Title: Is it I?
Author: Suiren-chan
Rating: PG
Pairing: S/F (without mention of F's name)
Summary: Sam remembers times in at Bag End and his mind gets lost in the past.
Disclaimer: Sam and his ponderous thoughts aren't mine. Based on the translated version of the Spanish poem "Soy yo quien anda?" by Juan Ramón Jiménez. The full poem follows the story.
Is it I who walks, this night
by my room, or the servant
who walked around my garden
at the fall of the afternoon?
Sam peered into the darkened window of one of the many bedrooms in the Bag End smial from the outside. All were dark at this late hour of the night, as he walked about the garden, and all had their curtains fluttering behind the sill in the gentle breeze. But this one, this window was closed.
Sam walked up to the window box filled with lovely flowers that he had planted to give color to the dreary room. Beyond them, the bed was as it should be, almost three steps from the stiff curtains. The desk stood opposite it with a feather quill set motionless in unused ink. Everything was too neat and organized from what Sam remembered. It was still as if it were frozen in time.
He vaguely realized he had his nose pressed against the glass, and the green rosemary tickled his chin, itching him to remember what he chose to forget in these recent busy days, and years. That was the reason he planted it; to remember. Rosemary was for remembrance, violets for faithfulness, daisies for innocence, forget-me-nots the color of his eyes for fond memories, bluebells for humility, and gladiolus for strength. All of the qualities he possessed made him so dear to Sam, so he planted a young lilac bush that stood for happiness, underneath the window. Judging by how tall it grew, and by the gardener's faith, Sam was sure his master had found some.
His eyes continued to wander past the glass through the sacred room until they rested on a single rose for love. He had placed it in a slender glass vase on the bookshelf next to the Red Book of Westmarch, which matched its color.
I look
around and find that all
is the same and is not the same.
The window was open.
I have not slept.
Sam shifted his feet and rubbed his weary eyes with the back of his hand. He should go back to bed, but he couldn't keep his thoughts in the present time. He dug his toes into the earth as if to try. His peaceful garden eased his troubled mind and offered consolation. Sam thought it funny how he had gardened for nearly everyone else, but never took the time to be among the flowers and just...enjoy them.
The moon shone bright on the green grass, rolling in the wind like the sea. This same window had been open and inviting in years past, but now Sam kept it closed off. This bedroom and study was alive with memories, and that was how he kept it. No one slept there or interrupted its stillness.
The garden was green
from the moon...The sky was clean
and blue...and there are clouds and wind
and the garden is somber...
Everything used to be so quiet, like the garden at this moment where he stood. Sam sighed softly as he unlocked the fond memories of his days as a servant here – when it wasn't his garden. Now Bag End – The Hill as it was called – was the busiest, loudest place in Hobbiton, and the flowers were his, and so was the smial, and every room his children shared...except this one.
Everything was the same, and not the same at the same time.
I believe that my hair was
golden...and I dressed
in green...and my hair is white
and I am dressed in mourning.
This was the present, but it was so easy to get lost in the past. Sam put aside his troublesome thoughts of being deserted, of his leaving – his friend and master. Sam closed his eyes to block out the night and thought of those beautiful mornings that used to be.
The dawn sun would shine bright on his golden hair as he walked briskly up the hill each day. When he reached the top, he came face to face with a closed door and darkened windows, but he smiled, unlocked the door, and set himself to work. On cold, winter days, he would start the fire and on the lovely warm days he would tend the flowers. But to Sam, every day in Bag End was lovely.
The servant would then go inside and begin to prepare second breakfast, having only a little bread and butter in his stomach from his first. Each day he cooked up something different, something always special because he made it with such care and joy. It was a job where the money only mattered to his Gaffer. Sam felt repaid by his dear master's smile every morning of every day for so long.
But his favorite part of that morning was drawing back the light material of the curtains to let the warm sunshine in the bedroom. That bedroom. Sam came back to his senses – this bedroom. The elderly hobbit squeezed his eyes shut to not loose the forgotten image he repainted. He would look upon a sleeping angel's face with a glowing halo of gold and white around his dark hair. The servant would whisper his name, reluctantly having to wake him, and he would wake to the soft sound. Bright eyes would open slowly and a lazy smile would appear on the angel's face. His face. And to Sam's honor he would greet him this way every morning, never tiring of saying simply:
"Good morning, Sam."
