The Stars Are the Same

Dawn had not yet come, but Frodo had long been up. He had spent the pre-morning dark out in the garden, taking advantage of the waning moonlight to plant the last of the nenuphars in the shallow pond that sat between the flower garden and the kitchen garden. The elves loved garden ponds and their accompanying lilies and fountains, and they had assured Bilbo and Frodo that a pond could sit next to the kitchen garden with no harm to the herbs and vegetables. Perhaps they were expecting better gardeners from hobbits than Bilbo and Frodo!

Frodo had checked the rot on the herbs closest to the pond. How many times had he daydreamed about the conversations he could have with Sam over chores in the garden? But now that he was here, any moment Frodo could ask any one of his inane gardening questions and then delight in watching Sam try to hide his laughter. Frodo could laugh just at the thought- but then his gratitude would come so sharp it was like a stab in his chest. Having Sam in his very own smial meant he had to learn how to breathe all over again.

Now, Frodo stood in the opening to the hallway- dimly lit in candles, six doors down, and out of sight around the curve, was Sam's bedroom. It was right next to his, actually- and Frodo couldn't help but press gently on the slightly open door when he first got up, and peak in to see if Sam was really there. And now, two hours later and nearing dawn, he was tempted to check again.

Why had Sam left the door ajar like that, anyway? Well… why had Frodo left his own door ajar?

Frodo had not wanted the day to end yesterday- he, Bilbo and Sam had taken a long walk, bringing a packed lunch and going to the valley floor to explore the soft stream that ran for a while along the road. Only as the sun touched the western mountains did they head back. They sat in the garden all evening, ducking into the smial now and again for more wine. Bilbo turned in at the late rise of the moon, and Frodo and Sam stayed up some time later. They talked only of light things, as they had all day- but in the quieting of the night, Frodo could start to feel the unspoken words hanging in the air between them. And there were so many, built up mercilessly these sixty-odd years. Finally, all talk dropped away, and they puffed on their pipes, studying the moonlit ribbon of southern road, and the black edges of the mountains against the sky, and the slow floating of clouds against the stars.

With an ache in his heart, Frodo finally sent Sam to bed, insisting that he must be tired from the journey. But he himself could not sleep.

It hadn't felt real, when Sam arrived, and he wanted so badly to touch him, touch his face, touch his hands. But he couldn't- he couldn't do it. He couldn't touch Sam. He dare not. It was hopeless.

He turned his mind away from those thoughts, and tried to tend the countless questions that lay before him now. The few that had slowly risen to the top, he didn't know whether to address to Sam, or to the Valar far beyond his ken, who moved like air and silence through this starlit world.

What is it you feel for me now, Samwise Gamgee? And whatever it is, can it survive Eternity?

And if it can, can I survive it?

The sound of door hinges softly creaking jerked Frodo out of his reverie, and he bolted back into the kitchen, got back to work on the hearth fire. A moment later Sam came in- of course it was Sam- Sam always woke before dawn. If Bilbo woke, he usually kept to his writings until breakfast.

Frodo watched Sam in the firelight for a while before finally remembering himself.

"Hullo, Sam! Did you sleep well?" His voice sounded strange, even to himself. That tight feeling in his chest came back as Sam came to bend down next to him. Gently, he took the stoker from Frodo's hands.

"Not one bit," he said with a wry smile, and Frodo felt he could hear Rosie's no-nonsense honesty in his voice. "I couldn't tell for the life of me where I was. Kept waking up thinking I was a wee boy again, coming to Bag End with the Gaffer for the first time."

The air seemed to go still as that memory flooded before Frodo for the ten thousandth time. Sam was only nine years old that day, walking up with the Gaffer- still a babe nearly. He had picked flowers and grasses on his way, and handed them wide-eyed to Frodo. "There's a ladybug living in this one," were his first words to Frodo, as he pointed to a small purple mallow flower. "You'll take care of her, yes sir?" The Gaffer had given him a mild cuff for speaking out of turn, but Frodo had kneeled down to his level and said with all the solemnity a child just starting his tweens could muster, "I'll protect her, with all my might. I promise."

