Sam's Legacy
Disclaimer: These beautiful characters are not mine. They were made by John Ronald Reuel Tolkien and all credit must go to him. This little fanfic is only a shadow of his painstaking work and the greater story that lies within.
Honestly, I don't know how I dare write this.
Shafts of fading light cast through the mist that rolled off the sea, heralding nights coming with silent voices, only to retreat again when dawn came. In his chair by the fire a hobbit awoke, for no reason he could tell. He almost cried out "Bilbo!" before he remembered, for perhaps the hundredth time, that Bilbo was no longer there. Outside the window the soft white tendrils stole past to cover the green land of Valinor in a soothing blanket of chill. The hobbit rubbed his arms and then rose from his chair to peer out of the window. Something in the mist tugged at him irresistibly, drawing him to the sea he had once crossed, back when the pain was fresh. Undecidedly he half-reached for his coat, letting his hand hover over it as if trying to summon an answer from it. Then a glimpse, as quick and powerful as a lightning stroke, of a feeling he knew only too well. Trembling with joy he stumbled to the door, wrestling his coat on, and rushed out, leaving it open then dashing back to close it and pacing off through the mists as fast as age allowed with his hands extended to ward off rocks, tree stumps, anything that could slow his progress. And every blade of grass he touched, every pebble he moved, even the heralding mist itself, seemed to cry out with joy in his mind. "He's coming!"
Erindar stood on the deck of his ship feeling the salt breeze ripple at his hair, quenching the sea-longing of his kindred. With each moment that passed the gentle slapping song of the clear waters eased his heart. Other elves making the same final journey sang gaily as they brought up lamps from below deck to ward off the night that was quickly taking hold, spreading forth from the lands they had left behind. All set their bright eyes westward to the smudge that now grew on the western horizon, silhouetted by the setting sun. He knew they were tingling all over, as was he, feeling the pull of Valinor but they were content to feel it and wait with a fierce anticipation, knowing that each minute they drew closer. After all, what was a short wait longer when they would have forever to enjoy every dewdrop?
But there was one on his ship who did not share the delight of the crew. He stood now at the bow of the ship, behind the carven prow with his bowed back turned to the twinkling lights and the laughter and the haunting songs that span out across the mists. A Pheriain he was, barely half the height of the captain, and in the yellow light hung at the bow his gently curling hair was the golden-brown of a wheat harvest, gathered with love and care for every stem, though it was now shot through with white and grey lines. Now and again he leant more heavily on the rail, still recovering from a sea-sickness that has shown itself from the moment this Halfling tentatively boarded the ship; shuffling along clutching the rail with white knuckles. Swiftly the now famed words "pheriain, halfling, hobbit" had run up and down the dock and every elf, man or otherwise knew the name the name and stories of this one ere he boarded, but the Halfling seemed neither to want or even feel the honour such a name bore now. On every day he had been well enough –and some when he had not- he stood at the prow of the ship, gazing westward and pleading for elvish far-sight to make the isle seem closer, for reasons the captain could only guess at from the stories. Even from his station by the helm the elf could see the silver tears that lay on his cheeks, a myriad of stars caught in their gleam, and he wondered.
Sam made no secret of his tears. How could he, when there was so much to cry of? When his master had left him on the shores of Middle Earth he had been content to live with only half a heart, though it ached, because Frodo had wished him to have something of the life he had lost. But now his beautiful Rose was gone too and both halves were broken. And so despite his delight at seeing his dear, dear master again, he cried, partly for his own selfish sake and partly because he finally felt the same pain his master had felt at their parting. Half his master's heart had been worn to nothing by the Great Quest, as the men in Gondor now called it, so Thain Peregrin had said, and half of it left in the clumsy earth-stained hands of a gardener.
The road to the Havens had been long and lonely, few elves now remained to light the paths with their song, and he had made the journey alone. Master Merry and Thain Peregrin had guessed he was leaving, he was certain. They had said goodbye to him shortly after Rose's burial.
"You were meant to be solid and whole, Sam, and you will be." And he had been, and now he needed to be again.
But the captain knew little of this. All he saw was a weary Halfling filled with more pain and patience and hurt and kindness and love than even the wisdom of an elf could fathom. A Halfling leaning on the rail of his ship and needing almost as much healing from the Blessed Realm as his master.
The hobbit hurried on through the mist and darkness, tripping on clumps of grass or roots but barely noticing in his excitement. The salty waves of white stung his eyes and for a moment he shut them to blink and wipe them but in that moment and tall figure loomed out of the mist and the hobbit collided with it before he had time to look up. A large weathered hand materialised before him to help him up.
