Tolkien's characters, not mine, sadly. Please read and review.
The room was brightening with the gray glow of morrowdim. The light crept softly across the floor to where Sam was sitting, motionless as a stone, in his great cushioned chair. He had sat a silent watch throughout the night, keeping vigil outside of Rosie's door, listening to the quiet murmurs within. The doctor's arrival in the afternoon before had brought a bustle of activity to Bag End, such as hadn't been seen since the last child had scampered across the doorstep for the last time, on their way out into the wide world. Visitors had scuttled up and down the lane, bearing flowers and meals and blankets and condolences and remembrances. Sam was glad to see the dusk come and drive the last of the well-wishers away. The doctor had secreted himself in Rosie's room, insisting upon peace and solitude for his patient, so all visitors had to be dealt with by Sam, and his patience had waned as the day grew late. He gusted a sigh of relief when the last hobbit crossed the threshold into the night.
Sam's patient ears caught the scuff of the doctor's steps at the door, and he labored to his feet. The door creaked open just enough for Poncho Sandhill to squeeze his girth out of the bedroom. The old hobbit set his bags next to the great green door of the hill, and rubbed at a jowl with his hand. He collected his cloak silently, his eyes shadowed with age, puffy with weariness. "Well, Mister Mayor," he said quietly, stooping to retrieve his satchels. "I'm sorry to say that I've done all that I can, and there is naught left to be done. She rests easy, and shan't feel any more pain ere the end."
Sam dropped his eyes and breathed deeply for a moment, then grasped Poncho's hand in his own. "Thank you, Mister Sandhill, for spending this time. I know you did all you were able." Poncho clenched Sam's hand tightly, trying to relay strength and peace in his grip. "Pass my regards on to the Missus..." Sam choked a bit on the words, but didn't look up. Poncho smiled sadly, patted Sam on the shoulder and stepped into the night.
Sam leaned heavily against the door, his hand absently rubbing the worn, soft wood of the jamb. His aged face was lined deep with years and sorrow, yet behind the mask of time there lingered still the light in his eyes, the light that had gleamed in Moria and in Ithillian and in Mordor. It was the light of hope, and it shone still as he stood outside of his dying wife's door. Hope had carried him to the end of the earth and back again. Hope could surely cure his one love. Steeling his will, Sam went to the kitchen and fetched a tea tray, filling the teapot with water that had been simmering over the smoldering fire. He cut a few slices of soft bread and spread them with clover honey, Rosie's favorite. Hitching a deep breath, he stepped to her door and pushed it gently open.
Rosie, his own love, lay quietly beneath a mound of quilts, quilts made with her own hands over the long years. Her face, too, was cleft with age, but she was lovely still to Sam's eyes. Her hair had faded to silver, but Sam still saw the bonny blond curls in his mind's eye. As he shuffled toward the bed, the teacups clattered a bit on the tray, and Rosie's eyes flickered open. She turned her face toward him, a curl slipping to caress her cheek. Her cloudy eyes, dulled by age, sought Sam out, and brightened a bit as they found him. Sam smiled, set the tray upon her bedside table and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling, love?" he asked quietly, and gently stroked her cheek.
"Tired," replied Rosie, lifting a tremulous hand to cover Sam's fingers with her own. "I'm so very tired, Sam."
"I know you are. And you should rest. Don't you worry yourself about anything. Primrose is coming round to care for the house, and young Sancho Roper is caring for the garden. All you need do is lay here and get well." Sam freed his hand and lifted a teacup to Rosie's lips. She accepted a sip, but a bit dribbled down her chin as well. Sam softly wiped it away with his thumb and offered the bread up to Rosie, but she turned her face away from it, uttering a sigh of weariness.
"Sam...My Sam," she whispered. "I'm afraid I shan't get well, my love."
"Now don't you go saying that, Rose. This is naught but a spell of the winter sickness is all. You just need rest and a few of Poncho Sandhill's tonics to set everything to rights." Sam dropped the point of bread back upon the tray and grasped Rosie's hand.
"No, Sam," said Rosie quietly. "No. You have to understand. This time I shan't get well. I am old, and tired, and weak. I do not wish to go on in this way. I am so weary, my dearest Sam." Her eyes were sad, resigned.
"No," whispered Sam, his chin puckering a bit as he fought off tears.
