FIC: A Visitor - A Memory - Sam, Frodo, and a visitor - PG (for a bit of Hobbit snuggling)
And here is the story I spoke of in my previous post.
Title: A Visitor A Memory
Author: Rakshi
Rating: PG (for a bit of Hobbit snuggle)
Pairing: Sam - Frodo - and a visitor.
Author's note: As I said in my previous post, there aren't words enough to thank lbilover and blackbird_song, my two amazing beta's. Their knowledge of Tolkien canon combined with their amazing editorial skills combine to make ME look a lot better than I would otherwise. I'm very grateful to both of them.
And let me add my thanks to my good friend, John, whose encouragement kept the story going. He wouldn't let me give up on the song... or it never would have been in the story.
- A Visitor A Memory
Sam puffed as he pushed his barrow along the rising path leading to the Hobbit-hole he shared with Frodo. Their garden was almost as Sam wanted it. All the seedlings he’d carried across the sea had been carefully planted and lovingly tended. And when he saw Frodo’s face glow with joy as he inhaled the scent of flowers born in the Shire, Sam knew it had been worth every bit of effort.
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo had exclaimed. “The Shire lives in these blossoms! They hold Spring mornings when you and I walked to the marketplace, arm in arm.” He turned to Sam, eyes shining. “I can see it again,” he said in a hushed voice. “I can see it all.”
It thrilled Sam’s heart to know that his efforts had pleased Frodo. Now, if he could manage to build his stone wall, Sam would consider their garden the finest on Tol Eressëa. (The Lonely Isle)
He’d been pushing his small barrow through nearby fields and hills for nearly two weeks, looking for stones that would suit the wall he was building around their Hobbit-hole. Size and shape were important. Sam wanted stones with good angles to fit together, and that were smallish in size.
He had found lots of good specimens in the hills near their home, and even a few in the nearby woods. He had expected that rocks from a land so near to Valinor itself would be markedly different from those he knew in the Shire, but soon discovered that this was not the case. He rejoiced to find granite, strong and enduring. Though much plainer than many of the other minerals Sam found, he danced at the sight of it. “Oh, glory,” he breathed, caressing the grey rock laced with bits of sparkling quartz. “’Tis glad I am to see you, sir rock. You are to be my bedrock and my strength.”
He would dig a shallow trench along the path where the stone wall would run, and into this trench he would place a row of granite. Upon this base row all others would rest. To add color, Sam found malachite - green as the trees of Lothlórien, tourmaline, jasper, and fluorite of many colors. He would intersperse these stones, which were far more beautiful but not nearly as strong, between chunks of granite. A stone wall built in this manner would neither sag nor fall.
Sam's greatest find was a group of stones the likes of which he had never seen before. They were strong as granite, but studded with many multi-colored chips that sparkled in the mid-day sun like jewels. He was eager to get them home and add them to his rapidly growing, pile. Once he had found enough stones, he would sort them and begin to layer them, row by row.
“Might want these sparkly stones to be set here and there in the wall,” Sam puffed, pushing harder on the barrow. “So folks can see them from all ‘round.”
He topped the small rise, and gazed down at their Hobbit-hole. It had been built into the curving flank of a green hill, and unlike most Hobbit-holes, it had two stories. It had been skillfully devised by Elves who had been eager to do some service for the bearer and destroyer of the One Ring.
It formed an elongated ‘S’ against the hill and was surrounded on all sides by Sam’s flowers. Sam often said that it looking like a growing thing itself as he tramped towards it in the evening. So cleverly had it been built that, to the Hobbits, it seemed to have only one floor. The rise to the second level was a ramp with but a slight incline.
The first floor was at ground level. In it, a long, wood-paneled hallway opened into rooms on either side. To the left were the large parlor, Frodo's study, Sam's window-lined, indoor greenhouse, and a few small storage areas. To the right were the dining room, the large kitchen, and an ample pantry. The lower floor opened in two different places into Sam’s well-tended gardens from the kitchen, the parlor, and, of course, from Sam's greenhouse.
The second floor contained the bedrooms, bathing room, and hollows for storage. It, too, opened into Sam’s gardens. But entry to these flowerbeds was gained only through a door leading from Sam and Frodo’s bedroom. This private garden held some of Sam’s most beautiful blossoms, and was available to visitors by invitation only.
The Hobbit-hole was huge by Shire standards, and Frodo often blushed when he pondered what his neighbors in the Shire would say of such a dwelling. “They’d certainly think me vain,” Frodo remarked to Sam.
“Bah,” Sam scoffed in reply. “Ninnyhammers one and all, and who cares what they’d think.”
They had thought long and hard about what to name their new Hobbit-hole. Sam was all for calling it ‘Bag End’. “You are still a Baggins, my dear,” He pointed out reasonably. “And that was the name of the Baggins family home.”
