Title: The Last Few Pages
Series: LotR
Storyline: One Shot
Characters: Sam, mentions of others
Pairing: Sam/Frodo? Almost
Rating: PG
Summary: It was the memories that stilled his hand for so long, it was not yet the time.
AN: Don't own the characters, of course
That old book lay still and unopened, dust gathering upon crimson leather for so long that it was often thought to be a hue of gray these days. The quills as well, still unused after so many years, had begun to grow frail with age and fall apart, shedding thin threads of feather over the surface of the cover of the book. No hand ever lifted to push aside those ghosts of fiber, no effort made to move a single object upon the lonely desk. In time it was all but forgotten, like a watcher to the world around but never a part of it. Every so often he would walk past that desk, eyes falling upon the silent reminder for but a moment before pulled elsewhere. It was a pain that Samwise could not yet manage, at least not by himself. He could feel the memories behind that cover, could almost see those moments of the past written amid those dusty pages. And it made everything still so real and alive to him, he simply could not breathe life back into that past now, it was too soon. Those specters were still far too alive in his own eyes.
And as even more time passed and young Hobbits came into this world many curious little hands reached for the object, tossing aside the trails of years of forgotten dust with a wave of tiny fingers. Large eyes scanned such a beautiful shade of red, eager to see what lay behind, what wonders could be hidden within. Often it would be the eyes of a Took, as though someone had made that silly once young Hobbit over anew in the eyes of his own young ones, and from time to time there too would be the curious gaze of a Gamgee. But always his own strong hands pulled those of the younger ones away with the fatherly care he treated all with. In doing so his own skin would cross over that cherry-red leather for a moment or two and he would hesitate, would almost reach to pull back those first pages. Memories would dance before his dark eyes and he would hear the echoes of the past clear in his ears. Then he would draw those strong but worn hands away once more, it was not yet time and his heart knew this.
When soon in those next years stones of old begin to crack and the world of Men was forever in change that old book was always constant. Though never was pen placed to parchment within its pages as time passed and old friends faded away it was as though somehow it knew and was waiting. While much was moved and placed elsewhere, making room and changes in the same breath, never did a hand fall upon the elder object. It stayed in the same place, almost a part of the worn out desk itself, watching life pass by. Sam wondered, often enough, if he remembered all the old tales correctly, for his memory was perhaps not what it once was. But never did he turn to those pages, for surely within them would be the songs of old, of their victories and their hardships, he never looked because somewhere in his heart he could not bear the pain of loss all over again. The feeling was not as strong now though, it had begun to fade and he found his eyes cast to that memory made real more often now. Somehow it felt as though he too were changing, and time was growing near.
Then when the trees of the orchard had bloomed lush and lively once again he took the long path to visit old friends. They were still much the same, aged some perhaps, but the same light still flickered in those eyes. Pippin, grown so fast in times of battle and pain, still smiled with an expression that seemed to make the sun above shine. And Merry, wise beyond his years long before the time of Rings and quests but still so very young at heart, he was more weary but something still flickered bright there behind his own eyes. There was another secret between the two, and he could sense it. Not the sort of secret that a lad and a lass share in giggling meadows, but a more grave one, as though the two Hobbits somehow knew another change was in store for them. Perhaps a final change, he could not really fathom to guess, nor did he wish to. Whatever lay ahead in their life's path would not be the same as he took upon his own, of that much he was certain. And for whatever reason he could not be sorrowed over it, nor did they, something waited for each of them And this moment was not made for sorrows, it was a time to be happy enough to sit among the tall grasses and listen to the happenings since he had last ventured this way and enjoy long hours spent without thought to the ghosts of the past.
Though by and by it was Pippin who questioned about that old book, and for a long moment no one spoke. There were no words to be exchanged, because none of them could truly voice what they wished to without it seeming hollow or empty. Then once more it was the youngest of the three who spoke up, laughing softly over some memory long since past, a time of parties and joy. A time before Rings and the great big world of Men. But that too sent their thoughts to the paths they had taken back then. Merry commented to himself as he rubbed at the sliver of ache that haunted his arm, his thoughts elsewhere in that moment. And for a long while once more silence fell upon them all. It was very much unlike Hobbits, but in truth they too seemed unlike Hobbits should have been now. A few more hours passed and with a growing courage they spoke more boldly of that which had been, and shared a few memories all but forgotten before it was once more time to part ways.
The book was waiting for him as he returned home, shutting the door quietly and stepping into the room mostly cast with the shadows of evening. He thought then of Frodo, so very far away from them all, in some land that so few would see. And he wondered if his dearest of friends had found the peace he had sought within that shimmering place. He could not know, not yet, for that too would come in time for him. But looking upon that worn object he began to understand how something so simple could have a soul, a purpose, and the greatest of meanings. He looked over the desk, found it all in the same order after so long, ran his fingers across the cover of crimson. Then pulled open the book finally, eyes falling over pages filled with scrawling text placed there by hands that had lived the paths written of, lives that had touched and been touched by others before they faded away. And how much more was yet to be unsaid, how could one write away another lifetime in the pages still open and fresh? He was afraid to try, not yet, so his hand pushed that book shut once more as he turned away, lost to his thoughts.
It would be the chill of winter once again before he finally stood alone, the darkness having fallen once more, night sinking ebon all around. While all others within the place were resting in peaceful dreams he walked the halls and looked to each in turn, saw in his mind's eye how each had grown as the years had passed, how each had changed. He saw too what was yet to be, the adventures and hopes waiting for those within these walls. It was truly a grand thing, to be alive, to see those around you alive with such wonder as well. He felt guilty for those who could not claim the same, those who had been lost all too soon. But gradually he wandered back alone into the large open room where that silent object sat, an old friend still waiting. And this time when he glanced out the window at the softly falling snow he felt a change in himself, time had almost come, but not just yet. There was time for yet one more task before this place he too set behind him, left it in the care of those who would follow next.
Soon enough he would see for himself if that golden light held as much truth and beauty as it seemed to. And if nothing else it held a dear and forever missed friend, something he longed to see once more. But now it was time for the task he had put off for so long, and there was little enough time for it. A few weeks, perhaps a few more seasons of change, but that was such a short time from what had already come to pass. So it was then, still thinking of the past and all that it held that he picked up that old book and carried it away to the rug before that laughing fire that danced in the hearth. He almost smiled to read the words on those pages, and more than once a tear slid down his cheek, so much of life lay in those marks of ink. The snow still fell outside that window, and soon enough spring would bring forth new life in the Shire, and perhaps he would not be there to see it bloom for too many years to come, but that did not matter. Now he had but to add his own gift to that which had already been left behind in his care, another lifetime of wonder and joy, sorrows and trials. And there in the darkness, aided by firelight and with fingers curled around an old and dusty quill pen, Samwise Gamgee began to write upon those last few pages.