Into the West

by emma1968

Frodo and Sam reunite in Valinor and speak of their role as literary characters. “J.R.R. Tolkien made you, Sam. And me.”Sam looked at Frodo in astonishment mixed with confusion. “Is Tolkien one of the Valar?” “Well, in some ways.”

AN:  Italic block quotes are by Aratlithiel, other stuff by Emma.  Screen names and quotes mentioned are used with express permission of the authors, including, of course, Aratlithiel, Ariel, and the Frodohealers. 

VVVV

I wrote this fic in honor of my lovely beta, Aratlithiel, who is one of the most proficient and prolific writers I know.  I met Aratlithiel as I was writing my then-short fic, Ring around the Merry.  She offered to beta – a godsend, as it turned out.  I could give her any clunky sentence I had, and she would instantly turn it into something like spun gold.  She asked me at one point if I would like to take a little look at something she wrote.  I did, and it floored me.  That work, "at the Sammath Naur" was one of the most heaping servings of hand-crafted Frodo angst I have ever seen.  I told (dragooned) her to post, and she was immediately recognized by her fanfic peers as being a true master of her craft.  She since has written guest chapters for Ring around the Merry ("The Cave and the Divided Line" and "The Choices of Master Samwise" if you want a really angsty read!) and has her own website full of shining jewels of the genre. 

This story was meant as a birthday present, but as her birthday has come and gone, this will be a tribute.  And the best tribute I can think of is having her favorite character in the world discuss the works of Aratlithiel.  And for those who have never read her works, then this story will be a present to you as well!  Aratlithiel' stories can be found all over West of the Moon and on her own site at lightindarkplaces  dot net. 

Many hugs!

Emma (Aelfgifu)

"Of course the L.R. does not belong to me.  It has been brought forth and now must go on its appointed way in the world, though naturally I take a deep interest in its fortunes, as a parent would a child." 

--J.R.R. Tolkien, 1971

"Into the West"

by Aelfgifu and Frodo (and Aratlithiel)  for Carole

Beta'ed by Ariel

Sam's eyes drank in his beloved master's face.  It was a face he had tried so hard to memorize that doleful day sixty-five Septembers ago at the Grey Havens. He'd raised his eyes one last time, just after their last embrace, and forced his mind to take in every detail of that angular face, the wide blue eyes, so dull of late, the sweep of his lashes, the minute lines about the corners of his mouth, the delicate lips that so seldom had curved up in a smile that last year in the shire, the porcelain skin which had never regained the rosy Baggins glow since the day they had crawled into the sweep of desolation known as Mordor.  Sam memorized the face as best as he could through a veil of relentless tears and the crushing weight of sadness.  He had never felt so lonely as the moment Frodo stepped onto that ship, as he had since referred to it.  Unbeknownst to him, Frodo had felt exactly the same loneliness.  

And now that ship – or one just like it, had borne Sam over the sundering sea back to his treasure, his Frodo.  Sam, old as he was, felt a new vigor born of anticipation surging through his veins as the ship approached to green lands.  When Sam caught sight of the small solitary figure standing on the quay he thought his soul might well jump out of his skin.  It was Frodo.  He appeared just as Sam had left him.  But not quite so.  Frodo's hair was streaked with silver, but his cheeks rosy, his inner glow that Sam had once thought transparent now seemed positively luminous- a light within that radiated out a perfect peace and complete happiness.  Frodo smiled, and the smile was real.  His eyes sparkled and smiled just as surely as his lips though they were filled with tears.

And then they were together again.  Frodo dashed up the gangway like a spry tween, not allowing Sam time to gather either his thoughts or his walking stick.  Sam found himself enclosed in a bone crushing hug, and together they wept with joy. 

A small eternity passed before they spoke, and when they did, it was only Frodo, giving gentle, and largely unnecessary instructions to Sam as he led him slowly down to solid ground.  Sam stopped in his tracks, not giving so much as a glance to the white palaces or the wonders of the land.  Instead he turned his master to face him and drank in the sight.

 "I am so glad you are with me, Samwise Gamgee," said Frodo with a smile.  "Here at the beginning of all things."

VVVV

They had seen no Elves as they walked to Frodo's rebuilt smial, Bag End West, as he called it.  Frodo explained that the Elves had wanted to give them as much privacy as need be and they had until the end of their days to parlay with fair folk.  Sam's advanced age made the walk difficult and he leaned more heavily on Frodo's shoulder than he had wished.

"Mr. Frodo," Sam said.  "It is as if the years of this age have passed you by and left you untouched.  Does no one age here?"

Frodo laughed.  "Sam, that shall be mended soon enough for your part.  You are in good hands, and, lacking that, at least kind ones.  There are many ways this day could have gone, so many ways it has gone, Sam.  We are having a nice reunion this time.  And it will only get nicer if I know the lady."

"The Lady Galadriel!" cried Sam.

Frodo smirked.  "No, Sam.  But I will explain in a bit after we get ourselves home and in front of a cozy fire.  Let me tell you up front, that I don't suppose we will be seeing many elves at all, at least not for a good while, I think.  Elves are," Frodo screwed up his face as his mind fished for the right word, "difficult for some of them, including this one."

Sam did not pursue the matter, so happy was he to be by his master's side once again.  Elves could wait.

At last they came to a cobblestone path lined with strange flowers of red and deep purple blue.  The path curved around a low green hill which the final turn revealed to be a smial.  Sam gasped in amazement as they rounded the corner.

"Why Mr. Frodo!  It is the very image of Bag End – round green door and all!"

"It is called Bag End West," said Frodo.

"How clever, Mr. Frodo!" said Sam, still rubbing his eyes to convince himself he did not dream.

"I'm afraid I cannot take credit nor blame for its title," said Frodo as he placed a hand on the brass knob at the center of the door.  "But I will say it is the best name I have yet heard for it."

"Are there other names for it?" asked Sam.  "In elvish or the like?"

"Bag End #2" is a clumsier rendering.  There are others.  But friendship demands that for this moment in time, it is Bag End West."

"It is perfect, Mr. Frodo," Said Sam.  "And it would be perfect even if it were called Sharkey's End #2 -long as it had got you in it!"

Frodo gave Samwise an affectionate clap on his shoulder and swung open the big green door with a flourish of his hand and a low bow.

"Welcome home, Sam!"

VVVV

And so this is your home in the west, Mr. Frodo!" exclaimed Sam, giddy with excitement. 

"It is yours now too, Sam," said Frodo smiling.  "It will be just as it was in Bag End all those years ago."

