Not yet, a familiar voice seemed to say. Not just yet.
He often thought, during those long days of peace, that he would like to go to where Frodo's body had been laid to rest. Gandalf had offered to take him, but to Sam the offer seemed half-hearted, the wizard mumbling something about a boat ride and a night spent under the stars—meaning no shelter—and Sam suspected old Greyhame had grown rather fond of having a roof over his head and a footstool at his feet. But the hobbit was no fool—he knew there must be a deeper reason, and for his part, he realized that he was not ready to see Frodo's name etched in stone.
ooOOoo
Sam still dreamed. But the dreams had altered—providing sharply-drawn windows into Frodo's life in the Undying Lands—brief but clear vignettes which played themselves out as if Sam were actually seeing them with his living eyes. Beautiful yet painful they were at first, the very sight of his friend burning Sam's heart like a brand, but as the months and years went by, they no longer hurt as much, leaving behind rather a deep sense of calm as he lingered in that far, sweet land. Indeed, after several years had passed, he found that he no longer clung to his dreams as he used. Slowly, slowly—emerging so gradually from his grief and pain that even he did not at first recognize it—Sam came to cherish them for what they truly were.
For the dreams could only be gifts from Ilúvatar, who had given Sam the courage to open the box, and who now brought comfort to a lonely hobbit bereft of his dearest friend.
ooOOoo
Then, at the end of the third growing season in his nineteenth year, (for there were no winters in the Undying Lands, just times of respite when only tree, leaf and sky quietly blended their gentle colours), Sam began to feel restless and took to walking alone in the copse outside his room. Often he would waken in the middle of the night, thinking he had heard a familiar voice, and sink back onto his pillow with a sharp sense of bereavement. Yet his days were cheerful, and he carried on with his hobbies and projects as though nothing had changed.
Still, others were watching, and they knew deep in their hearts that this had been the last growing season for Samwise Gamgee.
ooOOoo
"I feel the need for a change, somehow," he murmured, sipping his tea as he sat on the steps of the porch outside his room.
"There is no change here, Sam, where the Blessed reside until the end of all things," said Gandalf, who sat upon a cushion a few steps below Sam, smoking his pipe and blowing coloured rings into the twilight.
"But I'm not one of the Blessed, though surely it has been a blessing to live here all this time," the hobbit replied, inhaling the fragrance of his tea and looking out over the grassy sward, his eyes following the well-worn path into the small grove of trees where he now spent so much of his time.
Gandalf only smiled, and though Sam was not looking at him, he felt it, and smiled himself, though it was tinged with sorrow.
"Did Frodo feel the same, when it was time for him to leave?"
"He did," replied the wizard, "but he was not at peace with it at first."
"You said—I remember you said he waited as long as he could." Sam sighed despite himself; even now, he could not completely escape the anguish of that awful moment when all pretending had failed and he knew at last that Frodo had indeed died from the world.
"Yes, he did. He wanted, more than anything, to see you again." Gandalf paused and tamped his pipe, clearing his throat. "He often spoke of the pain he had caused you when he left, and of his longing to see and know your growing family."
Sam listened quietly, his eyes prickling. None of what the wizard was telling him was revelation—for he had learned much of Frodo's thoughts and doings through the letters and the dreams—and it was true, what Gandalf had told him, that Frodo had grown and learned and gained vast wisdom in his sojourn here, but not without cost, and not without the anniversary reminders of just how mortal he was. It was then no surprise to Sam to hear of Frodo's distress on his behalf—but that did nothing to lessen the grief it brought him now.
"I hate… I hate thinking on it, Gandalf. On his dying, I mean. I wish—"
The wizard seemed to read his thoughts. "Sam, surely you cannot believe that in the end Frodo was torn from life, unwilling to leave but forced to do so by the burden of his flesh?"
"No, of course not," Sam said, pondering the question even as he strove to answer it. "Well, maybe at first I felt that way, knowing that Mr. Frodo would never leave me willingly, for any reason. But Gandalf, if our parting at the Grey Havens has taught me anything, it is that our choices mustn't be what we want, but what is right."