Frodo turned to Sam- his face glowed softly in the firelight. "You remember that day?"

Sam blushed. "I remember my fists were right cloddish nearly crushing those flowers… but I'll never forget the moment I first saw you. I protect every memory of you, the way you did that ladybug."

Frodo had to laugh. "Until she got bored with us and flew away, you mean." And Sam laughed, too. Frodo's voice softened. "Can you believe that we were ever that young?"

Sam swallowed hard. Yes, he could believe- he had to.

Those years when they were both so young, bounding about the hills and creeping among the shadows of bower and den, whenever the Gaffer would let him, or whenever he could sneak away- those were his finest summers- and when he could curl up against Frodo's side after some long afternoon pretend adventure or another, while his master sat against a tree, reading yet another mysterious book- Sam had never felt more deeply peaceful in all his life, before or since. Like the grasses and winds and stars were all cradling him and whispering to him what forever was.

"You kept your promise, you know," Sam whispered.

"Hm?" Frodo looked up from the fire.

"The ladybug. You protected her. And everything good in the whole of Middle Earth. You kept your promise."

"Sam…" Frodo tried to swallow back his tears. "I was only trying to protect you, too. I'm sorry, Sam- I'm sorry for everything."

Sam was not surprised by Frodo's sudden confession- of course his master felt guilty, leaving him behind. Sam only closed his eyes and gave a small nod.

"There's naught to forgive… I've just missed you."

He stayed still for a moment, eyes still closed, hoping his master would reach out and touch him. When Frodo didn't, he looked back into the fire, turning over the log with a few clumsy movements, and hooked the stoker back in its place.

"Let's take a walk and get some fresh air." He took a deep breath and wiped his hands on his pants. "If we stay here in our memories, the day will run away from us."

They stood together, Frodo quickly wiping away his tears with his sleeve.

"Let's take the route that goes by the hill," Sam said, trying to sound light. "I didn't get to ask you anything about the land around there."

It was true- on their walk yesterday, Frodo had asked Sam all about his children, memorizing all thirteen of their names, when they were born, what they looked like, the things they loved, the hobbits they married, the children they in turn had, the deeds they accomplished, the places they went. Sam spoke less of Elanor than he expected- and Frodo felt a deep ache in his heart, that Sam seemed so unwilling to share about his only child that Frodo knew- the one he held in his own arms, the one whose sweet laughter was written like a song across his heart- but, knowing at least that she was well and happy, and grew up to be very beautiful, Frodo had to let the matter rest.

They stepped out into the dawn, a brilliant pink blush on the eastern horizon behind them and a cluster of stars still nestled against the growing blue in the west. The morning mists clung near to the ground and the grasses were wet with dew.

"And what of Merry and Pippin?" They were walking down the lane heading southwest, past the second hill of Bag End to where scattered pine trees partially hid a deep pond that marked the foot of where the smaller mountains started. Now that they were walking toward trees that reminded him of the serene woods of Buckland, Frodo was ready for more news of those parts.

"You told me yesterday that they live, and were traveling- but have they been doing a lot of traveling, or have they mostly stayed in Crickhollow?" Frodo had imagined that, while they certainly had enjoyed gallivanting around the Shire in their knightly raiment, Merry and Pippin must have eventually become restless, and traveled south again- sooner rather than later.

"...They married," Sam said, after a moment.

"Married…" Frodo's breath caught in his throat. They married…?

They had a ceremony, and exchanged rings, and kissed in front of others, and were celebrated? Wonder and joy fought with jealousy and sorrow. The very thing Frodo thought could never come to pass for him and Sam- and while that wasn't the only reason Frodo had ended what was between them, the truth of it didn't help.

Sam saw the hope and the pain in Frodo's face, and realized his mistake.

"No… I mean… they married other people… they married lasses, and had families."

Frodo felt like the wind was knocked out of him. He stopped walking, dropped his head into his hands, and slowly sank to the ground.