Frodo motioned to a green upholstered chair.  "Sit down, Sam," he said.  "This chair has been waiting over six decades for you to fill it!"

Sam scanned the room, taking in every detail.  Frodo had piled books of every imaginable color and size on every flat surface, giving the room the appearance of barely controlled chaos.  A large table of dark polished wood stood in the center of the room and it too was covered with stacks of books. Frodo set several of the stacks gingerly upon the floor to clear room for tea.

"Shall I start the water to boil?" asked Sam – already feeling invigorated and not half of his hundred and three years.

Frodo raised his palm.

"Don't you dare, Sam!  I shall serve you today – and you shall bear it or I'll march you right back to that ship!"

Sam crossed his arm over his chest, huffed a bit, and settled back in the chair.

"Very well Mr. Frodo," sighed Sam.

"And that's another thing that shall change, Sam!"  Said Frodo as he turned back to face his friend.  "You've been mayor far too many times for you to go on "Mistering" me.  From this point on I'm Frodo to you. Just Frodo."

"Mr. Frodo!" exclaimed Sam in dismay.

Frodo shook his head at Sam and offered his best impression of a stern look before disappearing down the hall.

Sam stood, and in a feeble attempt to make himself useful, drew a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped it over the table.  Underneath the dust, the table had a high shine.  Sam glanced down to check his handiwork.

"Hoy!"  Sam did a double take as he saw his reflection, jumping back with enough force to topple the chair behind him. 

Sam had found himself staring into a face that now appeared 70 years younger than the one he had seen last time he had peered in a mirror.  He stood glued in place for a few moments, bracing himself with his palms on the table.  His eyes roved down upon the tops of his hands now.  Hours ago, these very hands had been calloused gnarled, and covered with well-earned wrinkles.  The hands he saw now were smooth and brown as they had been when he had been but a tween.  He flexed his fingers experimentally, balled them into fists, and stretched them out again.  They moved as easily as well-oiled leather with no sign of the pain and stiffness that had prevented him from doing the work of the soil for the past several years – the hands that had betrayed him.  Sam's face broke into a wide smile.  He felt like dancing.  No.  He felt like gardening.  But first he felt like telling Frodo. 

Sam leapt to his feet and dashed to the kitchen. 

"Mr. Frodo!  Mr. Frodo!" he cried.  "You'll never guess what's happened!  It's like magic, it is!"

Frodo turned his head, a blue eye twinkling over his shoulder, and then faced his friend, he face radiant from the warmth of the hearth and the glow in his heart. 

"Ah, Sam!" said Frodo.  "I see this place has already done its work upon you!  Now you are just as I remember you."

Sam forgot himself, and laughing and crying all at once, bounded into Frodo's arms. 

"I am so happy, Mr. Frodo, I could just burst!"

Frodo laughed as he embraced his dear friend. "Well, you are the same, except that the last time I saw you, you had tears of sorrow.  Now they are tears of joy.  And I am glad of it!  It does me well to see you content, Sam."  He beamed. "I have missed you."  He released his grip and stepped back, and saw that both of them were weeping.  Frodo chuckled through his tears.

"Now, Samwise, we must stop crying.  This is supposed to be a happy story!"

Sam tipped up his face, wiping an errant tear with a meaty finger.

"What do you mean, Mr….I mean, Frodo?

"Oh Sam!" grinned Frodo as he drew up the kettle from the hook.  "I have so much to tell you, and finally all the time in the world to do it.  Come!"

VVVV

Frodo and Sam sat contentedly by the fire – Sam talking animatedly about the goings on in the Shire, about his gaggle of children, and his small army of grandchildren.  Frodo sat quietly, his fingers interlaced and resting on his belly.  A smile of complete contentment spread across his face.

"Sam," said Frodo, his eyes sparkling in the firelight, "Your reward was to live the life that I no longer could.  And my reward is to hear you tell about it."

Sam blushed, but smiled all the same. 

"Mr. Frodo, you told me that I could not always be torn in two.  But not a day passed that I didn't feel like I was.  Half of me went with you over the sea, me dear, like it or no."

A thoughtful look crossed Frodo's face as he stood up.

"Come, Sam," said Frodo as he took Sam by the hands, "I would like to show you something."

Outside the world had gone dark.  The moon was a pale white disk in the velvety sky.  The clouds occasionally parted and the stars winked through the rift.  Frodo led Sam down a dirt path that lead away from the smial, and toward the muffled roar of the sea.  Sam found himself approaching a tall cliff overlooking the sea.  The two hobbits eased themselves into the tall grass and gazed out upon the water below. 

"Sam," said Frodo, "look up at the horizon and tell me what you see."

"I see the ocean," said Sam softly, "and the stars, the most brightest stars that I've ever seen, or am like to see."

Frodo pointed toward the horizon in the direction from whence Sam's ship had sailed. 

"Look there, Sam," said Frodo.  "Can you see anything right there?"

Sam squinted and strained his eyes, and then shook his head.

"Now that's right queer, Mr. Frodo," said Sam.  "There ain't no stars in that patch of sky.  Nor in that reflection of water to speak of.  I can't see no land neither.  It's like the dark came up and swallowed that bit of the sky."

Frodo gave a self-satisfied grin.  "What you see there, Sam is not the spread of darkness, but the absence of light.   There is nothing there at all."

"How can that be, Mr. Frodo? Have you been too long at the ale?"

"Debatable on the ale, Sam," chuckled Frodo, "And I'm giddy for it.  But I'm not wrong on this.  There's nothing there because she has not yet decided what we should see there, and Tolkien has given no hints about it.  It is blank because it is unwritten."

Sam turned and looked at Frodo as if he were mad.  "Mr. Frodo!  That don't make a whit of sense!  Who is she and what in Middle Earth is a Tolkien?"

Frodo laughed and patted his confused friend on the back.  "My dear Sam!  My dear predictable Sam!"

Sam suddenly became flustered.  "There now, Mr. Frodo!  There's no need to make fun!  Last time there was a 'she' without a person attached to it; it turned out to be a right huge spider!"

Frodo sputtered with a laugh.  "So literal!" he said.  "Well that's my Sam all over and I have missed him.  Well, once again, it is my turn to open out."

Sam gave Frodo a nervous glance.  In the last 60-odd years, Samwise Gamgee had not learned to like surprises any more than had his old Gaffer.

"Sam," said Frodo.  "She is not a spider, she is a writer. At present she is our writer.  Yet she did not create us.  That is where Tolkien comes in – John Ronald Reuel Tolkien to be exact.  We would not exist at all if it weren't for him."