Sam stood up, leaving his empty cup and walking down the few steps to Gandalf. He paused, looking out on the fading lawn and listening to a fresh breeze in the treetops beyond. Then he sat down again, his arm solid against the wizard's. "Frodo was happy here," he said, his eyes gleaming.
Gandalf lowered his pipe and followed Sam's gaze to the swaying trees. "Yes," he said fondly. "He was indeed." He leaned forward and peered into the hobbit's face. "Are you?"
The gardener answered with a long release of air from his lungs, and Gandalf felt a small hand slip around his back as far as it could reach. Sam was looking at him intently, his lashes wet, and the wizard switched his pipe to his other hand and laid his free arm around Sam's shoulders.
"I am happy, Gandalf, and I think the world of everyone—the Lady, Elrond, all the others I've met and come to know—you." With that last word the tears began to spill over, but Sam made no effort to wipe them away. "I've been reading Mr. Frodo's letters again. All but one, and that must wait yet a little. It's through them I've seen what he finally came to see."
"Ah, I thought you might have done," answered Gandalf sagely.
"You knew he was writing to me?"
"Oh, yes, indeed. At first it was to try to assuage his deep longing for you, at my own encouragement, if I may boast. He was so troubled when his beloved Bilbo died, you see."
"So that was his first letter," Sam commented. "They weren't dated or numbered. Strange that it was the first one I ever read."
"No doubt he left it where you hand would most likely fall upon it when you first beheld the contents of the box."
"Maybe," Sam replied, but wondering nonetheless. "But this one letter does have a date on it, a month rather—March." He pulled his arm back and folded it with the other over his breast, feeling suddenly chilled. "I believe it's the last letter he ever wrote. I don't think he lingered long after that."
"No, he didn't," Gandalf murmured, his eyes remote as he gazed once more on distant memories. But he kept his arm around those small, trembling shoulders.
"He confided in you, then?"
"Always, and to my great joy, dear Samwise."
Sam smiled at him, his chin trembling. Then, to the wizard's surprise and delight, he threw himself into Mithrandir's arms, hugging him with all his hobbit-might, which is not insubstantial. There they sat for some minutes, the white-clad Istari holding the small perian until he was able again to speak: "Oh, Gandalf, I'm that glad Mr. Frodo had you with him!" Sam sniffed loudly and tried to compose himself, withdrawing gently from Gandalf's embrace. "That glad, truly," he said, fishing for a handkerchief.
The wizard smiled fondly upon Samwise Gamgee. "As am I, Sam, dearest of hobbits."
The hobbit and wizard exchanged a long glance—and something, some knowledge seemed to pass from one to the other. Sam nodded slowly, as if coming to his decision at last.
"Will you go with me, then? I know it will mean a bit of roughing it, but I don't think I can go alone."
The briefest flash of pain—or perhaps grief—passed across Gandalf Greyhame's features before the following smile washed it away.
"It would be my deepest honour." And with that, he stood and bowed low.
"Then it's settled," Sam replied, standing and bowing in turn, feeling a bit bashful before Gandalf's grave courtesy. "Well," he said brightly, slapping his hands to his stomach. "I'm famished, Gandalf! Surely they'll be ringing the supper bell by now."
And, as if waiting for its cue, the silver throbbing of a hand-bell was heard in the distance.
"Trust your stomach, Sam, to know the time of the next meal!"
And so it was that wizard and hobbit went to their last evening meal together.
But one.
ooOOoo
As was habit, breakfast took place as the sun came up. Conversation was almost normal and Sam ate well, though he noticed Gandalf partook of little. Saying goodbye was infinitely harder, however, for Sam would not be coming back. His old room echoed now, the wardrobe empty, his few belongings packed away in the trunk. All he planned to take with him was his Elven cloak and brooch, his canvas bag stocked with provisions for the journey, and Frodo's last letter, tucked safely away in his weskit pocket.
At the time of their departure, there were soft words of parting and farewell. Galadriel kissed him on both cheeks; even the lordly Elrond pulled him into an embrace, whispering 'Namárië' before letting him go.
And there were other elves who stood by the path as Gandalf and Sam walked away, calling gentle goodbyes and pressing flowers into the hobbit's hands as he smiled and spoke to them in their own tongue.
