Note: Ok, this was probably my hardest task so far in translating Swedish into English. I was happy with this fic until I translated it (Can we say Lost in translation?) and then it just turned out… messy.
Oh well, please let me know what you think, I'd really, really appreciate it =)

The last days of Remembrance


"I will sing no more, leave my tales unfinished
bind my tunes and tie my chants
lock them behind bolts of bones
to never escape my keep
For I have no beloved, who can learn and listen
Only the trees are left to mimic
The love of birch, the comfort of rowan"

From "Mariatta", the 50th song of Kalevala

~

The snowflakes fell to the ground and washed the earth clean from the troubles of yesterday. They were always welcomed by the people of the Shire, for they made all minds a little brighter when the beautiful flakes painted the world in the purest of white; a sparkling contrast to a dark-blue sky. The people smiled where they stood and watched the snow through their windows and they lit another candle before they went to bed to await morning and all of its duties.

He gasped for breath again. A sick, bitter longing pumped in his veins, throughout his body, made him strong when it fed at least some of his growing anxiety. But when the evening approached with thundering steps, it faded and left him, yet again, alone to face the dread of the night. There was nothing to look forward to.

The room was in darkness. In the air were week-old remains of ash and smoke, because he had forgotten to rake out the relics of the now dead fire, and he coughed when he felt it burn in his raw throat. Only through the dirty windows shone a faint light from the snow outside, which was far from enough, and even farther from making any difference in the smudgy hole he called home. Sam raised his weary head and looked out through the window; he saw the garden and the sky where the clouds covered the most of the night, and sighed in heavy fatigue. Tears were in his eyes, but not even a vestige of comfort did they bring. He was past comfort, past grief, desire and dread. Everything that remained was the ash of what once had been; the ash of the fire once lit. And then faded.

He sat in his armchair with his head rested against his chest. His hands clutched the armrests and the leather gave in with a sigh for his strength. If you had seen him where he sat then, next to the window, you would have seen an old man, with his brow narrowed as if in deep and rueful thoughts, and with the grey lips pressed tightly shut to keep something from escaping them. But you would be wrong. Because this was no old man.

The snow continued to fall, as to welcome the new and bright, but the man interpreted it all as an insult to his sad and sorrowful figure. For he had admitted that a long time ago; to be sad, and that death would soon come and visit him where he lived, if the dust didn't prevent it from doing so, that was. The man would welcome him, put a teakettle on and bring his favourite cups out of the cupboard. "So, Death," He'd say, "How's the business going?" And they would have a good time, maybe even laugh at old days when they had both been unfamiliar with each other's presence; times when the sun still shone into the gardens of Bag End instead of leaving it all to shadows. Sam looked around in the room where he was sitting. The furniture was covered in year-old, almost black dust, and he was greatly dismayed of seeing it in that condition, for it was made of the finest redwood; the same colour as his best winter coat, he remembered fondly. He recalled how he used to love to let his palm and fingers slide over the polished surfaces and leave the smudgy prints of his fingertips to let them tell a story about a boy who had enough time on his hands to walk around and stroke furniture all day. It was the act of leaving something behind that always caught his fancy, even if the trace of him never seemed to linger for that long a-time. He was, after all, only a gardener's son with grimy hands who didn't know better.

He rose from his chair, or struggled to, more correctly. It was not because of his weight that he fought to abandon the soothing comfort of the chair's cushions, but his skeleton had become weak during the years, disintegrated into powder, and left him frailer than the smallest of infants. He felt his heavy eyelids threatening to fail him now, in the late hour, when his willpower was not what he anticipated it to be. He still wore his white night gown that went all the way down to his ankles and was loose at the belly and the hips; he had not taken it off since he put it on this morning, in the twilight when he always rose if he had been spared from nightmares and a sore stomach. Outside, the snow gathered in drifts and lured him away from reality, summer, away from the laughter and play. Only sleep was left in his hollow and branded landscape, and he was to indulge in it slavishly until he met his last morning.