Sam face betrayed his utter befuddlement.   "What are you getting at, Frodo?" asked Sam suspiciously.  "Best I know my ma and pa made me."

Frodo chuckled affectionately again.  "Birds and bairns notwithstanding," he said, "Who created you? Who created hobbits?  Who created everything we see?"

"The Valar, of course!" said Sam expelling a puff of smoke from his mouth as he spoke. 

"And who made them, Sam?"

"The most highest up of the Valar?"

Frodo laughed heartily and took a draw of his pipe. 

"J.R.R. Tolkien made you, Sam.  And me."

Sam looked at Frodo in astonishment mixed with confusion.  "Is Tolkien one of the Valar?"

"No Samwise," said Frodo patting his dearest friend on the back again. "Well, no, and yes in some ways."

Sam scrunched up his face.  "Mr. Frodo!  You're speaking in riddles again!"

"Sam, we come from the mind of J.R.R. Tolkien.  He made us, he wrote us.  We belong to him, and he to us.  And she is Emma, a fanfiction writer.  She is borrowing us from Tolkien for awhile."

I still don't understand!" cried Sam, a kind of shrillness leaking into his tone. 

Frodo took Sam's arm in a gesture that implied he knew what he was about to say would come as a shock.

"Sam," said Frodo.  "We are literary creations."

VVVV

"This is a lot to take in, Mr. Frodo, and no mistake," said Sam as he leaned back into his chair in the parlor.  "I feel so real.  So alive!"

"You are real, Sam!" said Frodo.  "And you are alive – more than alive.  But Sam, as literary creations we are both alive and flexible.  We can exist in a thousand different realities at once – depending on who is writing us.  Tolkien gave us our personalities, our quest, and our world, but he did not fill in all the corners and all the crevices.  There are many blank spots.  The fanfiction writer can fill in those spots, or can make a whole new universe for us.  Our lives hinge upon the writer.  We exist in and out of Tolkien's works.  We took on a life of our own."

"You mentioned this Emma," said Sam, again suspicious.  "What do we know about her?"

Frodo paled a bit.  "When I heard she was to write us again, I was," Frodo paused, plumbing for the right word.  "I had concerns."

"Why Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo stood, and plodding over to his bureau, drew out a thick manuscript stuffed far in back of its floor. With a thud, he set the dog-eared papers upon the table. 

"Ring around the Merry," read Sam, and picked up the manuscript.  He thumbed through it, his eyes darting up to Frodo each time he landed upon another illustration. 

"So in this story, Merry gets evil, holds you captive and….." Sam's face grew red with emotion.  "Mr. Merry would never do these things, Mr. Frodo!  He don't own a whip and he wouldn't know how to use it if he did!  What is the meaning of this!?"

"Angst," said Frodo.  "Pure and simple. To entertain the readers through our physical and emotional anguish."

Sam let his eyes roved over a few more pages.

"Dust and ashes!" cried Sam.  "This Emma, sir, are you sure she's not wrong in the head, if you take my meaning?"

"Oh, Sam!  Do you not yet understand?  She is writing the words we are speaking right now."

"Why?" cried Sam.  "Why is she writing them if she hates us?"

"She doesn't," said Frodo calmly.   "Strangely enough.  And her beta loves us.  In fact, she is writing this piece for her beta."

"Beta?"

"The lady who edits the story.  The person who makes sure the plot makes sense, who corrects Emma's many errors, who makes sure we stay as close to canon, within the unique storyline, as possible. And the one who, in this case, reins in Emma's more outrageous literary impulses.  I daresay, Sam, we have every reason to be thankful to Aratlithiel."

"I'll be a mite reluctant to celebrate one involved in that story," huffed Sam. "Tying you up naked in a cellar- my word!"

"That was Emma's idea," said Frodo, "And her fic.  Aratlithiel writes her own fics.  Aratlithiel would never physically harm us.  Aratlithiel only likes to hurt us emotionally."

"Why do you smile, Mr. Frodo?"

"Because she does it so skillfully, Sam.  You will never read such exquisitely crafted emotional torment as that forged by the hand of Aratlithiel.  Emma knows this, and wants others to know it too.  That is why we are here right now – to honour one of our very best authors."

VVVV

Frodo and Sam leaned back on their overstuffed chairs in front of the fire, stacks of parchment piled high in their laps, a pipe in each of their hands. 

"Which one do you have, Mr. Frodo?"

"Appropriately, 'Beside the Fire' by Aratlithiel," said Frodo wistfully.  "A lovely piece about Bilbo awaiting Frodo's, that is my, return from the quest."

"Let's hear a bit then, Mr. Frodo.  I'm in the mood for a story."

Frodo raised up the paper and read.

"He hangs his head, grips the railing with shaking hands. I had the best of intentions. Truly, I did.

And just what were those intentions, exactly? he wants to know now. To abandon one who had already been set adrift too many times? To further his folly by chaining a millstone around the lad's neck? To wave a jolly good-bye as he sent him off into a world of evil that would hunt him down, make prey of the boy without a care for those depthless eyes, that brilliant smile?  For with the passing of the title of Master, so also had passed the weight of the world."

Sam shook his head.  "Beautiful in the way of words, Mr. Frodo.  But I don't recall our Mr. Bilbo feeling so guilty!"

"Ah!" exclaimed Frodo.  "Remember what I said about being flexible!  Just because he did not say so much in the book, aside from his small "I am sorry" in Many Meetings, that does not mean that he did not feel guilty, or that he could not have agonized during the time we were gone. What Bilbo went through while we were off is a gap in the book, and one Aratlithiel hoped to fill.  She knows that Bilbo loved me, knew that Bilbo understood the burden of the Ring, and from there she filled in the blanks."

"Speaking of Mr. Bilbo," said Sam, "Where is the old chap?  Don't tell me he off and---"

"Emma left that open," said Frodo.  "She was not sure how long his life would be extended in Tol Eressa, Tolkien said nothing to guide her, so she left it open."

"Couldn't she just write him popping in for a short visit?" said Sam, turning his eyes upon the door.

"Emma is not yet comfortable writing Bilbo," said Frodo.  "And I think that's why he won't be bursting through that door.

"Why not this Tolkien fellow?  Didn't he make Bilbo, so to speak?"

Frodo lifted his pipe and blew out a perfect smoke ring.  "Tolkien makes Bilbo a rather ridiculous character in Lord of the Rings," said Frodo regretfully.  "Even a bit annoying.  We don't get a sense of him as my guardian, and he and I have no conversations until I get to Rivendell.  So I enjoy the way these lasses have filled him out in their stories.  But Emma is afraid to compete with their Bilbos."

