By Imp
A/N: Something rather brief that I'd been thinking about. Sam, some years after Frodo has had to depart to the Grey Havens, and Frodo-lad, the small hobbit boy named after Master Baggins, Sam's son…
~
Upon the green Shire hills night lay. A cool breeze blew the grass, making it sway and ripple like the sea beneath the elven stars' crystal light, and in the dark the hills became silver and grey as the sea might under a stormy sky.
It was dark for a night in the small land of the Shire, for there was no moon and the stars' sharp clean light seemed some how muted, dulled by distant shadow. The plain dirt roads were quiet, deserted for the night, the homes and holes of the halfling folk were dark, silent but for murmurings in sleep and such; even the usually joyful and noise-making crowd who patronized the inn had gone home, leaving the place strangely silent.
But oddly in the window of the long-spoken of, well known Bag End, a light was lit, and there a plain, sandy-haired hobbit sat up late, his often sparkling brown eyes gazing out into the dark, glazed, unseeing, his calloused hand resting forgotten on the pages of a great red-bound book, lying open upon his table.
He seemed to be looking into the night of another time, seeing himself in the past, seeing a shadow over the shadow of mere night…
The book's pages fluttered slightly as the breeze blew through the half-open window to play about the candle-lit room, ruffling the halfling's hair and stirring dust up from the mantle. The light flickered on the firm, steady hand that covered the parchment in dark, flowing script and the words seemed to dance, springing off the page, forming visions of places and things far away, words spoken, trials endured…
October 6th Weathertop… The Wraiths of the Enemy…the Ring…It …cannot hide… Wounded…The hand faltered there, the words becoming not quite as steady, sentences becoming less certain in their narrative.
Unconsciously the gardener's hands turned pages, flicking to the beginning, turning to the end, but without thought… More words, places, times… The past, history of pain and suffering, but also of an end, an end to the cursed golden band…and ends to other things. The Ring-bearers burden had been heavy.
"Dad?"
The gardener started, pulled out of his thoughts by the small voice; his eyes shed their glazed look, shining, warm as they turned to the small voice.
"I can't sleep, dad."
The small hobbit boy looked anxiously up at Sam Gamgee, his dark tousled hair sticking up in all manner of strange ways.
"Why not?"
The boy paused, looking uncomfortable. "I'm frightened. The room's dark and the wind won't stop whistling so as to let me get sleepy."
"Just the wind, Frodo-lad?"
"Would you tell me a story, dad?" The boy grinned, hopping up to try and see the mysterious red book. "Tell me about Frodo and the Ring!"
A shadow passed across Sam's plain face, but as quickly as it was there it was gone. He smiled, lifting the small hobbit lad to his lap.
"You've only heard that a score more times 'an any other tale I could think of." Said Sam, smiling faintly.
The boy curled up, leaning back against his father, his eyes traveling anxiously from the dark window to the shadows by the door.
"Was Frodo ever frightened, dad?" he asked in a low voice, subdued.
"I suppose so, seeing as how you're Frodo, little Master Gamgee."
"No," the Boy grinned, "The real Frodo, Frodo Baggins! Was he ever scared of the dark?"
Sam did not at first reply, and the hobbit lad rocked back and forth, glancing up now and then, waiting for the suddenly thoughtful gardener to make some answer. But he did not respond, or answer his son's question.
"I guess Frodo Baggins was never afraid – he'd've never been so great a hobbit if he went about frightened like me, " The lad said at last sadly. "And he'd never've gone all the way to the Fiery Mountain…"
"No, Frodo-lad," Sam said firmly, pulling himself from his thoughts. "He was afraid at times, more terrified than you'll ever be of anything in the Shire, if you follow me – or so I'd hope. Being brave don't mean you're never afraid,"
The small upturned face of the boy brightened somewhat, and then turned to an expression of rapt attention. "Can I be brave like Frodo Baggins?"
"As long as you don't go tramping off to the Black Land, to the Mountain of Fire – then I'd have ended losing t …" he trailed off, and pushed the Red Book closed and to the other end of the table. "D'you remember falling into the river with Mr. Pippin?"
"Yes!" the boy cried, almost indignant
"And you almost drownded and never wanted to anywhere near a bit o' water again?"
"Well I don't want to be drownded," the hobbit lad said, looking as if this were of course the most reasonable answer for why one would never wish to see a large body of water again in his life.
"No one wants to be drownded, that's why we sensible hobbits don't go paddling about on the water like Mr. Brandybuck and Mr. Took as we oughtn't," Sam said flatly, "But if you see, that's why Frodo Baggins didn't much like the dark. He'd come close to drownding in it, he didn't ever want to have to feel it again. It made him feel like you do by the river, as you might say, that he could fall in again – and what if he couldn't get out?"
"Get drownded in the dark?" The boy asked horrified, and then in a soft voice. "Is it like that in the Black Land?"
"It was…" said Sam slowly, "I can't wager to it now…"
"It's not so dark here – is it, dad?"
"No – the Shire's always light and safe for you, my lad, you don't have to be afeared of the wind nor the nighttime."
Frodo turned his curious gaze back to his father, smiling impulsively.
"Tell me the story, please?" he asked, and then quite firmly, "Frodo was very brave, wasn't he dad?
"Yes, my boy," said the gardener, an odd, distant look creeping over his features, looking back, longing in a way for something now lost. " -The famousest of hobbits, and that's saying a lot," he paused then, almost it seemed as though expecting a rebuttal, a flat denial of 'such foolishness' from some other whom he felt ought to be there. But there was none. With a vague sigh Sam lifted his small son and set him back on the floor. "Off to bed now – you ought to get your sleep, and your mother won't want me keeping you up late with tales as can be told tomorrow."
"You can't just tell me a bit –" The boy stopped at a shake of his father's head, and turned reluctantly. "'Night, dad."
"Sleep well, lad…"
Still later that night the candle burned yet in the small study, and the gardener sat gazing out the window westward, his eyes sparkling, the book in front of him blotched and spotted with two small tears.
"'Tis saying a lot too much…"
~
A/N: Any thoughts that came to you while reading? Criticisms? And as an extra note –No SLASH or anything like it is intended by Sam's grief, longing and such over Frodo's departure! All right? - IMP