But as they moved into Sam's little grove of trees, he wiped his face with his sleeve, shrugged the strap of his bag into a more comfortable position across his shoulder, and picked up the pace. He never looked back.
They walked until mid-day, stopping to rest in the shade of a low, stony outcropping along the path, which had slowly wound its way northward and upward until they could see a good deal of the eastern shore and the great Sea beyond.
Sam felt in a hurry, however, the restlessness growing now that the journey was at last undertaken, and did not linger long over his meal. Gandalf for his part was tireless and ready to resume their walk without question or complaint.
By mid-afternoon the path turned downward again and a little west, and soon Sam could hear the sound of a waterfall. Each turn of the path brought the sound nearer, and it was not long before they emerged at the base of the fall. Though not massive, it was beautiful, and cast rainbows about its stony feet. Sam suddenly recognized it as the waterfall he had seen in the Lady's Mirror years ago. Nearby, built into the shore of the narrow river winding away from the torrent, was a wharf of stone where several small boats were tied. Gandalf walked to one immediately and climbed in, holding out his hand to Sam. Strangely, the hobbit felt no trepidation about trusting himself to such a small vessel, and climbed in.
There were no paddles, but the elven rope untied itself as soon as he was settled and the boat turned out into the deep stream, keeping a middle course and following the current that, though swift, was smooth. As they floated along, Sam had the peculiar feeling that they were moving back through time, or maybe out of time altogether, and he felt his heart grow strangely light with a vast sense of expectation.
ooOOoo
The sun set early behind the westward hills, the last beams settling on a small, grassy outcrop Sam could just discern in the distance, backed by tall evergreens. As they neared the edge, the boat turned into the rocks at the shoreline, settling against another stone wharf, similar to but smaller than the one at the waterfall. Gandalf and Sam climbed out of the boat and tied it to the mooring, taking out the few things they had brought with them.
Sam stood still for a minute, looking around him and sniffing the air. There was a deep, green smell, cast by the tall hemlocks and cedars covering all the hills around them. The sun gave once last wink through their lofty branches and bid them goodnight, leaving her soft glow upon the treetops and highest rocks as wizard and hobbit made their way across the turf to a site near the edge of the forest.
"We'll make camp here," said Gandalf.
Sam hesitated and looked off into the trees. "Can't we go on, then?"
"It is another hour's journey from here, up into the westward hills," Gandalf replied. "Better to go after sunrise," he finished hoarsely, walking under the adjacent trees and gathering deadwood for their fire. Sam had brought neither flint nor tinder, but the wizard soon had a good fire going within a stone ring that bore the marks of many fires. There were other flat rocks around the perimeter of the fire, low enough for hobbit-legs, and wizard and hobbit were soon seated side-by-side, the flames lighting their faces with it's cheerful, dancing glow.
Their meal was cold, but there were tea and biscuits to follow, and Gandalf brought out his ever-present pipe, the last gift from Bilbo before they left Rivendell together. Sam no longer smoked, indeed had not since he'd left the shores of Middle Earth, but delighted in watching the wizard partake of what could only be distant generations of Old Toby, brought to the Undying Lands many years ago.
Long they sat there, in comfortable silence, while the stars came out and moved across the heavens, escort to Eärendil as he looked down upon the two travelers. Finally Gandalf Greyhame shook the last embers of his pipe into the fire and announced he was going to bed, giving the Last Ring-bearer the privacy he needed.
Sam's hand had been clutching Frodo's letter in his pocket since they had finished their supper, and as soon as Gandalf grew still under his blanket, he pulled it out.
Sam turned it over in his hands, smoothing the front with his sturdy fingers, touching the broken wax seal on the back, knowing that once he had opened it, there would be no going back.
'And why should I want to go back?' he wondered. Everything has its own beginning, and its own end—even the Elves say so.