"So no Bilbo and no elves in this story," grumbled Sam.  "Will other folks show up in Aratlithiel's fics then?"

"Yes," said Frodo. "She loves her hobbits to be sure, but she's got a good grip on Gandalf and Aragorn as well.  She humanizes them.  And she writes some wonderful scenes involving you and me."

"Let's hear one then."

Frodo rifled through his papers, and drew out another page from near the bottom of his stack.  "Here is one I'm quite fond of.  It's called Wings of Eagles."

"Go on."

Frodo began to read. 

"He is glad to have his friend with him here, his only regret that his friend will perish with him. It should make him sad but again it does not. He wishes he could have spared him from this lonely, fiery end, but cannot help the relief that he will not die alone. That his friend will be with him when they cross from the mortal world. That they can rejoice together when emptiness and pain are but distant memories of their short, tenuous existence in this world that has gone so wrong so quickly. He is glad to leave it and he is glad that his friend will follow."

Frodo glanced up and saw Sam wiping endless streams of tears from his eyes with a meaty finger. 

"Sam! Dear Sam," he said.

"I can't help it!" sniffed Sam.  "Did you really think all those things when we were like to die?"

"In the book I said them aloud, Sam," said Frodo.  "Do you remember my words, 'I am glad you are here with me.  Here at the end of all things, Sam.'?"

"Burned in my mind, Mr. Frodo.  I took uncommon comfort in them, and no mistake!"

"But Tolkien never pierced the surface.  He never looked into my inner thoughts as I said those words.  He was a man weaned on epic poetry, and epic heroes don't get reflective. But female fiction writers, like Aratlithiel, they do.  I think she had her finger on exactly what would have been flowing through my heart and my mind at the time.  No one wants to die alone, Sam.  You were my sanctuary.  And ---oh Sam! Please don't cry!"

Frodo hastily set his papers on the floor and put his arm around his friend's shoulders until Sam's tears were sated. 

"Sorry Mr. Frodo!" said Sam in a voice stiff and shredded with emotion.

"True to character for you to weep, Sam.  You are the only character Tolkien really allowed to feel, and you are the book's heart.  So there is no need to apologize for acting your part, my dearest Sam!"

"Do you never cry, Mr. Frodo?"

"It's not in my character to do so, I'm afraid," said Frodo.  "Remember, in the book I only cry once, and that is outside the Black Gate, when I have begun to despair.  And even that is only in a dream."

"So you don't cry in the fics neither?"

Frodo heaved a violent sigh.  "Well, I'm afraid in the fics, many of the women have made me into somewhat of a weeping willow.  I'd cry my big blue eyes out over a poorly cooked pie if they gave me half a chance!"

Sam scrunched up his face, as if a random question had occurred to him – as it indeed had.  "Mr. Frodo, what color are your eyes, Sir? Right odd that I'd not know, ain't it?"

Frodo chuckled a little.  "Not so, Sam.  I don't even know.  Tolkien never said.  Your eyes, Sam, are brown – that he did say.  And Pippin and Merry have brown hair.  But he left it there.  But since the movies came out, my eyes will forever be blue and ridiculously large."

"Movies?" asked Sam.  "Like a cart?"

"Ah, Sam, we will get to that later!  Time marches on, and they come up with new things in that world.  Suffice it to say that there are actors that portray us, Sam, like in a play.  And the actor that plays me is beautiful and has eyes that take up the better part of his face.  And they are sapphire blue.  So now I have inherited those eyes."

"Did the actor give you aught else but your eyes?"

Frodo sighed again.  "Oh Sam, this is rather lowering you know!  Yes.  My nickname, because of the movies is Frodo Baggage!  Baggage because I seem to be always seem to be toted about like a sack by one big person or another – much more often than I'd truly care for."

"And you cry too?"

"Barrels."

"Does Aratlithiel make you cry, then?"

"Yes," said Frodo. "But only under the most crushing emotional strain.  Let me read you a bit from Bronwe athan Harthad.  Pippin is in it too."

Sam nodded and took another puff of his pipe.  Frodo began to read.

"He looked at Frodo, still in his day clothes, legs dangling from the man-sized chair, shoulders slumped and tears tracking endlessly down the beloved face to puddle on the polished wood of the table. In all the time spent in the great, wide world amongst Men and Elves, Pippin had never before felt as small as he did now, gazing at his cousin's feet suspended several inches from the floor.  Pippin stood quietly, watching this cousin of his who had always been a beloved enigma to him. This gentle soul who had swallowed fear and defied darkness for the love of home and kin. Yet now here he was, far from home and drowning in a self-imposed distance from those he loved, seeking to protect them still - head bent in supplication to the shadows that enfolded him, sitting now alone in the darkness, weeping stars."

"I especially like this line - about me 'Weeping stars,' said Frodo musing over the paper.

Sam leaned in close to Frodo's face.

 "What on earth are you doing, Sam?"

"Well, sir, I don't see aught that look like stars."

"My dear Sam.  She is using a literary device that I'm sure she picked up in school called simile."

"Begging your pardon Mr. Frodo, but is that fancy elvish language?"

"In a manner, Sam," said Frodo with a grin.  "But the point I wanted to make is not how I was weeping, but why.  Here is the part in the story that tells why I cry."  Frodo traced his finger to another place in the parchment and once again began to read. 

"It would never end. It would always be with him. This emptiness, this…craving, this mind-gnawing need for the very thing that had stripped him of himself and left him a creature as wretched and pitiful as the one who had led him into endless darkness laced with malevolent, gurgling hisses. The creature that had taken everything from him with a fall of gnashing teeth and left him with nothing but a blank, empty space where his soul had once dwelt. The only thing left to him now was the endless, aching need that chewed at his bones and scraped his heart raw and bloody."

"That is a mite heavier than crying over a burnt pie!" cried Sam.  "And right few periods with all them sad words too! But surely she writes you happier once the cursed thing is gone!"

Frodo hesitated.

"Well, don't she?"

"No Sam," sighed Frodo.  "She does not.  She writes me even more distressed and undone after the Ring is gone.  It gets much worse after."

"Smoke and ashes, why?" blurted Sam.

"Because in her fics, I deal with my perceived failure."

"Mr. Frodo, no!  As sure as I sit here, you didn't fail!"

"She knows, Sam," said Frodo.  "In fact, that is Aratlithiel's pet theme."

"That you failed?" answered Sam, the heat rising to his cheeks. 

