Journey's End- THE BARKEEP
The air was thick within the bowels of the mountain, and his lungs were starved for air. Sam gasped, but nothing came. He could see Mr. Frodo and Gollum, wrestling on the not-so distant precipice. They were both vying for the Ring. Gollum pitched himself hard into Mr. Frodo, and the young hobbit lost his footing. Igneous shrapnel flew from beneath Frodo's feet, and in an instant, both he and Gollum were hurtling past the edge.
Sam couldn't move with enough speed. His limbs had suddenly turned to lead, and no matter how he tried, there was no way to reach his master. Time did not slow, as it had so many times before, to give him those precious few seconds, the time to reach the edge. He watched in shock as Mr. Frodo fell, crying out his name.
"SAM!"
Frodo had finally forgotten the Ring.
Sam felt bile rise in his throat as he crawled toward the edge; Mr. Frodo's voice was still calling. He was holding on, waiting for Sam. When he finally peeked over the edge of the jagged rock, groping for his master's hand, there was none. Mr. Frodo had already fallen. Sam watched helplessly as the ring bearer was consumed by the same river of fire that was meant to destroy his burden.
It was then that he screamed.
*
"Rosie."
Rose Gamgee stirred at the sound of her name. She was accustomed being woken in the wee hours of the morning by his desperate voice, dripping of nightmares and unsettled business. She was accustomed to finding her husband, her Sam, drenched in sweat and reaching for her hand in place of another's. She was accustomed to his fear.
"Sam, my darling," she cooed, turning her body toward his. "What is it?"
It was a futile question. Rose knew what it was. She had never needed to ask. It had been there, resting in his eyes, since the day that he had made his final return from the Grey Havens. He had kissed her in passing, but it had fallen soft. Sam had spent his life being nothing if not thorough, more especially when it came to his Rosie. He was never loath to give her affection, but something had changed. His kiss had been absent, as though some of his heart had been spent. She didn't need to question why. Mr. Frodo was gone, and with him had gone a piece of Sam's soul. Frodo's absence left Sam uneasy, and the nights long.
She had watched him sleep that first night, just as she would one of the children. It was a fitful slumber, made of tosses and turns, and tears. In sleep, he had whimpered like a lost child. Gradually, his eyes began to move rapidly beneath their lids and a nightmare came, growing more intense as the minutes passed. His voice tore her in two. He kept crying out, as though in pain, muttering about having "lost 'im." Rosie had held him tight, baiting silence with her soft words and gentle touch.
He did not awake.
That night, he did not reach for her, and she had not expected him to. She understood. He needed his time to grieve for the parting of his brother; he would soldier through his terror, alone, for weeks. At times, he cries were so loud, so guttural, that Rosie feared he would wake the children. If either little Elanor or Frodo-lad were to see their father, lost within pain that could not be recreated in his tales, they might believe that his bravery had disappeared- or worse, never existed at all. But, eventually, the ripe sting left by the wound dulled, and amidst the tears, he would take Rosie, cling to her, and kiss her as though he might never have the opportunity again. Rosie was aware that these kisses did not belong to her. They weren't for anyone. They simply were. She knew that the demons that Sam faced had little to do with battling Orcs or the perils he had faced on his long journey, and that they wouldn't be tamed by a few hugs and kisses between husband and wife.
Those closest to Sam knew the story. He was reluctant to talk about his adventures, but they all knew of what had happened that day within Mount Doom. Mr. Frodo had made sure of that while he was recounting their Quest for his red book. Rosie knew that Sam had saved his master from almost certain doom. Rosie knew that Sam, himself, had been on the very doorstep of death before Gandalf had found he and Frodo. But they were saved. Sam and his Mr. Frodo came riding home together, having kept their world from collapsing. But the two were no longer together, and in his nightmares, Sam would watch Mr. Frodo fall simply because he was too slow and stupid to keep him aloft. Sam would hear his master's bloodcurdling cries as he disappeared into the simmering pot of magma below; and Sam would blame himself.
That's what it was. That's what it always had been. Since Mr. Frodo had gone into the west, Sam hadn't been able to shake the feeling that it was his fault. He honestly believed that he had been the cause of Mr. Frodo's discontent with the Shire, and it haunted him. He had never shared this with her, but Rosie knew. She knew her Samwise inside and out. So, when Rosie felt his arms snake heavily around her waist in the middle of the night, and his tears on her shoulder, she knew exactly what ailed him.
But this eve, it was different. Her name was not mangled by a sob long-trapped in his throat. When she turned to look at him, there was no trace of tears on his earnest face. His hazel eyes danced in the soft light of the moon, and he took her face in his hands.
"Rosie-lass?"
Sam's voice quivered slightly, but his grip and intent were firm. Rosie knew that he meant business; she lit the bedside lamp, and took his hands from her face. He cocked his head, studying her bed-worn curls and running his calloused gardener's thumb over her knuckles. She gave him a small grin and squeezed his hand in reply.