"Frodo!" Sam gasped, and dropped beside him. They were under the canopy of a copse of pines- just a stone's throw away, the lake started in shallow edges, wind whipping ripples fast across its surface. Frodo sat there on his knees among the fallen pine needles and dappled morning sunlight. All the color had drained from his face.

"I… I'm sorry, Sam... " His mind went back to the night of the party, how he wanted what Merry and Pippin had with… with nothing short of… of violence…. "They were living together, though… that whole last year…"

"They lived together for a good while, a few years at least- until their families started to have words about it, and… I dunno, the pressure was too much." Sam shrugged helplessly. "They're both heirs to very fine hobbit lines, you know-"

It was true. Merry was the heir to Brandybuck Hall, and Pip was next in line to be Thain. Oddly, Frodo had never thought to consider that their positions in society might cause them trouble. They seemed above all that, untouchable, as Heroes of the Battle of Bywater, clad in shining mail from foreign lands.

Sam cleared his throat. "So... so they set to their duty and had children, raised families… but… but it must have been about twenty years later or so, they each quietly separated from their wives… mayhaps within a year or so of each other… and they simply… went away. I didn't even get word from them until they were in Minas Tirith a year later.

"So… I suppose their ending has been happy…"

Frodo nodded slowly, gathering himself. "But their separating was bitter, and their joining together again perhaps could not make up for that." He nodded again, throat dry and spirit drained as though spilled onto the pine needles.

"You weren't wrong about what would happen to us," Sam said it plainly, and Frodo thought it was too generous of him to say it.

"But I've never been more pained to be proven right." Frodo swallowed. "But perhaps it would have been easier for us. We aren't great heirs, as they are."

"It don't matter much, as you wouldn't have lived long-" Sam's voice dropped to a whisper. "You were right about that, too."

Frodo sat back and pulled his knees to his chest, and Sam settled down beside him. Aimlessly, he ran a hand over the pineneedles and fine dirt. They hadn't spoken much about Frodo's prediction of his fate, should he remain in the Shire. When Frodo left over the sea, he hadn't known if Sam actually believed him.

"What convinced you?" Frodo had to gather his courage to ask it.

"Seeing how you were in those last months... beyond my reach, beyond even your hopelessness on the Mountain. I didn't know my heart could break so many times, Mr. Frodo. Then I knew I had to let you go."

Frodo sighed. "You've had a good and happy life. I should not feel sorry for myself- but I do. I've always been selfish when it comes to you, Samwise Gamgee."

Sam let out a bark of laughter. "You can't hardly think yourself selfish! You gave up everything and then did it once more. You gave me a happy life, certainly the happiest in the Shire. But what about you? You've found some happiness, too, or my eyes are right fooled."

Sam was trying to distract him from these new woes, and Frodo sighed, letting the heaviness lift a bit from his chest.

"You're right, of course- I have my health again, and the fires that loomed so great in my mind are but shadows now." Though not gone, not fully. Frodo took a deep breath, pushing those thoughts away. "This place, these Elves healed me, and the City is a wonder, and this valley is a second home to me."

They stood, and started back, following the path back to the house, pausing here and there to admire a plant or point out a passing rabbit.

"Tell me, Sam," Frodo started slowly in a moment of quiet. "I know you just arrived, but would you object to a visit back to Avallonë for Midsummer? Gandalf will travel through these parts soon, and we usually join him for the festival in the City."

"Gandalf! Would I like to hear his laugh again! Did you say there's a Midsummer here? In the Undying Lands? Doesn't time like as stand still, though?"

Frodo laughed. "Not exactly… the leaves are unchanging, but the sun still rises and sets, the moon still waxes and wanes, and the elves keep a faithful record of the turning of the years- not to mention the trees, bird migrations..."

"How do they celebrate, at the festival?" And suddenly, in astonishment: "Will Gandalf have fireworks?!"

Frodo laughed again- and to Sam it was such an easy laugh, like the clatter of windchimes in a summer breeze- like no dark words had passed between them, only light and glad things. "Indeed he will! And there's music and dancing- it's not so free-form and earthy as a hobbit party- the dancing, especially, is high and stately- but the elves have a mirth all their own, as you know- there is much merriment."