"That I didn't," said Frodo.  "That it was impossible to give up the Ring while standing at the brink of its source.  That I would have been noble and wise enough to throw myself in had Gollum not come to twist the hands of fate."

"My word!"

Frodo shook his head.  "It's very canon Sam.  Straight from the Professor's mouth.  Tolkien wrote it in a letter, and Aratlithiel knows it.  She has made it a mission in her writing to have me journey through my crushing guilt at claiming the Ring in the end.  I take on the blame, and then ultimately let it go with the help of other members of the fellowship."

"Why would she put your poor soul through that, Frodo, if she loves you and all?"

"Because she loves me."

"Mr. Frodo!"

"She's not alone Sam.  My reckoning with the claiming is one of those crucial scenes that Tolkien never wrote.  It is one of those scenes universally agreed that needed to happen to bring the story to full resolution.  Tolkien didn't.  The fanfiction ladies did.  Aratlithiel does it very skillfully." 

"I don't give much truck to people letting you take that blame for a single moment, Mr. Frodo!  It's common cruel it is."

"Just the opposite, Sam," said Frodo.  "It brings me comfort.  Listen to this selection."

Frodo began to read. 

 "The deed was done, but not by my hand!" He lifted his right hand and waved it in front of them with a mocking sneer. "This is what became of my noble quest, my King. A mere symbol of my weakness and failure!"

"My dear hobbit," chided Gandalf. "Surely you can see that it has everything to do with it. Did I not once say that the pity of Bilbo may rule the fate of many? Now I will say that the pity of Frodo has ruled the fate of all." Gandalf reached out a hand and placed it gently on the hobbit's back. "Do you not see?"

"And that gives you comfort!" blurted Sam incredulously.

"Infinite comfort," answered Frodo.  "She has Gandalf explain.  Listen now."

Sam responded with a non-committal grunt.  Frodo read.

"Gandalf pulled Frodo to him and held his wracking, shrunken form to his breast. "Frodo," he said softly, "you asked if redemption might have been in order in the end. I tell you now that redemption came to you not in the end, but at the moment you stayed Samwise's hand. Your redemption came to you in the Emyn Muil, not the Sammath Naur."

Frodo lowered the parchment.  "So you see Sam.  It was an impossible task, and one cannot fail if one cannot do what cannot be done.  By sparing Gollum, I spared the world and myself.  Aratlithiel has made that clear to me in a dozen ways.  And that, dear Sam, brings me more comfort than I can say."

It was Sam's turn to look thoughtful.  Frodo could see an unasked question lingered and loitered upon his half-open mouth.  Sam did not speak, and instead stared into the depths of his mug, and took a sip of his ale. 
 "What were you going to ask, Sam?"

Sam blanched and took another tug of ale. 
 "Out with it!"

"Well, sir, it's something that's been a burden upon me these long years.  And I don't want to lay blame. Just the opposite, really.  I was hoping Aratlithiel might have touched on it as well."

"May we hear it before the breaking of the world?" chased Frodo.

"I've a fair bit of guilt meself that I could not make you stay in the Shire, Mr. Frodo.  That I didn't do something that I ought to have done to make things better for you.  I always wondered how…how I failed you, sir."

"Oh Sam! Dear Sam!" exclaimed Frodo jumping to his feet.  "There is nothing you could have done to save me!  Do you not yet know I had no choice?"

"P'raps if I had—"

"No, Sam.  And here Aratlithiel's fic will once again be an elixir. Listen to this bit from Opus.  Frodo fingered through the papers, and drew out several pages folded together. 

"How do I bid farewell to one who has walked with me through the dark paths of my soul? To one who has trod paths of burning stone for the love of someone who no longer knows the meaning?

You have looked into the depths of my traitorous heart, watched as I was bent and broken by shadow, yet you did not look away. Instead, you bent your back and set to picking up the shattered pieces of my self, fitting the shards into a semblance of pattern, your love the thread that stretches taut and strained in its attempt to hold them.

So like you, to believe something so beyond hope can find life again. So very like you to think nothing beyond mending.

But this task is beyond even you, my Sam... You know why I must go, though you will not see it now. Now you hold to your belief that if you only try hard enough, give enough of yourself away, that you can do what I know is impossible.

You cannot help me, Sam…but I will do this for you. I will let you go."

"So you DID leave on account of me!" cried Sam in anguish. 

"No, Sam! You are not listening!  I left because I would have died if I did not.  That I could help you become whole was icing on the cake.  Let me read you something else to help you understand.  It's from Linden and Laurel, from your son Frodo's point of view.  He is looking at his father's favorite linden tree."

Sam wiped away a tear and settled back in his chair as Frodo read. 

"He sat back on his heels and stroked the rough grey bark as he had so often seen his father do, his keen eyes picking out the vague shadows of the scars acquired in the tree's youth. He wondered if maybe his father had felt such an affinity for the tree because it had been so hurt and broken when he had found it. That would be very much like his Da, to find something beyond repair and wish it back to health and life. Much as he had with his beloved Mr. Frodo. Only he hadn't been able to wish Mr. Frodo back to health as he had with the linden and Mr. Frodo had been forced to leave Sam behind when his choices left him no other options. Frodo had always felt deep compassion for his father when he thought about him losing his best friend that way, but the linden had always seemed to comfort him and Frodo loved it for that if for no other reason."

Sam was full sobbing now.  "And you say she loves us?"

"Yes, Sam."

"But why should she squeeze these manners of feeling from us?  It breaks my heart!  I feel flat wrung out!  It is so sad!"

"Not sad, Sam.  Bittersweet," said Frodo.

"Where's the 'sweet' then?" cried Sam.

"You are here with me now."

"But it ain't Aratlithiel's doing!" said Sam. "And I bet the little linden tree dies in the end, don't it?"

Frodo shifted in his chair and did not answer.

"I knew it!" said Sam triumphantly.

Frodo smiled.  "Perhaps Emma hopes to gain her fondest wish through this offering."

"And what would that be?"

"The Aratlithiel allow us to meet in Valinor by her own hand."

VVVV

"Why won't Aratlithiel write us meeting in Valinor?" asked Sam, as he stared into the fire. 

"Emma supposes it is because the story would be entirely too cheerful," said Frodo with a wink.  "Aratlithiel has a reputation for tearjerkers."

"So I saw," answered Sam flatly.

"Tip of the mountain, that," said Frodo.  "Emma jokes that Aratlithiel always has me leaving West, but never has you arriving West.  Our conversation today is part of Emma's solution to that dilemma."

"What else is it possible to do with that heartbreak, Mr. Frodo?"