Gandalf stirred in his sleep and Sam looked at him, memories of their long acquaintance flashing randomly in his mind. Wizards knew where they came from and where they were going (except for Saruman, of course, whose spirit vanished forever in the Shire long ago). Elves spoke of their long home after they had grown tired of their immortal lives. And Men…
Men bore the 'gift of Ilúvatar'. Sam didn't rightly understand it, but he figured that all mortal folk—Men, Dwarves and Hobbits—must share the same legacy. For a long time he had misunderstood the 'gift' of Death, for dying meant losing someone and having only a memory to hold onto. Dying meant crumbling into dust and losing every vestige of personality and mind. Dying was—an unrelenting end.
Frodo had originally believed this himself, or so Sam derived from his letters. Now he understood why there were no dates—the gardener perceived great contrasts among them, first one that had been written in near-despair and another in burgeoning hope. He continued read them in no particular order all the years he dwelled among the Elves—because through the light and dark, through the joy and grief expressed in their pages, he learned what Frodo learned.
The dreams characteristically confirmed this lesson, allowing Sam to see Frodo's long discovery and increase, a gradual letting go—and an acquiring of the final and ultimate knowledge—
That Death was not an abyss, but a doorway.
ooOOoo
Now, at last, he felt the time had come. He leaned over and stirred the embers of the fire to draw forth more light, turned the envelope over, and raised the flap. He took a deep breath, pulled out the letter and began to read:
March 23
Dear Sam,
I feel very close to you tonight, the last night I will sleep in my old bed in the Elven Hall. The star-flies are out just this week, gliding over the grass toward the small grove of trees outside my room, and I remember those last summer nights we spent together, looking out over the garden, smoking our pipes and watching the night insects.
Did you know I still have the watch-fob you made me my first spring in Bag End? Of course, Bilbo was in on the secret, and had the smithy over in Bywater make the silver chain and clasp for it, but the true beauty lay in the intertwining of my and Uncle's hair—light and dark brown—so subtle yet so intricate, and wrought by someone so young. I had to go right out and purchase a watch for it, it was so beautiful. I knew there was something special about you from the very first day I met you, Sam, but I think this is my first vivid recollection of it.
I'm all packed now, though I don't take much with me except your watch fob and one or two other things I can't bring myself to part with. Tomorrow Gandalf and I will journey to the place where Bilbo lies, though usually we go there on our birthday. It's silly of me, I know, but I've always kept a calendar of the days and months of the Shire—it comforts me somehow, knowing what you and your family must be about during the different seasons (though here we don't see much change). But it has its downfalls, Sam. Without it I may not have known that two days hence will be another anniversary of the day the Ring went into Orodruin's fire, and my finger with it. But I fool myself, because I always know, calendar or not.
I suppose it is partly due to living in this pure and gentle place, unsullied by any evil, but mostly due to my connection to you—oh yes! Don't think that hasn't been a comfort to me, Sam, for though I don't have the heart and spirit of the Lady Arwen, there's enough in me that, with the Jewel's help, I have some sense of the events taking place in your life: the great love that welled in your heart at the birth of your children, the peace and security of being well-known and well-loved in the Shire, the position of honour you held for many years, though you now spend all your time with your lovely, lovely Rose. I can sense her fading even as I write this and realize that the time will soon come when she must be laid to rest.
I'm rambling, Sam—you know, I think I become more like Bilbo every day! What I am trying to say is that I have known all along your great desire for us to meet again. It was always my dream, too, one that has served to sustain me for many years, especially after I felt hope daily renewing and began to weather the 'anniversaries' so much better. I realized that I had a future here, and a purpose beyond the Shire, as we all do within the confines of our Living Days.
I'm writing this letter now because I've finally got it through my thick head that there is more. . .
Funny, but I think I may have guessed at this long ago, now that I think back. I remember times in the Shire, especially before the Quest, when I spied an Elf in the woods, or when I looked upon the stars late at night, or even when I held your hand when you were but a lad, as I walked you down to Bagshot Row after dark. It was during those special moments when my heart would tell me plainly that there was something else. . .
Death comes upon all us hobbit-folk, Sam. Sometimes it is silent and swift—other times it lingers and hurts and saddens before it accomplishes its ultimate purpose. But it is nevertheless a gift, a gift I can see so much more plainly here. For though the Elves have the wherewithal to live years uncounted, we do not. We grow restless, Sam, and if you are reading this letter, you no doubt are having the same uneasy feelings I have fought these three years.