"Rose, have I been good to you?" Sam asked. His eyes fell to the bed linens with the weight of the question. "Have I been good to you and the children?"
"Samwise, that's a fool's question, if ever I've heard one," Rosie replied without thinking.
Sam bit his lip. "Aye, I know I've been a bit of trouble."
"Oh, Sam," she sighed. "You're no more trouble than your own flowers."
And it was true. She had never thought of Sam's restlessness as a burden. She had seen Mr. Frodo at his worst. There had been days where Mr. Frodo sat for hours, saying nothing. He would stare into the fire, keeping even Sam at bay. He did not ask for help. He did not weep. He couldn't find the strength or courage to do anything but retreat to a place within himself that would remain unseen. These days had been few, but they tore her Samwise apart, and, truth be told, frightened Rosie. Sam, too, had been a ring bearer. If such things could happen to Frodo, what was to stop them from taking hold of Sam? Any sign of life, be it anguished cries in the middle of the night or a tenuous, slow-spreading grin over first breakfast, was better than none at all.
"Don't go tellin' falsehoods on account of my feelings," Sam insisted, letting go of her hand. "Well and like, I know I mustn't be the easiest hobbit to live with these days."
Rosie saw his chest heave, and she waited for him to finish.
"Listen, now, Rosie-lass," he said, firmly setting his jaw. "I won't have you pretending. I know I keep you awake most nights; don't say that I haven't. I know you, Rose."
"That you do," Rosie replied.
"Good," Sam said sternly, tugging on one of her corn silk curls. "I wanted to give you an apology, for keepin' you from your beauty rest and all."
Rosie's voice was gentle. "You haven't kept me up these nights for nothing; and I'd warrant a guess that my beauty sleep has been the farthest thing from your mind."
Sam looked away. "Then I have been some trouble to you?"
He swung his legs out of bed, dropping his feet to the cold planks of the floor. "Rose. I'm sorry. I'm sorry for it all. I know that I've left you and the little hobbitses in the cold, as it were, but it's been so hard. Harder than I thought it would be."
"Samwise?"
"I've had dreams, Rosie. Horrible dreams."
She nodded. "I know."
"We're in that mountain, and he and that sneaking little wretch, Gollum, are fighting over the Ring. But he falls. He always falls and I can't save him."
"But-"
Sam held up his hand to stop her. "I know. I know I did, and that should matter more than my losing 'im in a dream. But I'm just so slow. And he screams, and all I can do is watch. And it's terrible, it is. Watching someone who you care for so much being swallowed up by something so terrible, especially when you could have done something about it."
Rosie's breath stalled for a moment. She had watched Sam, himself, fight against such "terrible" things, and had felt beside herself trying to protect him. Sam began to pace uneasily, noticing the way that she studied him.
"And I'm always so frightened. I said something to Mr. Frodo once, about us being remembered in the stories and all, and he called me Samwise the Stouthearted. And I've let 'im down."
"You haven't, Sam," Rosie replied softly. "You've done nothing if not more than what he asked. It isn't your fault. That journey would have taken the life out of any hobbit, and it very nearly did. Had it not been for you, Samwise Gamgee, there would be no Mr. Frodo. If that doesn't make you stouthearted, nothing ever will. You cannot help that your quest or what have you took a toll on him."
"I think I'm beginning to see that, Rosie-lass."
"Are you, now?" she said softly. Sam nodded, walking quietly to the window. It was cracked open, and the night air was cool upon his face. He stared at his garden, illuminated in the moonshine, and bit nervously at his lip.
"I had the same dream tonight."
Rosie nodded patiently.
"The heat was something fierce, and the two of 'em were wrestling on the ledge. But this time, Mr. Frodo won. He pushed Gollum, and down the stinker went," Sam recounted, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "And then something awful queer happened. I went up to join him, to see that the wretch got his comeuppance and all, and Mr. Frodo looked at me. He looked at me and gave me a grin. And then he pitched the Ring in after Gollum. He just threw it away. And then he says to me, 'Sam, I've lost it.'
"'Sam, I've lost it,' he said. He said that he had 'let it go.' And then he spoke again, sayin' 'And I think it's time you let me go, too.'"
Sam turned from the window and looked at his wife, sending her a rare and melancholy smile. "And I think it's time that I should."
He moved quietly across the room, climbing back into bed. Gently, he kissed Rosie's forehead. She only smiled; she knew that there was nothing more for her to say. There was a lone tear on her Samwise's cheek, but for the first time in a long while, Rosie did not need to brush it away. It hadn't arrived in fear or sadness. It was a key. As Mr. Frodo had passed into the west, Sam had closed a door. And that night, he had locked it. He would never forget Mr. Frodo, and one day, Sam, too, would journey across the sea. But for now, he had his memories, and beside him, someone who loved him and could be with him as Mr. Frodo could not.
"Samwise the Stouthearted, indeed," Rosie murmured. And with that, she blew out the lamp.