"In Western lands beneath the Sun,
the flowers may rise in Spring,
the trees may bud, the waters run,
the merry finches sing."
I sat on a stone step, horribly lost, deep in Mordor. My master was gone. Mr. Frodo, taken by orcs! I didn't know where they took him. In a moment of despair (and to my own surprise), I had begun to sing, there on the step.
My voice, the voice of a weary hobbit, thin and quavering, sang softly, old rhymes of Bilbo's and others. Suddenly, at the end of all things, I found new courage and sang my own words to a simple tune. My voice rang out.
"Or there may be 'tis cloudless night
and swaying beeches bear
the Elven Stars and jewels white
amid their branching hair."
I thought of Galadriel, her piercing gaze, her beauty. I thought of the moment in Lothlorien where she had looked into my eyes, indeed, into my thoughts, and said (although not verbally, if you get my meaning) "faithful hobbit, you have followed your master well, constantly helping him with unwavering hope as a true friend. If in need of wisdom, ask your heart and it will guide you."
I blushed, remembering how I had done so then.
"Though here at journey's end I lie
in darkness buried deep,
beyond all towers strong and high,
beyond all mountains steep,"
It was all I could do to keep heart. My song was all I had left to encourage me, here at the end of all things. It made me want to be glad, even here, lost, without a trace of hope. Oh, Frodo, Mr. Frodo, where were you?
"above all shadows rides the Sun
and Stars forever dwell;
I will not say the day is done,
nor bid the Stars farewell."
It had been days since I had seen stars, seen the sky or breathed clean air. Just singing about them made it seem even a little bit better, if you take my meaning. The halls did seem less gloomy and evil.
"Beyond all towers strong and high,"
I began, and then stopped. Was it my own imagination, or had another voice answered mine? I strained my ears, listening. Nothing, only unbroken silence responded to my voice. Wait, I heard something, but it wasn't a voice. Someone was coming, someone had heard me! The footfall was too heavy for a hobbit, and luckily it was only one person. I listened, crouching down.
A door opened in the passage above, spilling out a wedge of grey light, and although dull, it startled my eyes. I squinted in the light, trying to get accustomed to it. The door closed, and although I couldn't see clearly, I knew that an orc stood in the corridor.
"Ho, la!" it snarled. "You up there, you dunghill rat! Stop your squeaking, or I'll come and deal with you. D'you hear?"
I held my breath and peered over the passage threshold.
"All right," the orc growled, after getting no response. "but I'll come and have a look at you all the same and see what you're up to."
The orc opened the door once more, light spilling out, and he came out again, carrying what appeared to be a ladder.
"Of course," I thought, "the topmost chamber can be reached by a trap-door, and it might be hidden in the roof of the passage! Mr. Frodo might be up there!"
But I hardly dared to hope. The orc carried a ladder out into the passageway. He propped it up and proceeded to climb it, and then disappeared. "You lie quiet, or you'll pay for it!" it's hideous voice growled. "You've not got long to live in peace, I guess; but if you don't want the fun to begin right now, keep your trap shut, see? There's a reminder for you!"
The sound of a whip cracked and its snap echoed through the corridor. Sudden fury raged in my heart and I bolted up the ladder. I leapt across the floor with a cry and without second thought; I sliced the orc's hand from its arm. It fell to the floor, still clutching the whip. In wild haste the beast tripped on the ladder head and fell through the trap door to its death.
I ran to Frodo, lying naked on the floor. "Frodo, Mr. Frodo, my dear! It's Sam," I said "I've come!" In that moment, tears flooded my eyes and my memories with them.
Memories of Frodo as a boy, playing with me, romping in the fields, running, and jumping and laughing.
Memories of Mr. Bilbo's eleventy-first birthday party, of Gandalf pulling my ear and accusing me of dropping eaves. Of the frightening Black Riders.
Memories of the Barrow-wight. Of Bree, of Butterbur, and of Strider.
I remembered Mr. Frodo getting hurt on Weathertop, of getting healed at Rivendell, and of seeing Mr. Bilbo again.
I remembered the terribly cold trek on Caradhras, the ambush form the wolves, the Balrog in Moria; of Gandalf as he fell.
I remembered going to Lorien and receiving Galadriel's gift. Of following Mr. Frodo, and almost getting drownded; of descending Emyn Muil, meeting Gollum. Of the passage of the Dead Marshes, The Morgul Road, and the crossroads.
Of Gollum's betrayal at Cirith Ungol and in Shelob's Lair.
"Am I dreaming?" Mr. Frodo asked. "But, the other dreams were horrible."
"You're not dreaming, at all, Master," I replied. "It's real. It's me. I've come."
It is real. It is me. I have come.
I wished with all my heart to see my master happy again, eating strawberries, stealing mushrooms, romping in fields. But for now, I was content merely to see him alive.
I didn't care if the mission were hopeless. I didn't care if we failed. I was not alone, and as long as friendship prevails, my hope will not falter.
Fin.