Middle-Earth, Gondor, Minis Tirith: F.A. 01, February 2nd

They shouldn't have stopped in Minas Tirith.

That's the first thing Sam thinks as the noise of the crowd starts to whittle away and the ringing in his head has finally stopped. They should have just…just cut around it…somehow. The old map the Mayor of the Shire had thrust into the gardener's hands hadn't even mentioned the place, it was so old.

There were a whole bunch of other names on the map instead, places and people that had died or been assumed by Gondor millennia ago. Half of the names were already scratched out, it was a miracle they'd managed to make it even to Rohan following the old, half buried hobbit roads let alone…

Rosie squeezed his hand.

'Sam, don't get lost in your own head, come on…we can't keep the king waiting.'

Sam squeezed back, and tried not to think about…about anything.

Don't think about how loud the crowd was until they got a good look at who the guards were escorting through the gates. Don't think about how ill they all looked, don't think about the smell of the streets. Don't think about any of it.

Especially don't think about the smell.

The awful, rotten smell that permeated everything.

It didn't matter.

It shouldn't matter.

So why couldn't he get it out of his head?

What did it matter if something, some piece of fruit, or forgotten potatoes had gone rotten?

And yet…something was rotten in the land of Gondor, and Sam very much doubted that it ended at the potatoes.

Maybe it was a good thing the guards were hustling them so quickly toward the chamber of the king and queen; after all, if anyone could help explain the terrible smell it would have to be Strider.

It would be a lie to say that Sam and Strider had been close friends, or really even friends at all by today's standards. They did not visit each other, they sent no letter or note over the years they had been parted and they would certainly have never sought one another's company out, even before the separation. Yet they had been on friendly terms at their parting, the new king of Gondor and Arnor had made sure Samwise and his master were comfortable during their stay and he had seen them off with all the pomp and ceremony that such a grand and brave hobbit as Mister Frodo was owed.

And yet now, standing here before the throne of the king, Sam could not think of one kindly thing to say to the stranger sitting upon that mighty throne. Twas a cruel thing to think but the gardener could not even recall why he had once thought the man so noble at all. The thin fellow wore a dour frown as he looked down at Sam and his family with undisguised contempt. He was thin to the point of gauntness, his hair a long mass of tangles against his skull, the crown he wore caught in a snarl at the top most edge of his head. And his skin was an ever so slight shade of green, as if he were suffering from some terrible malady that no one as yet had been able to cure him of.

Was that it? Was old Strider just unwell, Sam supposed even kings got caught out in the cold every now and then. And yet if that were so, why was not the king in bed? Why was he here now? Surely Sam was not so important a figure that he was worth risking the monarch's health just to appease, if that were so Strider would not have seemed so displeased to see him.

'Greetings to you my fine…ring-bearer. I had not expected…to see you when we heard news a ring-bearer was coming this way. But truth be told I am much relieved that it is you and not…some other creature. How faired your journey my old…friend?'

The wording was polite enough, but there was something about the tone, that strange inflection on the word friend, that made Sam feel uneasy. And there was something else, that sharp, cloying smell that the hobbit had thought only came from the streets. It was here in this throne room too, where no rotten produce should ever have been glanced at.

Something was wrong, something was very wrong in this city, maybe in the entire land of Gondor. And maybe if times had been different, if Sam were not already preoccupied with his strange journey to the east; if Rosie and Elanor hadn't been here, beside him in the heart of this new danger, he would have done something. Said something then, pointed out the smell, and the sickly nature of the king. The fear in the guard's eyes and the absence of the queen. But this was not that world, and Sam had too much to lose, to risk speaking such thoughts in the heart of a strange kingdom. Especially for a man, he could not really even call a friend.

Perhaps you think him selfish, he certainly did – but many fathers in his time have done worse to protect his child. So, in this world, all Sam did was smile and answer stiffly.

'Well, your majesty, just well.'

It would be a lie to say that Rose Gamgee had ever been to a city like this one. She'd been to cities of course, like Bree or whatever that place in Rohan was called, but in retrospect compared to Minas Tirith those were nothing but small Towns. Over grown villages really. She felt small here, small and more forgettable than she ever had in her life.

The eyes of the great and powerful would slide past her as if she didn't even exist – although considering the grimaces they often greeted Sam with, maybe being ignored was better than the alternative. It meant she got to enjoy the huge beds, and the magnificent platters of food the hobbits were served daily without all the fuss that followed Sam round like the bad smell in the throne room.

