Isuelt, My Isuelt

by Verok

Before Rosie Cotton, Samwise Gamgee had another love, a first love - in Minas Tirith, met after the completion of the Quest. To him she went without a name, so in his heart, Sam called her Isuelt. Yet he didn't know "Isuelt" was actually Eowyn.

1. A Name Long Forgotten

Isuëlt, My Isuëlt: Chapter One

A Name Long Forgotten

Rating: PG-13 (for intense themes, explicit scenes, violence, and etc.) May be increased to an R in the future.

Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance. A love triangle concerning Sam, Faramir and Eowyn, no slash. Frodo is also involved, to a certain extent. Also stars characters of the (complete) Fellowship, including Boromir. Alternate Universe; the few months in the aftermath of the War of the Ring, taking place in Minas Tirith.

Disclaimer: Neither Sam, nor Eowyn, nor Faramir, or anybody else, belongs to me. They are property of JRR Tolkien, the creator of Middle-Earth.

A/N: If there are Sam or Frodo romances, they are always either slash or "hobbit" stories. And plus, I think Eowyn and Faramir deserve much more limelight than they get in the pages of Tolkien Fandom. I have only read ROTK once, and by that I mean skimmed through it once — I caught probably 20% of what happened, because at any rate I was not too happy with how the story was turning out. Anyway, if there are discrepancies between important facts of the book and this fic, please correct me in the review column. Flames, constructive criticism, whatever, will be allowed. Just one thing — I elongate the Fellowship's stay in Minas Tirith several months from how long it was described in the book, because there could be no way an in-depth love drama could have developed in the time span Tolkien allotted. And how should we describe this fic? The real story behind Eowyn's marriage to Faramir, and why Sam Gamgee eventually went for Rosie Cotton. Expect weirdness from a mind who always thinks best at 2AM in the morning. Enjoy.

Also, another A/N: If you have not read the Return of the King (you've only seen the movie), and you don't want to know how everything turns out until you've seen the last movie, this fic contains possible spoilers.

And now, let the madness commence

Isuëlt, My Isuëlt

A Name Long Forgotten

Samwise Gamgee slowly paced the highest circle of battlements in the city of Minas Tirith, head turned toward the flame-colored spectacle that was the famed sunset on Ithilien. He sighed heavily. He didn't know why; yet he was sad, quite sad, even though he technically wasn't supposed to be sad anymore. There was no reason for him to be feeling like this. The Quest, the mountainous burden and the destruction of the Ring, was now behind his back, and perhaps — most likely — he was never again going to have any second Quest in the remainder of his lifetime. Still, he couldn't explain why he was unhappy, when he was supposed to be happy; it was a subtle, yet poignant sort of melancholia — that felt, at the same time, bitter, and sweet.

Perhaps Samwise Gamgee was mourning the passing of the Third Age. Not that he was a nostalgic who spent half of his life buried in lore books, like his master Frodo; he was just as straightforward as any hobbit could get, and if he would rather the world be a better place to live in, it was fine with him if he remained unhappy for the rest of his life. Of course, no matter how discontent he was ever going to be, his poor master would be even more discontentmostly, nowadays, Frodo spent his life indoors, cooped up in the boudoir in one of the topmost pavilions of the White City - and indeed, Ilúvatar knew what he really was doing in there. Sam had only checked upon him once every day since their honoring at the Field of Cormallen — he would have spent all his time with him, for he was his best friend, not just a master to him — but Frodo seemed inapt to have any sort of company. He was depressed, Sam could telldepressed in thinking that he, Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer, had actually failed the Quest in truth, not succeeded. The Ring still was destroyed, yes; but it was not destroyed the way he would have liked it. And he had a missing third finger, to prove it

Sam shook his head. Mister Frodo thinks too much of it, he thought sullenly. That's why he get plagued, every now and then, and shuts himself up, not wanting to talk or anything. But even if he did do wrong, it's all behind him now, and he isn't going to go through something like that, ever again. And I don't think the Past has the power, or the right, to make anybody guilty for all his daysthen, after that thought had crossed his head, Sam made a mental note to save the useful idiom up in some unoccupied recess of his brain. Perhaps he could tell Frodo thatmaybe, tomorrow, during his regular visit. But he dearly hoped that his master would soon get over his isolation, and once again go about the city, in ease.

