Worth Saving
She began as a twinkling dot, a blemish on the face of the blinding sun. She began as a lengthening shadow across the grassy plains. She began as frogsong and midge buzz, a trillion tiny wings in the heat of late summer. But she grew. Soon, the bare ankles of her vast majesty stepped out, her smooth toenails shimmering with twilight. Her round legs and supple thighs bent gently down until she swallowed all in the motherly embrace of her womb, leaving the child earth with a spot of brightness such as calls babes into the world. Then further down she slid. She stretched herself out above the changing planet. She stroked it with her hands, and her fingernails gave off sparks of fireflies. She bent her head. Her full lips were clouds wafting across the sky. The tips of her hair were sprinkled with stars. It tumbled over her shoulders, cascading down to the small of her back, tangled helter-skelter in the treetops, tiny wisps escaping and floating with static on the horizon. Then, at long last, did she open her eyes, and in one shone the bright moon, and in the other, Polaris, the North star.
Lady Night had come.
No one escapes her embrace, no one can run from her darkness. They try—oh, how they try! The countryside is speckled with evidence of Mankind's valiant attempts to resist her unending temptation. Fire. Fire in the night. And each tongue of flame only makes her darkness deeper, her perfection more complete.
It is the ones who give in to her temptation, the ones who glorify her darkness, who reap the rewards of her protection. And so, wrapped in her ebony fingers with not even so much as a candle to keep him company, a child of the earth sat weeping.
He loved the Lady greatly. She kept his secrets, she nursed his gardens, she held him patiently until he slept, or sat beside him until dawn if sleep would not come. She was his comfort... often the only comfort that could be had in these desperate times, and the only he thought himself deserving of.
His other companion lay sleeping. For that, Sam thanked the heavens. Frodo needed his rest. Travel was hard on both of them, but more so on the Ringbearer. Sam could bear it. He had to. But Frodo? The dear introvert, the pensive writer, the just master? Could he somehow survive all the way they had to go? He had come this far—could he go further? Sam feared what the answer might be.
"Oh, master Frodo," he chirped to the darkness. "I wish..."
The gentle hand on his shoulder startled him. He turned to see the weary, kind face lit by the moon. "What do you wish, Sam?" Frodo asked softly.
Sam sniffed, trying to brush his tears away. "Oh, sir! I'm sorry if I've waked you. I didn't mean..."
"You haven't woken me, Sam," Frodo assured him. He sat beside the gardener, letting one arm curl around his friend's waist. It was a gesture of comfort, shared in complete innocence by two children still afraid of things that might eat them in the dark. "I'm a restless sleeper, you know that. Now tell me, Sam, what is it you wish?"
Sam took a deep breath. It was a minute or two before he could control his voice enough to say the words, and even then he spoke haltingly. "I... I just wish I could... stop the whole world, and do it all for you. I wish you could stop and rest and let me go on instead. I wish... I wish it weren't you..." His voice dissolved in silent weeping.
Frodo pulled Sam to him, holding the gardener's scruffy head against his chest. "Oh, Sam," he murmured, rocking gently. "Sam, it's all right. It's not so bad, really. It's just one step after another, no more. I can do it, Sam." For a while they sat together, then Frodo said, "Sam, why are you afraid?"
"Because... you might not make it. You might give up. To them. To the darkness. Sir, I don't want to lose you!"
"I won't give up," Frodo said, his voice more resolved that Sam had heard it in many days. "I have to keep going, Sam. Do you know why?"
Sam shook his head miserably.
"Because I would never hurt you like that, Samwise. I can't give up and leave you to the doom that may follow. The world matters little to me, but you, Sam. You are everything."
"I don't understand."
Frodo leaned away slightly and turned Sam's face to him. He looked at the gardener's downcast eyes, thumbed his tears away, and kissed his forehead. "Oh, Sam," he said quietly. "You are too good. No one has ever wept for me before..."
"But they have, sir," Sam whispered. "You just didn't know it."
Frodo pulled Sam into a tight embrace. "My dear Samwise..." Frodo buried his face in the gardener's tousled hair, smelling the earth, the sun, and Sam. Here, he felt, was his friend, his child. This embrace, this kind soul who followed him so blindly into the mouth of Hell, towards almost certain death—this was why the earth was worth saving. This body. These tears. This love. This flower among the weeds, this gem among hobbits. This treasure both rare and strange, both wonderful and terrible. This friendship. For Sam, Frodo would gladly leap into the very fires of Mt. Doom. And he knew that Sam would follow. Frodo knew that, should the moment come, Sam would jump first if he thought it could save his friend.
Sacrifice. Loyalty. Love. These things made the world worth saving. Even if there should never be another two like them, perhaps there might be someone who would remember, who would live on and tell their story.
Frodo bowed closer to Sam's ear so he could whisper, "Sleep, my dear friend. There's a long way to go yet. But I will never leave you. I have to keep going. You make it worth the pain. You, dearest Samwise."
Sam snuggled into Frodo's arms. Frodo never knew if he had heard the words he whispered, for the child was asleep. Frodo leaned back against a tree, holding Sam in his arms. "This is why," he whispered to Lady Night. "This is why."