They didn't mean to stay long, maybe just a night, maybe at most two just to reenergise themselves for the long journey ahead. They had been all ready to lie to the king's face, to try and claim the reason why Sam Gamgee, gardener and former ring-bearer was leaving the west was because of the loss of Frodo. But they needn't have bothered, no one had asked, no one had cared. There had been a feast set out in their honour, or at least the heralds had called them the guests of honour when they'd announced their arrival in the great hall. They had yelled it so loud that it had woken Elanor up from her dozy snooze on her father's shoulder. However, if the loud screams of an angry hobbit infant had bothered the other people at the high table, they clearly didn't show it. Which Rosie had to admit, was impressive, especially considering that she could spot a few elves among the crowd and they had bigger ears than even her little brothers.

The food was…alright, it wasn't disgusting, she could say that for it at least. It was edible, and Rosie could happily chew on it while Sam bounces his daughter on his knee, desperate for her to stop. The babe would of course, even bright shining balls of light grew tired, and Elanor would pass out if nothing else. But she wouldn't even try whatever was on the plates in front of them, and that was…strange. The baby would usually stuff whatever was in front of her in her mouth, and it didn't matter if it was food or not. Lots of hobbit babes stuffed things like Daises, or flower petals in their mouths – but Elanor would eat dirt. And worms, and sometimes even small shiny stones if you didn't stop her in time. And when it came to actual food, she had seen her daughter suck down Bree's horse-flesh stew without throwing it back up five seconds later. And that was something that even some adult hobbits couldn't manage – and yet apparently the food in front of her was so unenticing that it didn't even getting near her mouth. A few minutes ago, Sam had tried to feed the babe, a small spoonful of the mashed potatoes smooshed to the side of the big slab of slightly burnt meat in the middle of the plate.

Elanor had wacked the spoon out of her father's grip, and it had gone sailing through the air and across the table, like some terrible star against the blackness of the night. The baby who would happily munch on worms until she was made to stop, would not even look at what was on that plate. Her eyes were screwed shut and her face was turned away and into her father's shoulder.

It made Rosie look down at her food and frown. Something was wrong here. Something…and she had to find out what. So, taking quick glance to make sure she wasn't being observed…she wasn't, people had gone back to staring solemnly down at their own plates and slabs of meet as soon as the three hobbits had sat down.

No one was looking.

No one would see if she…well if she just a took a wee glance.

So, looking down at her own plate again, Rosie focused, truly focused on this strange slab of meat and potatoes.

Hobbit magic is quite different than Elf or indeed human magic, at least as far as application goes. Hobbit magic comes not from innate bloodlines – although some families do teach the art down the generations – or a gift from some higher, godly power. No hobbit magic is a skill, that anyone no matter who they happen to be can develop. That is because, according to the earliest teachings of the Blarney Son, every living creature has a spark of magic inside them. And all it takes to bring it out, is a little knowledge.

This is the truth for every creature that walks upon this earth of ours, even the dead ones.

So, the spell that Rose Gamgee was about to use, was only simple logic. Focus on the body, the part that is left of the living and listen for the magic. The echo of it, the memory of the life that had come before the steak.

Focus and listen, Rosie – that was what her Grandmother would say. Focus and listen. And she did, somehow, she managed to shut out all the other nose from the living creatures around her and she focused on his voice.

It started as a soft hum in her head but then…then she could hear the words, and the laughter…no, not laughter, the screaming. He was screaming. His name had been Thúldil, and he was a good son, a loyal soldier, and a good man. He had believed his king when he told him that his sacrifice would save the nation, he hadn't known why the man he respected, followed, and down near worshiped had really killed him. No had ordered his death.

But Rosie knew.

Because Rosie was a hobbit.

And all hobbits know, deep down what that smell really was.

What the king really was.

A Mewlip.

It was a testament to the control Rose Gamgee had been taught, that she didn't start violently shaking until they were back in their rooms, behind the safety of a locked door. Safety, could such a thing exist while…while a creature like that sat on the throne of Gondor. The throne of Arnor; really the crown of all men.

So much power held in such rotten hands.

She had to tell Sam, he was already looking at her with that particularly worried way, she had only ever seen him gaze upon Mister Frodo before. And yet how could she, the king was a friend, a war companion – wouldn't it be easier to tell him a lie. They already needed to leave; their journey would not have been halted by even their closest of companions. She could just lie, say she was worried about that, and about everything it said about Hobbitkind.