“It’s been the Gamgee family home for many long years now, dearest Sam,” Frodo said. “And besides, I want something new. Something just for you and me. I’ve not named this place ‘til now because, well, until you arrived, it just didn’t feel like home to me.” He took Sam’s hand. “Help me name our home, Sam. This is a duty we must share.”
Sam blushed. “I wish I were as good with fine words as you are, my Frodo, or as dear Mr. Bilbo. But I’m not, more’s the pity. To me, this place is just… home. More home than any other place has ever been.”
Frodo thought a moment. “Shall we call it “Hillside” then? That seems a name both simple and honest.”
Sam nodded and drew Frodo into his arms. “Hillside’ it is,” he murmured.
Sam smiled at the memory and moved forward again, glad that he was on the downhill side of his journey, for the barrow was filled to overflowing with heavy stones. As he approached, he noticed a small wagon standing before the path leading to their front door. Harnessed to it was the smallest pony Sam had ever seen. Its tiny head was level with Sam’s eyes, and it looked at him with intelligence and good humor.
Sam stopped for a moment to stroke the pony’s nose. “What brings you here, me hardy?” He asked softly. The pony nickered and nuzzled Sam’s shoulder gently. “And aren’t you as fine a steed as those who stand as tall as men,” he said, running his fingers through the pony’s soft mane. “I knew another fine steed once. A pony called ‘Bill’ who was dear to me. Mayhap you’ve heard of him?” The pony nickered again and Sam smiled.
“Sam!” Frodo called from the parlor window. “Come in, Sam! We’ve a guest!”
Sam turned from the pony and walked down the path to their door. He couldn’t imagine who had come calling. As he opened the door, he turned once more to gaze at the small carriage, and the pony that pulled it. “Hmmm…” Sam said, pondering.
He walked slowly toward the parlor, feeling a bit insecure and shy. They’d received only a few visitors since he’d arrived on their island. Frodo reasoned that the folk who lived here were simply giving them time to ‘catch up’ before they came to call. Sam always felt bashful around strangers, unsure of how to treat Frodo when others were near, not wanting to presume.
As he was thinking, Frodo appeared before him and took his arm. “Come,” he said, tugging him toward the archway. “Come. A surprise for you, dearest Sam! Come see!”
Sam entered the parlor and stopped. For a moment he stood stock still, blinking in surprise. “Sam!” A well loved voice cried. “Sam, my dear boy, how good to see you!”
“Mr. Bilbo, sir!” Sam stammered, moving toward him with a shy smile. “My goodness, but you look fine, sir! So much younger then when I last saw you. The blessed lands are a fine cure for aging, and that’s a fact!”
Bilbo rested both hands on Sam’s shoulders. “And don’t you look fine, Sam Gamgee!” He said brightly. “Frodo has told me all about you. Thirteen children, and seven times the mayor of Michel Delving? You have been a busy Hobbit!” He winked and pulled Sam forward into a hug. This served to raise a whole new blush on Sam’s cheeks, while Frodo smiled with great affection at both of them.
“Come,” Frodo said to Sam, tugging him toward a small couch. “Sit with us. Look what a nice tea I’ve made, Sam. And Bilbo brought tarts! He’s been waiting to see you.”
“Indeed I have, Sam,” Bilbo said. “Frodo has told me some, of course. But there are many things I wish to hear from your own lips. And I have questions, my lad. Questions a-plenty!”
“I’ll do my best to answer, sir,” Sam said, glancing nervously at Frodo. “I’m not good at fine talk, you understand. Not like you and my Frodo here. I - I mean Mr. Frodo.” Sam’s blush grew even deeper, and he gnawed his lip awkwardly.
“Sam!” Frodo exclaimed. “Are you embarrassed? Embarrassed about us?”
Sam gave Frodo a horrified look. “Shhh, Mr. Frodo!” he hissed in an undertone. Then in a more normal voice, he continued: “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Frodo laughed softly and wrapped his arm around Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, stop. Bilbo knows all about you and me. Do you think I could live here, alone for 60 years and not talk to my closest relative about the pain and longing in my heart?”
Sam glanced from Frodo to Bilbo, his eyes wide. “I - I suppose that would have been a hardship, Frodo, me dear. I was blessed to have many friends, in the Shire and out of it, who knew my heart and were kind to me when I spoke of it. But I didn’t know - I mean I wasn’t sure - I mean… oh stars! I don’t know what I mean!”
Bilbo reached across the settee and laid his hand on Sam’s arm. “Sam,” he said seriously, his face sober. “I’ve always known. Even when you came ‘round Bag End as a tween, your heart was ever in your eyes when you looked at Frodo. And do you think I haven’t been told how you offered up your life time and time again to save him during the great Quest? And the difference in him now that you’ve arrived! Why he positively glows with joy. Can you believe I would object to anything that made him this happy?”
