There are tales, told by hobbit folk – and only hobbit folk – that once, long ago lived a creature known as the Fastitocalon, or Turtle-fish. It is very much worth noting that only hobbits tell of this great creature, no other race thought it worth mentioning in their own tales. This unfortunately has given rise to the belief that the beast was nothing more than a halfling's misunderstanding of proper history. That it was some kind of allegory for the great kingdom of men, Numenor, that sunk beneath the waves oh so many ages ago…it wasn't. A fact that at this point in the tale, the reader should know all too well now.
No, the tales of the Turtle-fish were about the Turtle-fish – for hobbits despise allegory in their stories and would certainly not have wasted their time with it. Of course, none of the larger races knew this, or if they did, they certainly wouldn't have bothered to apply such a knowledge to the absurd tale of Fastitocalon. For you see, though hobbits have quite a few tales telling of the creature, they told only one to those who were not of hobbit folk. This perhaps was part of the reason they were never believed; for the only story they told of the Turtle-Fish was of it's one interaction with the race of Men. When a few of that most foolish of races had stumbled onto the beast's back, mistaking it for some kind of island. The creature asleep and unaware of this, was startled from its long slumber by the Men who had begun making fires on its back. It dived beneath the waves, and the men all drowned. Only the village of hobbit folk that had lived nearby were left to tell the tale, and of course being hobbit folk, no one had believed them.
Yet there were more tales of this creature that, like so many of the best hobbit tales, were kept secret from outsiders' ears. There are many I could tell you now and you would understand what a wondrous and miraculous beast the Turtle-fish is, but I shall refrain, for there is only one tale you need to hear to understand the significance of this creature to our current narrative. That is, the tale of Princess Do and the Turtle-Fish.
The story, like most ancient hobbit tales, always starts the same way - in the land where our Ancestors became us – but then as is so often the case with tales spread by word of mouth, the rest of the story changes ever so slightly with each telling. This tale has morphed many times over the many, many centuries since its first telling. Until the only true account of the Sailing of the Princess Do, remains locked away – safely under the ground in the vaults of the Ganymen. But unless you happen to be a Ganyman – in which case you would properly already know the grim tale in its proper incarnation – and had a key to the vaults, you're unlikely to ever hear that version.
Of course, in all accounts of the story, there is still a grain of truth – though how large a grain depends on where you heard it from. For instance, if you were born a Took or one of their serfs than it most likely you heard the tale in the form of Daft little Do. Where princess Do is in fact the daughter of a lazy ropemaker, who gets hit in the head by one of her father's unsatisfied customers and imagines she's sailing off to adventure on the back of a giant Turtle. Just a Turtle, the Tooks would never lower themselves to telling a story about a creature that is widely known to be false. She dies in the end, walks into the sea in her stupor and drowns – dying believing herself to now be in the land of the turtles. It's a cruel tale, made to mock those that refuse to agree with them about the Valar. But then that is so often the case with things that have come out of Tookland.
Anyway, the end where she dies is hardly original to the spiteful tongues of the Tooks, in all but one telling, does the princess Do die. Sometimes it's of starvation, sometimes it's of sorrow at leaving her mother behind, but mostly it's because she angers the Turtle-fish and it throws her off its back. Hobbits do love a good tragic tale at the end of the day.
Yet if the Princess or the Turtle-Fish that carried her and her people on its back, when the land of their Ancestors was destroyed by the wrath of the Valar; could have heard some of the interpretations of their journey, why a new terrible wrath would have been awakened. For the truth of the matter, and no modern Hobbit tale could tell of this without thoroughly confusing most of their audience, was that Princess Do did not die. In fact, she went on to live many long fruitful years after her parting with the Turtle-Fish. In eternal thanks for what the Turtle-Fish had done for her house and her people, she took its image as her line's signal. She shed her juvenile title of princess and took on the mantle of a Queen. She had many husbands and many, many children and for a time the line of Do – the house of the Turtle-Fish – grew strong and proud.