Sam nodded, looking thoughtful, and Frodo took a breath. He couldn't alert Sam to the true intentions of his request.

"There's one other thing," he said, trying to sound light. "I'd like to go to the Library again, and check a few things.. Translations… questions… so, I would be spending some time there as well."

Sam nodded again, wandering a bit off their path to approach a small, twisting dogwood tree, the last of its summer blossoms having dropped to make a carpet of soft pink petals. A deep pool of water had gathered at one side, where the hill dipped suddenly. Sam circled carefully, knelt down to touch a low-hanging branch.

"Why, sure thing…" he said in a strange tone.

"...Sam?" Frodo joined him there, and they peaked over the pool of water.

"You don't… take part in these dances… do you?"

A sudden warmth filled Frodo, like sunlight filling a room.

"Why, of course I do. I know every dance by heart."

Sam kept his gaze on the water, but Frodo thought he saw tears stinging his eyes. "That's well," and he gave a small nod. And Frodo realized suddenly that Sam was remembering their last year in Bag End, when joys had dropped away from him one by one like stones, until finally, no song or dance could touch him.

Tears came to Frodo's own eyes, now, and he, too, turned to the water, deep and calm and clear to the bottom, not unlike Sam's own heart.

"I'll teach you the dances," Frodo said softly. "There are special dances performed at Midsummer, the Flower Dances. Rings of dancers with two in the center. We could dance them together." There was almost never touching in those dances, but his heart pounded to suggest it.

Sam looked up from the water to meet his eye.

"I'd love that- foolish as I might look." He winked at Frodo and stood, offering a hand to pull him up. A bolt of terror shot through Frodo, and he took Sam's arm at the sleeve instead. Standing, he dusted himself off, pretending everything was fine. At length he looked Sam in the eye- gathered his courage, tried to smile.

"You'll look wonderful. Mistakes only make a dance more interesting, after all- but don't worry, I'll teach you well. We have some weeks to practice, yet."

They headed back to the smial for a leisurely elevensies with Bilbo, and at length Frodo and Sam walked down the lane to a delicate willow with plenty of shade. They hadn't laid against the trunk for more than a few puffs of pipe before they floated off to sleep. It was hours before they awoke.

Evening lingered in the valley, and the smell of Bilbo's cooking wafted across the lane. The two hobbits woke in the waning afternoon light, joined the elder hobbit in cooking chores. Bilbo opened up a bottle of wine while they chopped vegetables for the soup.

"At this rate, we'll run through our cellar before Midsummer," Bilbo said, "We'll have to buy out Dajrodel's vineyard! You know," he turned to Sam, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. "Frodo here oversees the governance of the whole valley. Did he tell you that?" Sam turned to Frodo in astonishment.

"So… you're the Mayor?"

Frodo let out a laugh and gave Sam a look of wonder.

"You always wanted me to be honored."

"More than anything- well, nearly anything."

Frodo's blush was visible, even in the kitchen's shadows. Quickly, he cleared his throat.

"Ah, Sam, I want to show you something, actually-" He tugged at Sam's sleeve and turned to Bilbo. "Uncle, can I show him the maps? They're in your room."

"Yes, yes, of course!" Bilbo said, checking the broth.

The maps were exquisite work, and detailed the entire valley, stretching out from the southern little hills on the ridge where Bag End made its home, to the one snow-capped mountain that lay north and east, before the road finally turned off west and away toward Alalminórë. The valley had only that one tall, snow-capped mountain- the other mountains were small and covered in trees.

"What does Eredalabor mean?" Sam was looking at the name for the snow-capped mountain. "It sounds like Erebor."

Frodo smiled, lighting a candle as the light waned. "It means, not lonely."

"The Not Lonely Mountain?"

Frodo couldn't help but laugh. "When we settled this valley, Bilbo was made Mayor, and he got to name many of the valley's features. He says I'm the mayor but I'm just the deputy mayor."