~

The ground was frozen under the shovel but gave in for the pressure of his foot, and sank slowly under the grass. The earth was cold, but soft under the cover of snow, and he could se the remnants of the dead, decayed worms from the summer's fruitful harvest. Crops of heaven, indeed, he thought solemnly and reminded himself to never look at what he dug up from now on.

"That's alright, Hamson. Just keep going there, will ye."

Hamson Gamgee looked up from his shovel and nodded at the miller, who gave him a light pat on the shoulder. There was still the smell of morning in the air, and the sun shone alert and awake on the blue sky, bright, plump and rosy. Hamson smiled to himself and ruffled his curly hair to chase away all the traces of night that still seemed to linger in mind. It had snowed all through the night and they had been left with no other choice than to wear the boots they had all been provided with, even if they liked it or not; a few inches of snow could freeze your toes off, and they took no chances. Hamson did not question them; for he knew that they knew better of things that was expected of the workers, and he liked to feel appreciated for the job he did. He was welcome in Tightfield, the villagers had heard about him even before he arrived because the name of Gamgee was well known among them for their green fingers and their good, common-hearted sense. And the youngest son's involvement with the quest of the ring was not entirely forgotten neither. Though, some said behind closed doors, that involvement had done more bad than good for the name of Gamgee lately.

He looked down on his shoes; clumsy leather shoes that squeaked and creaked when he walked in the snow and he had come to dislike the sound so terribly that he thought of throwing them into the lake if he had only got the chance to. But they were warm and kept his little toes from freezing in the dikes, thankfully. He laughed out loud. What a sight that would have been! Get the shovels lads, Hamson Gamgee's toes are stuck in the mud again!

"Where's the merry weather, Hamson?" He spun around and looked right into a pair of dark brown hobbit eyes that shone brightly at him. They belonged to Rudy Stonebeck, a pleasantly copious and friendly hobbit, who was the first Hamson acquainted when arriving to the village almost one year ago. "Just my shoes, and naught else!" He answered and laughed briskly, in which the friend soon joined in. Rudy looked down on his own shoes and smiled, "Oy, they're not very fetching now are they? And they hurt yer ankles too. I almost feel sorry for the men who have to wear things like that day out and day in." Hamson sighed and nodded. "But maybe it's different when you're that tall, ye know, mayhap the shoes are…. Lighter then?"

They stood there for a while and pondered on Hamson's simply expressed theory, until the miller bad them to get started with the digging. So they took their shovels and began, yet again, to prepare the earth for what had been in the minds of many that had some kind of local position to claim that summer. Well, those who saw the possibilities with what could be done, that was. One of the Shire's most beautiful and stabile bridges was to be built here and they knew that they were going to have to work long days and toilsome shifts until the ground was soft and warm instead of as the hardest and coldest of ice. But when it was finished, it was to stand there for the rest of his years, and he would tell anyone who wanted to listen that he, Hamson Gamgee, had been a hand of help in the founding.

He decided to sit indoors when the miller's wife rang for lunch, because he knew that the daughters of the house were fine pieces to rest one's eyes on while eating, and they all knew how to serve a hungry hobbit-belly when it called for attention. Though Hamson was not young anymore, he still had a youthful look to him that many girls seemed to fancy, even if but only enough to get a kiss behind the barns; a pleasure he had almost grown accustomed to as a strong, good-looking lad many years ago. But he didn't complain now when things were different, he had work. He had a home, and even some money saved. The people treated him well and he liked his new-found friends who were always up for an ale or two at the local Inn. He had a good life, and was looking forward to where it would lead him next.

