It was the kind of warm summer day he had missed. The kind where the sun was shining and the wind blew softly, bringing with it the sweet smell of fields and the first of the blooming flowers. Children yelled and played as if there was nothing at all wrong with the world, as if there was no danger, no war. Sam missed the times he had been oblivious to the world that lived and breathed beyond the Shire. He missed not knowing there was so much death beyond the green hills and fields.

Years had passed since then. Yet, no matter how many years continued to pass the journey was not forgotten. Every day he was thankful to be alive, to be home. Thankful to be a husband and a father, thankful for every last thing he had.

"Sam! Sam!"

He looked away from the rolling hills to the band of young children who ran up the road and through his gate, their eyes like saucers and smiles on their faces.

"Ay, what can I do for you?" he asked with a smile as he set his pipe down, smiling at the throng.

"Tell us a story," one eager faced boy replied. "The story of Frodo and the Ring."

He could feel his smile become a sadder one, one of remembrance. "I told you, Mr. Frodo," he thought. "I told you they would tell stories of you long after you'd gone."

"Sam?"

He returned from his thoughts at the sound of his name and smiled again. "Alright," he said. "I'll tell you the story of Frodo Baggins, and the burden he carried so that the world might survive."

"Don't forget Samwise the Brave!" one said excitedly.

"Yes," he nodded. "And Samwise the Brave."

The young ones sat in anticipation as he began. As he traced every step of the journey he himself had taken he felt a familiar weight pull at his heart. It began with the departure from the Shire, the long walk away from home to a place they had not known. Merry and Pippen and Farmer Maggot's garden, the dark riders… There was so much to tell. The ever growing weight of the ring, and Mr. Frodo's determination to see it destroyed. How they clung to a seemingly none existent hope. A hope that had seemed lost and far away, something no one could reach or hold to, something that seemed to slip from fingers the moment they seemed to grasp it. The hope that had kept them moving until the very end.

He told of the creature Gollum and of Shelob and Orcs and Goblins and all the perils that had been faced. Of Gandalf without whom they would have never made it as far as they did. Of Aragorn, the lost king of men and a brave warrior. Of Legolas the Elvin archer and of Gimli the proud Dwarf. There was a familiar tug at his heart as he spoke of those who had come to their aid even without being asked and who had fought and died so that the world may remain as it was. Died so that they may walk just a little farther, bringing the ring just a little closer to its destruction.

They hung on every word, every detail of the adventure. He could not blame them. If there had been such a tail as this when he was a young boy he would have loved to hear again and again. The story ended with the return to the Shire, the return home. The destruction of the ring and the hope that had returned to the hearts of the people of Middle Earth.

"But what of Frodo?" they asked, eyes wide.

Again his heart hung a little heavier. That was the hardest part of the story. For four years he had wanted nothing more than to believe that everything had returned to the way it should be, that all was right again only to find that things were not so right. Only to watch one of his dearest friends sail away and knowing that he would never see him again.

"No one really knows," Sam smiled gently as he looked from face to face. "One day, he disappeared just as Bilbo had. That's the thing with Baggins," his smile widened, "they're always running off without a single word of where they're going til it's too late to stop them."

He sat back and let his gaze wonder to the gate. So many times had he looked at that gate to see the smiling face of his friend waiting for him. So many times had he taken that smile for granted, never dreaming of a day where he would be without it. Never realizing how he would wish for that smile.

"Go on now," he said to the young still sitting at his feet. "Go and play."

They thanked him for the story and ran off, laughing and calling to one another as they went, leaving him alone. Picking up his pipe he looked at the sky. That story had taken place so long ago, yet it felt as though it had just happened yesterday. So much had changed since then, the calm almost didn't seem right.

He didn't go on adventures anymore, he didn't carry a sword, or climb mountains or fight. He was just Sam now. The Sam that told one of the best stories of the Shire, to whom the children flocked to hear the tales of Frodo Baggins, of lands they would never see and people who had long since gone. To hear a story that he would never forget, that lived in his very flesh and soul. He would tell the story again tomorrow, and the day after that, and when he had died the children whom he had told would tell their children and the story would live on. No one would ever forget it and he wouldn't have it any other way. It had become a story that meant something, one where they could have turned back and forsaken their quest, one where they had been tested and had overcome. It was a sad story, but it was a good and true one too.

He puffed on his pipe and smiled.

"I told you, Mr. Frodo. Everyone's always wantin' to hear stories of your adventures."