"Please, Sam. Please let me go. I am ready." Rosie shook her head on the pillow. "I cannot live forever Sam, and I don't want to. You have the chance to go on, to see Frodo again, to see a new world. I want that for you, my love. I don't want you to miss that because of me."
"No, Rose. I shan't leave you...but Rosie, don't you leave me..."
Rosie's eyes filled with tears and she pressed Sam's hand to her lips. "My love...my brave Sam." Sam's composure broke and he choked on a sob. "You must be brave again, love. You must let me go. I cannot continue forever..."
"Please," whispered Sam, tears now edging freely down his cheek. "Please Rose...I can't go on without you."
"But you must...you must..." Rosie summoned her remaining strength and pulled Sam down to lie next to her upon the bed. Together they lay entwined, weeping, gently touching one another's faces. Slowly, softly, they drifted to sleep in one another's arms.
As dawn rose, tinting the bedroom in a glow of gold and red, Sam's eyes flickered open. His head ached in the light, and he squinted, passing his hand across his forehead. His hand brushed Rosie's cheek, and his blood ran chill. "No..." he faltered, laying his cheek to Rosie's mouth, feeling for the soft warmth of her breath. There was none. Her lips were cold, her chest still. Beneath the fringe of her golden eyelashes he could see the deep blue of her eyes, but they were dull, naked, dry. "No," he said again aloud, grasping Rosie's shoulders and shaking her gently, but he knew it was for naught. His Rose, his only love and comfort, had left him. Tears welled thick and heavy, dropping from his lids to Rosie's face, where they softly traced through her wrinkles, shining like dew in the dawn light. Sam buried his face in the hollow of Rosie's throat, and loosed a bellowing sob. His frail body convulsed as sorrow wracked through him, and the dim thought passed through his tear-clouded mind that he would now pass too, succumbing to grief at his beloved's side.
But as the thought occurred to him, he was swept with a wave of rage. He grasped at the bedclothes and rent them with another sob. He stood and thrust his hands against the wardrobe, slapping at the doors with his palms, letting the sting crawl up his arms. He shoved the wardrobe with all his might, sending to rocking onto two legs and crashing against the wall. Heaving and weeping, he flung the tea tray at the door, sending shards of china showering like icicles through the room. He kicked the bedstead, and then he dropped like a brick to the floor. His breath came in ragged gasps, brutal and painful.
He knew not how long he sat there, crumpled against the side of the bed, his face in his hands. The sun rose higher, sending a sunbeam traveling slowly across the floor, inching ever nearer to his wilted, broken form. As it found his face, warming him, heating his cheek, he opened his eyes and squinted in the light. He lowered his chin to his chest and took a long, broken breath, then struggled to his feet. His knees felt weak beneath him, and his hands were shaking.
He forced himself on reluctant feet to the bedside. He knelt and took Rosie's cold hand in his own, kissing it gently. "Farewell, my love, Rose," he whispered, eyes brimming. "May your journey be swift..." His voice broke, and he kissed her hand again, then stood shakily and stumbled out of the room.
In the hallway, he dashed his hands over his eyes, his chin quivering, and took a deep, shuddering breath. A clattering in the kitchen startled him, and he drew himself to his full height, tugging at his waistcoat. He walked silently to the kitchen, where he found Primrose bent at the fireplace, stoking the embers. Sam stood in the doorway, watching her as she bustled about, cracking eggs into a bowl and expertly whisking them to a light froth. She tipped them into a sizzling pan of bacon and sausages, then snatched several slices of bread, speared them on a fork and set them to toast upon the fire. As Sam watched her move about the kitchen, with such ease and assurance, tears once again filled his eyes, for she reminded him so of her mother.
He cleared his throat and Primrose turned to look at him, a wisp of hair tumbling across her eyes. She blew a puff of air upward to shift it. "Good morning, da. I've made you some breakfast." She caught his eye, and she faltered. "Oh, da, oh no..." She dashed across the kitchen and flung herself upon Sam's chest, crushing him tight. "My poor da," she whispered in his ear, her own tears hot upon Sam's cheek. Sam buried his face against her shoulder, taking in her scent. He could not weep any more, he felt, for he had wept himself dry. He felt only empty now, worn out and withered and barren. Primrose pressed a kiss against his neck and wiped at her face with her apron. "Sit down, dad, and rest yourself." She guided him to the table and installed him in a chair, then set a mug of toddy at his elbow. "I'll send Falco Twofoot down the lane to retrieve the others, and to fetch Mr. Sandhill to begin arrangements." She faltered on the word, and hurriedly turned to the stove, dishing up a mountainous plate of eggs, bacon, sausage and toast. She set the plate before Sam and swept her hand across her eyes. "I'll see to mum...just rest you quiet until the others arrive." Primrose gathered clean linens from the cupboard and poured hot water from the kettle into a basin. She took a steeling breath and went to prepare Rose for her final journey.