Last September I was sitting on the wharf where we'd moored our boat (the one I suspect is not far away as you read this letter), dangling my legs over the side and thinking about you. We had just returned from visiting Bilbo's grave and, as always, I was a little lonely for him. Gandalf was in the woods nearby, but I knew he was watching me, for he knew of my struggle… I was sitting and thinking of you, and I realized that it was wrong of me to linger, perhaps putting myself in the way of decline or even illness, and no doubt causing you such pain as I had when Bilbo left me, so soon after we'd arrived. Still I was hesitant to leave, almost believing that it would still be worth it to see you again, though it could cause you heartbreak.
I expect you know who Eru is by now, and have lived long, happy years among the Elves before opening this letter. I also expect that you've learned many things with his help, and have at last been comforted for my leaving you too soon. Of course you know that the gift of Death is from him!
As I prepare to leave now, it is with the firmest assurance that he will take me to a Long Home for mortal folk like us. I've been having such vivid dreams lately—there's a road, Sam, a path really, that I'm following, and there are people around me—not many—both hobbit and big folk. We are crossing a small stream, helping each other, and ahead is a tall hill dotted with tall beech trees, their trunks silver-grey in the winter light. It's cold, as I recall, and day is brightening around us as dawn approaches. We look up the hill through the trees, and can see the sky beyond the crest, blue and cloudless, before starting to go up the winding path toward it.
The dream always ends there. I believe it is because I will only see further once I have left this world, left my frailness and my past, and taken that first step upon a new road, a road that may join more roads somewhere on the other side. I understand now that I have to let go, and it is Eru himself who tells me to come to him.
You must know him now, Sam, so you cannot help but trust him, as I do.
So. . .
You are really and truly reading this letter. And I think that you are ready. Oh, Sam! I do so want, with all my heart, to see you at long last. May Eru safely guide you home to me.
Namárië,
Frodo
Sam read the letter through again before folding it carefully and putting it away. He left the fire to die out and went to his blankets. But the night had grown old before he could finally close his eyes and let sleep take him.
ooOOoo
When he awoke, Gandalf was already busy at the fire, making them breakfast. It was still early, the grass grey with dew, and mist was rising from the river as it chattered by. Though he had been eager to begin their last march the night before, Sam now found himself thinking more of breakfast. He watched Gandalf at work as he folded his blankets and put them in his sack, and realised that there were things which must be said before. . .
He didn't rightly know what. What would occur when they arrived at the place where Bilbo and Frodo lay? What happened to Frodo on the day he left? Sam's breath caught in his throat as he experienced a feeling as akin to fear as he'd felt in many a long day.
"Breakfast is hot, but it's not likely to stay that way if you keep dawdling, Samwise Gamgee!"
Sam smiled. He had never known the wizard to be particularly patient—it seemed that some things never changed. "Coming!" he called, and was soon busy filling up on sausages and eggs.
After two cups of coffee and an after-breakfast pipe, Gandalf was in a far better mood. He made to stand up, but Sam laid his hand on the wizard's arm to stop him. "Not just yet, Gandalf, if you don't mind. I'll clean up in a minute."
Gandalf's eyebrows went up, but he said nothing as Sam reached into his pocket and withdrew Frodo's letter. "Have you read this?"
"No, though I know what his thoughts were when he wrote it."
"Was he right, about Mr. Eru having a place for him to go to and all? Am I truly going there, as well? Does he come close to the mark, Gandalf, or will I be disappointed again?"
Gandalf looked up from the letter, enclosed in its envelope, and was struck by the intensity of Sam's gaze. He met it, and his answer was even stronger.
"My dear Sam, Frodo was an astute hobbit even in his teens, and grew more so under Bilbo's care and tutelage. His insight was honed during the Quest and tortured him afterwards, even here in the Undying Lands, until it was again turned outwards, growing even more. If I told you that he had pointed his finger squarely at the matter, would that satisfy you?"
Sam gazed at him another few seconds; then a slow, wide smile lit his face. He let out a long breath.
