In The Grey Twilight

*

She woke alone that morning, the silence jolting her from sleep as surely as if she had been called. Yet she was greeted by mere emptiness and with fear she arose, feeling that life had passed her by while she slept.  "Sam?" she asked of the lonely corridor, her voice but a whisper. She felt cool air pour into the smial and saw with dread that the front door stood open. Suddenly Bag End seemed like it had been robbed, and maybe she too were a thief, only she came too late and everything was gone.  She stepped lightly, as she always did, ghosting round the corners.

Is this what it will be like when he is gone?

"Sam?" she whispered again, falling to a halt, afraid to move. 

He appeared suddenly from out of the kitchen and they both started, the distance between them gaping like an open wound.

"Good morning, Sam," Rosie's voice came, sounding strained and quaking to her ears. "I thought maybe you left."

"No, I...I had to help Mr. Frodo last night. He was sleepwalking." His eyes flickered away, tumbling over the shadows, finally falling on the open door and he went urgently to shut it. Yet the chill in the smial lingered, like a stone sealed with frost, and she realized Sam had not bothered to light the kitchen hearth. She looked upon him and saw that he had neither washed nor changed, and his manner was strange. She was reminded of Yule and she was afraid.  

"What is it?" she asked, the words bursting from her tight throat.  "What's wrong? Why was the door open?"

"I just came in from the garden, and I'm a bit tired, is all."

Still she felt like she were plummeting down an endless well, grasping at thoughts to break her fall. "Sam? Has Mr. Frodo taken ill?"

"No, I reckon 'twas just a spell. I'm going to let him sleep, and bring up the ponies so everything will be ready when he wakes."

"And I suppose the fires will light themselves and breakfast will appear from a cloud of smoke. Is there a tale like that in Mr. Frodo's book?" She smiled despite herself, smoothing back her hair and marching to the kitchen, hands scrambling to light the hearth, and when that was done she went to the mantel in the sitting room, where Sam kept his pipe, and she brought it to him. The kettle she set out next, and by the time she went to the pantry, she was frantic. Her hands shook and the eggs almost ended up on the floor rather than in the skillet. Meanwhile Sam had dropped into his favourite chair, his form motionless and his mind unreachable. She took the pan from the heat and put the eggs aside, for she wasn't hungry anyway. 

"Sam, Sam," she murmured, not expecting him to listen, "the smial is full of thieves." 

Suddenly she wanted to drag him from the chair and run away, but she knelt before him instead, touching his knee softly. "You oughtn't go, Sam, if he's unwell and you're tired out. Why don't you stay?"

"He's wanting to leave today."
"I bet if you don't wake him up he'll sleep all afternoon.  You said yourself it's coming on October, and healing or no you oughtn't set out when he could fall ill any day. Let it be. Just please stay."

"Rose-dear, you don't understand."

"Then help me, tell me!" She was standing over him now, bent but taught, coiled tight, nearly shouting. "Make me understand!"

"Don't, Rose, you'll wake him…"

She looked about to scream, but her mouth snapped shut. Then, all energy seeming to drain out of her, she said, "Do you love him?"

A long time passed. She thought they had never stared into each other's eyes for so long. He nodded, almost imperceptibly.  

She closed her eyes, no longer able to escape it. But there was no shock or surprise, having known and ignored it for so long, and she found among her frustration not only resignation but measured acceptance as well. For she knew they needed each other, as maddening as it was, though exactly why was obscured.  

"We've a bond, you know," he said quietly, looking honest and plain. "We entered into something too difficult for us to do--an errand that couldn't be done--and we did it, only by binding ourselves together, so as we could never be apart again."

She had to learn to breathe all over again. Sam had turned his face down, but then he stood, taking her arms at the elbows and drawing her close. "It had to happen. Can you see? I love you, Rose, and I meant to love only you forever. I didn't know how fast and hard we were tied, Mr. Frodo and I, but I should have known and I'm sorry."

She was weak-kneed, only his strong arms kept her from sinking to the floor. "Tell me, Sam," she said hoarsely.

"Tell you what?"

