Chapter 3

Setting Sun

All afternoon Sam had been asleep. He had trembled and wept in Frodo's arms on the quayside, an old exhausted hobbit for whom the sun of the Undying Lands was too high and bright, who wanted only to shield his eyes from the glories around him. Gandalf had called softly for a bier to take Sam to a cool temple on the side of the harbour. There he had rested on a marble bench, with his head on Frodo's shoulder as Frodo gently comforted him, and there had come an Elf Sam recognised from long ago – Glorfindel! – and glory be, but there were white horses pulling a carriage to take him and Frodo up the hill to a quiet house sheltered by poplars which had a view over the harbour. In that house he had been put to bed with soft words and comforting hands, tucked up like a child in a great white bed in an oak-panelled room, with cool linen sheets around him. 'Drink this, Master Samwise,' Glorfindel had advised, and a crystal cup was set to his lips, and the pale golden liquid splashing down his throat was miruvor! And by the Lady, it tasted even better than he remembered, more refreshing than mountain water, more intoxicating than wine.

His last memory before sleep took him had been of Frodo's tender blue gaze. 'Sleep, Sam. You are so very tired,' and Sam, closing his eyes, felt the rose-like impress of Frodo's lips on his forehead.

Then sleep had come, like a velvet blanket of oblivion.

When Sam awoke, it was early evening. Nobody else was with him but he heard soft voices in the adjoining room – Frodo's he recognised, and cool silvery Elvish tones, and he felt comforted. A sweetly scented light was burning on a table next to his bed. Sam blew it out and the candle smoked in a long tapering trail, and the fragrance released became even sweeter and richer, filling the whole room. Sam did not recognise the scent. It must be some marvellous herb or flower peculiar to these lands.

He washed and bathed, taking his time. He could take all the time he wanted, he supposed – he had, after all, traversed the bridge of time itself. He stared at himself in the tall mirror: an old hobbit with white hair and deep-set hazel eyes and an apple-wrinkled face, a face written with a thousand histories: the Shire, the Bag End garden, the quest, the dreadful journey to Mordor and years of hard work under the sun. He stared at his clothes, which were the comfortable attire of an elderly hobbit who had worked hard and earned his reward. Hesitantly he touched his velvet weskit. He could change into something fresh if he wished – clean breeches and tunic had been laid out for him – but his clothes seemed to show little sign of his long journey through the autumn stars on a strange ocean.

Master Samwise touched his reflection in the glass. Was it all a dream? Had he really come so far?

Then there was a soft knock at the door, and Frodo had come into the room. He was dressed in green breeches and a white tunic embroidered with blue and gold, and a white jewel flashed on his breast. He smiled. 'Sam,' he said, his voice warm and bright with affection.

Sam gazed at him. His master looked younger than Sam's own Frodo-lad.

I am old and he is young.

It was all too much like a dream. He would wake up soon.

The waters of the Avallónë harbour were rose-gold in the light of the setting sun.

The sky was afire with dusky crimsons and burning golds, glowing over the Mountains of Valinor and turning the ocean between that distant dark coastline and Eressëa to molten gold. The rosy light pooled into the room where Sam was resting, watching the deft and efficient movements of Frodo and his two elvish companions as they laid a low marble table with glasses of wine and various plates of food

The balcony opened onto a magnificent view of the harbour below. Rich scents floated in past the columns, and the evening air was fragrant. A pale blue bird was singing sweetly in a shrub close to the porch.

The crystal bowls were heaped with fruit, some of which were recognisable – apples, plums and pears, and also clementines (which Sam remembered from the orange groves in Gondor and Lebennin) – and some of which were not.

One of the Elves was named Lindir: the other was an elvish lass whom Frodo called Finduilas, and she was as light and fragile as a birch-leaf, Sam thought, with pale gold hair crinkling on her shoulders. The unnerving turquoise brilliance of her eyes matched Frodo's. She was not as tall as Lindir, although most elvish folk were very tall, taller even than Rangers.

Frodo sat with crossed legs on the polished floor, passing plate and glass to Sam and helping himself to fruit and exchanging soft laughter with Lindir and Finduilas. The three conversed constantly in the High-elven tongue.

Sam ate and drank slowly, savouring the rich food and the wine, hardly taking his eyes from Frodo.

'Will Mr Bilbo be joining us?' he asked suddenly.

The eyes of Finduilas flicked to Frodo, whose face had clouded.

'Bilbo is no longer with us, Sam,' he said gently.

'Oh,' said Sam, feeling a dull painful shock. He drew a shaky breath. 'I thought it might be so,' he muttered. 'Time don't wait for mortal folk even in this place, seemingly.'

'No, Sam, I am afraid not. Even in the West Time passes. The Eldar may not halt it. They can only sail the stream which goes on forever. And us mortals … well, the stream takes us more easily than they.'

'That must have been hard for you, Mr Frodo. Losing him.'

'He passed away in great peace, Sam. It was not a very long time ago. It was then I knew you would not be long in coming.'

Frodo rose and went to Sam's side and took his hand. 'And here you are.'

He turned to Lindir and Finduilas. 'He came at last,' he said to them. 'Samwise, the last of the Ring-bearers. My gardener, my faithful companion, my friend of friends.'

'We are honoured to have your presence, Master Samwise,' said Lindir.

'Be welcome to Elvenhome,' said Finduilas and her voice was like a bell.

And the evening sun flooding through the window seemed to illuminate Frodo's form as if a light was shining from within.

The Elves bade farewell to Frodo and were gone. Frodo helped Sam to bed. 'This is strange,' Sam chuckled faintly, as Frodo smoothed the bedcovers about him, 'once upon a time this would have been me doing this for you.'

He stared up the ceiling.

'I'm that tired,' he remarked frankly.

'I know, dear Sam. It's a lot to take in all at once, isn't it?'

'Aye,' said Sam. He looked up at Frodo. 'Will you tell me? Will you tell me just how it was for you when you came here? I want to know everything.'

'You shall hear it,' said Frodo. He sat on the bed and took Sam's hand in his. 'I want to hear your story too. I want to know about all of them … about Elanor the Fair, and Frodo-lad, and the little one you called Goldilocks. You had three golden-haired daughters, Sam. I know that much.' A faint smile played on his mouth.

Sam smiled in return, and patted Frodo's hand. 'How did you know all that anyway, Mr Frodo?'

Frodo laughed and shook his head. 'I'm not sure. Some blessed measure of sight was given to me.' His voice softened. 'Which made the parting … easier, perhaps.' His fingers played on Sam's. 'Don't you think so?'

'The parting was hard on both of us, Mr Frodo,' said Sam quietly. 'But I never doubted that you believed you took the right path.'

Frodo drew a deep breath. 'Thank you, Sam.'

'I feel a bit bad,' remarked Sam, yawning, 'not saying a proper hello to old Gandalf and the Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel.'

'But it's perfectly all right, Sam. There will be a great banquet tomorrow to celebrate the coming of Círdan and Samwise to Elvenhome. But everyone knew you would need to rest today. Tomorrow you shall meet them all.' Frodo paused. 'It's a lot for a mere hobbit to gain … and a great deal for a mere hobbit to leave behind.'

He bent down and kissed Sam's brow.

'Good night, my Sam,' he whispered.

Sam's eyes drifted shut, and his voice was a drowsy sigh.

'G'night, Frodo-lad.'