"Aye," he said, satisfied at last.
ooOOoo
The last leg of their journey was uneventful, though difficult. They climbed up and up, out of the river valley again, bearing westward and a little north, following a stony path until it reached a saddle between two tall hills, going up and over and finally resting on the other side.
It was nearly noon, but the sunlight was clear and cool and a fresh breeze had sprung up. The woods continued down the western slope and, off in the distance, Sam thought he could see water.
But he was no longer interested in water, or trees, or anything else.
For just ahead of them, nestled under an ancient, low-branched tree, was a small lawn of grass ringed with low, flat stones. At the far end were two larger, taller stones, and on their faces were Elvish letters.
He stood for awhile, looking, before he roused himself and put off his cloak and sack. Glancing at Gandalf, who nodded without speaking, Sam slowly walked toward the stones.
As he approached, he could see that they were indeed made of the same blue stone as the Elven Hall. Not a fleck of moss or dirt lay upon them, and the pure quartz sparkled when intermittent rays darted through the limbs of the great tree above the stones.
He came closer, and the inscriptions became clear as his eyes grew accustomed to the shade:
Bilbo BagginsFrodo Baggins
He looked back at Gandalf, who stood at a distance. "I thought they would say something more," he said.
"Their deeds are written on our hearts, Sam. Frodo wanted it this way."
"What happens now?" Sam asked, turning back to the stones, wanting to touch them but holding back.
"We wait," Gandalf answered, drawing closer now and looking down at the stones with blended joy and sadness.
"I don't understand, Gandalf," Sam whispered, the old anguish returning at the sight of the place where his master's body lay. "I don't understand how I can feel this awful when I know Mr. Frodo is just off somewhere else."
"Neither do I, Sam. I feel it, too." The Istari came to stand beside the hobbit and placed a hand on his shoulder. "We don't have to understand it, do we? As long as we know that he is well?"
Sam nodded, then looked up at Gandalf. "Will I see you again? Some day?"
"Our roads seek different destinations, as far as I can tell. But they crossed in Middle Earth, Sam. Who is to say that they will not, one day, cross again?"
"Or join," Sam said.
If Gandalf had any reply to this, he kept it to himself.
The afternoon passed slowly, Sam spending it in the company the one person he felt most comfortable with in the world next to Frodo and Rose. They talked of mutual memories at first, of days in Hobbiton, of Bag End and Bagshot Row. Then their conversation drifted to days when Aragorn was a child, to Bilbo's great adventure, to days before written history, when the world was newly sung. It felt to Sam as if an exquisite fabric were being woven before his eyes, blending peoples, stories, adventures and songs into one intricate tapestry.
The sun was low in the sky and they were talking about the green field near Bag End, and the mallorn that replaced the beloved Party Tree that had been cut down while they were gone.
And Sam felt they had come full circle, as if they had come back home at last, their journey ended.
They had come home after the Quest, too, but home was all wrong then, and there was more to do...
"Gandalf," he said, his voice low and clear.
"Yes, Sam?" Gandalf straightened imperceptibly.
"I'm ready." Sam lifted his eyes from his hands, locking gazes with Mithrandir, and suddenly grinned. "I think I know how Mr. Frodo felt in Rivendell when he volunteered to take It to the Mountain," he chuckled, irony in his tone. "I'm ready to go, but I don't know the way."
Gandalf smiled and stood. "I would be honoured to show you, as I did Frodo. But there is one more thing. If I may?" He held up his hand, poised but an inch from Sam's head. Sam nodded and closed his eyes.
The wizard placed his long fingers upon Sam's crown, caressing his sandy curls and speaking in a long, slow language. Soon the hobbit relaxed and fell gently into waiting arms, wandering in a deep sleep. Then he dreamed…
ooOOoo
Gandalf knelt before a troubled Frodo and placed his hands upon his shoulders. Sam stood just outside the ring of stones, watching. He tried to move closer, to move around to the side so that he could see both their faces as they spoke, and found that he could. Sam gasped aloud as he stared at his master…
For this was the Frodo of the Party Tree, the just come of age, laughing, healthy, vibrant, strong and mischievous Baggins, Heir-to-Bag-End Frodo, of whom he had not seen the like since the day they started for Crickhollow in the company of Merry and Pippin.