Sam covered Bilbo’s hand with his. “Thank’ee, sir,” he said shyly. “Be sure, then, that this heart,” … and here he laid his other hand on his own breast… “still feels the same as when I was a young’un tendin’ your garden.”
“I believe you, Sam,” Bilbo said, patting Sam’s arm and leaning back. “And I hear you and Rosie bore many children! How grand!”
“I loved my Rosie, and that’s a fact. Good to me, she was, and as fine a mother as any lady in the Shire. When she passed over…” he stopped for a moment and his head dropped. Frodo took his hand, and Sam squeezed it gently. “When she passed over,” he continued in a shaky voice. “I felt that I had lost a friend dear and true.”
He paused, and looked long into Frodo’s eyes. Then he turned to Bilbo. “But much as I love all those dear ones, my heart has ever been here, with my treasure.”
“I know that, Sam,” Bilbo said as he poured Sam a cup of tea. “But now, Master Samwise, word has come to me that you have become a poet of some skill. And long e’er this we were told that you visited with Kings and were deep in their counsel.” He glanced up at Sam, eyebrows raised. “It’s two dollops of honey, as I recall. Yes?” He paused with the honey spoon poised over Sam’s tea.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam replied. “But as for visiting Kings, ‘twas just our Strider.” He smiled then sipped his tea. “Try though I might,” Sam said, setting his cup down, “I could never leave off the old way of speakin’ with him. And, bless him, if kingship wasn’t swift put aside when we were together. Just two old wanderers we became, smoking our pipes, drinking our ale, and boring all about us with our stories.”
Frodo laughed, delightedly. “Oh, Sam, I can just see the two of you! And how goes it with Strider and Queen Arwen?”
“Very well, when last I heard, my dear. You know, he came to visit with his whole court some years back. Wouldn’t come into the Shire, though I begged him. Wouldn’t break the law he made himself about big folk not being allowed past our borders.” Sam glanced shyly at Frodo and Bilbo and murmured low. “He made me Counselor of the North.”
“How fine, Sam!” Bilbo said cheerily. “And well deserved is such favor. He has and holds his throne because of you.”
“Oh, no, sir!” Sam protested. “It was my Frodo, here, who bore that terrible thing. And suffered so from its evil. I only helped.”
“Sam!” said Frodo with disbelief. “How can you speak so? You, who rescued me from despair in Cirith Ungol? You, who carried me up the side of the Mountain of Doom when my strength failed and I could go no further? You only helped?” Frodo tightened his arm around Sam’s shoulders and snuggled him close. “Whatever was accomplished in that horrid place was not done by me alone. Without you, Sam, there would have been no victory for any of us. And Middle-Earth would have fallen into shadow.”
“Sir, please don’t go on so. ‘Twas you who had the burden of that black and evil Ring. And I know better than anyone else what you suffered because of it.” Sam bent his head and pressed his forehead against Frodo’s shoulder and spoke haltingly. “Please, don’t go on so.”
Frodo kissed his hair. “All right, Sam. I’ll stop praising you if you wish. But it won’t change what I know to be true.”
“Ah, Sam,” Bilbo said quietly. “You’ve come so far from that young lad covered in grass stains and garden dirt who used to beg me for stories and to learn his letters.”
Sam turned to Bilbo. “Mr. Bilbo, you don’t know what a kind deed it was tellin’ me those stories, and teaching me my letters like you did. So often when we were on the hard trail with that evil Ring, I’d feel like I couldn’t go another step. The path was right hard. And toward the end we had no food, nor drink, nor proper rest. But I’d think on those stories in my mind, and I’d feel the heart return to me to go on.”
Bilbo blinked back tears. Sam spoke with simple earnestness, and a light of love and gratitude shone from his eyes. “Why, Sam,” Bilbo said softly. “I had no idea the stories stayed with you so long.”
Sam nodded. “They stay with me still, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam continued. So, see, you had a part to play too, in the great Quest. You were there with me, tellin’ me of Gil-galad and Elendil, and the Silmarils . And it seemed to me that with such great folk countin’ on us to do our job, I’d best push on another mile.”
“And now the Shire folk make up songs and stories about you and Frodo!” Bilbo chortled. “Did you ever think you’d see it, Sam?”
Sam frowned and shook his head sadly. “No songs or stories of my Master are told in the Shire. Leastways, none I ever heard tell of. I had to go to Minas Tirith on visit to Strider to hear songs and stories told of my Frodo and all he did for Middle-Earth.”
“What’s this?” Bilbo said, obviously distressed? “No songs or stories about you in the Shire? Why, that’s outrageous!”
“It’s fine, uncle,” Frodo soothed. “Have more tea and one of your good tarts!”
“It’s not fine!” Snapped Bilbo. “Not fine by a good long way!”