The radiant, shining sun and the blue sky seemed to awake the very best within Hamson, for all day long he greeted every single person he met by lifting his cap in a cheerful manner and bow low so that his curls almost touched the ground. He sat down next to Rudy and smiled at the miller's youngest daughter when she handed him a plate. She blushed fiercely under her fringe.
"Hullo, Rudy."
"Why hullo there, Ham! I though you were off to Hobbitton?" Rudy said and looked up from his plate.
"Aren't you off to your old gaffer's and sisters' this Yule? Did ye change yer mind?"
"No, nothin' like that," Hamson smiled, "It's tomorrow I'm leaving, and not a day sooner." He took a bite of turkey and washed it down with a draught of ale before Rudy's eyes bad him to continue.
"I'm not sure if Hal will be able to come this year, he's got his hands full in Bywater, though Sam only lives a few steps away, so he'll probably drag his feet down there. But then again…."

The murmur at the table suddenly decreased by the mentioning of Sam's name, and not just a few shy glances were pointed in Hamson's direction at the end of the table where he was sitting. Their ears were pricked in an attempt to not miss anything of importance, for they had all heard a lot, but knew little for sure about the Gamgee brother who now lived alone up at Bag End, with only the ghosts and the great smials for company. It had been an awfully popular subject for many of those who were interested in gossiping and slandering and one would not believe what was said behind locked doors after a few too many ale, when credibility was far from peaked. Most of the rumours never became common knowledge, luckily enough, but a few managed to spread until everyone knew at least something about the urban legend that was Samwise Gamgee.

"What d'ye mean?" Rudy squinted at him, not entirely unaware of the rumours. But he kept quiet to not offend his friend, for even if he was but a simple worker, he knew that just because enough people believed in a certain rumour, did not mean that it was automatically correct. Hamson shook his head.
"I don't know…" His eyebrows narrowed in anxiety, cast shadows over his slightly tanned face and he fell in deep thinking for a moment. He chewed the bread slowly and cut deep furrows in the meat with his knife while trying to clear his head from the foggy thoughts.
"He's changed somehow. He doesn't come by no more, Mari says." He sighed wearily, "Only got time for his books and pictures and won't see none else." Hamson kept quiet then, knowing that if he said anything that was considered just slightly odd, it would reach Bywater and Tuckkborough by midday tomorrow and make the life of his family and friends even worse than before. Sam's life especially. He did not wish to burden his brother with even more trouble and woe, and he reckoned that as his task from now on; to defend Sam, even if the rumours concerning his situation contained a little, but annoying, hint of truth.

He still saw Sam as that little boy with honey-coloured hair who had run about the hole in the Shire with muddy clothes and more often, a smile playing on his lips. Hamson remembered once when he had found a dead crow under the big oak tree in the garden and how Sam had stopped playing when Hamson had shown it to him. Sam had been almost ten, still a child, but old enough to help his father with chores that craved his full attention and responsibility. But when he saw that dead bird, he simply just stared with his big, green child eyes, tasks long forgotten until his father chided both him and Hamson for their carelessness, and Ham was sent off to bury the bird. Sam had not slept much that night, but showed no signs of the lack of sleep the morning after when a soft voice called for him from the other side of the wide hedge. Hamson stopped chewing for a second when the memory emerged from his head's dusty corners. It was that voice, that soft voice, belonging to a person who Hamson had seen maybe a handful of times since the youngster had moved in, that could set Sam off like a colt in wild gallop.

He rose early the next day, took a long and well-deserved bath in the little tub and watched the sun come up behind the top of the hill. It was a fine day breaking, but the small icicles hanging from the edges of the roof told him that it was going to be colder than it had been for a long time. He combed his hair and started putting the fresh, new, ironed clothes on; A white shirt, brown vest, green jacket. He then positioned in front of the mirror and paced back and forth a few minutes to practice his carriage with his hands clasped behind his back as a real gentlehobbit. Hamson laughed at the idea, and proceeded with his packing; there were the leaves and his pipe, the small Yule gifts for his sisters; A brush for Marigold, a beautiful brooch for May shaped as a dandelion, and a hairslide for Daisy to gather her long locks in. And then he put his coat on and went to say goodbye to Rudy.

"I'll be back in two weeks," he said and hugged the other hobbit, who blushed intensely and started to examine the ground under his feet, maybe a little too carefully than what was considered casual.

