Disclaimer: I own nothing. This fic was slightly inspired by the song Disenchanted by My Chemical Romance, which I also do not own.
This could possibly be considered AU; it's been a few years since I've read The Lord of the Rings, and don't remember all the details. As for slashy? You decide.
Sam looked ahead through the misty night, his rheumy eyes just able to discern the light on the horizon. The captain said it meant they would dock just before dawn. He was anxious, ready to be someplace new. He now understood how Frodo had felt, so many years ago. That longing, the inexplicable sensation that Middle-earth was no longer for him.
He had been too long on the ship as well. He had finally gotten used to the rocking, but the sea air did something to his already-achy joints. The chill, constantly present, had crept into his clothing and then into his skin and his bones, forcing him to always keep a blanket around his shoulders.
But still, even with the cold, unwelcoming mist, he sat night and day upon the deck, looking out beyond. He could sense it getting closer, even though there was no sign of land. His heart pounded eagerly, excitedly. He felt his aged face lift in a smile when he thought he could smell earth. And then that small, gleaming orb of light came into view, and he knew that he would soon be home.
But even more than the thought of home…there was Frodo. His closest friend—more than that. It had been so many years. Countless ages. The thought of being reunited brought a vigor to his ancient frame, his shaking hands. He didn't dare let his mind take that other path, the thought that maybe he wouldn't be…
Sam shook his head, wiping the errant tears from his eyes. That fear had plagued him for years, and he knew that it was wrong.
The watcher in the nest called out, signaling land. Sam looked eastward, where sea met sky, and saw a thin gray line that was beginning to make itself known. He turned to look at the Elves—only a few of the handful left in Middle-earth. They were busying themselves with preparations for departure, gathering up crates and barrels, ropes and nets. Though they were silent and stoic as always, there was a subtle joy to their movements, hinting at immeasurable contentment and happiness with which Sam could empathize.
He could barely contain himself when the small boat was lowered from the side of the ship, ready to take him into the bay. He had traveled all over Middle-earth, from the Shire to Rivendell to Mordor, and had seen fearful warriors and massive oliphaunts—he had had an adventure worthy of a storybook, but nothing could compare to the excitement he felt now.
He was helped into the boat, and sat in the prow with a blanket pulled close about his thin shoulders. He was shaking, but it wasn't from age. He knew that Valinor was the most beautiful place he had ever seen, and he wasn't even there yet.
It was perhaps an hour and half of steady rowing, and then…they were there. He stepped onto the cool granite of the dock, looking around in awe. Bright, white torches gleamed in the wan light of the coming dawn, illuminating the intricate details of the soaring arches and towers. They glistened off the lapping waters, sending dashes of light over everything. A flash of pure white struck Sam's eyes, and he squinted. As he did so, a tall, familiar form came into being.
"Gandalf," he breathed, beaming.
The old wizard nodded, a smile on his face, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"What's wrong?" Sam murmured, suddenly fearful. His heart began to pound again, but not in the same jovial way. He wished he hadn't thought it, but he couldn't help it. There was Gandalf, and behind him Elrond, Galadriel, a host of Elves he didn't know, but…he wasn't there.
Tears sprang to his eyes, and Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder. The pain of their first leave-taking rushed back to him, almost buckling his knees. A sob caught in his throat, and he looked up at the wizard, and saw that he had tears in his eyes as well. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye.