shouted aloud, "SAM!" With a joyous whoop, Frodo Baggins ran across the sand toward his friend.
Tears streaming down his face, Sam stumbled forward to meet him and his legs gladly carried him without pain or protest. Although the years did not drop from Samwise as he ran, for his youth was gone and could never be recovered, he felt as if the aches and pains of age melted away with each springing step upon that enchanted soil, until the whole of his body and soul sang with strength and gladness.
Into each other's embrace they flew, both hobbits babbling a thousand questions and thoughts all at once as tears streamed down their careworn faces.
"Oh Sam! I've waited so long to see you!," cried Frodo. He hugged Sam tight, as if fearful his friend would vanish in his arms like a wraith.
Samwise clung to Frodo and merely sobbed, suddenly speechless with joy.
They stood that way for many long minutes, two aged hobbits tight in each other's embrace and unashamed of their tears.
"I must have asked Gandalf a hundred times when you would come," said Frodo at last. "Every day for years!" His bright grin seemed to smooth the wrinkles on his face. "But you know Gandalf ... always inscrutable and mysterious. Soon, he'd say. Always soon! And still you did not come."
Through his tears of joy, Sam finally took a good, long look at Frodo. He was now more than 110 summers old and his hair had begun to grey, but to Sam it seemed that he looked upon the beloved friend and master that had set out from the Shire for Bree, long and long ago. Frodo's eyes were as wide and blue as he remembered -- older, yes, and full of memories both joyful and dark, but no longer haunted or hurt or saddened.
For his part, Frodo also saw beyond the advancement of age to the Samwise Gamgee of his youth. The sandy-hair was now fully grey but his old friend remained robust and gentle, with laughing, sensitive brown eyes and a gardner's strong hands. Here at last was his boyhood companion, who through many adventures had become more than dear friend but his heart's own brother.
Frodo rested his hands upon Sam's shoulders and said, "I've missed you, Sam. I don't believe I've ever missed anyone as much as I've missed you."
"And I you, Mr. Frodo, and that's a fact," said Sam as warmth flushed his face.
"I'm very sorry about Rosie."
Samwise nodded. "I miss her something fierce," he admitted, "But I think she'd be happy knowin' as how the story ends."
"I think she would at that," agreed Frodo. "Just like one of Bilbo's old stories. 'And they lived happily ever after, to the end of their days.'" He gave Sam's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Come along, then. It's time we were going!"
"Going?"
"You don't want to stand on the beach all day, do you?" asked Frodo with a glimmer of mischief in his bright eyes. He grinned at Sam's confused expression and said, "I may have convinced the others to let me meet you myself, but I don't think they'll be patient much longer. They're anxious to see you, too!"
"To see me?"
"Yes you, my dear, dear Sam!," the Ring-bearer said fondly. "Why, they've been preparing a feast in your honor for days!" He leaned close to his friend's ear and said confidentially, as if someone might be straining to overhear, "I have it on good authority that they're going to serve those little elven mushrooms you were so fond of at Rivendell."
"Bless me! Mushrooms?" exclaimed Sam, his eyes alight at the very thought. "Well, I wouldn't want to be keepin' anyone waitin' on my account, if you catch my meaning!"
"I do, Sam. I do!" laughed Frodo. "Better still, I know a shortcut!"
Advanced in years but young in heart, the two hobbits left the shore arm in arm, chatting and laughing animatedly with the sheer joy of each other's company. They were met by the distant, lilting music of elvish voices as they entered the golden wood, feet once more upon the same road.
And they lived happily ever after, to the end of their days.