First Night
(Second in the BFS series)
Westel
He woke with a start, rising up to listen in the dark hour before dawn. He could feel his heart racing, his body braced to spring from his bed as it had so many times before.
But there was no need.
No sound in the night, no whimper of pain, no dream-cry from down the hall. . .
For there was no one there. Not anymore.
It's just your imagination, he thought, glancing over at Rose, who slept undisturbed. You're still upset, is all.
The gardener pushed aside the bedclothes and crept quietly from the bed, his eyes taking in the beauty of his wife who lay unaware in the moonlight, her breathing soft and her hair spread out upon the pillow.
He walked quietly as only hobbits can to the bedroom door, left open so Rose could hear if Elanor called for her, and turned down the darkened hall to his daughter's room, just next door.
Her door was open as well, and the setting moon shed its subtle glow upon the little girl, her bright curls shimmering blue-gold in the fairy light. He padded to her bedside, looking down upon her with tender eyes, enthralled by her delicate features. She lay on her side, rosebud lips slightly parted. One arm was curled under her head, the other stretched out on the sheet, the fingers limp and pink in the warmth of her sleep. Unable to restrain himself, her father touched one rosy cheek with his finger. She moved, the lips pursing, the arm curling closer to the little body; then she was still again, her rest untouched. Sam pulled a light blanket over her shoulders and went back out into the hall. He glanced at the closed door opposite him, closed his eyes for a moment, then turned and went through the sitting room and kitchen, and out the garden door.
It was a restless night, the wind fretting in the branches of the fruit trees, their fall colours grey in the setting moonlight. Leaves that had already lost their battle with the season scuttled along the ground, touching his feet with their brittle fingers before tumbling down the hill and into the lane. A soft, wet smell was in the air; there would be rain soon.
Though he shivered in his nightshirt, Sam breathed deeply, savoring the wildness of the night that mirrored his own turbulent feelings, and looked up at the stars. Low-scudding clouds hurried across the sky, concealing, then revealing the bright orbs of light. He wondered if the brightest of them was Eärendil, the star of the Elves, and he wondered if Frodo was looking upon the same star somewhere out on the water, or whether he had already reached the sundered lands of the West and slept the sweet sleep of renewed hope and peace.
No sense worrying yourself with that, Sam Gamgee, he chastised himself. Mr. Frodo's gone far away, away from anything that you could have done for him, away from the Shire 'n all. He's gone. . .
He shuddered, a wave of grief gripping his already sore heart like pincers, and a groan escaped him before he could stop it.
For his friend was indeed gone from him—his dearest friend, whom he loved more than he loved himself—and there was a great, aching hole in his heart. Sam sank slowly to his knees, his cries silent and unobserved, oblivious to the chill of the stone upon which he knelt.
Long time he was there, with the wind whipping his hair and the stars peeking at him from between the clouds.
Then the cock crowed. . .
And the rain began to gently fall.
The weather had at last turned. The growing months were ended, and the earth was laid to rest for another season.
But the day was starting; Sam had weathered the first night at Bag End without Mr. Frodo—and now he must face the first inexorable day.
He stood, scrubbing his face on his sleeve, and looked around him. He drew a breath.
"Nothing for it," he said, softly, and walked back into the house.
The End