Sam sat alone before the fire, still as stone. The scent of the eggs and meat drifted up, warm and comforting, but he barely noted it. He stared unseeing at the fire, wondering at the journey that had led him to this moment, this moment of complete and total solitude. The biggest pieces of his soul had now flown from him, leaving him now more alone than when he had stood abandoned at the gates of Cirith Ungol. He felt a passing pain for his children, but they had grown, had left his house to homes of their own, to lives of their own. Their lives were just beginning. The end of his long days had now come. The realization dawned like a hot flood in his brain. He was alone. Finally, all the days of his life, all the responsibilities, all the burdens had waned to nothing. He was free. Immediately he felt guilty, and dropped his face into his hands. But he could not shake the thought. All his long toils of caring for Frodo, for his family, for the Shire, were over. Finally, finally, he could rest.
The next hours and days passed in a fog, misty recollection of faces and crushing hugs. It seemed the whole of the Shire turned out to Bag End to farewell Rose, wife of the most revered Mayor the hobbits had ever known. To her credit and much to Sam's relief, Primrose very carefully shielded her father as much as she could from the guests. Most of Sam's friends had preceded Rose in death, and he had no real wish to play the host to hobbits he barely knew. On the whole, Sam sat silently in a deep, overstuffed chair in the bedroom, staring blankly out the window at the flickering leaves of the birch in the garden. A dull, hollow ache gnawed in his stomach, pushing occasionally into his chest with a threat of impending tears. Just as Sam was about to succumb to a gasping sob, a knock sounded at the door. Gulping mightily, he smoothed his waistcoat, noting with disconnect that it had been a Yule gift from Rose, and struggled to his feet to answer the door.
In the hall stood Merry and Pippin. Both still stood straight and tall as they had years ago, resplendent in their respective royal liveries. Age had touched them, but they both looked younger than their years. Sam supposed it to be another lasting effect of partaking of ent draught, for their bodies had not stooped, nor had their faces softened into the wrinkled flaccidity of age. Pippin's curly hair was now a shock of bright white, while Merry's was streaked silver like a wild fox's. But their eyes were bright and sharp, as they always had been, and Sam was reminded of their great deeds in the Shire.
With a little noise of sorrow, Pippin threw his arms around Sam, squeezing him mightily. Sam could feel Pippin's breath upon his neck, and raised a hand to stroke Pippin's hair. His own tears overwhelmed his defenses and began to fall, silent like spring rain. "Ah, lads," he said, his voice tight and quiet. "My dear friends."
Merry reached over Pippin and clasped Sam's shoulder with his strong hand. "I am so very sorry, Sam. We came straightaway when we heard. Is there aught that we can do?" Sam snuffled, and dashed his arm over his eyes. Pippin released him and took Sam's elbow, leading him back to the chair. Sam sank down and sighed mightily, running a hand through his hair.
"There is something, lads," he murmured, gesturing Merry and Pippin to sit across from him at the tea table. Merry and Pippin glanced at one another, their thoughts clear but unspoken, as it always seemed to be with them. "I might was well just out with it, I suppose," continued Sam. "At our age there's no use beatin' 'round the bush, is there?" Sam dropped his eyes to his hands, and his eyes clouded as his mind flew back over the years.
It seemed naught but months before that the world had turned upside down and the three hobbits had been thrust into Armageddon. They had been to the ends of the earth together, and their bond was as close as it had ever been. Sam could remember clearly the night that they had returned to Hobbiton and sat, silent and reflective, in the Green Dragon. They had looked at one another without speech, their eyes saying clearly what they could not find the words to say. It had been that way from that day forward, for only they, among the world of hobbits, knew the triumph and the horror of the War of the Ring. Only they knew the terror and the loss. Only they had watched their friend, their savior, shrink away to nearly nothing until he made the choice to join the long voyage to the undying lands. Together they had stood in the beauty of the Grey Havens and felt a part of their hearts sail away with Frodo into the West.
