62 Years Later
He had been told that his master's new dwelling was built in the style of Bag End, and even named so- but nothing prepared Sam for how striking the resemblance would be.
It made him think for a moment that his journey over the sea and his days in the High City of Avallonë had been a dream. And then it seemed it must be so, and that he was back at Bag End in the Shire- for there was a figure outside- it must be his son, Frodo-lad- working in the garden as he did every morning, even before dawn, as it was now, stars still dusting the sky as pale blue rumored on the eastern horizon. Sam came down from his pony, his bags and the elves accompanying him forgotten. He almost called out, "Hoy, Frodo-lad!" Where am I now, inside of a dream, or waking up from one?
But the hobbit turned around, and Sam saw that face- and those hands, covered in soil but finely wrought, and nine-fingered.
They both went breathless and still- and as far as Sam was concerned, they could have stood there, stars wheeling overhead for long years: until the weeds grew tall as corn; until the streams dried up and left bones for fish; until the mountains melted back into the earth, and the sky went dark forever. Frodo was untouched by time, and the wild blue of his eyes glowed like candles, and his skin was fair as a cloudless dawn, and his hair dark as the shadows around a winter bonfire, holding like a fair dust the sheen of the stars.
"Hullo, Sam," Frodo said finally, so struck that his voice was not his own. The dawn had come, by the time he spoke.
"Hullo Mr. Frodo," Sam could hardly manage a whisper. "Yes, it's your Sam."
Sam was afraid to move, as though Frodo were an untame thing that might bound away any second.
"Dear me," Frodo whispered, his voice light and strange like a ghost. "I'm forgetting my manners. You must be weary, coming all this way to see me," He took a step forward, but then stopped, as though afraid to break the spell.
"Come in, and have some tea?"
Sam gave a small nod, and Frodo edged back, grabbing a cloth to wipe his hands and then backing into the smial, watching Sam the whole way as he followed.
"We're out of chamomile but I do have mint," Frodo said, fumbling with the kettle over the fire, then rifling through the shelves- placed just as they were in Bag End. "I have fresh bread as well, and strawberry jam- actually, I have blackberries we picked just yesterday- the first summer yield is dying down but we still had a fine go of it..."
Frodo talked on nervously as he set tea over the fire and grabbed plates from shelves, stealing glances at Sam every chance he could. Light poured in through the window as the sun gathered her strength, but the shadows were still long that Frodo's movements cast. Sam swallowed- his throat was dry, his heart pounded in his chest. He felt like he was tumbling into some whole new danger.
"How was the city for you? Did you stay a long time there?"
"Only two nights," Sam said, clearing his throat and finding his voice. "Long enough to meet with Lord Elrond and arrange to travel here."
Frodo nodded, hands betraying a tremble as he went through the motions of tea and breakfast.
He's so different, and yet the same. Sam searched for that haunted look of old in Frodo's eyes, whenever they flickered towards him- but where there was a glow of light there was also shadow, and Sam could draw no conclusions.
"Did you see Lady Galadriel, while you were there?" Frodo's tone was light and distant as a grocer's, making talk while weighing out onions. "You wouldn't have seen Gandalf, of course, right now he is up north in Alalminore, as he always is this time of year- but don't worry, he'll come down for the Midsummer Festival so you can see him soon. And did you walk the City at all? The roses are always in bloom- all the flowers, really- and the Moon Gardens have freesias- Rosie would love them, she loves the white ones best, I remember well- you know she used to take me out in the meadows to gather wild freesias, when I could get out of bed- and I'll never forget how they looked in her hair at your wedding-"
Frodo froze mid-pour- paled, and wouldn't meet Sam's gaze.
"I'm sorry, Sam- how thoughtless of me." He bowed his head. "She must have passed, or else you wouldn't be here. Such a simple fact to forget so badly- forgive me."
Sam nodded slowly, feeling that familiar wave of sadness at Rosie's name rolling through him. "There's naught to forgive, Mr. Frodo. And aye, she passed almost a year ago now."