"Well," said Frodo as he sipped at his mug.  "Aratlithiel has fics that highlight my pain at leaving you, fics that feature your pain at having me leave you, fics like Duet that explore Merry and Pippin's pain at losing me, Reckoning in which you help Merry and Pip deal with their pain at me leaving them while at the same time you feel your own pain at my absence.  Aratlithiel even co-wrote a fic with Ariel called Autumn's Requiem showing how your Rosie dealt with my leaving."

Frodo thumbed through his own stack of parchments.  "Sam, I do believe that one is in your pile, probably on top if I alphabetized them."

Sam glanced down at his pile of papers and drew one off the top.  "Autumn's Requiem, by Aratlithiel and Ariel."  Sam splayed his large hands across the parchment, choose a spot at random, and began to read.

"She realized he was kissing her neck with an increasing urgency. Tender bites interwove his lips' ministrations and soft, hungry groans punctuated his sweet breath. He lay softly upon her, his body supported on his elbows and his arms wrapped under her shoulders. His hands gripped her with trembling iron fingers and Frodo…."

A small gasping sound escaped from the back of Sam's throat.  "and Fro-do arched.  FRODO?"  cried Sam.  "They are writing you with my Rosie!"

Sam was up in a heartbeat.  He grasped a carving knife from off a bread plate on the table, and burst through the round door swinging his weapon and screaming out the names of those authors who had dared to sully the names of his wife and best friend. 

"Aratlithiel!  Ariel!" he screamed as he stabbed at the air.  "This won't stand!  I'll not have it!  Come out!  You hurt my master and my wife's memory, and you'll pay!  C'mon! Finish it, lasses!  I know you can see me!  On the soul of my wife, I'll make sure you two reap your reward!  Cursed wenches!"

"Sam," said Frodo calmly as he leaned against the doorframe.  "they can see you, Sam, but they won't come.  They won't because they know that they meant neither Rosie nor myself any harm."

Sam spun on his heel, his eyes wide with emotion.  "No harm, Mr. Frodo!  No harm? Having you and my wife cavorting around like Breeland whores! And – why are you laughing Mr. Frodo?  This ain't nothing like a laughing matter!"

"I'm laughing, dear Sam, because I have been quite literally portrayed as a Breeland whore in fics before." Said Frodo.  "But Autumn's Requiem is not one of those fics."

"I'll throttle the lot of them!" said Sam as he pointed his knife threateningly toward some indefinite spot upon the horizon.  "Starting with Aratlithiel and Ariel!"

"If you truly want to attack an author that has wronged me," said Frodo, "You should have a go at Emma.  She had Merry brand me with a hot iron and dunk me in the Brandywine.  And she had you tied down to one or another piece of furniture for chapters on end.  But it would be rather awkward to harm her, as she's writing us now."

Sam lowered his sword with a huff.  Frodo's words had disarmed him.  "What can I do to defend you then, Mr. Frodo?  How can I defend your name and that of my wife?"

"There is no need, Sam," said Frodo.  "Come back inside.  You are tired.  Why don't you lie down on the bed for a spell, and I'll read you the bit you should have read.  You'll forgive them then, I think.  Come, Sam."

Sam dropped his head, and stepped into the smial as Frodo led him down the hall.

"I would show you to your room, Sam," said Frodo, "But Emma was not sure at the time she wrote this whether this would be a slash story or not."

"I shouldn't ask, should I?"

Frodo laughed.  "No."

Frodo sat down in a chair as Sam eased himself onto the bed beside it.  "Here, Sam, this is the next part of the story.  These are my words after I find out that Rosie thinks you've lost interest.  And, of course, you only acted that way because you expected to follow your reprobate master.  Listen now." 

Frodo read.

"Wait for him, Rose," he repeated, reaching his hand up to stroke her cheek gently. "You may hear rumors and tales in the coming weeks and you may feel that there's no hope at all in seeing him again. But wait for him. For as long as you can." He dropped his hand from her face and sat up, looking into her eyes with a burning intensity for a moment before he reached to draw her into a firm embrace. "I promise," he said into her hair, "that if it is within my power, I shall bring him back to you whole and unscathed."

Frodo looked up to see Sam's eyes moistening again.  "So you see, Sam.  This story is not about Rosie cheating on you, but her losing and regaining hope for a life together…with you."

"I suppose I can't hold them to blame for that," sighed Sam.  "It's just…"

"A lot to take in?" offered Frodo.

"Yes."

"You rest right there, Samwise.  I'm going to brew you some tea.  Then you may wish to sleep, or we can talk some more, whatever you wish.  I don't want you to hesitate to ask me any questions, Sam.  I want you to be happy here." 

VVVV

Sam stared up at the ceiling, letting the sound of Frodo puttering about in the kitchen soothe him almost to sleep.  The feel of his pipe falling out of his mouth and rolling to the floor stirred him from his reverie. He leaned over the side of the bed, finding not only his pipe, but another untidy stack of papers.  Sam muttered something about Frodo needing a caretaker as he drew them and his pipe up.  He sat up to find Frodo staring benignly at him with a steaming cup of tea in his hand. 

"Mr. Frodo," chided Sam.  "Look at this mess under your bed.  See what you've come to without your Sam to keep things straight!  Now where do these pages from," Sam scrunched his face up, "Fro-do's Har-em" go?"

For the first time that day, it was Frodo and not Samwise that turned bright red.

"They go right where you found them, you industrious ass!" chided Frodo. 

"Under your bed, Sir?" Sam answered.  "Now what kind of bookkeeping would that be?"

"Bookkeeping for reading of a more private nature thank-you-very-much!" snorted Frodo. 

Sam raised an eyebrow and glossed over a page.  His eyes grew wide as he read. Yet he showed no signs of putting it down.

He began to read snatches of the first page aloud.

"Frodo was young, and in his short mortal time many earthly delights were denied him… special corner of Tol Eressëa for Frodo's express use…These lasses have elected to dwell with you here, to care for you and ease your hurts and loneliness. Each was chosen for one thing alone: her love for you…. Frodo was able to keep a bevy of lovelies contented in the Blessed Lands... He knows that you all love him but sometimes the depth of your devotion still surprises him. A lifetime of bachelorhood and the sacrifices he has made make it difficult for him to think he deserves what so many sweet ladies freely offer…"

Sam put the manuscript down and blushed bright crimson, his own face the same color as his former masters. 

"Mr. Frodo! What is the meaning of this?  Where are all these lasses?"

"In the imagination of the writers, Sam.  But it is nice to think upon it.  Or sometimes more than think upon it."