Sam shook the cobwebs from his mind and he looked with sorrow at his friends. "The time has come, lads," he said softly. Pippin's tear flooded eyes softened, and a slow, sorrowful smile crossed Merry's face. "Now that my Rose has gone ahead, it's time for me to move along too."
Merry laid his hand upon Sam's shoulder. "Samwise Gamgee..." Merry's voice quivered slightly and he made no attempt to quell a sheen of tears that slicked his eyes. "Valiant, loyal Sam." He knelt at Sam's side and looked into his eyes. "I hope that you'll allow us the honor of escorting you." At that a sob burst forth from Sam and he pressed his hands to his face. Merry smiled sadly again and went on, "We wouldn't be left behind at the beginning of the long journey, dear Sam, and we shan't be left behind at the end."
Pippin dropped to his knees beside Merry and pressed his hand to Sam's elbow. Sam lowered his hands from his eyes and looked at the two of them, kneeling there together, and was washed with a sense of gratitude. These two hobbits had been his fast friends through the years and had risked everything for him and his master, for the Shire, for Middle Earth. Now they were back at his side, and intent on helping him make his final adventure. Sam could almost see the years roll back to the days of their golden youth, when they stood at the pinnacle of Minas Tirith, surrounded by men who were filled with wonder that four small hobbits could change the tide of doom. Awe flooded his soul and he leaned forward and crushed Merry and Pippin in his arms with a strength he did not know he still possessed.
Long the three of them wept together, hearts heavy and light by turns. Finally Sam untangled himself from his friends and heaved a shaking sigh. "Well, lads, that's that then. I'll want to leave soon rather than later, soon as I can say goodbyes to everyone."
Merry cleared his throat and dashed his hand over his eyes. "I'll arrange to have word sent to Lorien. It will have to be Celeborn to arrange your passage, as all of the others have gone before. As for your goods and belongings I don't imagine that you'll need to take much along, so much could be sold off and given to the children."
Sam smiled. "That's our Merry, always taking charge and rushing forward." He paused. "I'll want Primrose to keep Bag End. She's been here for so many years, taking care of her mum and I. It's only right, her being without husband and all, that she have a comfortable place to get on with things." Merry nodded and brushed his hand across Sam's cheek and stood to leave.
Pippin clutched Sam in a tight hug again, whispering, "Dear, dear Sam...I shall miss you so."
Sam's own eyes filled again and he felt weariness sweep him. "And I'll miss you, lad. I'll miss you both, you Captains, you unlikely warriors. But I'm so very tired, and I miss my master. I'm ready to step back out of the Shire with him." Sam's paused and when he spoke again his voice was hushed with awe. "But now instead of east...I'm going west..."
Sam's next days were filled with tears and farewells, as Pippin carted him around the Shire to take one last meal with each of his children and grandchildren. The children were heartbroken at the thought of losing their father straightaway after their mother. They begged him in vain to reconsider, to see the winter out and see if this desire would pass, but Sam would not be dissuaded. He loved his children, well and truly, but this decision was fixed firm in his heart and he would not turn from it.
At last, Pippin and Sam rattled back up the hill to Bag End, their round of the Shire complete. Through the window they could see Primrose in the kitchen, her dark curls fringing her flushed cheeks as she stoked up the fire. Merry's pony was tethered at the front gate, happily munching the clover under the hedge. As Sam stepped through the door he removed his well-worn cloak and hung it on a hook. He paused a moment and ran his hand over the fabric, marveling as always that it had stood up through the many years. He could remember it as yesterday, the velvet touch of the cloak as a nameless, golden-haired elf laid it in his arms in Lorien. The cloak had been with him through many dangers, and it still brought him comfort to touch it to his cheek.
