Title: The Birthday
Author: Arien
Rating: G
Synopsis: Sam looks for the right way to honor Frodo's birthday after he has departed West.
Archive: Welcome, but please contact me first.
Disclaimer: The beautiful Sam and Frodo and the Shire are products of the imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien.
Author's Notes: No slash is intended or implied in this story. It is about love between friends. Special thanks go to Soundwave, whose advice and input on this fic is very much appreciated. This was the most difficult piece I've ever written, and I'm still not entirely satisfied with it. I hope that you enjoy it, though.
The summer of 1422 was passing. The air smelled of crisp leaves and harvested vegetables, and patches of brown and gold were beginning to break through in the thatches of green trees. Sam sat and smoked his pipe, his back against the mallorn tree in the Party Field. He always sat there when he wanted to think, and this was no exception. Today, however, his thoughts were not on his work in the Shire or his family. He was thinking about Frodo. It was September 22nd, Frodo's and Bilbo's birthday. Frodo had set out for the Grey Havens a year ago.
Sam was puzzled over the right way to celebrate Frodo's birthday. He'd debated having a party, like Frodo had done after Bilbo had gone off to live in Rivendell. He thought about having a small feast, inviting Frodo's close friends over to celebrate. He dismissed that idea -- it was still a bit difficult for him to talk about Frodo, really, and he suspected it was hard for Merry and Pippin as well. When they all were together they usually tried to avoid the subject. One night not too long after Frodo had left, Sam had visited Merry and Pippin at Crickhollow. They had indulged themselves in too much ale and were having a good time singing and talking of their adventures.
"I wish Frodo was here," Merry had said during a lull in the merrymaking. Pippin had nodded. "He would have had something good to say. He always told the best stories."
Sam had been silent for a moment, then spoke. "It's not the same here without him," he had said. "I mean, it's the Shire, and it's even more beautiful now than its ever been, but with Frodo gone it seems...faded." He had paused for a while, looking for the right words, then sighed. "I can't describe it. I miss him so much." Merry had nodded and rubbed Sam's shoulder. "We all do."
Something had gone with Frodo the day that he left: a feeling that Sam couldn't quite put his finger on. All he knew was that after Frodo was gone, the sky above the Shire had seemed a little less blue. The grass had seemed less green and the leaves of the mallorn tree in the Party Field a little less gold. It was like something small and beautiful about the Shire had disappeared, never to be recalled. It would only live in the memories of the people who had known and loved Frodo.
Sometimes the people in the Shire said things about Frodo that broke Sam's heart. They couldn't understand why Frodo had left so suddenly. They counted him last among all the "travellers", although Sam, Merry, and Pippin had tried their best to remind everyone of Frodo's deeds. Few in the Shire seemed to care, thinking Frodo a mad eccentric like his old Uncle Bilbo. "Frodo probably snuck off one night to run around with Elves or who knows what, and fell in the river like I heard old Bilbo did," some whispered. "The other travellers just made up that whole Sea tale so we won't think badly of him."
Whatever was said about Frodo, Sam knew that he missed him terribly. He missed the sound of his voice and his smell, like tea and ink and clean linen. He missed walking into the study and seeing Frodo turn away from his work, a gentle smile on his face when he saw it was Sam. He missed the way that the whole world seemed to quiet down whenever Frodo laughed, such a rare occurrence in his last days in the Shire.
Bag End was quieter without him: Frodo's bedroom, now silent, and the gaping hole at the head of the dinner table where he had always sat. The chair sat in silent reverence for one who had been lost. Even after a year, Sam could not bring himself to sit there. Rose had tried once, telling him that he was master of Bag End now and Frodo would not mind. "I just wouldn't feel right in Mr. Frodo's seat, Rose," he had said. "Not yet." She had smiled at him and never pushed him again.
