Frodo remotely perceived, as though on the periphery of hearing, the sound of soft footfalls padding across the carpeted floor. With his head nestled in the plush eiderdown pillows and his bare skin robed in the milky silk of the rippling coverlets, he could not exhort himself to move from his position or bring himself fully to consciousness. The outside world seemed a separate entity altogether, something that existed quite apart from the slow intermingling of his dreams and his hushed, though gradually wakening, senses. His body moulded to the cushioned planes of the mattress in such a way that the two seemed inextricably bonded together, as though there was no telling where the one ended and the other began. Then, a slender filament of light sifted through the thin membrane of his closed eyelids and spread outward like an overturned bottle of golden ink that had fallen across a sheet of parchment. His eyes were reluctant to unveil themselves before such startling incandescence, and he swam languidly behind the rosy shade of his still-closed lids. But before he was given the opportunity to drift back into the quiet valley of slumber, a voice greeted him sunnily.
"Good mornin', Mr. Frodo!"
A smile crept across Frodo's face. There was no gainsaying that voice. Sleep, though splendid in its rightful measure, had no power over the affectionate irresistibility of a morning call from his Sam. Indeed, it was as though every fiber of his living self was attuned to the owner of the voice that stirred him thus, that his soul leapt like a flame newly-stoked and his body seemed to hum with energy borrowed from his friend's cheerful welcome. For truly, Sam's finger rested gently upon the harp-string of Frodo's spirit, and it was he alone that could set it to singing.
Frodo could not help but think of the way that he had woken Bilbo in much the same fashion not so long ago, and wondered if his voice had had a similar galvanizing effect on his uncle as well, if he had succeeded in communicating such open-hearted enthusiasm for the birth of another morning.
At last, his feathery eyelashes opened like the petals of a budding flower and he raised himself up by the elbows into a sitting position.
"Good morning, Mr. Gamgee – Mr. Gardner I should say," Frodo returned. "It seems that you have beaten me to it again! One of these days it will be I who wakes you up for a change."
"Is that right? Well, begging your pardon, but I won't go holding my breath on that one," Sam answered teasingly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth as the room grew several degrees brighter with his smile.
Frodo laughed aloud, reclining back on his pillow. He was struck once again by the uncanny cyclical pattern of life, of how effortlessly he and Sam had fallen into the selfsame customs that he and Bilbo had once practiced, though Sam himself could hardly have known it. There was something infinitely reassuring about the well-worn circularity of existence, he thought. It was much like the seasonal ploughing of a rich, fertile field for the harvesting of a fresh yield of crops: the furrows of overturned earth were well-defined, serving as a guideline for the reaping of new growth for future generations. He and Bilbo had certainly done an efficient job of turning that soil in their long years together, and now he and Sam were planting the seeds for the coming season.
A fleeting sensation of melancholy skittered across him as he thought back on all the time that he had spent with his uncle. Bilbo had always been a larger-than-life figure for Frodo since his earliest days, and if he had played an integral role in shaping his character during the formative years of his life, it seemed that his uncle had become the very axis on which his life spun once the two had bid farewell to Middle-earth forever. Frodo and Bilbo were virtually inseparable, keeping mostly to their beautiful sea-banked home in Tol Eressëa, especially as Bilbo's advancing years made traveling the island for long stretches rather difficult. But they would often sit at meal-times on the sunlit verandah and bask in the sweetness of the wholesome air, gazing outward in silent awe at the unfading evergreens and the undulating Sea, or listen with avid ears to the singing of the Elves at twilight when the first stars peeped out of the velvet sky. The time that Frodo had spent with Bilbo was incalculably precious, and he would never allow himself to forget it.