Merry was seated at the kitchen table, staring into the fire as he puffed at his pipe. At his side, as always, was his silver twined horn, nestled against the curve of his hip. The horn was worn smooth by the years as well, but the silver was not tarnished, a testament to the care with which Merry polished it daily. As Sam crossed the threshold Merry turned to look, and smiled. From his waistcoat pocket he produced a small envelope, and held it out to Sam. Sam hesitated a moment, then gently plucked it from Merry's strong fingers. "Master Samwise Gamgee" was written upon the envelope in bold scarlet script, and it was sealed with emerald green wax. Upon the wax was pressed an impression of a mighty tree, with tiny leaves falling from it. Sam recognized it as the seal of Celeborn of Lorien. Sam carefully broke the seal and removed an ivory piece of paper from the envelope, and he smiled, for upon it was written only one word..."Tonight". He handed the paper to Merry, who nodded silently and puffed at his pipe in an attempt to stop the quivering in his lips. Primrose bustled up to Sam and urged, "Sit down, da. I've waited supper for you, some nice hot soup to take the chill out, and I've tapped some beer from the cellar." Sam smiled again and accepted a mug of beer from his daughter, but then thought again and set it on the table.
He stood, wincing at a creak in his joints, and stepped to a small locked chest on the hearth. From his pocket he produced the key and lifted the lid with a loving caress, for this was one of the chests that Bilbo had brought to Bag End, chock full of treasure, but now filled with memories and keepsakes. From it he lifted a well-worn scabbard, with its elvish scripting and its rich auburn color. From it protruded the hilt of a dagger, wrapped well with supple strips of mahogany leather, and its burnished silver wings. Sam set it aside on the hearth with a smile, and brought forth from the chest a small, cloth wrapped object, which he unwrapped with gentle care. It was a small phial of cut crystal, delicate and fragile looking, which gave forth a soft white light into the palm of his hand. Item after item came out of the chest, each given a last tender look or touch. There was a small, river worn stone from the shores of the Anduin, a pressed mallorn flower, a tiny, jagged shard of volcanic rock. Finally, Sam brought forth a yellowed scroll, bound with a faded red ribbon.
"Primmie," Sam said quietly, motioning for his daughter to join him seated on the hearth. She did so, her face tight with apprehension and with an obvious effort not to cry. "You've been here with mum and me for years, with no thought for yourself. You've taken good care of us, lass, and made our last years so happy and comfortable." Sam paused, swallowing hard. "For that I want you to have this." With that, he pressed the scroll, the deed to Bag End, into her hand. Primrose looked at it with dawning comprehension, then burst into tears and clutched at Sam, sobbing. She swore that Bag End would belong to the Gamgee's until the Shire itself passed away, and it would remain as it was, a monument to her father and to the Baggins' before him. Sam could not contain his own tears, while both Pippin and Merry made a valiant effort to quell their own.
Finally Sam disentangled himself from Primrose's arms. "It's time for me to go, lass. It's finally time."
Primrose dashed at her eyes and gave a hiccupping sob, nodding through her tears. "I love you da," she whispered, barely audible, and Sam rested his hand upon her cheek, wiping a tear away with his thumb. With that, he picked up Sting and stood, buckling the scabbard to his belt with shaking hands. Pippin and Merry both embraced Primrose, murmuring their thanks and love in her ear. Sam swept his elven cloak around his shoulders, took one last, long look around the cozy kitchen, and with a breath like one plunging into deep, cold, water, stepped outside into the night.
Silently, Merry and Pippin hitched Jingo, Pippin's roan pony, to a wagon, and helped Sam aboard. Merry swung into the drivers seat with the practice of a younger hobbit, and clucked quietly at the pony. As the cart rattled away down the lane, Sam looked back to see Primrose's tearstained face in the window, with one palm pressed against the windowpane in a silent farewell.
The three did not speak as they crossed the bridge into Hobbiton proper, staring at the horizon as the sun dipped below the hills and the lights began to come on in the round windows of the town. As they approached Bywater, Sam could see old Sancho Greenhill in the distance, shambling along Bywater Road, lighting the streetlamps, as he had done for thirty years. His tiny torchlight would flicker like a firefly in the blackness, then a flare of light would blaze as he lit a lantern and for a moment, the glow would shine on his upturned face like a halo. As they watched Sancho all three hobbits caught sight almost simultaneously of a familiar radiance of firelight. It was the Green Dragon, ablaze with life and song. They looked at one another and smiled, and Merry, with a practiced tug of the reins, guided the cart down the lane to the tavern.