There was a chilly and somehow vigour freshness in the air that he had not felt or smelled in a long time, and he inhaled the sharp scent of morning and said his goodbye to the miller in standard fashion. And then he discerned the faint silhouette of a wagon that came rolling down the hill, and he squinted at the growing sun, that appeared to be almost glowing in the sky. He sat up, introduced himself to the driver and they were off. And the farther down the road they got, the larger the longing he felt in his heart seemed and sometimes he even thought he saw a blond forelock amongst the trees, hiding from his gaze, and to disappear almost immediately.

~

He let his hand slide over the smooth surface of the wardrobe door before he opened it cautiously as if he imagined the world's greatest dangers and horrors inside, waiting for him underneath shirts, linens and underwear. He lifted up one of the shirts and held it to the single candle, firmly placed on the nightstand. The white fabric seemed to shine with a strange, ethereal heat in the dull light that the candle emitted, and he inspected it closely, tracing his fingers over the worn cloth, tasting it with his fingertips. The shirt had still no holes in it, because Sam had strewn out a whole bag with mothballs in the wardrobe to ready and protect the clothes during the winter, and he thanked himself for remembering that now. He lowered his hands, clutched the bone-white fabric that distinguished almost painfully against his grey skin. And then he brought it to his face and let the shirt caress his cheek; it still smelled of him, after all, and he did not care if it was his rather unbalanced mind that played him a trick and made his sense of smell somewhat unreliable. It helped him in the mornings, made him swing his legs over the edge of the bed and shake the rest if the night out of his eyes and thoughts, and begin a new day.

He saw Frodo before himself, dressed in stainless white with the ebony-coloured curls resting behind his ears, and with his eyes shrouded by the sooty lashes. It was a memory that comforted and captivated him, as well as tormented him, for it was the only sight left when the night arrived. It was the only thing that gave him some kind of consolation, and he had come to cherish it higher than all other visions that invaded his mind late at night when most of them were of ill-natured specimen. He smelled the musk and damp scent of skin, blended with the mothballs' strong perfume and he pressed it to his chest and held it there. The collar was still a little dirty at the base, because he had not dared washing it more than once or twice since Rosie had left him. He was scared that the shirt would somehow lose what reminded him of Frodo, which he dreaded would happen sooner or later, despite all of his efforts and whether he wished it or not. That Frodo was destined to be nothing but a sweet memory, which he would fight to recall and bring out of the shadows of his dusty head. Or maybe some day he would even try to escape it.

After Sam had returned from the grey havens, and was home again safe and sound, he had asked Rose if he could use Frodo's bedroom to sleep in, only a few days a month to get used to the idea of not having his friend around. Rosie, who had sought for a way to make it easier for Sam, welcomed the suggestion and agreed that Sam would sleep alone in the master bedroom for some time. Those days soon became weeks; weeks became months until he finally just lay there in bed, his back against the window, like a tree with iron roots that refused to ease their hold. He came out in time for dinner and supper in the beginning, but lost his strength and appetite after a while to even perform this simple task, and Rose's patience gradually began to give out. Sam did not want any company, save for Eleanor, but one late night when moon was nowhere to be seen, she left the room crying out of disappointment because of her father's harsh words. The door was, and remained closed after that incident, sometimes even locked except for when Rosie left a tray with his dinner portion at the threshold. He used to put all the candles out while hearing his wife kissing Eleanor goodnight in the other end of the smial, and then crawl in under the covers and wish an early death upon his body before he fell in an unpleasant, but deep sleep.

It had not always been like this. He had not always been filled with a longing so strong that it broke his bones and tore the skin of his body, something that brought him to shadow, let his heart burn with insatiable grief. The garden stood now dismal and neglected; the rotten apples covered the ground, a few of the walls and most of the windows after a night when the children had entertained themselves with plucking all of the fruits from the trees, and then carried on to throw them on the exteriors of Bag End when they thought he was asleep. But he had heard every single strike, every smacking, thumping sound when the overripe apples hit the walls; he had lain in agony under the bed with the covers wrapped tightly around his body, and shivered as if he had caught a cold or such. When the morning came, he cast a last glance at his abandoned garden and then drew the heavy drapes across the window.