Sam thought of that day in October when they were leaving Rivendell and returning to the Shire. He'd been riding behind Frodo when he noticed that Frodo was slumping in his saddle, his head bowed. He had not spoken all day. Sam had gotten a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach -- it reminded him too much of the long road they had taken after Frodo had been wounded on Weathertop. He'd sped up his pace until he was next to Frodo. "Mr. Frodo? Are you sick?"
Frodo's face was pale and he was covered in sweat. "I'm all right, Sam," he said, turning to him with a sad smile. "I'm just a bit tired." The weak quiver in his voice betrayed his words. Gandalf, riding by Frodo's side, had heard the whole exchange. He turned and looked at Sam, shaking his head slightly.
They had stopped as soon as they were across the Bruinen, building a fire and laying Frodo down to rest. When the hobbit was asleep, Merry had asked Gandalf quietly if they were going to return to Rivendell and have Elrond take a look at him. Gandalf had patted Merry's shoulder. "There is little Elrond can do for him. We will stay here tonight and let Frodo rest. He will feel better in the morning, I assure you."
They all sat close to Frodo as the evening passed and night fell. He slept unquietly, whispering and whimpering in half-dreams. They warmed him whenever he shivered, and when he became fearful Gandalf would talk to him in a soothing voice like smoke. The others sat near him, their heads bowed. The only sound was the crackling of the fire and Frodo's whispers.
Early in the night, when Sam was on watch, Frodo had awakened. He moaned softly and Sam grasped his cold left hand, stroking his dark hair in an attempt to comfort him. "Don't you worry yourself, Mr. Frodo. Gandalf said in the morning you'll be all better."
Frodo turned his head toward him. "I don't think I ever will be better, Sam dear." He smiled gently, but his eyes were filled with tears.
Sam had paused, pondering what to say next. He knew now was not the time for kind but untrue words. "No, Mr. Frodo. I suppose not." He kissed Frodo's hand and held it to his cheek, letting his own tears fall upon it.
In the morning, Frodo was fine, with seemingly little memory of the events of the day before. Sam had a small glimmer of hope in his stout heart that this would be the last time Frodo would be ill, but the deeper, wiser part of him knew that it was not over. Maybe it was the look in Gandalf's eyes that gave it all away -- a mixture of tenderness and pity when he looked at Frodo. Maybe Gandalf had always known.
Frodo hadn't died physically, but a part of him was gone. It was something that could not be noticed right away -- some of the light had gone out from his eyes, though the light that burned inside him was stronger than ever. He laughed less and his smile no longer lit up his whole face, as it always had. He'd often had terrible nightmares, especially when he worked on the later chapters of the Red Book, recounting his and Sam's journey in Mordor. Sam would hear him crying at night and would go into his room. Frodo usually tried to protest and hide his face, but Sam would put his arms around Frodo in a deep embrace, rocking him back and forth in an effort to calm him.
When Frodo was at his worst, he often feared to go back to sleep. Sam would lay next to him, his face buried in Frodo's neck and an arm curled protectively across his stomach. Sam's reassuring presence would still Frodo's trembling, and eventually he would fall back into an untroubled sleep. Sam would sleep beside him, wanting to be there if Frodo had another nightmare.
The first time Rose found them in the morning, Sam and Frodo's bodies were wrapped so closely together that it was hard to tell them apart. Sam sensed her presence and woke up quickly, but Frodo slept deeply and was not disturbed. She smiled at them softly and went out. Sam crawled out of the bed and ran after her. "Rose, I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo had one of those horrible dreams again and I --"
She rose her hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "I know," she said. She took Sam's hand between her own and stroked it, a sad look in her eyes. "I'm scared for him too, just like you are. He's getting worse with all these terrible dreams and illnesses." She rose her head and looked at Sam straight in the eye. "Please, Sam, if what you're doing helps him, then keep doing it. I don't mind. He deserves to have peace with all that he's gone through."
Sam stroked his wife's cheeks and kissed her, then held her close. "Thank you, Rose," he whispered. He never worried after that.
