Autumn's beauty peaked. The trees shed their fiery leaves to the wind as Rivendale's falls sounded their unending hymn. Elrond's hearth burned in welcome to the recently arrived visitors. Elves passed as they went about their business, the most ordinary of them enchanting. The splendor that would have mesmerized Sam, had his master been well and whole, was lost on him. The Hobbit sat outdoors on a stone bench under the eves of the healing rooms. He sighed heavily and often, his head in his hands while leaves danced at his bare feet. Samwise had begged to stay at his master's side, but Gandolf gently put him out.

Glorfindel watched from a short distance beyond. He noticed the other halflings, Merry and Pippin, must have grown too weary to keep vigil with Sam any longer. The Elven knight was fearless in the face of all nine black riders, but reserved at the thought of approaching this small, humble figure suspicious of his motives. He gathered courage and scuffled forward in the leaves, intentionally allowing them to announce him rather than startle Frodo's servant. What words might impart consolation? Glorfindel could think of nothing. Even a greeting seemed an intrusion, so he offered none, but took a seat next to Sam in silence.

To anyone watching from the balconies above, the two presented a contrast so great as to be comic. There was Sam, dark mop of curly hair bent low in grief. His legs were so short his furry feet would not touch the ground from the perch designed for use by Elves more than twice his height. He was dressed in worn clothing, but respectably. Glorfindel looked the noble he was, fair in the brilliance of his golden attire. He was tall among a tall people and crowned with a mithril circlet. What they shared in common was beyond mere sight of the eye, especially the eye of Sauron.

Autumn's last flowers swayed among the withering vines and fallen leaves. The contrast of bright living roses to trees readying for winter's sleep made Glorfinel think of the tenacity of life and of resurrection. Against despair the blooms stood in springtime glory in the face of oncoming winter. The end was not so certain for Frodo either. If he could properly frame his words this thought might be a way of offering solace to the halfling gardener.

"The flowers are in beautiful bloom for the time of year, are they not," asked Glorfindel to begin.

Sam sniffed into a handkerchief and blew his nose in answer, never giving Glorfindel the favor of a glance.

The Elf Lord sighed softly himself and decided there was no wrong way to speak his mind.

"Eru gives the roses life when all else in the garden slips away to the death of winter. Perhaps this is a lesson from the Creator for us concerning your master. Frodo will live, I believe. He cannot die while his destiny goes unfulfilled. This I know for certain," the balrog slayer continued. "Eru would not allow such a thing."

Sam would go on hating Glorfindel in spite of his speech. What destiny should Frodo have beyond his own fireside back home? It was likely this fellow's heartless, harsh treatment of Frodo which added to his agony. How dare he speak of flowers and hope, as if such silliness would make things right? He was guilty of the unforgivable to Sam's mind, and if he had anything to say about it this overesteemed deceiver would pay for his folly. Sam's hand clutched the grip of his sword.

Glorfindel noticed the small hand on the knife's hilt. He kept a properly somber expression for the sake of Sam's dignity when it would have been easier to laugh aloud. No harm would come to the grieving soul, even in self defense. After all, what defense was necessary against the butter knife of a weapon wielded by such a diminutive opponent.

The words reverberated in Sam's confused mind, 'Eru would not allow such a thing.' It seemed Eru allowed a good many things that shouldn't be. He hadn't given the Creator a thought until now. He couldn't say he thought much good of Glorfindel or his God.

After a very long time Samwise released his hold on his sword and said, "if only it were true," nearly unaware he had spoken. He held back a new eruption of tears. Perhaps the Elf knew where of he spoke. He understood Glorfindel had been slain in battle and lived again by some miracle no one cared to explain. Sam wanted to believe that the best was possible and that Frodo would be himself again. He leaned on Glorfindel's arm from sorrow and a need to be close to another living being. It wasn't the Elven warrior he hated, at least not so much, he realized after some thought. It was this whole mess. He desperately missed the Gaffer. It was harvest in the Shire and here he sat so far from home during the very best time of year. If by magic he could go home this instant it wouldn't be the same. It would be joyless without Frodo as he had been. Sam wanted everything as it had been. But that would never happen, and he knew it as well as he knew anything.

"What makes you so sure you know what God has in mind," he asked with a dose of venom. Sam pushed away from the Elf and glared up at him in demand.

The Elven knight petitioned the Lord of all for wisdom and waited for His answer. Glorfindel had visited the dread hall of Mandos and found that even there the hand of Eru upheld His righteous servants. He had enough faith in this truth for Sam and Frodo if theirs where weak at the moment. Not every battle was won with a sword of steel.

"I've met The One. More than met, He is my Master and I know His character, just as you know Frodo and love him." The lord of the house of the golden flower smiled down on the Shire's gardener, sure in his reasoning.

Sam wanted an argument, but how could he argue with one who'd tasted death, who knew what was beyond the veil. All he could do was offer a humph in response. He folded his arms over his chest as he wondered what the Gaffer might say. He didn't know that either. He was tired of worry and suddenly wanted cherry pie with cream, then a pipe of Old Toby.

It seemed to Glorfindel that the Hobbit was satisfied, to a degree, in spite of his weak protest. Perhaps this was a good moment to turn the conversation to food, a subject he'd been told was always of interest to a Hobbit. They loved anything to do with food and ate many meals daily. "Will you take some nourishment," he offered.

"I could do with a bit of something." Sam answered. He would not be over-friendly with the Elf, but there was no sense in starving. Neither was there sense in going without other simple pleasures if they were at hand. "Do you think there's a pinch of pipeweed anywhere about?

"Tell me, what is 'pipeweed,' the guardian of Imladris asked.

"If you know God, you should at least know about pipeweed," Sam quipped as he went toward the flowers Glorfindel had called to his attention. "A bowl of long bottom leaf after a good meal is as close to heaven as it gets."

Glorfindel laughed, knowing full well of halfling's leaf and not caring for it. "Lord Elrond's guests bring gifts from every corner of the world, no doubt some can be found."

The Hobbit and the Noldor took in the scent of the roses. Sam plucked one of the blossoms for luck before the two of them left the garden for the kitchen. Just after they turned away, a strong gust set the stems dancing and scattered the petals to the wind.