...end...
She began as a twinkling dot, a blemish on the face of the blinding sun. She began as a lengthening shadow across the grassy plains. She began as frogsong and midge buzz, a trillion tiny wings in the heat of late summer. But she grew. Soon, the bare ankles of her vast majesty stepped out, her smooth toenails shimmering with twilight. Her round legs and supple thighs bent gently down until she swallowed all in the motherly embrace of her womb, leaving the child earth with a spot of brightness such as calls babes into the world. Then further down she slid. She stretched herself out above the changing planet. She stroked it with her hands, and her fingernails gave off sparks of fireflies. She bent her head. Her full lips were clouds wafting across the sky. The tips of her hair were sprinkled with stars. It tumbled over her shoulders, cascading down to the small of her back, tangled helter-skelter in the treetops, tiny wisps escaping and floating with static on the horizon. Then, at long last, did she open her eyes, and in one shone the bright moon, and in the other, Polaris, the North star.
Lady Night had come.
No one escapes her embrace, no one can run from her darkness. They try—oh, how they try! The countryside is speckled with evidence of Mankind's valiant attempts to resist her unending temptation. Fire. Fire in the night. And each tongue of flame only makes her darkness deeper, her perfection more complete.
It is the ones who give in to her temptation, the ones who glorify her darkness, who reap the rewards of her protection. And so, wrapped in her ebony fingers with not even so much as a candle to keep him company, a child of the earth sat weeping.
He loved the Lady greatly. She kept his secrets, she nursed his gardens, she held him patiently until he slept, or sat beside him until dawn if sleep would not come. She was his comfort... often the only comfort that could be had in these desperate times, and the only he thought himself deserving of.
His other companion lay sleeping. For that, Sam thanked the heavens. Frodo needed his rest. Travel was hard on both of them, but more so on the Ringbearer. Sam could bear it. He had to. But Frodo? The dear introvert, the pensive writer, the just master? Could he somehow survive all the way they had to go? He had come this far—could he go further? Sam feared what the answer might be.
"Oh, master Frodo," he chirped to the darkness. "I wish..."
The gentle hand on his shoulder startled him. He turned to see the weary, kind face lit by the moon. "What do you wish, Sam?" Frodo asked softly.
Sam sniffed, trying to brush his tears away. "Oh, sir! I'm sorry if I've waked you. I didn't mean..."
"You haven't woken me, Sam," Frodo assured him. He sat beside the gardener, letting one arm curl around his friend's waist. It was a gesture of comfort, shared in complete innocence by two children still afraid of things that might eat them in the dark. "I'm a restless sleeper, you know that. Now tell me, Sam, what is it you wish?"
Sam took a deep breath. It was a minute or two before he could control his voice enough to say the words, and even then he spoke haltingly. "I... I just wish I could... stop the whole world, and do it all for you. I wish you could stop and rest and let me go on instead. I wish... I wish it weren't you..." His voice dissolved in silent weeping.
Frodo pulled Sam to him, holding the gardener's scruffy head against his chest. "Oh, Sam," he murmured, rocking gently. "Sam, it's all right. It's not so bad, really. It's just one step after another, no more. I can do it, Sam." For a while they sat together, then Frodo said, "Sam, why are you afraid?"
"Because... you might not make it. You might give up. To them. To the darkness. Sir, I don't want to lose you!"
"I won't give up," Frodo said, his voice more resolved that Sam had heard it in many days. "I have to keep going, Sam. Do you know why?"
Sam shook his head miserably.
"Because I would never hurt you like that, Samwise. I can't give up and leave you to the doom that may follow. The world matters little to me, but you, Sam. You are everything."
"I don't understand."
Frodo leaned away slightly and turned Sam's face to him. He looked at the gardener's downcast eyes, thumbed his tears away, and kissed his forehead. "Oh, Sam," he said quietly. "You are too good. No one has ever wept for me before..."
"But they have, sir," Sam whispered. "You just didn't know it."
Frodo pulled Sam into a tight embrace. "My dear Samwise..." Frodo buried his face in the gardener's tousled hair, smelling the earth, the sun, and Sam. Here, he felt, was his friend, his child. This embrace, this kind soul who followed him so blindly into the mouth of Hell, towards almost certain death—this was why the earth was worth saving. This body. These tears. This love. This flower among the weeds, this gem among hobbits. This treasure both rare and strange, both wonderful and terrible. This friendship. For Sam, Frodo would gladly leap into the very fires of Mt. Doom. And he knew that Sam would follow. Frodo knew that, should the moment come, Sam would jump first if he thought it could save his friend.
Sacrifice. Loyalty. Love. These things made the world worth saving. Even if there should never be another two like them, perhaps there might be someone who would remember, who would live on and tell their story.
Frodo bowed closer to Sam's ear so he could whisper, "Sleep, my dear friend. There's a long way to go yet. But I will never leave you. I have to keep going. You make it worth the pain. You, dearest Samwise."
Sam snuggled into Frodo's arms. Frodo never knew if he had heard the words he whispered, for the child was asleep. Frodo leaned back against a tree, holding Sam in his arms. "This is why," he whispered to Lady Night. "This is why."
...end...