“’Tis Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin who are praised in stories and songs,” Sam reported, dejectedly. “They both were right brave and strong when we had to chase old ‘Sharkey’ out of the Shire, so there’s no wrong in them havin’ their deeds sung out.” He paused a moment. “It’s just that my Frodo should have his songs and tales too after giving of himself as he did.”
“Fools!” Bilbo sputtered. “Fools and dunderheads! And I suppose Merry and Pippin bask in their glory.”
“Well, sir, they do, and that’s a fact, that bein' their nature and all. But they speak out proper-loud about Mr. Frodo’s deeds too. And even about mine. But the folk don’t listen near as much to that talk.”
Frodo sat quietly through this, then patted both their hands. “The Shire was saved, my dear Hobbits. That’s what matters most, and all that ever mattered. If I am not praised in song or tale, why fret? I am praised here, where it matters most. And by the ones who matter most. And you say they sing of us in Gondor?” Frodo asked, smiling, trying to turn Sam’s mind to a happier memory.
“The King’s own minstrels sing such songs of ‘Frodo Nine-Fingers’ as would be fit for Elven voices,” Sam said softly. “Strider himself sang one such song for me when I saw him there.”
“Have you memory of it, Sam?” Asked Bilbo. “I’d love to hear it sung.”
Sam blushed and glanced swiftly toward Frodo, as though embarrassed. “I’m not much of a singer, Mr. Bilbo,” he murmured.
“Sing it, Sam,” Bilbo encouraged, leaning across to pat Sam’s arm. “Sing to me of Frodo-Nine-Fingers and Samwise the Stouthearted.”
“I’m not a one for such things,” Sam said quietly. “That’s YOU, sir. Or my Frodo here,” he said, patting Frodo’s hand.
“Not so!” Frodo said, smiling. “And I am the one who knows this right well. Do I not hear this sweet voice singing day in day out as he goes about his tasks? Singing to the flowers. Singing to the rain. Singing in the tub.”
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam protested. “Now you’re tellin’ tales yourself!”
“Not tales,” Frodo said stoutly, grinning at Bilbo. “Don’t believe him, Uncle,” he declared, hugging Sam’s arm and smiling. “He tells a grand story and sings a sweet song! All heart and feelings, is our Sam. I’ve no longing to hear a song sung to my praise, but I know it would please you, so make him sing it while I freshen our pot.” He carried the teapot back into the kitchen.
Bilbo leaned forward and placed his hand on Sam’s arm. “Please, Sam,” he asked. “I would so love to hear it, and most particularly from your lips. Frodo’s right,” he continued. “You’ve a heart for singing, Sam. You know why songs are made. You know the love in them. Sing, Sam.”
Sam patted Bilbo’s hand. “If you wish, sir. And you’re right. I seem to know, a bit, why songs are made. They hold our feelings about the things we’ve done. Hold them safe, seemingly. So when memories start to fade a bit, the song can call them to us and make them bright and new again. Like it just happened the day before, if you take my meaning.”
Bilbo nodded and puffed his pipe thoughtfully. Twilight had fallen and the late afternoon sun cast a soft glow on the flowers. Sam stared out the window, a distant look on his face. He didn’t speak when Frodo re-entered the room and poured fresh tea into each cup. And when Frodo sat back down beside him and lifted his cup, Sam stood and placed his hand on Frodo’s shoulder.
“Since you ask it, my dear Hobbits, I shall sing Strider’s song of ‘Frodo of the Nine Fingers’. I remember it well, for I asked Strider’s minstrel to write the words down for me so I could put them in my memory.”
He slid his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. “A song of Frodo of the Nine Fingers,” he said softly. When he sang, his voice was clear and melodious. The plain, simple voice of a plain, simple Hobbit.
Frodo of the Nine Fingers, a Hobbit
A gentle, peaceful soul, was he
Til evil pressed his homeland, fair
And from the Shire he had to flee
A fellowship walked by his side
Of men, Hobbits, Dwarf, and Elf
But only one the long road took
To follow him where evil dwelt
Before him lay the cursed path
The burden, leaden, 'round his neck
The mountains dark and fearsome rose
Above his bent and battered head
No food had they, no rest, no peace
Cruel enemies took dreadful toll
Though captured, tortured, and in pain
They moved on, steadfast, toward their goal.
Frodo of the Nine Fingers endured past hope
Though blinded by the searing eye
His heart was faithful to his task
And never would he turn away.
He stumbled hard upon the rocks
Laid low, now, by his burden's weight
The Wheel of Fire burned in his eyes
Yet Frodo crawled to meet his fate
Then Sam the Stoutheart, lifted him
And carried Frodo on his back
Up to the very Crack of Doom
And there the Ring was destroyed at last.
Frodo of the Nine Fingers
Was hurt too deeply to find peace
He left to dwell across the sea
Where evil memory cannot reach
We who loved him then as now
Will not forget his gentle heart.