"Everything. The War, I mean. That strange fairy story Mr. Frodo is writing, about monsters and evil."

He shifted her in his arms, but she stole back her strength and snatched at his wrists, as if he might escape. He eased them both onto the couch. "I'd rather you went on thinking it was a fairy story, as it were, than believe so much evil could be real."  

It's too late. It's too late. She had seen hints of all the evil that was possible--evil worse than Sharkey's rules, seemingly--lurking in a missing finger or a scar or a shudder or a cry in the night.  

"When you were but a lad you memorized every story you ever heard, and I reckon you went on telling them to anyone who'd listen. Then you learned your letters so you could read them yourself, and gather a bit of wisdom like wildflowers in a jar. Remember your little corner in your brothers' room? I do. You had flowers all round your tiny cot, and scraps of paper with words you'd copied out yourself. And I thought it was all rather queer, but you said you might teach me to read. I remember it clear as yesterday, and if you're going to go back on that, if you're going to keep the truth to yourself, then I don't think I know you anymore."  

Sam looked startled by her fierceness, staring at her with some mixture of love and fear. After a while he simply breathed, "It's a long tale."

"I expect it is."

"It's not my story, Rose, I don't know how to start, or what to say. I can only tell you what bits I know."

She just nodded, silent and waiting, and in the end he set himself to the task. "The trouble is," he said by way of beginning, "you have to believe everything is real. I'm going to tell you about things you've never seen or heard tale of before, and some parts are strange and some are magical, and you're going to have to believe it's all true. Elsewise it won't mean anything, if you follow me."

"I'll believe you, Sam."

And so he started.

* * * *

Sam was gone, having left to see to the ponies, but Rosie had not yet moved from the couch, where she wiped her eyes on her handkerchief. She felt spent, utterly overwhelmed, assailed by her imagination which flashed parts of the tale over and over again, blinding her from all else. Sam had spoken with great emotion and the occasional tears in his eyes had released her own, but now what she felt was some kind of awe, wanting to know how, how had such things happened? It was a foreign world, distant, and perhaps her family had a right not to care, but Sam had brought it home to her and coloured it with familiarity. And that it was real, that was like someone visiting a star and coming back to tell about it, so wondrous and hard to fathom.

How had they done it? How had ordinary hobbitfolk get caught up in it, and how had they seen it through to the very end?    

The only clear thought in her head was that she wanted to see Mr. Frodo, as if laying her eyes upon him would bring to life the images in her mind. She found herself drawn to his room, half-afraid, wanting to ask him a thousand questions and knowing she'd never ask them. She wanted to weep over his hands, she wanted to peer long into his eyes, with ignorance and understanding all at once. 

He was making up his bed when she entered, and she went to help him. Together they straightened the sheets and tucked them neatly, in silence. She stole short glances at him but he seemed so ordinary, carefully smoothing his pillows and looking as mild and gentle as she always knew him. He was just himself, in a way she could not explain, a quiet and intellectual gentlehobbit with ink on his fingers and books at hand. 

"Sam told me a remarkable tale," she said. "I feel as like I'm dreaming, so caught in the strange world he built in my mind."

Frodo smiled kindly, nearly chuckling. "What story did he tell?"

"He called it Nine-fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom."

He looked startled, his mouth open and his eyes looking like the depths of a well. As a child she had pulled the water-bucket up as efficiently as her brothers, but she never peered down the dark shaft for fear of being swallowed up somehow, falling and drowning. A sudden shadow passed over her thoughts like a wraith. She saw fire, an Eye Sam had fumbled to describe. Frodo had begun to pace a little and she regretted disturbing him, for she was imagining now what it had been like in the nightmarish spots of his journey. She began to picture his terror.

Upset, she focussed on the pendent hanging from his neck, a subtle gleam that was more enchanting than simply beautiful--in fact, Sam had used it to describe the glow of Elves passing through the woods. Knowing only that it had belonged to the Queen and that it had some healing power, she thought it would be a safe and perhaps comforting topic. 

"I don't mean to pry," she said carefully, "but one thing Sam didn't tell is the story of your gem."