Sam's heart ached as he sat remembering Frodo's difficult last days in the Shire. He'd tried everything he could to help Frodo, but Frodo had been beyond his help -- probably beyond anyone's help, except for those in the West. He knew one of the reasons why Frodo had left was because he did not want to inflict his pain on anyone else. He did not want Rose and Sam to watch him die slowly, worn out by fighting darkness, grief, and guilt. Silently Sam blessed Gandalf and Galadriel and all those responsible for Frodo's trip West: their gift had given Frodo a second chance at finding happiness and a normal life.
Sam broke from his thoughts and noticed his surroundings for the first time in hours. While he had sat lost in thought, the Sun had begun to set. Long shadows extended from the slender trunks of trees, and a bright golden light had flooded his vision. The last cries of hobbit lads and lasses were heard as they squeezed in a few more minutes of play before suppertime. Sam stood up, stretching his back and hearing his bones creak in protest of being idle too long. He stroked the bark of the beautiful mallorn tree, remembering the ones in Lothlorien with the beautiful golden flets in them. An entire city within a forest of these magnificent trees.
He turned around, walking down the Hill and around to the door of Bag End. It was getting late, and his family was waiting.
That night, after Rose had went to bed, he went into the study, picking up the copy of the Red Book that sat on the desk. He opened it, flipping through it absently, just looking at the long paragraphs that filled the tall pages. It had taken so much effort for Frodo to finish it, more than poor old Bilbo probably realized when he asked him to do it. Frodo had done it, though. He'd dredged up the darkest parts of his journey and set them down so that everyone would know and remember. It was his legacy to the Shire, more so than his wealth and his fine hole. One morning he had slipped away quietly, with hardly a goodbye to anyone in the Shire he had loved so well.
'It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.' Frodo had given everything he had fought so hard to save up so that Sam and Merry and Pippin and all their children could have it. It was up to Sam now to keep his memory alive. "Dear me, Mr. Frodo, I hope you left it in the right hands," he whispered. He placed the book back down on the desk, taking a clean sheet of paper out. He began writing a letter to Frodo.
He wrote about Rose and Elanor, and the Shire, and things he had heard about Merry and Pippin that would make Frodo laugh. He told Frodo how much he missed him and how things weren't the same without him. "I miss you so much sometimes that it hurts, Mr. Frodo," he wrote. "I hope that you're okay and happy with the Elves, but I want to say that I would give everything up, this fine hole and all your beautiful furniture and your books, just to have you back in the Shire again."
He paused, and tears fell silently down his cheeks. "All I want to do is hold on to what I have of you, but you're gone and you're never coming back. And I have to learn to let go, just like you did. You told me that you wanted me to be whole. I want that, too. So I'm going to do my best to keep our story alive just as you wanted me to. And I'm going to be whole with my Rose and Elanor and all the people I love, just as you wanted me to.
"Maybe we'll meet again, Mr. Frodo, across the Sea, or in that place that we go to after we die. Until that day comes, know that your Sam's always done what you asked him to."
Sam waited for the ink to dry before folding the letter and placing it into his breast pocket. He walked out of the study, through the dark hallways of Bag End, and into the kitchen. A gentle light from the Moon shone into the room, making patterns on the floor. He searched through a drawer where the spare candles were kept, lighting the largest one he could find and setting it in front of Frodo's chair at the dinner table. He settled down into his chair and stared at the flame for a little while, watching it burn steadily, his chin cupped in his hands.
Then he got up and opened the window, letting a cool breeze into the kitchen. He sat down again, taking the letter from his breast pocket. He could see the curves of his clumsy handwriting through the paper in the moonlight. He touched the paper to the flame, and it soon caught fire: it started out gently, blackening the edges of the page, and then spread along the sides. The letter burned slowly, a thin black smoke coming from it.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered as the wind blew in through the open window and caught the smoke, mixing it in with the night air. All Sam really wanted was a hint of it to find Frodo across the Sea.