We wish him peace and miss him still
Of all we do, he is a part.
Sam stopped singing and stood silently before the other Hobbits. Bilbo’s hand was over his heart and his eyes were closed. But Frodo was staring directly at Sam, tears swimming in his eyes.
“Oh, Sam!” he said softly. “To think of it! We really did find our way into songs and tales!”
“Strider, himself, made this song,” Sam said. He bent over Frodo and brushed his thumbs softly under Frodo’s eyes, wiping away the tears.
“And a fine song it is, Sam,” Bilbo said, finally opening his eyes. “And you sing it as sweetly as any court minstrel.”
Sam reseated himself next to Frodo, holding Frodo’s hand in his. He sipped his tea then shook his head. “I never saw myself as one who could make song, Mr. Bilbo. But I’m happy if it was to your liking.”
Sam turned to Frodo. “And, my sweet dear, on the calendar day when that evil Ring was cast into the fire, the King always holds a feast. We were there for it one year, Rosie and me, and our Elanor. There is music and singing, and many tales told of those times, and food and drink that would put another feast to shame. But folk are not allowed to eat or drink until the King makes his toast to the company.”
Sam's voice grew soft. “He stood, our Strider, crowned and robed and looking as splendid as the ancient kings of old. He lifted his golden goblet, the jewels on it twinkling in the candlelight, and he spoke, low and soft. ‘To Frodo…’ said the King.”
Sam smiled at Frodo and lifted his hand to wipe a tear from Frodo’s cheek. “And the whole company of fine ladies and gentleman followed the King’s lead. They lifted their glasses and said: ‘To Frodo’, and your Sam right there among them.”
Sam suddenly blushed and ducked his head. “There’s more!” Said Frodo. “Come now, Samwise the Stouthearted,” he teased. “I know that look. There’s more, and you’re hiding it. Praise for you, no doubt. Come now,” Frodo said firmly. “I’ll hear it all, Master Gamgee.”
“Well, sir,” Sam said softly, glancing at Frodo and Bilbo. “Strider also made to lift the glass to me.”
“Hooray!” Frodo cried. “And well he should! How grand that the King showed you such favor, dearest Sam. I know he loved you well, even in the old days when we traveled together.”
“I tried to make him stop, but he’d have none of it. Insisted on toasting me as well, and the company with him.” Sam smiled, blushing to his ears. “You know me, Mr. Frodo,” he said. “I’m not a one to want such praise. I know who bore the greater burden in those times.”
Frodo looked out the window, staring toward the distant hills. His face was beautiful in the deepening twilight, but his quietness worried Sam. “Mr. Frodo?” he asked. “Are you feelin’ alright, my dear?”
Frodo turned, instantly, to Sam. “Yes, Sam,” he said. “I’m feeling quite fine. I’m sorry if I seemed to drift. I was just thinking of those days and all we went through.”
“Curse me for a dolt,” Sam said sadly. “Why did I sing that fool song?”
"No, Sam," Frodo insisted. "I'm not sorry you sang the song. Not a bit! It's hard, at times, to think of such things. But the thought of evil days cannot harm me now." He looked at Sam, and then at Bilbo who was smiling at both of them. "I am healed," Frodo said in a hushed voice. "I can hear such things and not be stricken to the heart by memory! I am free of it!"
His face, as he gazed at Sam and Bilbo held a beatific glow, and Sam was reminded of the inner light he so often saw illuminating his Master's face and body. He tried to speak, to tell Frodo of his joy that his beloved was himself again. His same happy self of the old, youthful days in the Shire. But he choked on his words and could only bow his head and lift Frodo's hand to his lips.
Frodo smiled, and raised his other hand to touch Sam's cheek. Then he turned to Bilbo. "Uncle, you are staying for a day or so? Sam and I want to spend some time with you!"
"Yes, my boy," Bilbo responded. "I'd planned to stay for a bit if it's no bother." He sipped his tea, feeling quite content. "I feel sure that Master Gamgee here has other tales to tell. And I still have a question or two. You told me much when you came back to Rivendell after the Quest, but I was so tired then that I don't really remember much of it." He laughed and took another huge bite of tart. "Mmmm.. quite good if I do say so myself. Grew the raspberries in my own garden! You must visit, Sam, and tell me what you think of it, you being the head Gardener of the Shire.”
Sam smiled, holding Frodo's hand closely within his. "I'd be honored, Mr. Bilbo, sir," he said softly. He squeezed Frodo's hand and rose. "Beggin' your pardon, dear friends, I'll go now and see to Mr. Bilbo's room." He pressed a soft kiss to Frodo's dark hair and quietly walked out of the parlor and up the sloping ramp to the bedroom area.