Is it mine,
this walk? Does it have this voice
that now sounds in me, the rhythm
of the voice that I had?
Sam opened his now tear-filled eyes. The memory was so vivid in his mind that he felt he had transported himself there. Oh, if only... but one look at his own wrinkled hands told him the truth. He would never be able to go back to those moments. They existed only in his mind and were only a temporary comfort.
His hands were garden-calloused and aged, so different from those past years. So much had happened since then, and much of it Sam didn't wish to recall – all of his reasons for leaving. Sam wiped away his silent tears with these old hands, tears he hadn't dared to cry since...
No, he wouldn't say it. He needn't think of it. He should go back inside. Give up! Forget... Everything had changed. He should not be walking here.
Is it I, or is it the servant
who walked around my garden,
at the fall of the afternoon?
Who was he? Sam Gamgee, servant of the heir to Bag End, or Samwise Gard'ner, heir of The Hill himself and mayor of the place he'd loved and lived for so long? It was as if he led two lives in the same place – and he had. He had lived – was living – in two completely different, equally unordinary existences. One in the past – the one in his mind, and one in the present – the one consisting of the people in this hole resting their own heads.
And he could never prefer one over the other, so why bother wishing? But then, why plant rosemary under the windowsill if one had no wish to remember?
I look
around...There are clouds and wind...
The garden is somber...
and I go and I come...is it that I
have not slept yet?
My hair is white...and all
is the same and is not the same.
No, he would not drive himself insane with want of something he did not have. Of someone he could not see. Yes, he would go inside and be thankful for what he had now and what he had been blessed with then.
But Sam would return to the garden soon, this much was certain. He would again peer through the dusty window and dream of days gone by, and hope of their return. He would be servant and master, father and husband, friend and dreamer. And though the hobbit's life had changed since then, mayhap it wasn't through changing. Mayhap he had another life to lead...
But no matter what happened, or what may happen – nothing would ever be the same.
AN: This is the poem that inspired me.
¿Soy yo quien anda?
Juan Ramón Jiménez
¿Soy yo quien anda, esta noche,
por mi cuarto, o el mendigo
que rondaba mi jardín
al caer la tarde?
Miro
en torno y hallo que todo
es lo mismo y no es lo mismo
¿La ventana estaba abierta?
¿Yo no me había dormido?
¿El jardín no estaba verde
de la luna?... ...El cielo era limpio
y azul...Y hay nubes y viento
y el jardín está sombrío...
Creo que mi barba era
negra...Yo estaba vestido
de gris...Y mi barba es blanca
y estoy enlutado...¿Es mío
este andar? ¿Tiene esta voz,
que ahora suena en mi, los ritmos
de la voz que yo tenía?
¿Soy yo, o soy el mendigo,
que rondaba mi jardín,
al caer la tarde?
Miro
en torno...Hay nubes y viento...
El jardín está sombrío...
...Y voy y vengo... ¿Es que yo
no me había ya dormido?
Mi barba está blanca...Y todo
es lo mismo y no es lo mismmo.
Is it I who walks, this night
by my room, or the beggar
who walked around my garden
at the fall of the afternoon?
Translation
I look
around and find that all
is the same and is not the same
The window was open?
I have not slept?
The garden was not green
from the moon?... ...The sky was clean
and blue...And there are clouds and wind
and the garden is somber...
I believe that my beard was
black...and I dressed
in grey...and my beard is white
and I am dressed in mourning...Is it mine
this walk? Does it have this voice
that now sounds in me, the rhythm
of the voice that I had?
Is it I, or is it the beggar
who walked around my garden,
at the fall of the afternoon?
I look
around...There are clouds and wind...
The garden is somber...
...and I go and I come...is it that I
had not slept yet?
My beard is white...and all
is the same and is not the same.
Suiren-chan