None of his previous dreams had shown Sam such a close view; none of them had revealed to him just how renewed and alive Frodo had become, though he suspected. Elbereth, just the sight of him was worth all his years of loneliness!
Slowly Sam grew aware that Frodo's and Gandalf's conversation was continuing, and that Frodo was troubled still…
"Am I making the right decision, Gandalf? Will he be all right when he comes? Won't it be cruelly hard on him at first, hoping to find me here and discovering I've gone away?" Frodo's voice was shaking with grief.
"Now, dear Frodo, this is not like you!" Gandalf admonished, stroking Frodo's cheek with a finger. "You have made this decision on your own; you have written the final letter."
"I know," Frodo whispered, reaching up to wipe his tears away. He looked chagrined to find that more were falling. "I'm ashamed to say it, but I'm afraid, Gandalf, afraid to go on, yet afraid to stay. I'm already a world apart from Sam—if I leave, it will be two worlds that separate us."
Gandalf did not offer solace or advice. Sam could see the wizard's own struggle as he waited for Frodo to see what he must do.
It came quickly.
Frodo's face grew stern with resolution and he drew himself up, wiping his face with his sleeve. He let out a breath and looked over his shoulder at the eastern hills before turning back to the wizard.
"It won't be long now, 'til he comes. When he does, look after him, Gandalf. Look after him as you did me, promise me that. I can bear to leave if I have your word."
"You have it, and more, dear friend. Go now, and be at peace."
Gandalf pulled Frodo to him then, and he seemed to swoon. The wizard carried him to a nearby tree, where he sat, holding the hobbit as tenderly as he would his own son. Sam followed them and sat on the grass, his heart hushed as though waiting for the bell to toll in the Elven Hall. He saw the gentle rise and fall of Frodo's breast as Gandalf held him, saw it grow slower…
Then Frodo's eyes moved for an instant under the lids, and he sighed.
Gandalf placed his hand over the hobbit's heart and waited. Then, carefully, he laid Frodo upon the turf and folded his hands over his breast. Standing, he turned to the West, and began to sing the Farewell song of the Elves in the dying daylight:
Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen…
ooOOoo
Sam felt strong arms around him and opened his eyes. He lay in Gandalf's embrace, much as Frodo had done in his dream, and he no longer felt afraid.
"He was right to go on," he murmured, feeling comfortable and secure in the wizard's hold. "Trust Frodo to—" his voice drifted away.
"To do the right thing," Gandalf finished.
And so they waited together, while the late afternoon melted away and the Sun took her trail into the West, casting long, slanting beams through the trees as she set. They waited still as the moon, full and clear, slowly rose above the eastern hills, his cooler, softer light fingering wizard and hobbit.
There was no more talk until nearly the end, when Sam stirred and opened his eyes. He reached up and tugged gently on Gandalf's beard, smiling. "I've always wanted to do that," he whispered.
Suddenly overcome, Gandalf could only reply by stroking the side of Sam's face, his fingers following the gentle curve of the ear up to it's tip.
Sam sighed. "I have to go now," he said, reaching for Gandalf's hand and leaning his face into it. "I'll miss you."
"And I," Gandalf said, unable to say more.
Then Sam broke his gaze and looked away to the stars and bright moon through the branches, his eyes filling with tears.
Then his expression changed, and a look of fierce wonder came over his features, and he half-rose in Gandalf's arms.
"Well, I'll be," he said. "Who'd have thought…"
Then he fell back, his face alight with joy and awe, his arm stretched out, reaching for something the wizard could not see.
"Frodo!"
ooOOoo
So it was that Gandalf returned to the Elven Hall at nightfall at the end of the third growing season, carrying naught but his own gear and the memories of three hobbits of the Shire, Ringbearers all.
In the western hills, north of the river and west of the Sundering Sea, three blue stones rise above three resting places for mortals of Middle Earth, who had claimed their Gift and departed from the circle of the World forever.
And over them all, Eärendil shines his wayfarer's light, as he will every night, until the world is mended.
The End