Author: Arien
Rating: G
Synopsis: Sam looks for the right way to honor Frodo's birthday after he has departed West.
Archive: Welcome, but please contact me first.
Disclaimer: The beautiful Sam and Frodo and the Shire are products of the imagination of J.R.R. Tolkien.
Author's Notes: No slash is intended or implied in this story. It is about love between friends. Special thanks go to Soundwave, whose advice and input on this fic is very much appreciated. This was the most difficult piece I've ever written, and I'm still not entirely satisfied with it. I hope that you enjoy it, though.
The summer of 1422 was passing. The air smelled of crisp leaves and harvested vegetables, and patches of brown and gold were beginning to break through in the thatches of green trees. Sam sat and smoked his pipe, his back against the mallorn tree in the Party Field. He always sat there when he wanted to think, and this was no exception. Today, however, his thoughts were not on his work in the Shire or his family. He was thinking about Frodo. It was September 22nd, Frodo's and Bilbo's birthday. Frodo had set out for the Grey Havens a year ago.
Sam was puzzled over the right way to celebrate Frodo's birthday. He'd debated having a party, like Frodo had done after Bilbo had gone off to live in Rivendell. He thought about having a small feast, inviting Frodo's close friends over to celebrate. He dismissed that idea -- it was still a bit difficult for him to talk about Frodo, really, and he suspected it was hard for Merry and Pippin as well. When they all were together they usually tried to avoid the subject. One night not too long after Frodo had left, Sam had visited Merry and Pippin at Crickhollow. They had indulged themselves in too much ale and were having a good time singing and talking of their adventures.
"I wish Frodo was here," Merry had said during a lull in the merrymaking. Pippin had nodded. "He would have had something good to say. He always told the best stories."
Sam had been silent for a moment, then spoke. "It's not the same here without him," he had said. "I mean, it's the Shire, and it's even more beautiful now than its ever been, but with Frodo gone it seems...faded." He had paused for a while, looking for the right words, then sighed. "I can't describe it. I miss him so much." Merry had nodded and rubbed Sam's shoulder. "We all do."
Something had gone with Frodo the day that he left: a feeling that Sam couldn't quite put his finger on. All he knew was that after Frodo was gone, the sky above the Shire had seemed a little less blue. The grass had seemed less green and the leaves of the mallorn tree in the Party Field a little less gold. It was like something small and beautiful about the Shire had disappeared, never to be recalled. It would only live in the memories of the people who had known and loved Frodo.
Sometimes the people in the Shire said things about Frodo that broke Sam's heart. They couldn't understand why Frodo had left so suddenly. They counted him last among all the "travellers", although Sam, Merry, and Pippin had tried their best to remind everyone of Frodo's deeds. Few in the Shire seemed to care, thinking Frodo a mad eccentric like his old Uncle Bilbo. "Frodo probably snuck off one night to run around with Elves or who knows what, and fell in the river like I heard old Bilbo did," some whispered. "The other travellers just made up that whole Sea tale so we won't think badly of him."
Whatever was said about Frodo, Sam knew that he missed him terribly. He missed the sound of his voice and his smell, like tea and ink and clean linen. He missed walking into the study and seeing Frodo turn away from his work, a gentle smile on his face when he saw it was Sam. He missed the way that the whole world seemed to quiet down whenever Frodo laughed, such a rare occurrence in his last days in the Shire.
Bag End was quieter without him: Frodo's bedroom, now silent, and the gaping hole at the head of the dinner table where he had always sat. The chair sat in silent reverence for one who had been lost. Even after a year, Sam could not bring himself to sit there. Rose had tried once, telling him that he was master of Bag End now and Frodo would not mind. "I just wouldn't feel right in Mr. Frodo's seat, Rose," he had said. "Not yet." She had smiled at him and never pushed him again.