"Sam doesn't quite know that story," Mr. Frodo replied, and Rosie thought he would say no more. 

"Are there many stories he doesn't know?"

"No, but there are a few."

"He's very glad you're going to Rivendell. I can't see that anywhere, even an elven-place, would be more peaceful than the Shire, but Sam has such hope. He thinks he can help you..." She broke off, unsure of herself, realizing that neither hobbit had been completely open with the other. For a moment she had some vision of the terrible complexity of situation. "I hope you're not letting him hope for naught. I mean, I hope you're not holding back tales he needs to hear."

Frodo went a bit pale, but recovered. "You are wise," he said, surprising her, "and you have shown me much kindness, for which I am grateful. I mean not to harm anyone."

As he bent to unlace his pack, Rosie said quickly, "I know you haven't harmed anyone, Mr. Frodo."

Mr. Frodo appeared to pay her no mind, taking Sting from his pack and holding it out to her. "I offered it to Sam once, but he wouldn't take it. I think I would like you to have it, Rose."

"It's very fine, but what am I to do with it?"

"Here, you hold it like this." He laid it in her hands and folded her fingers around the hilt. In just a few moments the foreign weapon felt comfortable in her grasp and she raised her arm a bit, moving the blade slowly through the air.

"It knew many adversaries," Mr. Frodo continued. "In this age I hope it will meet no more, but that it should serve you well."

She felt emboldened; blood rushed through her thickly. "A pity you never took up this sword and rode out hard on some noble-looking pony. Folk would listen to you then, I'd warrant. They'd have all the more reason to call you mad, but they'd respect you."

She smiled at him, suddenly captivated and enthralled, but Mr. Frodo looked sad and old and weary. "I know I'm supposed to care what others think, Rose. But I am tired and I've grown to resent calls of duty. Even writing my book seemed to me a task too great to bear. I do not wish to carry anything ever again, and I am sorry if I am supposed to do more, but I must leave it for others. So Sting I leave to you, and one day perhaps you'll give hobbitfolk something to listen to, for me."

She hardly knew what to say, and so she said nothing, but thanked him with her eyes and held the sword reverently.

* * * *

Sam patted old Bill softly on his brown flank while Tom Cotton secured Strider's saddle. Tom looked like he had something on his mind, and Sam was very thankful that he wasn't the type to speak up, because he could guess his thoughts well enough. Still, when Sam handed him a pack to settle on Bill, he met Tom's eyes and said sternly, "Now you look after your sister while I'm gone, and don't let her want for nothing."

Tom glared for a second but nodded. "She and the little one will be well taken care of at home." He put a slight stress on the word home.

"And I'm right grateful, Tom," Sam said. "But my Rose is a strong, strong lass, maybe stronger than anybody knew. I don't want anybody standing in her way, as it were."

"You're talking queer," Tom grumbled under his breath, and Sam ignored it, going to the smial to see that everything was ready. It was coming on noon and running errands had been keeping his heart and mind occupied, but now he found himself waiting for Mr. Frodo and nervous anxiety began to creep up his chest.  He recognized that he had a moment to himself to think things out, and he took a bit of apple juice to the nursery. Little Elanor blinked sleepy eyes at him as he ran his hand through her short golden curls.

She was pink and perfect, warm in her soft sleeper. He couldn't resist scooping her up and holding her to his chest, his face nuzzling her hair, and planting kisses on her forehead. When he took up the bottle to feed her, he began to whisper to her, slowly and painfully.

"My heart is all tangled up, me dear one. The Gaffer, he'd say his I told 'ee so, Sam, if he knew what a mess I'd made of things. And I don't have but a day or two to get things untangled, so to speak. Elanor, O lovely Elanor, your Sam-Dad has a hard choice to make, and things could go badly wrong. If you were older I'd tell you about another time I made a hard choice, and it all but ruined everything. But it makes me sore to think on it, and your ears are too little yet for that tale.