Then he looked at Sam and his heart was uplifted to its former state of content. It never ceased to amaze Frodo how easily they had reverted back into their old ways with one another, as though no time at all had elapsed since the days when Frodo was the master of Bag End and Sam, his dutiful gardener – and how well that occupation had suited him! For just as Sam's hands had given life to many green and growing things, so too had he tended to Frodo's declining spirit and restored it to vibrancy with his arrival to the Undying Lands. There was no denying that in the days following Bilbo's death, Frodo had languished in the darkness of grief unmitigated and loneliness unendurable. If Sam had not come when he did…
I would not be here today, Frodo thought soberly. It had taken the care and tender nurturing of his greatest friend to revive Frodo from the profoundest depths of despondency, but he had succeeded.
Just as he always has, Frodo mused. He only hoped that Sam had benefited as much from their reunification as he had, although he doubted that even he could have matched the efforts that Sam had put forth.
Then again, the Blessed Realm had, by all outward indications, done wonders for him as he transitioned into this new stage of his life. The freshly inflicted marks of care, the eyes that glistened without provocation, the slight downward turning of his mouth – in short, all the telltale signs of a heart in mourning – had been remedied with astonishing completeness. He looked as close to the Samwise Gamgee that he had known in a previous lifetime as he possibly could have at the substantial age of 104. Where the healing process had been slow to take effect for Frodo like the gradual eroding of rock exposed to the elements, it had been as instantaneous and easy as subjecting the downy seeds of a dandelion to a healthy gust of air for Sam.
But then, Sam has always been especially receptive to the magic of the Elves, Frodo reminded himself.
Not that Sam's memories of Rose or his enduring fondness for the Shire had been in any way diluted as a result of his tenancy on the Western shores. Frodo knew that she and the children occupied Sam's thoughts continually, for it was seldom that a day went by where Sam did not make mention of one or more of Rose's unimpeachable virtues (and they were many) or swell with involuntary pride as he offered up some fatherly (or grandfatherly) anecdote. He'd drop such tidbits like: "My Rose, she had the patience of a saint and the heart of a warrior. Just as sweet as any hobbit maiden that ever was but tough as the hide of an oliphaunt!" or "Now my Frodo-lad, he's as like to his old Da as ever a son was to a father," or "Ellie – meaning Elanor, who you'll remember, Mr. Frodo – is the very picture of beauty. Aye, there never was a more beautiful hobbit that was ever born to this world, excepting her sisters accourse, and don't think I let young Fastred forget it for a moment!"
He had also taken particular delight in the fact that the branches of his and Frodo's family trees had finally been intertwined through the marriage of his daughter Goldilocks to Pippin's son, Faramir. "Now we're all part of one big clan, it seems," he had said, "though I'd felt that we were just as close as family for a long time anyway, but this makes it official!"
Frodo had not detected any remnant of undue sorrow in Sam's fond recollections, no off-key notes of internal distress mingled with the sweet symphony of remembrance, and he was comforted in mind. There seemed to be little question that Sam had responded powerfully to the wondrous healing properties of Aman and would make as full a recovery as could be hoped. That was what mattered to Frodo most.
Frodo turned his attention back to the present, addressing Sam's earlier gibe.
"I suppose that that is your way of telling me to drag my lazy bones out of bed – and you are quite right! It would be a shame to miss out on such a fine morning as this, not to mention the lasting regret I should feel if I were to be late for a home-cooked meal prepared by the hands of the incomparable Mr. Gardner," said Frodo pertly. "Unless I am very much mistaken, I do believe that that delightful aroma is the scent of cooked bacon."
"Right you are, sir; and not just bacon, but I've also put out fresh eggs, sausages, some toast with that strawberry jam you like so much, I've got fried taters, cooked mushrooms…"
"Stop! Stop! You have more than convinced me!" Frodo cried with a jovial laugh. "I am up, Sam – lead the way!"
Having put away as much of Sam's prodigious breakfast as they could stomach – and that was no small amount – the two hobbits sat together in companionable silence, scarcely able to budge.
"Dear me, Sam, I am afraid that you have spoiled me shamefully since you arrived," Frodo said at length. "I had thought myself something of a cook, but you have put me in my right place. In that, you have me soundly beaten. Gladly do I admit defeat," he said, bowing his head with exaggerated deference.