Sam thought of that day in October when they were leaving Rivendell and returning to the Shire. He'd been riding behind Frodo when he noticed that Frodo was slumping in his saddle, his head bowed. He had not spoken all day. Sam had gotten a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach -- it reminded him too much of the long road they had taken after Frodo had been wounded on Weathertop. He'd sped up his pace until he was next to Frodo. "Mr. Frodo? Are you sick?"
Frodo's face was pale and he was covered in sweat. "I'm all right, Sam," he said, turning to him with a sad smile. "I'm just a bit tired." The weak quiver in his voice betrayed his words. Gandalf, riding by Frodo's side, had heard the whole exchange. He turned and looked at Sam, shaking his head slightly.
They had stopped as soon as they were across the Bruinen, building a fire and laying Frodo down to rest. When the hobbit was asleep, Merry had asked Gandalf quietly if they were going to return to Rivendell and have Elrond take a look at him. Gandalf had patted Merry's shoulder. "There is little Elrond can do for him. We will stay here tonight and let Frodo rest. He will feel better in the morning, I assure you."
They all sat close to Frodo as the evening passed and night fell. He slept unquietly, whispering and whimpering in half-dreams. They warmed him whenever he shivered, and when he became fearful Gandalf would talk to him in a soothing voice like smoke. The others sat near him, their heads bowed. The only sound was the crackling of the fire and Frodo's whispers.
Early in the night, when Sam was on watch, Frodo had awakened. He moaned softly and Sam grasped his cold left hand, stroking his dark hair in an attempt to comfort him. "Don't you worry yourself, Mr. Frodo. Gandalf said in the morning you'll be all better."
Frodo turned his head toward him. "I don't think I ever will be better, Sam dear." He smiled gently, but his eyes were filled with tears.
Sam had paused, pondering what to say next. He knew now was not the time for kind but untrue words. "No, Mr. Frodo. I suppose not." He kissed Frodo's hand and held it to his cheek, letting his own tears fall upon it.
In the morning, Frodo was fine, with seemingly little memory of the events of the day before. Sam had a small glimmer of hope in his stout heart that this would be the last time Frodo would be ill, but the deeper, wiser part of him knew that it was not over. Maybe it was the look in Gandalf's eyes that gave it all away -- a mixture of tenderness and pity when he looked at Frodo. Maybe Gandalf had always known.
Frodo hadn't died physically, but a part of him was gone. It was something that could not be noticed right away -- some of the light had gone out from his eyes, though the light that burned inside him was stronger than ever. He laughed less and his smile no longer lit up his whole face, as it always had. He'd often had terrible nightmares, especially when he worked on the later chapters of the Red Book, recounting his and Sam's journey in Mordor. Sam would hear him crying at night and would go into his room. Frodo usually tried to protest and hide his face, but Sam would put his arms around Frodo in a deep embrace, rocking him back and forth in an effort to calm him.
When Frodo was at his worst, he often feared to go back to sleep. Sam would lay next to him, his face buried in Frodo's neck and an arm curled protectively across his stomach. Sam's reassuring presence would still Frodo's trembling, and eventually he would fall back into an untroubled sleep. Sam would sleep beside him, wanting to be there if Frodo had another nightmare.
The first time Rose found them in the morning, Sam and Frodo's bodies were wrapped so closely together that it was hard to tell them apart. Sam sensed her presence and woke up quickly, but Frodo slept deeply and was not disturbed. She smiled at them softly and went out. Sam crawled out of the bed and ran after her. "Rose, I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo had one of those horrible dreams again and I --"
She rose her hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "I know," she said. She took Sam's hand between her own and stroked it, a sad look in her eyes. "I'm scared for him too, just like you are. He's getting worse with all these terrible dreams and illnesses." She rose her head and looked at Sam straight in the eye. "Please, Sam, if what you're doing helps him, then keep doing it. I don't mind. He deserves to have peace with all that he's gone through."
Sam stroked his wife's cheeks and kissed her, then held her close. "Thank you, Rose," he whispered. He never worried after that.