Yet with great strength comes an even greater weakness, and after Queen Do's death – nearly three hundred years after she had heard that voice from the water calling her – the line of her children began to fight and bicker amongst themselves for possession of the silver inlaid crown she had left behind. Brother killed brother, sister poisoned sister, and many hobbits lost their lives in those dark days. It continued like this for many years past the queen's death, for when one battle of succession would end, and a victor crowned they would very quickly die, and another would begin. Folk began to say that the crown was cursed, or maybe even that the royal house was cursed. Yet this did not seem to stop the people from rallying under the banners of one heir or another. It continued on like this for many generations of the Injured People, until at last the mighty house of Do was whittled down to just two.
Two boys, two princes of the name Do, two brothers; they fought and the younger killed the elder. He should have taken the crown then, for there was no one left to dispute his claim, but he didn't. He tossed the ancient crown of the Princess in the mud and he left. Some say he journeyed east, with him came every hobbit that had rallied under his and his brother's banners. Leaving those that had taken a neutral stance behind, to make their own governments and settlements where they chose. What is important in this tale, is that the prince – like the Princess before him – did not die, he lived and settled his own house in the land of sand and sun that lay east to them.
It was this house that Sam and Rose Gamgee stood before now.
Arda, Middle-Earth, Rhûn, Desert of the Lost, Caves of the Blarney Son: F.O. 01
Many Magics did the Sons of the Blarney have at their disposal. For great was the power of the first of their line – indeed, none had yet to surpass the Blarney son in wit or might that had yet been born. He had the power to shift the elements to his will, to twist his body into any shape he so chose, and some even whispered…to control and travel through time itself. Of course, most sensible folk who heard those whispers, knew that was just nonsense. No one could shift time like that, not even the elves.
Sam and Rosie had bundled their daughter between them and clung to one another, burying their faces in the crook of each other's necks. Their hosts had wrapped the long shawls and scarves, and loose tunics of their children around the three to keep the sand from their eyes. And had placed them at the centre of the central rock above their cave network.
The greatest magicians – that were not currently away at battle – of the Blarney Sons stood in a circle around the three hobbits and raised their staffs to the sky. They called on the wind, they called on the sun, and they called on all the magics still left in the rage of the sand to take the travellers, where they knew not even the maddest of wizards should be able to reach them.
Around her ears Rosie could hear the rustle of the wind, and she knew that it would not be long now. It lifted them off the ground and sent them spiralling high into the air and flinging them across the desert land of Rhûn. High and far that wind carried them, far over the sands of the Deserts of the Lost, far beyond the high and beautiful cities of Rhûn, far over the line were the lands of men stop; and down, down onto the steps of that mighty keep that they stood before now.
As their feet touched the ground once again, Sam sighed into Rosie's ear.
'Well, I suppose we're here now, no chance to turn back home anymore.'
No, Rosie thought rather dejectedly in silent agreement with her husband, there were no more chances to turn back home now. Maybe there never would be again, and they would die here in this sweltering land, amongst these strangers who still claimed the titles of Kings. Never to see the rolling and lush lands of their birth, yet if that were truly to be so, well at least they would not die away from one another's arms.
Arda, Middle-Earth, Rhûn, Beyond the Desert of the Lost, House of the Turtle-Fish: F.O. 01
The House of the Turtle-Fish was not a house at all, but a mighty and splendid palace that scaled far higher and grander than any structure built by the hands of Man or Elf. For it was built by neither, for this was the palace, the house of the highest of descendants of the Ancestors.
Sam and Rosie stumbled -still half blind from the sand – and nearly fell through the large golden doors of the temple like building. Yet their descent was stopped by a pair of very strong arms. Sam blinked up through his sand-drenched hair at the hobbit in fine golden armour that had caught him.
'Ringbearer, you have finally come to us.'
'I'm no Ringbearer sir, I'm just a gardener…it was Mister Frodo who was the ringbearer.'
'That is not what our spies say.' Says another hobbit, a lass all done up in armour and the like. Her long black hair tied in a severe looking bun at the top of her skull, and her brow encircled by a golden circlet that proclaimed her noble birth. Or so Sam guessed, in all honesty he was as confused as he had ever been just learning there was still a king of Hobbits. He would lose his mind if he tried to distinguish all of that king's kin from their golden trappings.
'We heard many whispers of your deeds Samwise of a Bastard Line.'