"You'd best keep your eyes on the road, Frodo my lad, or it'll be your head next time."
"Gandalf!" Frodo cried. The kind eyes wrinkled at the corners as the White Wizard smiled down on him.
"Indeed. And what may a respectable hobbit like yourself be doing out of doors at this time of night?" Normally Frodo would have played along but this time he was too hurried.
"Gandalf," he said breathlessly, "will you come with me to the dock? Please."
"And why the docks?" Gandalf persisted. A light jumped into Frodo's round eyes.
"He's coming," he gasped in barely a whisper, barely believing it. "He's finally coming Gandalf and I need you to come with me; I don't think I can bear the wait on my own." Gandalf knowing smile broadened.
"Of course I'll come," he said, "but you needn't rush. The ship will not be arrive until dawn, the wind is too gentle, so you can slow down, Master Baggins, and enjoy your walk." Frodo looked up at his friend in surprise.
"You knew!" he exclaimed. The wizard's smirk broke into a chuckle.
"Yes I knew," he admitted. "As a matter of fact I was just on my way to fetch you." Gandalf turned and the two began to walk back towards to docks. "I suppose I should have expected that you would also sense his coming."
"I just have… a feeling," Frodo said," and it's him, Gandalf. It has to be my Sam. It feels like I've been waiting forever, especially since Bilbo's passing." His voice grew a little softer. "I came here to become whole again, Gandalf. But when we sailed Sam kept a little part of me. I think it was always his and I don't grudge him it at all but I can't be whole without him. There is one last piece of healing to be done here, Gandalf, and I think we must somehow do it together." Without realising it, Frodo's voice had sunk to a distracted murmur but Gandalf nodded, catching every word of it. Now silent, they continued along the track together, listening with rising anticipation and smiles they tried to suppress, to the smooth rushing sound of the waves upon the shore.
"Gandalf, you do think he'll be alright don't you?" The wizard looked down at him.
"What do you mean?" Frodo drew his wounded right hand across his chest and let it rest for a moment on his shoulder. Then it dropped again.
"Nothing," he said lightly. "I just thought... it's nothing." He paused.
"I'm sure the elves will look after him," said Gandalf reassuringly. Frodo nodded and plucked a piece of grass as they passed, playing with it between his fingers.
"It's only… Sam and boats. And it's such a long way. I don't know," he trailed off anxiously. Gandalf placed a large hand on his shoulder.
"Sam would jump the stars for you, Frodo. I shouldn't think he'd let all the oceans in the world get in his way if you were on the other side."
"Nor all the orcs in Mordor." Frodo sighed nostalgically, though not without a slight twinge in his hand. "Though that was a long time ago. I shouldn't think there are many orcs left there now. But still." Gandalf gave Frodo a piercing gaze.
"You, Frodo my lad, are a very fortunate hobbit," he said quietly. Frodo glanced back up at him and then stared at his right hand again.
"I know," he said. "I know."
By the time they reached the port Frodo was almost exhausted and sat on the quay watching with eager eyes as the ship drew nearer with Gandalf at his shoulder. In the dawn light that was beginning to tint the eastern sky with pink, the old wizard could make out the masts and a few people on the deck. But his attention was mainly directed at Frodo. Even though they were both sure that the Ring had 'stretched' Frodo as much, if not more than it had Bilbo, 114 was still quite old for a hobbit. However he would not deny Frodo this meeting for the earth. Minutes grew into hours and hours seemed like great ages of the earth as the ship drew closer. Elves rushed forward to tie her fast and the hobbits' eyes, bright in the dark, did not miss a single footstep of any elf that stepped ashore. As what seemed to be the final one leapt lightly off the gangplank, Frodo turned to Gandalf but could find no words. But Gandalf stared at the ship, sensing movement as a small, slow figure made its way shakily to the gangplank and shuffled down it, keeping directly to the middle and Frodo, close to tears, looked back and saw him and Sam's hazel eyes locked with his. Ignorant of any other obstacle he stumbled as fast as he could toward his master, falling over ropes, planks and tackle. Elves leapt out of the path of this small brown-eyed thunderbolt. Numb with joy, Frodo rose to his feet and reached out a hand for Sam. His battered right hand. And Sam reached it and tenderly grasped it and drew it to him, sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh master, master, dear master," he cried and Frodo, overwhelmed, could only clutch his Sam to him, his own Sam, more precious than all the earth.