And for a few minutes, while Sam went to put a still fusing Elanor down in her crib, the Shire Magician even fooled herself into believing she could do it. Lie to her husband's face, but all it took was the sound of his voice, low and tired asking.

'Rosie, are okay?'

For her to crumble, she collapsed to her knees and let out the scream that she had been holding back all through out that dinner. The horror of what she had put in her body, of what she had let Sam put in his. He hadn't eaten much of that meal, too busy trying to stop his daughter from screaming, but she had seen him put a fork of the stuff, the foul stuff in his mouth after another failed attempt at trying to get Elanor to eat it. She should have stopped him; she'd known what it was then but…but…the sound of the magic in the room was too loud. And her body felt it was vibrating into the celling, she could feel them all. Every man, woman and child that had died in that hall all so the King could eat that day.

She felt Sam's arms around her shoulders, around her waist, holding here. Just holding her, he didn't ask anymore questions, he never did when she got like this.

Sam had emptied his bowels into the chamber pot the next morning. Rosie hadn't told him what she'd seen, not in words. She'd never needed to, he always just knew what she wanted to say.

They started planning their escape route that very night.

On the Road, Two weeks later

It was a surprise that they had missed them in the city, it was a surprise that they had passed them in hallways of the King's house and had never once raised their eyes. The Dwarf and the Elf had had almost as grand an entrance as the Ringbearer and his wife, well why wouldn't they, this was a celebration. They had just wed, united two peoples that before now had never been farther apart. More than three ages of hatred and persecution laid to rest. Or at least that was what those in power claimed, but as happy as Sam was for his two friends, he found it hard to believe that such tremendous hatred could be set aside with one union.

They should have met on the road before now, they should have left together, but Sam and Rosie had never wanted that. Had never wanted to tangle their friends up in this, this terrifying task of theirs. This was their mission; this was their own quest to be finished. Gimli and Legolas had surely suffered enough for ten of their extremely long life-times, they didn't need this burden as well. In fact, if the two hobbits had known, had even guessed what would follow this chance meeting on the road, they would have dived off into the bushes at the first sign of the elf's voice on the wind.

'Samwise? Rose? My Valar, it is you!'

Rose's face had gone very still, a tight flush rising against her tanned skin. She wanted to run, to pretend somehow that it wasn't them he spoke to, that Legolas' mighty sight had failed him for once. But it was too late for the elf was striding towards them, sweeping her husband up off his own steed and engulfing him in the tightest hug any hobbit could have experienced, well, and remained breathing anyway.

'What fortune it is to see you in a land like this,' a deep and soothing voice rumbled from behind the elf and Rose couldn't help but smile. The Dwarf, Gimli son of Gloin, was always a welcome sight no matter what the circumstances. His warm humour, understanding nature, and silver tongue was enough to settle the sourest enemies.

'Or perhaps misfortune, a hobbit on the road to a place like Rhûn does not sit well withme, Master and Mistress Gamgee.' Said the elf.

Sam laughed, that high slightly lilting pitch he had taken to doing in front of politicians and tense family gatherings. It was deliberately distracting from the situation, it threw people off, and allowed her husband time to collect his thoughts.

'Since Frodo…since my Master has sailed over the sea and to the blessed realms beyond, well, everything in the West, we find it too painful to linger anymore.'

Legolas' smile fell, and his face was grave indeed.

'Of course, he was much beloved by all. But surely this is not the way Samwise, to run from the West into the danger of the East.'

Sam smiled, that placating political smile worn around the suffocating elite.

'My brother set up a homestead near the edge of this land, I've not seen him in years but he's one of the only family I have left. He sent for me and I'll not abandon him in his hour of need.'

Well, it wasn't all a lie, they had been sent for after all.

The elf did not seem comforted by that.

'Well, we cannot abandon you either. Gimli and I shall accompany you to this brother of yours. It will be nice to meet more of the family of one of the ring-bearers.'

Oh, Blarney's crap.

Two months later

It was to the sound of his daughter's wailing that Sam would die, he was certain of that now. They should have grabbed a more accurate map in their hasty retreat from the Shire. For the one they had now was truly pitiful, you would think someone as learned and schooled as the Tooks claimed to be, would have been able to produce a halfway decent map of any land that wasn't their own. This one didn't even have the Blarney Bloody Rohan on it!