"He's right, I suppose, it's surrounded by baby mountains…"

"Baby mountains! Yes, that's exactly what they are. Too big to ignore but too small to impress. Though I would take these over Caradhras any day."

Sam pulled out his spectacles, looking carefully over the names and places on the map. A river ran from the east and split at different points into four rivers- the River Walking, the Rorywinyard, Big Farthing, and Little Farthing. The lake among the tall pines they had explored was called Short Lake, and the mountains seemed to be divided into three sections: Northwood, Westwood, and Eastwood, and each had a hall marked in their territory. Vineyards and orchards were marked along the valley floor, and there was a tavern on the road, called Mapmaker's.

"It's named after Bilbo," Frodo said when he saw Sam brush his finger over it. "Many of his maps are hung there. The Noldor Elves in the City taught him a lot of their craft."

"And they taught you the harp?"

Frodo nodded. "We made many friends in the city- first among the healers, then among the musicians. And I learned the Elvish tongues, and heard so many wonderful songs… until finally, I had to learn them myself, and make songs of my own. Bilbo and I greatly enjoyed the city. We could not get enough of the books, the music and dancing. We stayed there for forty years. We only settled this valley about twenty years ago, when we were ready for something a bit more like home- and to try our hands at gardening."

Sam smiled faintly, turning back to the map and running his finger back over Bag End and the little hill behind it, pressed up against the cliffside that sloped like a bowl steeply down to the valley floor.

"Do you have a name for this hill?"

"No, not exactly-" Frodo answered, seeing the view of the entire valley from that hill in his mind's eye. "We almost built our hobbit hole under that hill, but decided against it at the last minute. That hill feels a little too grand, being pushed right up against the cliffside, all windswept and buttressed as it is by those scattered boulders. This hill is closer to the natural path that runs more gently down to the valley floor. We never gave that one a name, though. Party Hill, perhaps?"

Sam blinked, looked a bit stricken, but then gave a firm nod. "Good a name as any, I suppose. We should be having a party up there soon, then, I should think." He cleared his throat.

"The wind can be a bit strong for a picnic on that hill, coming up as it does from the valley. Perhaps the party is meant for the dandelion puffs." He smiled at Sam, a glowing smile, and Sam felt like the wind had been knocked out of him.

Frodo, too, seemed to linger in the moment, drinking in Sam's gaze. He finally turned away- with effort, it seemed- and blew out the candle, and they headed down the hallway back toward the kitchen.

"How did you arrange to settle here? If you don't mind me asking…"

"You mean, did we sell my Mithril shirt to buy the valley?" Frodo said, laughter in his voice. "Why no, I'm saving that for when I go back to Middle Earth and purchase the Shire."

Sam laughed heartily at that.

"The Council granted us the land," Bilbo called out, hearing them as they entered the kitchen, which was warm and heavy with the aroma of the soup. Bilbo poured their mugs until they were quite full with wine. "We only asked for these southern hills, but they granted us the entire valley. The Mirkwood Elves who were staying in the city followed us out here as well, about four thousand of them. Ah, he hasn't seen it yet, has he, Frodo? Sam doesn't know about the seasons here."

"Seasons?"

Bilbo leaned towards Sam, a glint of conspiracy in his eyes.

"Wherever we stay, a cold wind lifts in the autumn, and the leaves all turn gold and orange and red; and in the winter, snows come and the trees lose their leaves, such as had never been seen before in the Undying Lands. The Mirkwood Elves who came here miss their homeland, miss Middle Earth, so they love it. That's why they followed us here- so they could have seasons again, even in the Undying Lands."

"You… create… seasons?"

Frodo looked apologetic, and embarrassed. He ladled out the soup into bowls while Sam set the table and Bilbo sliced the bread. "Nobody can really tell us why… but nobody seems worried, either. We're glad the Mirkwood Elves followed us out here, though. We were going to set up an Inn for travelers, to stave off loneliness- but this is better, having so many in the Valley. They're great company. Though why they insisted on us being mayors, I'll never know."

"They made us mayors because they love to ply us with wine, dance to our tavern songs, and then ask us to do surveying work for them. While we're still drunk!"