As he made Bilbo's bed and poured fresh water into his pitcher, he thought of the many times in his life that this dear, old Hobbit had been kind to him. Times when the parlor at Bag End had been turned into a classroom as Bilbo taught him his letters. 'Yes! C - A - T, is CAT!' Bilbo would exclaim. 'Very good, Sam!'
Times when Sam would sit, with a smudged face and grass stained clothes, on the parlor floor at Bilbo's feet listening to tales of elves and kings. And he thought of the courage and inspiration that this knowledge had given him when he needed it most.
Sam had nearly gotten lost in the hectic Hobbit-hole at Number 3 Bagshot Row. Being the fifth child out of six meant that Sam didn't get the special privileges of the oldest child nor the special spoiling reserved for the youngest. His rowdy older brothers, Ham and Hal, teased him unmercifully but were too much older than he to include him in their pastimes. His two older sisters, Daisy and May, were busy helping their mother with the household and Marigold, the baby.
More often than not, it was Sam who was on the receiving end of the Gaffer's hard names. And in time he came to believe they were true. His inquiring, sensitive nature was subdued in the rowdy Gamgee household, until folk began to mistake his quiet ways for slowness of mind.
Bilbo knew better. He saw the delight with which Sam greeted Bilbo's stories and attempts to teach him his letters, and he gave Sam his special attention. Sam was never merely 'the gardener's son' when he walked through the round door of Bag End. He was 'Sam'. Sam, who was capable and bright. Sam, who could learn and be better than he was. Seeing that he was a quick and dedicated learner, Bilbo never hesitated to expand Sam's knowledge. On countless occasions he had wandered home with one of Bilbo's books tucked beneath his arm.
The Gaffer didn't hold much with such things, however he grudgingly allowed it, feeling - or rather hoping - that no harm would come of it. But Bell Gamgee, Sam's mother, encouraged Sam, and was deeply grateful for the attention that Mr. Baggins paid to her youngest son. She refused to allow her formidable family to tease Sam about his book-learning, and right up until the time she passed away, Bilbo received weekly rhubarb pies and platters heaped with Bell's famous strawberry tarts as tokens of her gratitude.
Though he could never have found the words to explain it, Sam was deeply aware of the many ways his life had been enriched by the knowledge he gained from Bilbo. He knew that he would never have had the strength to do all the things he had done or the confidence to become all that he had become without Bilbo's teachings. He couldn't forget it and he never stopped being grateful.
He paused for a moment beside the desk and seeing paper there, scratched out a short note:
Dear Mr. Bilbo,
Forgive me if I seem bold. I don’t mean to be, sir. But I wanted to tell you something, and feel right shy about putting such thoughts into voice, if you take my meaning.
You were ever kind to me. As a father you were, in many ways, meaning no disrespect to my Gaffer. And from the heart I wanted to thank you, and tell you that I loved you as a child, and still do as a grown Hobbit.
Your humble servant,
Samwise Gamgee, a Hobbit of the Shire.
He hesitated for a moment, then blotted his paper and laid it on Bilbo’s pillow. He stood beside the bed for a moment, staring at the paper. He turned and moved toward the door, then hesitated and looked back at the paper again, wondering if he was being too forward in leaving this message for Bilbo.
Then something in his heart, the same courage that had moved him many years ago, stirred again and he turned decisively and walked down the corridor to the parlor where the other two Hobbits were still sitting.
He laid his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “I’ll be bedding your pony down now, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam said. “He seems a fine fellow!”
“He is!” Bilbo exclaimed. “His name is ‘Little Climber’ as he seems to love climbing up and down the hilly roads here about.” He laughed affectionately. “He never seems to tire. He has a stout heart in spite of his size.” Bilbo glanced up at Sam. “Like some others I know.” He glanced out the window to where his small pony stood patiently waiting in the gathering dark.
“Yes, indeed, Sam. I’d be grateful if you’d see to him. Just let him graze the field free of his harness. He's a gift from Gandalf, don't you know. So he won’t bolt. He’ll stay close, never fear.”
Sam went outside to bed the pony. He removed ‘Little Climber’s harness and led him across the road to the field which was covered in sweet grasses. “You can eat your fill here, Little Climber,” Sam told him, scratching the pony's nose. He then stored Bilbo’s cart next to a storage shed on the side of their Hobbit hole and went back inside.
Frodo and Bilbo were saying their goodnights.
"Goodnight, dearest Uncle," Frodo said. "We three shall have a fine breakfast in the morning and then, perhaps, a walk and a long chat."
"Sounds wonderful, my boy," Bilbo said, standing at the door to his bedroom. "Sleep well, both of you."
"Sleep well, Mr. Bilbo," Sam said, turning, with Frodo, toward their bedroom door.
They didn't speak as they undressed and drew on their nightshirts. Frodo clambered into bed and lay, leaning on his elbow, watching Sam as he picked up clothes and snuffed a lantern. Finally Sam walked to their bed carrying a small candle which he set on the bedside table.