"I'm sorry for your loss. I've missed her, too."
Sam nodded. And he remembered well, Frodo's steadfast kindness toward Rosie, the gentle way he spoke to her. Even in those darker days when he couldn't see the sunshine through the windows, when he couldn't eat more than a mouthful, his breakfast going cold... Sam couldn't count the number of mornings when Frodo even seemed afraid to eat, looking fretfully at everyone else's plates first for reassurance- and Sam could tell his master was back in the black lands, helpless to find water or food. He moved through each day like he couldn't tell if it was a dream or a nightmare.
But what he couldn't find for himself, he could still somehow draw out for others, pouring out cheerfulness wherever and however he could. Frodo had every reason to resent Rosie, but befriended her instead. And if Sam had already thought that he couldn't love his master any more deeply- well, seeing Frodo in those last days, he found he was wrong.
That was what Sam held onto- that was where he found his hope- that deep down, his master was unchanged, his loving and joyful nature untouched.
Sam started a little- Frodo had poured the tea, and placed a cup down gently with his good hand before Sam. But he himself did not sit down, only turned to the dishes, bringing a wet scrubbing cloth to a pot. "To me, they'll all live forever, Rosie and the others," he said softly. "I carry on conversations with them in my head... their faces flash before me: Rose and beautiful little Elanor and Merry and Pippin and all the others- I've almost come to believe that they are merely in the next room, and I'll see them in just a moment."
Frodo turned back to his task, and scrubbed as though he could scrub away his embarrassment. Sam felt a stab of pain for him. "It's well that you thought of all of us like that, Mr. Frodo, and right wise in a way."
Frodo laughed a bit bitterly. "Not all of you." He tossed aside the cloth and put away the pot. He seemed to grow impatient, and let out a frustrated sigh. "Forgive me. But at the risk of being hasty, tell me something, Sam, to convince me-" He paused, searching for words.
Convince him? Convince him of what? Something's queer, and no mistake. But before either of them could speak, a familiar voice rang down the hall.
"Finished already in the garden, m'boy? You're getting quite handy with those weeds, your Sam would be proud, although he'd have a thing or two to say about those herbs by the pond-" Bilbo walked in and gasped at Sam, dropping his mug. It broke with a clatter. Sam gasped, audibly, too- Bilbo looked younger than Sam had ever seen him.
Speechless, Sam turned from Bilbo to Frodo to compare the two, and gasped once more to find Frodo staring at him, blue eyes wide- and not in the way he had stared when first seeing him, so wild and silent.
"Sam…" Frodo breathed, and it was his voice, soft and quiet and the sound that Sam had most longed to hear, for a whole lifetime. "You really are here, aren't you?" He dropped like a stone into the chair across from Sam.
"Yes, it's me," tears were coming to his eyes. "It's your Sam, finally come."
Bilbo flustered a bit: "Be right back with the dust-pan-" and he retreated down the hallway.
Frodo shook his head at Sam in seeming wonder. "Sam… my Sam… I've lived this moment in my head so many times I didn't recognize it when it came true. I thought I was dreaming, seeing you walk up to the gate, like you have in my dreams so many times before."
Sam laughed even as tears came to his eyes. "You couldn't tell I was real from the look of me? I sure don't right look as I did before…"
Frodo shrugged. "You look exactly like I imagined you would look as an old hobbit. Very handsome and dignified and dashing, first of all." He said it with a grin that made Sam go pink to his ears.
"Well, what do you think of me, now that you see me?" Frodo's question sounded a touch shy.
"Beautifuller than ever," Sam said, his throat thick.
Frodo looked down, smiled sadly, almost chuckled. "I've imagined you saying even that before." Tears started to stream down his face too. "I still can't fathom that you're here… you'll have to mind my disbelief for a while, I suppose."