"But Mr. Frodo!  These writers make you out to be a…"

"Male," laughed Frodo.  "Better than the writers that fashion me a girl in all but dress!  Or worse yet, a chaste and pure thing, without any manner of normal male impulse.  May I remind you, Sam, that you had thirteen children that did not get there by elf magic!"

"You have your thoughts, to be sure, Mr. Frodo.  But you gave no mind to marriage or bairns!"

"Sam!" laughed Frodo.  "I am over 100 years old!  And I was 52 when I left.  I never married, true.  But how many completely chaste adult male hobbits do you know?"

"You," said Sam forcefully.

"No Sam."  

Sam jumped to his feet to protest, only to startle Frodo.  The hot tea splashed over Frodo's hand and Frodo winced in pain.

"Ouch!" gasped Frodo.

"OH! Mr. Frodo!  Save me, but are you hu---?"

"Shush, Sam!" cried Frodo in a forceful whisper.  Don't say the "h" word.  I don't want them coming round tonight."

"Them?" whispered Sam throwing a surreptitious glance about the room.  "Who is them?"

"The Frodohealers, Sam.  My physical pain draws them to me like moths to the light."

VVVV

"Who are these Frodohealers, Mr. Frodo?"

"My nursemaids," sighed Frodo.  "Most days I flee them, but I always seem to go back, like a drunk to his bottle."

Sam looked up, a question in his eyes.

"They write stories about healing me, Sam. They are not all full time Frodo healers, but when they are in Frodohealer mode, it is in my best interests to run." 

"Flee your nursemaids?"  said Sam.  "Why? Don't they care about you?"

"Beyond words!"  answered Frodo.  "That's why they like to heal me!  They all trip over themselves to tend my wounds."

"Why do you flee them. Sir?  It don't make any sense."

"Because to be healed, I must be hurt."

"But Mr. Frodo!  On the quest you were hurt right bad many times! You've got more than enough hurts to give them something to heal."

"You would think so, dear Sam, but it's never enough for them!  Sam, every time I go in into their lair, I get hurt!  I fall, I get stabbed- even more than in the book, I am poisoned, I'm dropped from high places, I get convulsions, I get bitten by giant rats, I get stomach ailments, I bleed.  And when Claudia comes, ruffians always follow, and things get violent!  A word of wisdom, Sam.  Never EVER go with Claudia to Bree!"

"Stars!" exclaimed Sam.  

"Oh, Sam, it's so dangerous to be written by a Frodohealer!   Every time I go visit, I get hurt!  And it's more than rubbing soothing circles on my quivering back will cure!  If I have many more soothing circles rubbed on my back, those ladies with rub a hole right through me!"

"But you say you go back, Mr. Frodo!  Are you mad?"

"Lasses all wanting to rub their hands over me and tend to my hurts, Sam?  Am I really so mad?"

VVVV

Sam shook his head again.  "It just ain't right, Mr. Frodo!  I don't know what's got into you, but you ain't yourself, talking about lasses like some star-crossed tween!"

"Then I suggest you avoid reading Ariel's Fingertips, or Mariole's Too Many Tooks.  You would not take kindly to watching me tied to a bed while a gaggle of tween Tooks lick cream off --"

"Mr. Frodo!" cried Sam.  "Tolkien did not write you like this and no mistake!"

"Tolkien was a bit of a prude," laughed Frodo.  "And no mistake!  He did not understand lasses.  I think they frightened him.  Think about it, dear Sam!  Arwen and Eowyn are plot devices.  Goldberry looked beautiful, but did little else.  Galadriel is more a masculine character in female dress.  And finally there is Rosie."

"Rosie," echoed Sam.

"Rosie," continued Frodo, "the only real female character who does not show up until the very end."

"What do you mean, Mr. Frodo?"

"Oh, Sam," sighed Frodo.  "This part of our conversation is quite long overdue!"

VVVV

Frodo had leaned back in the chair, his hands tucked beneath his head.  Both hobbits stared up at the shadows dancing from the candles dancing upon the ceiling.  Finally Frodo spoke.

"Sam, do you miss Rosie, and I mean, really miss her?"

Sam sighed a little. "It's strange somehow.  I know my Rosie's gone – but I don't feel as sad as I think I ought."

Frodo smiled knowingly.

"Sam, my dear, I am sorry about your Rosie - a fine lass if ever there was one.  But have you ever wondered why Rosie only showed up in Mordor, and not before?"

"Rosie in Mordor, Frodo?  Course she wasn't no where near that dreadful place!  What are you thinking?"

"No Sam," chuckled Frodo.  "I did not suggest that anyone thought she or any other lass ought to have gone on the quest.  In fact, that would most likely would have made her a Mary Sue—which would have been another issue altogether."

"Well, if any lass was to go with us, I'd it have been Rosie and not this Mary Sue lass!"

 Frodo let out a loud peal of musical laughter which, seeing Sam's perplexed expression, faded into the warmest of smiles.

"My dear Sam, I am getting ahead of myself!  What I meant to convey is that folks don't understand why the first time Rosie entered our story was in book six – in Mordor."

"Surely Rosie and I grew up together!" argued Sam. 

"Sam," said Frodo leaning forward.  "Think now.  When is your first memory of Rosie on our adventures?  Did you think of her before we set out, when you were so eager to see the elves?"

Sam scrunched up his face.  "No, Sir," answered Sam incredulously.  "I don't recall that I did."

"And, Sam," chased Frodo, "in the Emyn Muil or in Ithilien?  Did she pop into your mind while we were traipsing through those wide lands?"

"Why, come to think of it – no, sir."

"And when you were crying out beside what you thought was my dead body, swearing to go on or die trying…when your only wish was to come back and perish beside me, did you ever think to yourself that life was still worth living because you could come back to Rosie?"

"No," sighed Sam, and raising his voice again, blurted, "and I can't account for it, Mr. Frodo!  It seems hard cruel that I wouldn't!"

Frodo flashed up a small but benevolent smile.  "Sam.  I am not sure that Rosie existed before Mordor when she first came into your mind.  I think Tolkien put her into your head as we climbed through the dark lands to emphasize the contrast between a grand quest and normal hobbit hopes and dreams.   For you, Sam, that was home, hearth, and family.  Rosie symbolized all those things.  But, Sam, I maintain she did not come into your head until then because she did not come into Tolkien's head before then.  When he did create her, then Tolkien's words that became your thoughts made Rosie real.  And only then could you fall in love with her."

Sam rose to his feet, his face flushed with emotion.