"It's Mr. Frodo, child-o'-mine. Do you hear how my heart runs like a pack-pony? That's his doing, for I know something now that mayhaps I weren't never supposed to know. I'm right scared, and no lie. Mr. Frodo...well, you don't know all the tales I have of him, but I know you love him, sweet babe. He's easy to love, I reckon, being so gentle and beautiful and brave. And I've loved him for a long, long time, without a thought. If you asked me why, I'd jabber on into the night, but a true answer needs poetry, you see, and I've nothing proper. But maybe you understand anyway, my Elanor-love? Sometimes when I peek in on you while you're sleeping, you seem so peaceful and snug and warm, and that's how I feel when I'm with him.

"He's my master and my most best friend, so already we were joined up closely.  But then there was something else besides, something I won't tell you now, and it made us closer as like the ivy curls tight around the trellis. You can't pull that ivy loose if it's tangled round in knots, and Mr. Frodo and I can't be untied from each other either.

"But you see, now I have some beautiful flowers tangled up with me too. When you grow up a bit you'll see how many different kinds of love and friendliness there are, almost as many as flowers in the garden. There's a sweet Rose and a pretty Elanor that are so very dear to me. 

"And Mr. Frodo is sailing, sailing, sailing over the Sea and leaving us.

"Hush, hush little one."

Sam rocked her tenderly as she whimpered, humming snatches of gentle songs over her little head, his own head bowed very low. He thought she smelled like sweet rain in the hay field, and it was a joy to breathe in.

"I love you, little babe. I do and no mistake, more and more every day. And I'll never stop loving you, no matter what happens, I give you my real and true promise. You've made your Sam-Dad very happy, and whenever I'm remembering a bit of sadness, just holding you makes everything all right again. Your Mum is like that too, and both of you made my heart light when everything was fixing to keep it heavy.

"I don't know what I'll do," he said, at last beginning to weep. "After that cruel task all I wanted was to see growing things again, and all things beautiful and full of life, and you and Rose came like gifts against all hope. Like the sweetest wishes you ever cast into a well and never dreamed to get. But Mr. Frodo, he's got nothing! After all he has done!

"I was ready to give him everything, and I would gladly have carried It, or even died. But I never had anything to give, really, and I never gave something up like he did. But there's one thing I could give him now, this one thing, my little lass, and how can I not? O, how can I not? I love him. He loves me.

"He's sailing so very far away, and he must go because he's so weary with his hurts. You know how deeply he is wounded, my beautiful child. O, my Elanor dear, you will never see him again."

He was silent for a time with weeping.

"He will heal yet, I believe it. He must, for he oughtn't have to pay for the whole world, it's too cruel, and I'd take the debt if I could. If only I could heal him! I've been praised much more than I deserve, but my quest isn't over yet and if I could just take some of his burden...if I could give something up, and give something to him, then I might deserve it."

Wiping his eyes on his sleeve and kissing her again, he said, "I want to make him happy, as I have been."

It took him a long moment to put his daughter back down, and in the end it was his wife who came to wrest her from him. "Mr. Frodo is ready," she said, holding Elanor tenderly. "You'd best go, if you're set on it."

He was speechless, his face still wet with tears, hardly knowing what he was heading into. Together they went out and found Mr. Frodo gently petting his horse, looking serene. Sam turned anxiously to Rosie, still standing near the door. "Will you fare all right? I told Tom to look out for you, and you ought to check in with Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin. They'd be happy to give you a hand, and mayhaps a story or two."

"Have you any guess when I can expect you?"

Tremulously, he shook his head. How long was it to the Sea, he wondered? It was not known among hobbits, just a bit of lore about the White Downs, the Far Downs, and the Tower Hills. He chanted the names over in his head.  He had not told her about Frodo's letter, or about what he'd learned of Frodo's real plans, for Mr. Frodo had not wanted anyone to know the truth of his journey, seemingly.

"I don't think I shall go home, Sam. Perhaps I will visit Mr. Frodo's cousins, as you say, and hear of their Travels, or perhaps I will find something else that needs to be done. But don't worry after me, and I won't worry after you, and don't let's say goodbye." She took a breath, her face set. "Go along, Sam."

She pushed him slightly with her free arm, and with one last look he went and mounted his pony. 

"Well, we're off, Mr. Frodo," he said.

*

TBC. Comments are very welcome.