In that one breath, his voice grew strange and distant again. He stared at Sam's hands on the table, as though he wanted to reach out and touch them- but he kept his own clasped carefully together. There were shadows in his eyes. He seemed aware of his behavior, though, and finally spoke.
"You've come all this way to see me, and here I am, too shocked to welcome you. Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive," Sam leaned forward a bit, a panic of upset rising within him. You never think of anything but others, you never reach out for what you need… As though he could hear Sam's thoughts, Frodo turned away, a hunted look on his face. Sam reached toward him, but Frodo almost seemed to flinch away, quickly distracting himself with plates. But when he came back to the table, he leaned on it with a tired and desperate weight, and met Sam's eye with an intense and honest longing.
"Sam-"
They could hear Bilbo coming down the hallway, and the moment was lost.
"I tidied up the guest room just now, I'm afraid I had turned it into another clothes closet, nearly- but it'll be right as rain soon and has some lovely windows and a fine view, you'll enjoy it quite nicely, I should think!" Bilbo stooped to sweep up the broken mug off the floor.
Sam could see Frodo open his mouth as if to protest- but then shut it almost as quickly, a strange fear seeming to collect in his eyes.
"Thank you kindly, sir," Sam said, tearing himself away from Frodo's gaze, from Frodo's unspoken words that hung in the air. He and Frodo joined Bilbo in cleaning up.
"Do you have nothing with you, but that pack?" Frodo said suddenly.
"The elf who brought me here dropped my bags outside the gate- you didn't see him?"
Frodo blushed furiously. "I did not…" He tried to warm his voice with mirth. "I daresay I was distracted!"
"Come, come, Master Samwise," Bilbo said gently, "We haven't had a guest so new to these parts in ages! Are you up for a long walk? Let's take your bags in, and you can stretch out your legs."
They went out to collect Sam's bags, and Sam followed them back in through the winding hallway, curving as it did just like Bag End. There they were, the parlour, and the kitchen, and the study, all bathed in the sunlight streaming through the large round windows.
A glint of light off of something caught Sam's eye as they passed the study. He peaked in- in the corner was a harp, full and tall and of bright lacquered wood, sunlight glowing off its sweeping curves.
"Bless me…" Sam whispered.
Bilbo and Frodo both turned around to see what had stopped Sam.
"Ah yes, that's a full concert harp, made special to Frodo's size by the elves at the House of Music in Avallone." Bilbo scurried into the study past Sam. "Take a look! It's 47 strings, with a pedal system the elves here have developed…" Bilbo went on describing the make as Sam approached, slow and careful.
"Will you play for us, lad?" Bilbo's voice was soft and kind.
"You wish for me to embarrass myself in front of my Sam so soon?" Something touching real humor was in Frodo's voice now. Approaching the harp, he ran a hand through his hair shyly, but finally sat down at the small bench. With one more self-conscious glance at Sam, he turned to the harp and began to play.
He struck two notes, low and dark, and let them fill the quiet that had settled. Then two more, and a pause- it was a broken chord, and Frodo broke it once more, slowly adding life, letting it build, then undermining it with clusters of descending notes that then faded into silence. He looked at Sam as though gathering courage- this was no lyrical Elvish strain. Then Frodo built the dark melody again, letting it climb slowly upward as though upon cold stone steps spiraling. Sam could hear the echo of the stone, feel the bite of cold in his fingers, taste the desperation in his mouth. His throat was dry. His chest was tight. Slowly, the melody changed, transforming into something painfully familiar, flowing like a cold spring out of a bitter mountain to slake a hopeless thirst.
Frodo took a deep breath as he played, and began to sing. And he had always had a good voice- but now it was devastating, like it was made by some dark elf-god to shatter hearts. Tears began anew in Sam's eyes as Frodo started first by humming- and then suddenly, even over Frodo's dark and surprising chords, Sam knew the song, and Frodo began to sing.
Though here at journey's end I lie,
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the sun
And stars forever dwell-
I will not say the day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.