The hobbit put a leg up, then another, and masterfully perched himself on one of the gigantic blocks of stone that formed the very edge of the battlements. Hoping to quit himself of his dampening thoughts, he turned his amber-eyed gaze to the setting sun in the West — and indeed, within a few moments, his mind was completely blank, except for the limpid feeling of bliss that had gently permeated into his entire body. Beautiful sights had never failed to alleviate his sores, whether physical or emotional they wereand this, the approaching of dusk upon Minas Tirith and Gondor's far-spreading plains, was nothing short of spectacular. Several wispy clouds, shaped like threads of smoke, hung high in the sky, tinted the soft pink so favorable in the frilly dresses of hobbit lasses. Here and there, patches of magnificent magenta and lavender permeated the pink — and where the sun showed through, a globe of orange many times bigger than it usually was throughout the day, the heavens were shot through with shafts of deep gold. And if Sam could train his eyes, hard, he fancied seeing tiny little wiggling lines that were flocks of birds in flight, and the slowly-moving specks that were the horseriders of Rohan upon the fields in their exercise; and he could also tell, if he were truly observant, if it were carrots or cabbages that grew within the many little grids that were the farming fields in the far distance, which had acquired a deep purple hue as opposed from the lush green they were during daybreak. It was only during such a beautiful time of the day that Sam could purely forget about his unexplainable misery, or his worried thoughts about his masterand indeed, without fail, during every seven-o'-clock Gondor had lived through for the past week, Samwise could be perched here, on the very same stone, without fail — staring far into the west while the gentle winds of the East tousled his curly gold locks.

Gentle footsteps, accompanied by the silken rustle of a beaded garment, sounded from behind him — but Sam was too preoccupied with studying the sight in front of him to take any notice to it. He very rarely ran into anybody up here, for it was a private section of the topmost tier, reserved for the members of the Company of Nine that were quartered in its lofty suites. He felt a soft something at his feet, the slight swipe of a velvety fabric — and the ever-so-slight updraft at his side told him, momentarily, that another being had seated itself onto the battlement-block next to him.

"Sunsets on Ithilien are gorgeous, aren't they?" inquired a voice. Sam stirred slightly, though he still could not take his eyes off the landscape — but the voice — a female's - sounded very much fluid, brushed with music — and he likened it to the gentle coaxing of Legolas. Or, the bubbling of the stream of Nimrodel.

"There is but no other word to describe it," he replied, almost absentmindedly — and he shifted again and cupped his chin with a hand. "At least, the Shire hasn't something this awfully pretty."

The voice of the being at his side rose in a laugh — and Sam could not help but feel jarred. It seemed almost as if a nightingale were cooing at his side, or a woodland pigeon — and briefly, he wondered if the women of Gondor truly had such lovely voices.

"You are one of the hobbits," said the voice, and another rustle of silk followed. "Are you not the famed Samwise Gamgee?"

At this Sam wheeled himself around on his seat, finally torn from the sunset — and his willpower failed to keep his jaw from dropping down, and remaining there. It was a damsel, just like the voice had predicted — and oh, she was even lovelier even than her voice. She had a long, lithe form — clothed entirely in a sweeping gown of frothing white lace — and a deluge of gold ripples, the sunlight glinting off it to have it seem like a halo, swirled and cascaded down without abandon. And never before had Sam seen such pale, flawless skin, such long and elegant limbs — nor such sheer beauty upon a face, save that of Arwen the Evenstar, as she turned to him with a divine smile.

Sam's heart was pounding in his ribcage, furiously, and he fancied his face was just about as puffed-up and violently colored as a sugar beet. He struggled hard to form coherent words, and indeed, he fancied it took more of his ability than resisting the fatal pull of the One Ring — and, predictably, all that escaped his lips were a gurgled jumble.

"So you are him!" cried the damsel, and she laughed again, sending wondrous shivers tingling up Sam's spine, a fleeting coldness making the hairs on his neck stand up. "I know your other companions, Merry and Pippin — and as for the Ringbearer himself, the great Frodo Baggins, he has darker hair, and a guanter build — " and at that she extended a long, slender finger and gestured playfully at Sam, "though, not as rosy-cheeked."