He smiled at Frodo as he pulled on his nightshirt. "What a fine evening, my Frodo."
"It was wonderful, Sam," Frodo said. "I was so proud of you. You don't usually speak out that way. I was afraid you'd sit quietly and not talk of the things you've done."
Sam nodded, sliding onto the bed to sit next to Frodo. "I was shy of doin' it, and that's a fact." He shook his head ruefully. "But I thought that would please Mr. Bilbo, and…," he hesitated, then spoke… "… and that means a lot to me."
"Pleasing Bilbo means a lot to you?" Frodo asked.
"Because he's always been kind to me," Sam said.
Frodo smiled and stroked Sam's cheek with gentle fingers as Sam looked into his eyes. At that moment they both jumped as they heard an odd noise. "What was that?" asked Frodo, looking about.
Sam jumped off the bed. "There's a note been pushed under our door." He ran to fetch it.
"It must be from Bilbo," Frodo exclaimed.
Sam walked to the bed with the note between his fingers. "It's got my name on it."
"Sam!" Frodo said, delighted. "Read it! What did Uncle say?"
Sam hesitated, fearful that his note to Bilbo had been found offensive. "Well, maybe - I mean, maybe I - oh drat it all! You see, Mr. Frodo, I left him a note! And now I'm fearful that I made too bold and now I've gone and upset him." Sam sat on the side of the bed, staring at the note with a sad face.
"May I?" Frodo asked, holding out his hand for the note.
Sam handed it to him, gratefully. "Read it, Mr. Frodo. But don't tell me if it says bad things to me…" He covered his eyes with both hands.
"Sam!" Frodo said, amused. "Stop that. I'm sure you couldn't have said anything wrong in your note to Bilbo. Don't be a goose." He opened the note and read it silently as Sam watched.
Frodo smiled, his eyes glowing with bright tears. After only a moment he handed the note to Sam. "Read it," he said.
Sam took the note and read:
Dearest Samwise,
I love you too. Always have and always shall.
Your Uncle Bilbo
"Oh my," breathed Sam. "Oh my!"
"See?" Frodo said, prodding him with a finger. "I told you!"
Sam turned to Frodo, a bewildered look on his face. "He says he's my Uncle," San said. "Like I was part of your family. Beggin' your pardon, my dear Frodo, but has he taken leave of his senses?" Clearly, Sam found the note astonishing.
"Of course not," Frodo laughed, hugging Sam tight. "He loves you, Sam. He says it here, and I know it to be true. Loved you as a lad, as I did. And loves you now, grown Hobbit that you are. And why not?" Frodo added. "You are as fine a Hobbit as ever lived in the Shire."
Sam shook his head in disbelief and laid the note carefully on the table. "Well, that's a marvel, and no mistake. Me. A part of the Baggins family." He turned to Frodo and winked. "The well-to-do Baggins family, so I hear tell."
Frodo laughed. "The queer acting Baggins family, more like you hear tell."
Sam stretched out beside Frodo and gathered him close. "Tomorrow will be a fine day, my Frodo. Stories, songs, dear Mr. Bilbo visitin', and me feelin' - - feelin' as though I have a family again." He looked into Frodo's eyes and after a moment kissed him tenderly, his fingers trailing down Frodo’s cheek. "To have all of this, and you beside me,” Sam whispered. “I could ask for no more, my dear one?"
"Well, you could, perhaps, ask for just a bit more," Frodo said, smiling.
Turning, Sam snuffed out the candle, then turned back and slid his hand under Frodo’s nightshirt. "Aye," he whispered. "That I could."
- End
Title: A Visitor A Memory
Author: Rakshi
Rating: PG (for a bit of Hobbit snuggle)
Pairing: Sam - Frodo - and a visitor.
Author's note: As I said in my previous post, there aren't words enough to thank lbilover and blackbird_song, my two amazing beta's. Their knowledge of Tolkien canon combined with their amazing editorial skills combine to make ME look a lot better than I would otherwise. I'm very grateful to both of them.
And let me add my thanks to my good friend, John, whose encouragement kept the story going. He wouldn't let me give up on the song... or it never would have been in the story.
- A Visitor A Memory
Sam puffed as he pushed his barrow along the rising path leading to the Hobbit-hole he shared with Frodo. Their garden was almost as Sam wanted it. All the seedlings he’d carried across the sea had been carefully planted and lovingly tended. And when he saw Frodo’s face glow with joy as he inhaled the scent of flowers born in the Shire, Sam knew it had been worth every bit of effort.
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo had exclaimed. “The Shire lives in these blossoms! They hold Spring mornings when you and I walked to the marketplace, arm in arm.” He turned to Sam, eyes shining. “I can see it again,” he said in a hushed voice. “I can see it all.”