Beside him Sam could feel Rosie scowl and begin to pull back to strike the highborn lass, but he grabbed her wrist and stopped her before she could.
'Well I don't know what you heard miss,' he said turning back to the lass in the gold. 'But I'm naught but a gardener. If you want to meet a real ringbearer than you had best build yourself a ship and sail to the land where no one dies.'
'Why should I have to when I'm looking at him right now,' the lass sneers and the hobbit in gold beside her sighs. He looks like the men from the south, dark eyes and darker skin than even those of Harfoot descent; his face has that care-worn look around the eyes Sam has grown used to seeing in hobbits now a days.
'Enough talk Princess let us take the ringbearer and family to the king.'
'Not yet, not until he admits what he is, then and only then will he be worthy to meet my father. So, tell me Gardener, what were you in the middle of the land of Mordor when you slipped that gold band on your finger?'
'Not a bearer that's for certain, I was just holding the ring till I could find Mister Frodo again.'
'Fine,' says the princess all in gold. 'Your wife and the babe may have your rest, I will send my troops to escort them to their chambers…but you ring-holder, no you must come and meet my father.'
Sam nods, bowing ever so slightly and hugs Rosie and their little golden-haired lass one last time, before they're led away. He lets the princess and the soldier lead him away, far away it seems to the gardener – for gardener he will remain no matter what they say – to a room made all of gold. The princess and the soldier melt back into the shadows surrounding the golden doors and Samwise Gamgee is left alone.
The voice that comes forth from behind those doors is deep, deeper than any hobbit voice has a right to be. It speaks of an ancient time, long before the Shire, or the wandering years, or even before hobbits claimed ancestors of Fallowhide blood. The blood the hobbit with that voice bears is older than the Fallowhide strain, it is the blood that rode on the back of beasts to save their people from the wrath of the gods. A wrath they would have suffered just because they where there, in that land those mighty creatures tore apart by accident.
That is the voice of the ancient hobbit generals that commanded their troops under the flag of the Turtle-Fish. That is the voice of the King of these people, and Sam had better not keep him waiting while he waxed poetically about the other hobbit's voice. He stepped forward and the doors swung in as if of their own volition. Strange folk were these hobbits of the East, but then he supposed no stranger than any other folk he had met on his travels.
The throne room – for that was what Sam indeed stepped into – was packed with fine, regal looking hobbits dressed in fine silks all the colours of the rainbow. Feathers and heavy dangling jewellery of gold and silver adorned their fine heads and graceful necks and stepping in amongst them Sam – still wrapped in plain garb – felt dreadfully drab and underdressed.
In the middle of the room sat a throne, carved from the glittering remains of a geode – the kind of crystal that formed in caves and deep under the earth. Yet no one sat on that glittering throne, so Sam could not immediately recognize the king. It seemed almost to him like the whole room was filled with kings, for each finaely dressed hobbit had an even finer crown around their brow. All different – some ornate (even ones with feathers) and others little more than a circlet under the hairline, but all of them crowns in their own way.
Was this real, was this true? Was there really more than one king of hobbits? Well it wasn't completely without merit, after all Sam had seen a council of Lords or Fine folk rule a city or a Farthing; why not a council of kings for a kingdom? Around him the crowned hobbits began to chatter and skirt excited glances his way, but none of them approached him or tried to engage him; making the Gardener feel more like the evening's entertainment than an expected guest. Perhaps he had misread the letter, perhaps he wasn't expected at all, perhaps he was the intruder on this royal gathering.
He'd almost convinced himself of this, almost fallen for his own put downs and misconceptions; when the voice that had called to him before cried out from behind him.
'Ringbearer! My daughter has brought you to me at last, excellent, come let me take a closer look at you.'
Sam turned and stared into the eyes of the king, they were black and deeply set; his features alike to his daughter's in every way, save perhaps a little more masculine around the jaw. His skin was lighter than the guard's, speaking more of the lands to the east than the south. Around his head sat a crown of glittering mithril, a red ruby set in the middle of it shaped like a Turtle-Fish. Ah perhaps that was the giveaway.
The King swept off the sand-soaked wraps from the Gardener's head and smiled.