And upon hearing the remark, Sam turned even redder, making the damsel giggle once again in amusement — but as for the hobbit, he was at total loss for what to do. Indeed, it seemed as if he had died, received the Gift of Mortals from Ilúvatar, and had gone to Heaven — and unless it was a hallucination that sat in front of him, teasing him, well, angels never came down from the Halls of Mandos unto the Earth to flit about mere insignificant Halflings like him.

"Are you an elf?" he finally blurted out, and after the words escaped his mouth he pinched his lips shut in embarrassment. The damsel's smile, however, did not flag one bit, and she slowly lowered her pointed finger — which, Sam noticed with relish, extended from a gorgeously moulded hand, and a supple wrist — the rest of which was unseen, as it was cloaked and showered over by generous amounts of colorless silk taffeta, studded with gleaming white adamants. He leaned slighly closer, and took the opportunity of the pause to study the damsel's face — he felt so drawn into the eyes, especially, eyes which were a wondrous shimmering blue, just like Mister Frodo's — swirled with slivers of silver, veiled by thick lashes. The two black eyebrows raised themselves slightly and again there was a rustle as she moved a leg.

"You mistake me for an elf," she answered," but, as you will see, I do not have their supple ears. I am just a mortal woman." And, upon saying that, she raised two equally slender fingers, and parted one of her gleaming tresses, exposing a little, delicate round thing of a hearing instrument.

"You can certainly pass for one, my Lady," Sam countered, and he turned his entire pudgy body to face her. "If you hadn't shown me your ears, I would not have been able to tell the difference."

The lady seemed slightly flattered by the praise — for her lovely cheeks became slightly tinged and she gave a small smile. "I think you are too generous in your saying of kind things, Master Gamgee," she said. "You have not truly looked upon the fairest of elves."

"I once saw the Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien," Sam objected. "And, when I was back in Imladris — Rivendell," he quickly interposed, seeing the baffled look on the damsel's face, "I was acquainted with Arwen Undomiel herself, the Lady Evenstar, whom even those of her own kindred say is the living image of the legendary Luthien Tinuviel, fairest of all Children of Ilúvatar."

For some reason, though, upon hearing the Evenstar's name the smile from the damsel's face dropped — and now she looked sad, just like him, almost forlorn. "Yes," she breathed, and it barely came as a whisper to Sam's ears. "I am indeed in no comparison to the Lady Arwen, as many have saidand I think that is why" and, quite suddenly, her voice broke, and an ethereal sparkle slowly came into her eye — the sparkle of a pending tear.

"But, what are opinions?" Sam cried quickly. And he meant it. "Certainly not the ultimatum, or the truth. And I have my own opinions — and I think the Evenstar is not as fair as you, my Lady."

The laugh that sounded this time from the damsel's throat was of incredulity. "Why, Master Hobbit," she said, and she blushed even more, becoming even more beautiful in Sam's eyes — " you flatter me."

"That is my opinion," he said firmly, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Yes, I do not deny that the elves are very fair beings — but I think," and, the last words said in undertone, he leaned slightly towards her, "the most beautiful of all are the ones that are most fleeting."

"Fleeting?" echoed the damsel, and her eyes glinted again. "Why say you?"

Sam gave a long sigh. "The elves — the Quendi — their beauty is immortal, indestructible. It is in their blood, and it lives on, forever. There exists, however, beauty in other races as wellbut their beauty is all the more profound, and sorrowful as well —"

"For you know we are mortal and all of our beauty is to pass some day?" chimed in the damsel.

Sam turned to her. "Why — yes!" he acknowledged. "Mortal beauty, in a sense, seems even more beautiful than elven beauty, in some cases — for it is only temporary, and therefore we cherish it all the more while it lives out its brief years, and mourn for it all the more when it is no more. And the most beautiful of all" and there his eyes developed a faraway look, misted over with a darkness, and the damsel could not help but think the hobbit also beautiful for that one moment — "the most beautiful of all, the flowering tree. Or, more namely, the flowers on the tree. They blossom into life, unexpected, one day, and you cannot help but think them so delicate, so pure — and yet, there comes one harsh wind, or a rain, the very same day they are born — and their flowing masses of petals swirl away, to be gone, or landed into mire, and are dirtied. And nobodycares for them, their slight, subtle but quenched fragrance, and their withered leavesthey all look upon the blooming rose, whose petals last an eternity, and whose incense all can smell, but never once will they ever honor the former, who is in truth, more beautiful, more pureand always, the more wronged and neglected." Sam's voice sundered itself, for he could not continue any longer — and he had to do it, to restrain the wetness that was blurring up his eyes.

