Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien's estate.
Dedicated: For Manwathiel Melda.
Unsuitability
"Just a lowly farmer's daughter…"
"She works as a barmaid at the Green Dragon…among all those rowdy, drunk, flirting hobbits. Can you imagine? Mama would be horrified if that was me!"
"All those numerous freckles!"
"She is not really that pretty."
"What on earth does he see in her?"
"Rose-lass?"
The tentative fingers on her arm causes the lass to jerk in surprise, snapping her from her memories, and she accidently spills her tea over the picnic blanket. Her cheeks burn hotly at her clumsiness and she stammers an apology as Samwise uses a napkin to clean up the split drink.
"No harm done," Sam says with a kind smile, his eyes reassuring.
Rosie cannot return the smile and turns her face away, her uneasy musings refusing to loosen their grasp. She stares unseeingly at the wildflowers swaying in the wind.
"She is nobody. He is somebody highly viewed in the whole Shire: Samwise the Brave. Not quite proper for him to be seeing the likes of her, no indeed."
"Rosebud? What is the matter?" Sam's voice is low, piercing her dark thoughts and sending them racing away. Long has it been since he used that childhood nickname.
She turns back and takes in his furrowed brow, questioning eyes, turned down lips. Shakily she sets down her teacup and focuses on clasping her hands in her lap.
"Perhaps this is a mistake," she murmurs half to herself, thinking out loud.
"What is a mistake?" The hobbit ducks his head in an unsuccessful attempt to catch her gaze.
Absently the lass traces the faint white scar on the back of her left hand with her thumb; is it one of the lingering reminders of that long, dark year. Rosie's gaze leaps up when Sam takes her hand in his, tenderly brushing his fingers over the scar. His touch feels like a healing balm. His light eyes steadily hold her dark ones.
"Tell me, please," he requests, some undefinable emotion flickering momentarily in his expression.
"This…you, me," the words tumble over one another in a hurried jumble. "I am not, there are others more suitable. I'm not the same girl from the year before. And you…things are not what they used to be."
She pauses, seeing the growing cloud of confusion in Sam's eyes which match her own feelings. Suddenly fighting back tears, her gaze wanders over the lovely picnic now forgotten and abandoned (he is so terribly sweet), his little bouquet resting atop her shawl, and her hand resting still in his. She shakes her head with a sense of defeat. Her whirling uncertainties and wonderings still themselves into a single question.
Her words come out a bare whisper, "Why would you – court me at all?"
Sam's eyes widen and he looks as though her words have slapped him. "You do not know?" Pain fills his face when she shakes her head. "Oh, Rosie. You are kind, encouraging, brave, and generous. You have a caring and faithful spirit. You do not hold with nonsense yet find time to enjoy yourself. You held on to hope even when all seemed lost here in the Shire. Among the thorns you bloomed. You look at me as simply Sam Gamgee, not the legend Samwise the Brave. In your warm smile I feel I have come home."
By now Sam has shifted close enough for his warm breath to fan over Rosie's amazed face. Carefully he brings up his free hand to rest delicately against her cheek. Just before he daringly leans in and brushes his lips against hers for the first time he says:
"How could I not fall in love?"
THE END