"Why would Tolkien do that?" cried Sam.  "What did he mean by putting my wife so late in the tale?  Shouldn't we ought to have known each other as children and such?"

"And I'm not saying you did not," said Frodo.  "But that is a problem with writing.  Sometimes a book is published and then an idea hits you.  You want to go back and change it – but you can't."

Sam looked confused.  Frodo looked thoughtful.

"And there is another," Frodo hesitated as his mind grappled for the right word, "situation with Rosie that many have brought up over the years.  But I am afraid you may not be ready to hear about it.  I've given you a lot to take in.  And this story is growing very long.  I would not want this story to grow tedious for you or," Frodo made a sweeping gesture with his hand across the air, "Or them.  The readers."

"I don't give a whit about the readers, Frodo!  I want to hear this!  And I've a funny feeling what you are going to say has as much to do with them as with the likes of me."

Frodo chuckled. "Samwise, you are more clever than even Tolkien gave you credit for!  I can see why you are no longer ridiculous by book three.  Very well.  But this may be uncomfortable information for you!"

Sam sat himself down and nodded by way of telling Frodo to continue.

"Sam, there is a whole school of thought that assumes Rosie was a last minute insertion to blunt certain aspects or our ….friendship."

"What are you getting at, Frodo?  You know I love you, me dear!  Above all other hobbits!"

"Yes," said Frodo laconically.  "People noticed."

Sam started.  "Mr. Frodo! You aren't driving at what I think you are driving at – are you?  I mean..." Sam stood up, his face ablush with indignation, "I'll throttle those readers if they are saying things about you that ain't true!  Muddying your name and such!  I'll not have it!"

Frodo smiled widely.  He'd expected this reaction.

"Calm down, Sam dear.  You mistake them, though not their meaning.  They do think that of me.  But they don't think ill of me…or us for it.  They like it.  In fact," Frodo rose from the chair, approached Sam and placed a soft white hand over Sam's large brown one.

"Some prefer it."

Sam felt heat rush to his cheeks.  Not that he minded the feel of Frodo's hand upon his own.  He remembered how he had marveled at Frodo's translucent beauty in Ithilien, how he had let Frodo rest his weary head upon his lap on the stairs of Cirith Ungol, and how all thoughts of hearth and home had fled when he had begged Frodo to let him get on the white ship at the Havens.  Sam considered how these moments so effused with love seemed to be more intense than anything he had ever remembered experiencing with Rosie. 

"Does that mean that Tolkien wrote us as," the words caught in Sam's throat. "Well, lads that like other lads in that way?"

"I don't think Tolkien wrote us that way, not really Sam.  But some women like the idea that we were made for each other and made to be together.  It does not necessarily mean that they think we sleep together, but it could."

"That's indecent, that's what I call it," said Sam, though the feel of Frodo's hand upon his own made him say it without as much conviction.

"They don't call it indecent at all, Sam," said Frodo with a devilish twinkle in his eye.

"What do they call it then?' said Sam as he crossed his arms over his chest as if to ward of a blow, and stared down at his feet.

The strangest look appeared on Frodo's face..  He lifted Sam's chin up with his soft thumb, leaned down, and gently kissed Sam on the forehead.  Sam's eyes widened but he did not resist as Frodo planted a soft kiss on Sam's lips.  Sam felt his whole body quiver as Frodo whispered in his ear,

"They call it slash."

VVVV

Frodo rested his head on Sam's lap and Sam ran his fingers through his thick silver-streaked curls.

"Mr. Frodo," said Sam hesitantly, lifting his hand for a moment.

"Oh, don't stop," said Frodo listlessly.  "That feels good."

Sam continued.

"Mr. Frodo, is this a slash story?"

"Aratlithiel does not write slash, so I do not think Emma will include it here, beyond the kiss."

"But, Mr. Frodo,  it seems like there is awful lot of hair petting in Aratlithiel's stories."

"I hadn't noticed, Sam," said Frodo.  He smiled beauteously, his lids heavy, eyes shuttered by lashes.

"For example," Sam read- "Merry reaches out a hand and strokes the dark hair, pouring his love and wishes into the touch," and here – "How are you feeling, Frodo?" Merry asked, his hand stroking dark hair from a pale brow. "Is your headache better?' and here, "Frodo lay in a loose, boneless lump, his head in Pippin's lap and Pippin's fingers stroking lazily through the thick, dark, newly silver-streaked hair."  And, again, here, "Pippin flashed Frodo a brilliant smile and smoothed his fingers gently through the dark hair."

"And now Emma has your head on my lap, and me fingering your hair."

"Yes, Sam.  And it feels good, as I said.  So your point is, dear Sam?"

"Well," stammered Sam as he sank into a deep blush.  "I mean, well, are you sure this ain't, well, you know........"

Frodo quirked an eyebrow. Sam blushed furiously.

"Slash?"

VVVV

"I can't believe we stayed up all night, Mr. Frodo!"

Frodo and Sam lay on the grass, staring up at the rosy sky, their hands clasped beneath their heads.

"I knew we would, dear Sam, as that is what Emma would have done, and thus it is what we have done as well!"

They lay in silence, listening to the chirping of the birds wheeling overhead and the leaves dancing in the morning breeze. 

"Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam abruptly.  "Will we ever die?"

"No, Sam," said Frodo.  "Not as long as we are read and treasured.  We will live as long as there is a person to read about us."

"You know what I mean, Mr. Frodo."

"Aratlithiel and Emma both hate deathfics, Sam, So we are in no danger at present.  Are you worried about living forever, Sam?"

"Well, it seems a mite lonely.  Will we ever see our friends again, Mr. Frodo?  Our family?"

"Of course," said Frodo.  "If it can be written, we can experience it.  See, Sam, it is not so bad being literary creations!"

"So one of these writers could write in Rose?"

"Yes, Sam.  We could have Rose, all thirteen of your children, your small army of grandchildren, Merry and Pippin, all their rascally grand-bairns and –"

"Well sir," broke in Sam.  "I rather like spending a spot of time alone with you.  Just you and me without the whole Shire sailing over."

Frodo smiled warmly.

"Me too, Sam.  Me too."

A devilish smile crossed Sam's lips and he blushed. 

"Though, p'raps if things get too quiet for comfort, we could invite a few of those Harem lasses over."

Frodo exploded in a loud peel of laughter deep from his heart; a clear lovely sound of mirth untrammeled that echoed across the land. 

And Emma, seeing that she had left her hobbits happy, took one last drag of her tepid mocha, and lifted her pen…

The End

Or

The road goes ever on …