Notes: Book-canon, even though I'm utterly pissed about the ending to this
trilogy. Words are spelled Tolkien-style.
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Thanks: To Tolkien, for creating such characters. Most of Radiohead's catalogue, which helped bring the ideas to paper.
A BEAM OF LIGHT
The end of day was drawing nigh. Sam stared out at the slowly-sinking Sun, and heaved a sigh. He stepped out of his hobbit-hole, and withdrew his carven pipe and some Longbottom Leaf, and set about to smoke, and think.
'Two years ago,' he thought.
His mind wandered to Rivendell, the long hours without sleep, keeping constant vigil, and the gladness he felt at his Master's awakening. 'I thought we'd lost you, Master Frodo!'
He knew that if he dwelled long in these ruminations, he would not be able to shake them. Yet, he could not help but wonder if all was okay. Rosie was at her parents' home, and she had taken Elanor with her. Sam felt utterly alone.
He moped his way into the house, the Sun finally having said Her goodbyes to the horizon, and tossed his pipe to the table. He didn't even want to eat, and on this point he was glad no one was home, for they would surely think that he was ill. He drank a draught of ale, standing up, running a work-roughened hand over the mouldings. Sam sighed rather heavily once more.
Words echoed in his head: 'I am wounded, wounded; I will never really heal.' The strangely pale look in his eye, the sorrowful tone of voice . . . Sam wanted to cry out from the pain. Sleep, he must sleep, and in sleeping, forget a little. He dressed in nightclothes, crawled into bed, and blew out the light.
Sam was back in the Tower, frantically searching. No orcs to be seen, just darkness, and running, and calls of 'Master!' He sat on a boulder and wept, as two gleaming eyes approached him.
He bolted upright in bed, disoriented and scared. He passed a shaking hand over his face, and tried to breathe correctly. Suddenly, a beam of light illuminated his bed and body. 'Sure can't be morning already . . .' Sam wondered aloud. He slowly climbed out of bed to look out of the window, when a shape shimmered in front of him. He backed away as it came into focus.
'Master Frodo!'
Frodo smiled at him. 'Ah, Sam, a gentlehobbit to the last.' He stepped closer to where Sam stood, openmouthed. 'Gandalf thought it best I come. You've been worrying too much about me.'
Sam looked at the floor and said, 'I'm sorry, Master Frodo, but I just can't help it! Nothing's been the same since you've been gone. I was hoping you'd stay in the Shire a little longer.'
'Now, Sam, there's no need for apologies. I just wanted you to know that I'm alright.' He reached out and touched Sam's cheek with his finger, and Sam closed his eyes as the gentle breeze whispered his name.
'Take me with you, Master Frodo. I want to go wherever you are.'
Frodo's eyes glistened. 'All in due time, Last of the Ring-Bearers. You have other things to do before then.'
Sam bowed his head, knowing in his heart that it was true. Some minutes passed. Frodo called his name again. Sam looked up.
'I have to leave now, Sam.'
Sam threw himself upon his knees in front of Frodo. 'Please don't leave me!'
'I'm sorry. I will come back again, some day.'
Frodo vanished slowly before Sam's eyes, as he pressed his forehead into the floor. 'I never told him I loved him,' he said mournfully.
A voice from the distance called to him. 'I always knew.'
Sam stayed in that position for a long time. When he finally got up, he saw through the window that the sky was beginning to lighten. He went over the burnished-wood chest by the window and opened it. In its leather scabbard, atop other things, lay Sting. Sam picked it up tenderly, and stared into its surface.
As the first rays of the Sun appeared over the horizon, they lit upon Bag End. No one but Her saw the single tear, glimmering on Sam's cheek.
Disclaimer: So not mine.
Thanks: To Tolkien, for creating such characters. Most of Radiohead's catalogue, which helped bring the ideas to paper.
A BEAM OF LIGHT
The end of day was drawing nigh. Sam stared out at the slowly-sinking Sun, and heaved a sigh. He stepped out of his hobbit-hole, and withdrew his carven pipe and some Longbottom Leaf, and set about to smoke, and think.
'Two years ago,' he thought.
His mind wandered to Rivendell, the long hours without sleep, keeping constant vigil, and the gladness he felt at his Master's awakening. 'I thought we'd lost you, Master Frodo!'
He knew that if he dwelled long in these ruminations, he would not be able to shake them. Yet, he could not help but wonder if all was okay. Rosie was at her parents' home, and she had taken Elanor with her. Sam felt utterly alone.
He moped his way into the house, the Sun finally having said Her goodbyes to the horizon, and tossed his pipe to the table. He didn't even want to eat, and on this point he was glad no one was home, for they would surely think that he was ill. He drank a draught of ale, standing up, running a work-roughened hand over the mouldings. Sam sighed rather heavily once more.
Words echoed in his head: 'I am wounded, wounded; I will never really heal.' The strangely pale look in his eye, the sorrowful tone of voice . . . Sam wanted to cry out from the pain. Sleep, he must sleep, and in sleeping, forget a little. He dressed in nightclothes, crawled into bed, and blew out the light.
Sam was back in the Tower, frantically searching. No orcs to be seen, just darkness, and running, and calls of 'Master!' He sat on a boulder and wept, as two gleaming eyes approached him.
He bolted upright in bed, disoriented and scared. He passed a shaking hand over his face, and tried to breathe correctly. Suddenly, a beam of light illuminated his bed and body. 'Sure can't be morning already . . .' Sam wondered aloud. He slowly climbed out of bed to look out of the window, when a shape shimmered in front of him. He backed away as it came into focus.
'Master Frodo!'
Frodo smiled at him. 'Ah, Sam, a gentlehobbit to the last.' He stepped closer to where Sam stood, openmouthed. 'Gandalf thought it best I come. You've been worrying too much about me.'
Sam looked at the floor and said, 'I'm sorry, Master Frodo, but I just can't help it! Nothing's been the same since you've been gone. I was hoping you'd stay in the Shire a little longer.'
'Now, Sam, there's no need for apologies. I just wanted you to know that I'm alright.' He reached out and touched Sam's cheek with his finger, and Sam closed his eyes as the gentle breeze whispered his name.
'Take me with you, Master Frodo. I want to go wherever you are.'
Frodo's eyes glistened. 'All in due time, Last of the Ring-Bearers. You have other things to do before then.'
Sam bowed his head, knowing in his heart that it was true. Some minutes passed. Frodo called his name again. Sam looked up.
'I have to leave now, Sam.'
Sam threw himself upon his knees in front of Frodo. 'Please don't leave me!'
'I'm sorry. I will come back again, some day.'
Frodo vanished slowly before Sam's eyes, as he pressed his forehead into the floor. 'I never told him I loved him,' he said mournfully.
A voice from the distance called to him. 'I always knew.'
Sam stayed in that position for a long time. When he finally got up, he saw through the window that the sky was beginning to lighten. He went over the burnished-wood chest by the window and opened it. In its leather scabbard, atop other things, lay Sting. Sam picked it up tenderly, and stared into its surface.
As the first rays of the Sun appeared over the horizon, they lit upon Bag End. No one but Her saw the single tear, glimmering on Sam's cheek.