"You are very poetic," lilted the damsel, and her eyes, if possible, were shining brighter with even more unshed tears than Sam's. Then, in an effort to lighten the damp situation, she laughed — but it sounded almost forced, even for such a wondrous wont. "You can be counted among the great lore-masters of the elves."

"Nay, I am but nothing," Sam quickly said, but he could not help feel a tug at the corners of his mouth, forcing them to turn upward. "Master Frodo is much better than me, and even better than him is his uncle, Bilbo Baggins — but yes, yes" he trailed off. "I do sometimes get a burst of inspiration."

"And I shall remember that burst of inspiration that I have witnessed from you," she replied. "It was the most beautiful thingthat I have ever heard"

Sam's heart went pit-a-pat.

"You flatter me," he said.

"No!" retorted the damsel, and she lifted her chin, letting the breeze catch her hair in a delightful swirl of gold. "Poets are deserving of praise, even more so than pretty maidens, for their natural beauty is born of their talent, and mindnot their traits." Sam could not help but smile wider, and his cheeks resumed their burning.

"It has been very enjoyable talking to you, Master Gamgee," said the damsel, and she leapt off her high perch with agility that was all but elven-like. "Yet, I must go."

Faint panic seized Sam's heart, and he whirled around, curls jumping. "Shall I see you again, my Lady?" His voice halted the damsel's retreat. "At tonight's dinner banquet, perhaps?"

The golden-haired beauty turned around, and a final smile, the most beautiful of all that Sam had seen on her, graced her rosy lips. "Perhaps," she whispered, her breath coming in faint pulses.

"And —" Sam raised an arm, before she could walk away any further, or turn around —"what is your name, my Lady?"

The smile dropped, and she shook her head, her face paling. "I do not have one," she said, simply. "I do not like mine, so now I go without a name, or a title."

Sam was extremely baffled, but his mind was in such a jumbled state that he could not ponder or concentrate about that one strange assertion. Then, he cast his memory back some, and immediately, a recollection surfaced to him. He remembered when he had been young, and his mother had given him, for his birthday, a child's fairytale book to read — and ever since it had become his most prized possession. Within its brightly illuminated pages, filled with pictures, he remembered a name — a name that had gripped him with a strange emotion ere he read it for the first time, without explanation. The book had said, in a footnote, that in some ancient and forgotten language, it had meant "One Who is Fair yet Disillusioned". It had sounded so forlorn, and so bitterly sweet on his tongue, and in his mind, that although the many stories of that book had faded away, quite some time ago — the name had remained. And, for the damsel, no name could have been more fitting.

"I have one for you," said Sam, and the damsel raised her magnificent head. "I shall call you Isuëlt."

The damsel looked at him, and Sam fancied he were sinking into those eyes of silver-dashed cerulean, so fathomless with glittering sorrow. "Isuëlt," she reverberated, and her lips twitched before curving, once more. "Isuëlt," she repeated, and Sam thought the name even more bitter and beautiful, rolling off her tongue in her pristine voice. "I like that name."

"Then I am all the more pleased, my LadyIsuëlt," said Sam.

The damsel cocked her head and swished her arms. "Until we meet again, Master Gamgee —"

"Sam," the latter cut in.

" — Sam," the damsel breathed, and she nodded at him.

"Tonight," Samwise offered. He had to see this lady, again, sometime. And the sooner it was, the better.

A slight wind whirled up, making several long strands of the damsel's hair float and flutter in an ethereal dance. "Perhaps," she whispered, and, saying no more, she turned, and slowly drifted away in her sparkling mantle of silk and adamant.

"Isuëlt," Sam slowly said, to himself, and he gazed after the angel, as she turned a corner on the battlements and disappeared. Such a perfect match, the name, and the damsel. "Isuëlt"

End Part ONe

Final A/N: Well? Never have I seen Sam get together with anybody besides Frodo (ooookay, really now), or Rosie. So I thought this pairing might make one hell of a possibility — natch. Reviews shall determine whether this goes on or not. At the request of my readersin a few days, this fic shall either be updated, or deleted off this website. Good day to you all. ~ Verok