Talk continued long into the evening, about the valley, and the Elves, and the city. At some point, Sam turned to Bilbo and said,

"Well, Mr. Baggins, could you make use of a gardener in your employ? And mayhap Mr. Frodo could use some help overseeing the cultivation of the land, as well."

"Sam! You don't have to work for your keep, you know!"

Bilbo laughed and added, "Though we could use your advice! And if we weren't so deep into our cups, I'd ask you to solve… a few riddles… for me in the garden right now!" He swayed a little in his chair as he spoke, his voice thick with wine and laughter. Frodo laughed too, tossing his head back and clapping his hands. Sam, too, was a little dazzled by the wine, and found himself laughing easily along with them. But a hollow feeling in his heart was bringing him to a slow realization.

Again, it was Bilbo who excused himself first, and Frodo followed, carrying some of his books for him. Sam collected dishes in the meantime, wiped down the table. He found his and Frodo's pipes and packed them fresh. When Frodo came back, he nodded toward the front door and said, "Shall we?"

And so again they found themselves on the bench in the garden, overlooking the southeasternmost part of the valley and the mountains black in the distance. Tonight, there were no clouds, and even with the waning moon high, many stars shone on the horizon.

"The stars are the same," Sam finally realized, breaking the silence they had settled into. "They say in the far south, the stars change. But here- look- there's the Swordsman, and there, above it, the Wain, rising from the southeast as they always did, in the Shire."

Frodo remained quiet, just smiling contentedly. Sam regarded him carefully. His master's eyes were closed, holding his pipe near his mouth but neglecting to pull on it. His head was tilted back, as though drinking in moonlight. And his skin glowed in the moonlight, like he was a piece of the moon himself. Looking at him, Sam found that he was still terrified, deep down, that this was all a dream. Could this really all be true?

As if in response, Frodo slowly opened his eyes again and turned to Sam.

"...What were you saying?"

Sam chuckled, and patted his own shoulder in invitation. "Take a rest now."

Frodo regarded the shoulder in question, and after a moment, laid his head on it. He seemed to fall asleep immediately, his head growing heavy and his pipe limp in his hand. Sam extracted the pipe carefully and laid it on the bench beside them, with his own. Finally, he let out a breath.

Sam knew he was an old hobbit, and though he felt as young and strong and thick-headed as the day they set out on their Quest, his body betrayed the facts. But that didn't really explain why his master seemed overly careful not to touch him. And in the quiet of this, their second night together, Sam had to admit to himself his disappointment. Not that he expected… what had he expected? And even despite his age, there still seemed to be an energy whenever they locked eyes- but between them, there had always been touch- a squeeze of hands, a touch on the shoulder. Even in those tense last few years, full of anxiety and conflict- and even more importantly, when they had to be so careful to respect what he had with Rosie- still, even then, they walked that line, and held hands when holding was needed; kissed brow, smoothed hair.

So why such distance now?

And what if Sam's years melted away, just as Bilbo's and Frodo's had? Would things change? Sam knew his master would never judge a person's worthiness to be touched by the age of his body- so he couldn't imagine it would change on that account. But if it didn't… could Sam bear it?

It was clear that his master still carried grief over what happened between them. And Sam did, too, of course. But he never thought it was enough to create this empty space between them, when there was nothing now to keep them from touching their hands together.

Sighing, Sam looked up at the moon, slowly westering off to his right, over the gentle mountains. These problems… he groped for what the Gaffer might say. Don't let your head get full o'wool over it, don't start thinking your troubles are so peculiar. Though who in all the ages would have encountered troubles like these? Mortal folk, swept up in lands Undying, contending with Mortal cares. Sam let out a chuckle- it sounded like one of Elanor's poems. The Swordsman catching his eye once more, he missed her with all his heart.

"Are you watching these same stars and missing me too, Elanor me dear?" he whispered. "Would you believe your da' finally found his treasure?" And that his treasure seemed just as willing to break his heart as last time?

Watching the stars become blurred by his tears, Sam knew he would find no sleep tonight, either.