"I can't go taking all the credit, for I picked up a thing or two from my dear Rose, you know. But thank'ee kindly for the compliment all the same; I reckon this old hobbit's still got a trick or two up his sleeves," Sam answered, a look of satisfaction on his face.
"Indeed! I daresay your culinary skills could rival even the magic of the Elves," Frodo rejoined without irony, for it seemed to him that Sam's proficiency before a stove-top was not of this earth. Sam's eyes widened and he straightened suddenly in his chair.
"Now, Mr. Frodo, there you've gone too far! A nicely fixed table is all good and well, but even the best of foods don't hold up against Elf-magic, not by a long ways," Sam spluttered. If there was one thing that Sam took deadly serious, it was the surpassing glory of the Elves.
"My dear Sam, humble as ever! I did not mean to make light of the abilities of our Elf friends, though I spoke the words in all sincerity. But never you mind, it is enough to say that you are blessed with many gifts, and cooking not the least of them." Sam relaxed noticeably and furnished Frodo with a relieved smile. "Indeed, it is these remarkable gifts of yours that have made these recent days so fulfilling. I did not think that I should be able to come back from Bilbo's passing, and yet, here I sit, as glad and as light as can be. I doubt very much that I should have ever recovered if you had not arrived when you did, Sam. It will be a year tomorrow since Bilbo was laid to rest."
Although Frodo had no definite way of keeping track of calendar days, the charting of time being nearly impossible and somewhat unnecessary on the Blessed Isle, he had sensed the approaching of the solemn date as though by some heightened instinct. He could not have said how he had known it exactly, he simply knew it with a certainty that was absolute and incontestable. How does the migratory bird know when the time has come to seek out warmer climes? How does the perennial know to send forth a new scion when the bitter chill of winter has ended? It is a knowledge that is encoded into the very cells of all living things, and it was this knowledge that informed Frodo's declaration to Sam.
"A whole year already? Poor old Bilbo – if only I'd-a gotten here sooner. I should have dearly liked to see him again one last time," said Sam sadly.
"And he should have been glad to see you, Sam. Alas, it was not meant to be. But do not be too sorry, for his years far outnumbered those of any hobbit in all of history, and he left by his own choice, in sound mind and with willing heart."
"It does my heart good to know it, sir. I guess even a place as grand as the Undying Lands has a way of losing its sparkle after a time, though I must say it's hard to imagine it, seeing as how new-arrived I am and all," Sam replied.
"I do not think that Bilbo wearied of our location, for the beauty of this land is unfading and never grows dim. Rather, I think he felt that he had taken his full measure of satisfaction, that he could not go on forever heaping such bountiful rewards to himself. It will seem clearer to us both one day I am sure. But for now, I agree with you; it is difficult to imagine tiring of this magnificent country – and you needn't try, for there is still much time before us to enjoy it."
"I hope so. And I think I do understand better'n before now I've heard you explain it – Bilbo's reasons for going, that is. In a way, it reminds me of my Rose, toward the end. She seemed so peaceful in those last days, so ready somehow. Like she knew that she'd done all she needed to do, that the children were old enough to look after themselves and each other, and that I…" he paused, dabbing at his eyes with a napkin as his voice caught in his throat. "That if things got too hard, I still had you to come home to," he finished, his voice tapering to a whisper.
Frodo took Sam by the hand and held it until the sadness had passed. When at last, Sam exhaled with a cathartic breath on which all his cares seemed to be borne and carried away into the vastness of space, Frodo spoke.
"And so you did. You are home, Sam. And as long as you are here with me, I am home also."
"Thank you, Mr. Frodo. You don't know what it means to hear you say that. But here now, enough of my blubbering," he said resolutely, gathering himself up again, "we ought to do something special to remember Mr. Bilbo tomorrow. I was thinking I could gather up some flowers from the garden and arrange 'em real nice and lay them by his resting place."