Sam's heart ached as he sat remembering Frodo's difficult last days in the Shire. He'd tried everything he could to help Frodo, but Frodo had been beyond his help -- probably beyond anyone's help, except for those in the West. He knew one of the reasons why Frodo had left was because he did not want to inflict his pain on anyone else. He did not want Rose and Sam to watch him die slowly, worn out by fighting darkness, grief, and guilt. Silently Sam blessed Gandalf and Galadriel and all those responsible for Frodo's trip West: their gift had given Frodo a second chance at finding happiness and a normal life.
Sam broke from his thoughts and noticed his surroundings for the first time in hours. While he had sat lost in thought, the Sun had begun to set. Long shadows extended from the slender trunks of trees, and a bright golden light had flooded his vision. The last cries of hobbit lads and lasses were heard as they squeezed in a few more minutes of play before suppertime. Sam stood up, stretching his back and hearing his bones creak in protest of being idle too long. He stroked the bark of the beautiful mallorn tree, remembering the ones in Lothlorien with the beautiful golden flets in them. An entire city within a forest of these magnificent trees.
He turned around, walking down the Hill and around to the door of Bag End. It was getting late, and his family was waiting.
That night, after Rose had went to bed, he went into the study, picking up the copy of the Red Book that sat on the desk. He opened it, flipping through it absently, just looking at the long paragraphs that filled the tall pages. It had taken so much effort for Frodo to finish it, more than poor old Bilbo probably realized when he asked him to do it. Frodo had done it, though. He'd dredged up the darkest parts of his journey and set them down so that everyone would know and remember. It was his legacy to the Shire, more so than his wealth and his fine hole. One morning he had slipped away quietly, with hardly a goodbye to anyone in the Shire he had loved so well.
'It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.' Frodo had given everything he had fought so hard to save up so that Sam and Merry and Pippin and all their children could have it. It was up to Sam now to keep his memory alive. "Dear me, Mr. Frodo, I hope you left it in the right hands," he whispered. He placed the book back down on the desk, taking a clean sheet of paper out. He began writing a letter to Frodo.
He wrote about Rose and Elanor, and the Shire, and things he had heard about Merry and Pippin that would make Frodo laugh. He told Frodo how much he missed him and how things weren't the same without him. "I miss you so much sometimes that it hurts, Mr. Frodo," he wrote. "I hope that you're okay and happy with the Elves, but I want to say that I would give everything up, this fine hole and all your beautiful furniture and your books, just to have you back in the Shire again."
He paused, and tears fell silently down his cheeks. "All I want to do is hold on to what I have of you, but you're gone and you're never coming back. And I have to learn to let go, just like you did. You told me that you wanted me to be whole. I want that, too. So I'm going to do my best to keep our story alive just as you wanted me to. And I'm going to be whole with my Rose and Elanor and all the people I love, just as you wanted me to.
"Maybe we'll meet again, Mr. Frodo, across the Sea, or in that place that we go to after we die. Until that day comes, know that your Sam's always done what you asked him to."
Sam waited for the ink to dry before folding the letter and placing it into his breast pocket. He walked out of the study, through the dark hallways of Bag End, and into the kitchen. A gentle light from the Moon shone into the room, making patterns on the floor. He searched through a drawer where the spare candles were kept, lighting the largest one he could find and setting it in front of Frodo's chair at the dinner table. He settled down into his chair and stared at the flame for a little while, watching it burn steadily, his chin cupped in his hands.
Then he got up and opened the window, letting a cool breeze into the kitchen. He sat down again, taking the letter from his breast pocket. He could see the curves of his clumsy handwriting through the paper in the moonlight. He touched the paper to the flame, and it soon caught fire: it started out gently, blackening the edges of the page, and then spread along the sides. The letter burned slowly, a thin black smoke coming from it.
"Happy birthday, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered as the wind blew in through the open window and caught the smoke, mixing it in with the night air. All Sam really wanted was a hint of it to find Frodo across the Sea.