Sam slid a hand over his belly, over his chest, down his hip and below that, closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander to a place and a time when reality was not as cruel as late. He then undressed until he was clad in nothing but his own skin and lay down between the soft but dirty sheets again, and waited for Sleep and Dreams to take him.

There was only dusk. Total, pitch-black darkness that pulled him, forced his legs to walk until he could no longer stand, and when he finally fell, it continued to drag him forward. He crawled on his knees and hands; it was something he searched for, something he had lost. He started digging frantically in the black soil; he must find it, or all would be lost! And suddenly, something glimmered weakly under his sullied fingers. Only one mere glimpse could set the sky on fire; he recalled saying once when he had not been alone in his wanderings, when he still had someone by his side who listened and who had been able to answer him. He scratched and scraped his nails in the mud, dug until he could almost reach the glare, the burning circle. How he longed to have it in his hands, to feel the smooth ring of gold against his shaking fingers and the thought was more exciting than the finest of music, more passionate than a muffled cry of sweet bliss, more alluring than the soft caress of a familiar hand. And when he brushed the final layer off that covered what he had found, it was as if he had exposed his very soul to the flames, set fire to his clothes that were to protect him, for the light began to scratch and claw at him down to the hollows of his belly and chest. And then it filled him, engraved on his memory and blinded him for all else.

He woke up panting, sweating and with his heart thumping somewhere in his body he could not make out, the sound was overwhelming. Outside, the snow fell as silently as when he had gone to bed earlier that night, and the moon shone ice cold over the treetops. He lay down when his heart had calmed down a fraction, but he could not sleep with the very vivid image of the burning ring still fresh in his mind when he closed his eyes. Finally, he rose, shuffled across the floor and made his way to the hallway by using the walls for support. He had not dreamt of the ring in several months, those thoughts did not easily enter Sam Gamgee's mind, but it was the same feeling of devastation that had haunted him in the dark lands, that now crept through his old body and tore at his protection shields. It transformed him into a pitiful creature with the ring's seducing whisper drumming and hammering in his ears, who chose to escape the piercing rays of the sun for several days ahead. It scared him to tears at times, but mostly to anger and rage for losing control of his own being, his own life. His thoughts went in the darkest nights to Gollum and his cave below the earth, and he always asked himself the same question; Will I also make for rock and gravel when the burden becomes too heavy to bear?

Sam staggered out into the kitchen and dropped down on one of the chairs. His head spun and the nausea grew in his belly; he did not even know if it was because of the dream or the fact that he had not eaten anything since lunch. He was cold in his thin night gown and he shivered involuntarily, but he quickly fought the thought of going back to bed, for even if the dreams of fire marred him deeply inside; they were not the ones he feared the most. Only once before had he dreamt of finding Frodo dead, beaten and bruised on top of a mountain cliff. His chest heaved and shook when he recalled the dream of Frodo's battered body, his pale face and the scarlet lips, whose colour reminded him of the spring roses he had grown many years ago when he had still been just a bairn.

He poured a mug of water and forced himself to drink it, though it remained stagnated in his throat for a while. But it was cold and tasted good, for he never forgot to fetch fresh water from the well, even if it rained or snowed outside. He used to sneak out early in the mornings and late in the evenings to fill the water basin and place it next to the kitchen hearth (Not that it would make any difference, considering that the fire was hardly ever lit, but the routine eased his mind for a little while, and for that he was grateful). Sam drank another full mug and then put it down in the stone sink along with the rest of the dishes. He was still trembling violently, and figured that maybe a bite of food would help his tense nerves. And so he decided; he raked the coals of the dead fire out of the hearth, piled a new stack of dry logs in their wake and then persuaded to light them, using only the steel and knife Bilbo had once given Frodo, and then left to Sam. It was a thick and fine set of steel, with a good grip that seated nicely in his hand and the knife was as sharp and stainless as the mightiest of swords, or so he imagined. After a few minutes, the fire crackled in the fireplace and the knife glimmered in Sam's hand where it lay. He twisted and turned it to get a better view in the new light, and noticed in astonishment the fire's red and yellow flames reflect in the polished blade. So beautiful, he thought, As if made of silver and mirror glass.