'There now,' the King crooned and laughed. 'How are we to greet the saviour of Middle-Earth if we cannot even see his face?' A deep red blush rose over Sam's scar worn features, and he suddenly felt very awkward with himself. He wished more than anything that his Rose was by his side, she would know what to say, she always did. But him, well he was just a simple Gardener, not for the likes of a King's court.
'Please sir, I'm no saviour, I'm just a gardener.'
'Maybe you were, but you shall not be that here. Come Ringbearer there are many who wish to see you and we have much to talk about.'
The house of the Turtle-Fish is a palace of Gold and silver, all woven together with the life of splendour its inhabitants enjoyed. It is not the place where Gardeners come to retire from the world as Samwise had spun it to concerned friends and an indifferent sister. It was not a place for gardeners at all, for its gardens as wondrous and splendid as they were, all lay outside the walls of the house. That was not for Samwise, he was inside the house and he would remain inside until his brother came and vouched for him. If that day would ever come.
Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn't, but whatever the case that day was not here now. No, now Sam, was trapped behind these gold-plated walls, not even allowed to venture into the gardens without an escort. Rosie and Elanor at least had more freedom, they could wander out and linger in the gardens from dawn to dusk if they so wished, for the letter had not requested their presence in the Court of the King.
Sam watched them, and the gaggle of low ranked dignitaries that could move around the palace without an armed guard following their every movement, with a shameful dash of envy. He shouldn't, no he didn't begrudge them this freedom, he simply wished that he could be out there with them. Out in the peace of the garden where he had always been meant to be, with his wife and child, if only the king would have seen it that way.
'Sit,' said the splendid monarch on the fourth day of Sam's entrapment within this gilded cage. 'I would have words with you Samwise Ringbearer.'
Sam sat, perched uncomfortably on the silver lined chairs of the King's private chamber.
'You know why you were summoned here, do you Samwise?'
'Aye sir, because you wanted to establish contact with your cousins in the West.'
'Yes, yes, of course, of course, but do you know why I asked for you?'
'Because,' here Samwise faltered, knowing the answer to the question all too well but not particularly caring for it. 'Because I'm a Ringbearer.'
'Yes, that would be the simplest explanation. Because you are a Ringbearer, because the histories of Men, Elves and Dwarves cannot help but to acknowledge your part in their history. They will not erase you or demonize you as they have done with others of our kind in the past.'
'Your Majesty?'
'Tell me Samwise, what were hobbits before they were hobbits?
'The Ancestors sir,' said Sam, feeling on slightly stronger ground.
'Our names change for them but what they were to us never does. Tell me Samwise what were the Ancestors – not to us, but to themselves. If an Elf calls himself an Elf and a Man calls himself a Man, what did they call themselves?'
'I have no idea sir.' Said Samwise, for he truly didn't, despite his father's and sister's occupation. Once there had been a statue in a cave that had shown him the answer to that question, but Sam had made himself forget that. Because that was not his path – wasn't his purpose to remember the past, but to bring new life to the present.
'Who made them? Who made you?' Ah now Sam knew the answer to that question.
'No one sir, they made themselves. And I think my mother and father made me.'
'Not true, that is merely a lie we repeat to ourselves, so we do not have to face the terrible truth. All things are made by someone, would you not agree Samwise?'
'No.' The king turned from the wide terrace balcony he had been leaning on to scowl at Samwise.
'I was raised in the old ways yer Majesty, I believe that no one created us, that no one created the lands we stand on, or the rivers we fish in; that they were all forged over time by their own volition.'
'What of the Valar then?'
'Fine folks I'm sure, but they didn't create me.'
'No, no they didn't, the Valar have not had a hand in forging our kind…and they certainly had none in forging you. Yes, Samwise the old ways are correct, the Valar did not make us as you and I are now, we are their hidden mistake. We are their Injured children, so tell me what that makes our Ancestors?'
'Their Uninjured children?'
The king smiled then, smiled as if the whole weight of his kind bared down on top of him.
'Maybe, the Smith certainly crowed like we were.'
'Smith, sir…which smith do you speak of?'
'Yes, now that's the question. Come, I have much to show you Young Gardener; but neither of us will do well on an empty stomach. Let us retire to the feasting hall, and I shall explain.'