"That is a lovely thought, Sam. However, Bilbo rests in Valinor, and we may not pass into that city save by the permission of the Valar themselves. But I am sure we will think of some other way to honour him," Frodo said, a twinge of despondency creeping its way into his voice. Sam's face fell, but he composed himself hastily, hearing Frodo's disappointment.
"Beg your pardon, sir, I didn't realise. Don't you worry, we'll think of something else to do, right enough," he said reassuringly, squeezing Frodo's hand.
Frodo smiled a wan, tight-lipped smile and gave a single curt nod of his head in lieu of a response. The suggestion of visiting Bilbo's burial site was certainly one that had occurred to him on more than one occasion in the last year, but having to dismiss the idea outright in plainspoken language had wrung his heart with unexpected force. How wonderful it would have been to have that close proximity with Bilbo again, to wreathe his gravestone in a coronet of flowers specially chosen for that purpose, to commune with him through the earth that separated them.
"Well, there is no helping it, it seems. I will have to content myself with speaking to him through my thoughts, as I have always done. I suppose it does not matter much where I am, so long as I keep him in my heart," Frodo reasoned. The thought blunted the worst of the sting, but he could not help feeling that some tiny shard the breadth of a splinter was yet lodged somewhere below the surface of his skin.
XXXXX
It was long after nightfall and Sam tossed about restively underneath the silken enclosure of his bed-sheets. No matter how persistently he tried to empty his head, he found he was utterly at the mercy of an onslaught of meandering thoughts that would not suffer to be stemmed – thoughts that chased one another like tattered specters in an onyx-black sky, speaking out in his voice and projecting unbidden images from his past on the viewing screen of his mind. Bilbo was always at the centre of these thoughts, the eye around which this phantom vortex circled madly. One moment he would find himself hearkening back to the days when Bilbo would sit patiently with him in Bag End, going over his letters with professorial precision or being summoned at hearth's edge to be enchanted by his incredible adventures, the next moment he was at the Grey Havens watching a very elderly Bilbo board the great white ship that would bear him to his final destination.
He thought of the day that lay ahead of him, now only hours away, the day that had imposed a wistful longing on Frodo that Sam was powerless to satisfy.
"I wish I hadn't brought up that business about visiting Bilbo's burying place. Still, it seems to me he ought to be able to at least drop by to pay his respects. I can't fathom how the Great Ones wouldn't be willing to grant him at least that. Oh, but what do I know about it," he thought to himself, frustrated by his inability to undo the irrevocable.
He burrowed deeper into his sheets, a curious chill raking over him as he struggled vainly against his restlessness. He tried to access the quiet center of his mind, that shimmering oasis where respite lay waiting like a jewel buried in the sand, but he could not discover its location. The sensation of cold that had bored through him seemed to heighten, and he was suddenly afraid. In all of his time on the Blessed Isle, he had never known that kind of coldness to penetrate through his and Frodo's home.
"There's something funny afoot, though what it is I can't guess," Sam reflected, and threw back the coverlets to rout out the source of his unease.
Outside of the relative warmth of his bed, the chill was now too palpable to dismiss. His skin broke out in gooseflesh, and he wrapped his arms around himself, rubbing at his forearms as his teeth set to chattering. He pulled his housecoat around him and made his way to Frodo's adjoining bedroom. The door was wide open. The pale light of moon blanketed his bed – his rumpled, empty bed.
"Frodo?" he called out, panic setting in. "Mr. Frodo? Where've you got to? Mr. Frodo!"
He swayed unsteadily down the corridor and made his way to the front parlour. He darted his head to and fro, crying out Frodo's name with increasing urgency. He saw the drapes billow out in erratic bursts, and was stopped in his tracks, for now he understood why all had grown so unusually cold. There before him, the front door stood open, letting in a bracing ocean breeze. Frodo was no longer on the premises.