The kitchen heated up almost immediately, as if it had missed the warmth so badly that it now made the greatest effort in welcoming it back. A thin film of steam coated the tiny kitchen windows and once in a while, large balls of ashes from the fire set off, rolled over the kitchen floor and in under the chairs and table. Sam gripped the handle of the knife and brought the sharp edge to his fingertip; the coldness tickled his skin and he smiled at the almost invigorating feeling. All he wished for was peace and silence, to freeze to death among wolves and goblins, to feel the slow beatings of his heart until he was no more. Too long had he wandered now, too long to keep hope alive, too long to understand that he did not want anyone to come and rescue him any longer, he was tired of walking, thinking, sleeping, eating. To light fires, to hide from apple-throwing children, to go to the market to hear them whisper behind his back and….

When they mentioned Frodo, when they took his name in their mouths, spat it out as if he had been nothing but a felon, a malicious beggar who had done something terrible, he could not stand it anymore. He had realised then that they would never see the ringbearer, with sword in hand protect what he cherished and held dear, never hear his voice, high and prominent, above everything else and never behold his eyes glowing with so much fear, pride and hope. Sam had turned around to confront the person who had spoken of Frodo in such a way, but he had soon felt the fatigue crush the little courage he had manage to muster, and had only glanced wearily at the people who pretended to not see him. He had pulled the hood down over his head and face again, and walked away, leaning on his wooden stick like a very old and troubled man.

He gave a start when the edge of the knife scratched his fingertip and he quickly pulled the blade from the finger just in time to see a single drop of blood fall to the floor. Sam gasped at the sudden pain but was surprised of how excited, yes, almost giddy it made him feel. Sure, he had cut his finger before, but it was different when the damage was because of his own doings. The fire crackled again when he was just about to inspect the finger closer, and when he in a reflex lifted his head to look at the hearth, he suddenly noticed that there was something outside, looking in through the window. Something was looking at him.

"Oy there!" he shouted when he stepped closer, but the shape only flickered for a split second and disappeared into the growing dark. Sam's heart beat hard, he threw the window open and called out into the night: "Hallo! Is anyone out there?" Only the crows answered him with their dry croaks and the ghostlike flapping of their wings; some of them were still feasting on the fetid apples that lay strewn about the garden. The land that met him was covered in clean white and when he looked down at the ground underneath the window, he saw snow and the remains of an old rose-bush, but not a single footstep, not a trace, nothing. The wind blew strong and fearless through the kitchen and threatened to put out the meagre fire that sparkled and writhed to escape the cold air. Sam was shaking and shivering as the wind swept against his body; a night gown was not really the optimal choice of clothing when one was to stand in a window in the middle of the winter, but all such thoughts had fled for the moment. He saw the black contours of one of the old pine trees that stood a bit further down the hill, and then he lifted his gaze. Had it been? It couldn't have…But the shape had had the same ice blue stare as… he was unable to finish his trail of thoughts, they tore at him and made the void in his stomach even bigger, so big that he thought it would eat him whole. He felt numb, cold. Tired as if he had just fought the evil master himself and just barely been left alive.

It was when Sam stood there, and was just about to close the window again, that he saw something very tiny gleam behind a tree trunk. He gripped the windowsill and struggled to see something in the dark night. It may have been a last snowflake, or a star's simple night wish, but in his recollection remained only one thing in that moment; the very thing that made him jump out through the open window and down on the snow clad ground: Follow it, even if it so will kill you.

~

.... To be continued.....