It should have made a difference, having such learned and skilled hunters as the Elf and the Dwarf with them, but out here braced against the cold hard sands of Rhûn, it didn't count for anything. Their clothes and armour were too thick, they over-heated daily, and the animals they tried to catch looked none too – recently dead.

The road was too long, and too exposed, and they had to wander off it and find rudimental shelter every night. For they could not have slept on it without fear of death either by exposer to the biting cold that came over this land as soon as the sun went down, or the robbers and highway men that frequently passed down it, on their way back to Gondor.

But still, hard as it was, they somehow managed to make a significant dent in their journey each day they could. Perhaps if things had continued like that, they'd have made it. Yet things are never as smooth as that in life, and there are always draw backs to every path we might choose to follow; this one's came in the form of a sandstorm.

Now take in mind when I tell you of this sandstorm that, it was unlike one we would experience today. For magic such as this has left the part of the world humans inhabit; or it has twisted and changed so greatly as to be unrecognisable to a creature of the time that the Traveller's lived. They buried themselves and their child under their cloaks, hoping that at least, would keep them safe from the suffocating swirls of the sand around them. But it didn't, how could anything as flimsy as a cloak made by the hand of man stand against this might that struck the five travellers now.

Sam and Rosie clutched one another tight, their daughter squished in between them; all the better to keep her face from the sand and the wind above. Her crying grew no less loud however and Sam was certain, that he would die, here, now. Listening to the sound of his child screaming, his wife's heart-beat next to his and their soft hair pressed against his face. He supposed there were worst ways for a hobbit to die

Legolas screamed, many people who had never witnessed the scream of an elf, would have thought such a sound would be as beautiful as the fairest singers of men. After all, everything elves did was wondrous, but they would be wrong. If ever you've had the misfortune to actually hear the scream of an elf, you'll know that the sound that rose from Legolas' throat then was the cruellest, most horrible sound any mortal could imagine. It made the sand fly from his buried head; it made his beloved Gimli jerk awake and cringe away. It dropped birds from the sky and shoved the small rodents of the desert back into their burrows. It almost seemed, to the dwarf that sat beside him then, covering his ears from the tremendous noise, that the very earth shook from that noise.

Eventually the elf lowered his head and pressed his nose to the ground, unwilling or unable to look up again, to meet the tear-filled eyes of his Dwarven husband. The two sat there, their heads bowed, and their thoughts furrowed, the sand dripping like golden flecks of water from their clothes and hair. And then as if seized by the same madness that had sparked such a scream, Legolas stood up and began to walk this way and that, searching the ground for something not even his eyes could see.

'Legolas?' Gimli began, the same feeling of unease landing on his shoulders, that had settled there for the majority of this foolhardy quest.

'Where are they?'

'Where…' The dwarf stopped, a cold shudder running through him then, the likes of which he had only ever felt once before, in the deep dark depths of Khazad-dûm.

'The Hobbits.'

'Gimli don't just stand there, help me dig, they must be buried in the sand somewhere. Oh Valar, how long? How long have you and I sat there while they suffocated? Sam! Samwise Gamgee, if you can hear me give me a sign. Oh, Lady of Mercy, give me a sign. Let this not be it, let this not be how the journey ends. The Child Gimli, Little Elanor, no, no, this can't be how it ends! This can't be how it ends!'

For longer than a day they searched, for longer than a day they knelt and dug in that sand, for longer than a day did the dwarf and elf try to find the hobbits. And when that day was over, when night fell again the dwarf, reached for the elf and stopped him.

'Legolas, stop, it's too late.' The elf tried to shove him aside, but dwarf grips are never so easy to toss aside, and Gimli was stronger than most.

'No,' said the elf. 'No, this can't be the end, this can't be the end. He's a ringbearer, he wasn't meant to die like this, he wasn't meant to die like this. It can't be over; it can't be over!' Tears choked his words and the elf sobbed.

'So, how come it is?'

The elf stopped then.

For a day and night, the couple sat there, awash in their own grief, for a day and a night they mourned Samwise the Brave. For a day and a night, they wept for his wife, and for a day and night they broke themselves for his daughter, and the wondrous life she now would never get to experience.

For a day and a night, they sat there, and then they left. They left and returned West, returned west to bring the news to whatever family was still left to weep for the hobbits. Returned west to find solace in the arms of friends who yet lived, and they never once looked back.

Which was a pity because somewhere, just too far off the road for the elf to see – three unconscious hobbits were pulled out of the sand.