Inside, Sam and Pippin walked silently to a table in the corner, listening to the sounds of the evening wend around them. Merry soon joined them with four half-pints of ale. Together they sat and drank, with nary a word between them. Sam gazed around the pub with a heavy heart, taking in the familiar line of the bar, the paintings on the wall of the prettiest places in the Shire, the lovely young barmaids with their flushed cheeks and crimped curls. When the three hobbits had finished their own ale, they passed the fourth between them, quietly toasting their missing friend. Merry and Pippin left the last swallow to Sam, and he drained the mug with a strange lightness in his heart. With a quick glance toward the proprietor of the inn, Sam slipped the empty tankard into his pack. Merry and Pippin exchanged knowing grins as Merry laid payment on the table. As they climbed aboard the pony cart, Sam gave a last, quiet look at the round windows gleaming with firelight, at the carven likeness of a ravening dragon on the signboard, then faced forward and didn't look back again.
The long drive to the Havens was made in silence, for none of the Hobbits dared break the strange sense of finality that they all felt. It was as though the last chapter had been written and the book finally closed on the fellowship's long, winding story. Occasionally the three would exchange smiles, but they were weary smiles, filled with deeper meaning. As they saw the rising pillars of the seaside rocks, Pippin began to cry quietly, dashing at his eyes with little clearings of his throat. Sam laid his hand on Pippin's shoulder and gave a squeeze, his own eyes filling. Merry looked resolutely ahead, his chin held high and his shoulders square. Occasionally his chest would give a little heave but his face did not change.
At the entrance to the Grey Havens, Merry halted the pony and slid from the drivers seat. He offered Sam his hand and gently helped him from the cart. The door to the harbor was an arch cut in the rock, wide enough for three men to walk abreast. There was faded elvish script looping over the top of the arch, twined with graven images of leaves and vines and branches. There was also an exquisitely carved fresco of a great ship sailing from the harbor, with noble faces peering toward the west. With a deep and quavering breath, Sam hitched his pack up higher on his shoulders and stepped through the archway.
In the harbor was moored a ship of mahogany wood, simple yet gracefully hewn with an upswept bow and inlay of ivory and silver. The sails looked to be of silken fabric, stitched with ancient characters and runes. Upon the stone dock stood Celeborn of Lorien, his arms open in welcome. He looked as he always had, with shining golden hair and piercing, sad eyes. He nodded at the hobbits, and knelt and laid his hand upon his breast, bowing his head. After a moment he rose and, not looking again at the three, stepped aboard the ship, leaving the hobbits to their farewell.
Sam turned to face Merry and Pippin. Both were standing silent with shining eyes, their faces a study in conflicted emotion. Pippin was making no attempt to stop the tears rolling down his cheeks, and Sam was reminded of his tears outside of Moria, after Gandalf fell into darkness. There was an element of lost hope in those tears at Moria, but now there was only sadness at the loss of a friend, for hope had been rekindled in Pippin, and had carried him through the years to this place, to yet another goodbye. Sam stepped forward and clutched him in his arms, burying his face against Pippin's scarf. Sam did not know how long they stood there, but he finally released his friend, dashing at his eyes and making small gulping noises.
Without a word, Sam turned to Merry, who smiled through his own tears. He opened his arms and Sam walked into the embrace. Sam could feel Merry's tears upon his throat, and he reflected with wonder on how much Merry had changed through the years, from a mischievous tween into a captain of commanding presence and courageous spirit. Sam could feel Merry's strong heartbeat against his own chest and he caught his breath sharply, feeling as though his own heart was going to stop from the sorrow. He released Merry and took a deep, shaking breath.
The three stood for a long moment, staring at one another with tear-shined eyes. Merry draped an arm over Pippin's shoulder, as always providing comfort and strength. Sam's lips mouthed a farewell but his voice would not come forth. Merry and Pippin, as though of one mind, then knelt and laid their hands upon their breasts, as Celeborn had done, and bowed their heads. A sob burst forth from Sam and he wanted to rush forward and fall to his knees to grasp his friends in one last embrace. But instead he turned from them and walked up the planks, boarding the ship of the west.
Sam did not look back again at his friends, for he felt that if he did so his heart would break. Slowly, the ship drifted from the dock, moving with a gentle rocking toward the sea. As the ship passed through the bastion of rock into the open water, Sam looked upward and saw with wonder Earendil's star shining strong in the sky, as though a guiding beacon, leading him at last back to the arms of his dearest friend and master. "I'm coming, Mister Frodo," he murmured softly. "Your Sam is coming."