It thrilled Sam’s heart to know that his efforts had pleased Frodo. Now, if he could manage to build his stone wall, Sam would consider their garden the finest on Tol Eressëa. (The Lonely Isle)
He’d been pushing his small barrow through nearby fields and hills for nearly two weeks, looking for stones that would suit the wall he was building around their Hobbit-hole. Size and shape were important. Sam wanted stones with good angles to fit together, and that were smallish in size.
He had found lots of good specimens in the hills near their home, and even a few in the nearby woods. He had expected that rocks from a land so near to Valinor itself would be markedly different from those he knew in the Shire, but soon discovered that this was not the case. He rejoiced to find granite, strong and enduring. Though much plainer than many of the other minerals Sam found, he danced at the sight of it. “Oh, glory,” he breathed, caressing the grey rock laced with bits of sparkling quartz. “’Tis glad I am to see you, sir rock. You are to be my bedrock and my strength.”
He would dig a shallow trench along the path where the stone wall would run, and into this trench he would place a row of granite. Upon this base row all others would rest. To add color, Sam found malachite - green as the trees of Lothlórien, tourmaline, jasper, and fluorite of many colors. He would intersperse these stones, which were far more beautiful but not nearly as strong, between chunks of granite. A stone wall built in this manner would neither sag nor fall.
Sam's greatest find was a group of stones the likes of which he had never seen before. They were strong as granite, but studded with many multi-colored chips that sparkled in the mid-day sun like jewels. He was eager to get them home and add them to his rapidly growing, pile. Once he had found enough stones, he would sort them and begin to layer them, row by row.
“Might want these sparkly stones to be set here and there in the wall,” Sam puffed, pushing harder on the barrow. “So folks can see them from all ‘round.”
He topped the small rise, and gazed down at their Hobbit-hole. It had been built into the curving flank of a green hill, and unlike most Hobbit-holes, it had two stories. It had been skillfully devised by Elves who had been eager to do some service for the bearer and destroyer of the One Ring.
It formed an elongated ‘S’ against the hill and was surrounded on all sides by Sam’s flowers. Sam often said that it looking like a growing thing itself as he tramped towards it in the evening. So cleverly had it been built that, to the Hobbits, it seemed to have only one floor. The rise to the second level was a ramp with but a slight incline.
The first floor was at ground level. In it, a long, wood-paneled hallway opened into rooms on either side. To the left were the large parlor, Frodo's study, Sam's window-lined, indoor greenhouse, and a few small storage areas. To the right were the dining room, the large kitchen, and an ample pantry. The lower floor opened in two different places into Sam’s well-tended gardens from the kitchen, the parlor, and, of course, from Sam's greenhouse.
The second floor contained the bedrooms, bathing room, and hollows for storage. It, too, opened into Sam’s gardens. But entry to these flowerbeds was gained only through a door leading from Sam and Frodo’s bedroom. This private garden held some of Sam’s most beautiful blossoms, and was available to visitors by invitation only.
The Hobbit-hole was huge by Shire standards, and Frodo often blushed when he pondered what his neighbors in the Shire would say of such a dwelling. “They’d certainly think me vain,” Frodo remarked to Sam.
“Bah,” Sam scoffed in reply. “Ninnyhammers one and all, and who cares what they’d think.”
They had thought long and hard about what to name their new Hobbit-hole. Sam was all for calling it ‘Bag End’. “You are still a Baggins, my dear,” He pointed out reasonably. “And that was the name of the Baggins family home.”
“It’s been the Gamgee family home for many long years now, dearest Sam,” Frodo said. “And besides, I want something new. Something just for you and me. I’ve not named this place ‘til now because, well, until you arrived, it just didn’t feel like home to me.” He took Sam’s hand. “Help me name our home, Sam. This is a duty we must share.”
Sam blushed. “I wish I were as good with fine words as you are, my Frodo, or as dear Mr. Bilbo. But I’m not, more’s the pity. To me, this place is just… home. More home than any other place has ever been.”
Frodo thought a moment. “Shall we call it “Hillside” then? That seems a name both simple and honest.”
Sam nodded and drew Frodo into his arms. “Hillside’ it is,” he murmured.
Sam smiled at the memory and moved forward again, glad that he was on the downhill side of his journey, for the barrow was filled to overflowing with heavy stones. As he approached, he noticed a small wagon standing before the path leading to their front door. Harnessed to it was the smallest pony Sam had ever seen. Its tiny head was level with Sam’s eyes, and it looked at him with intelligence and good humor.
Sam stopped for a moment to stroke the pony’s nose. “What brings you here, me hardy?” He asked softly. The pony nickered and nuzzled Sam’s shoulder gently. “And aren’t you as fine a steed as those who stand as tall as men,” he said, running his fingers through the pony’s soft mane. “I knew another fine steed once. A pony called ‘Bill’ who was dear to me. Mayhap you’ve heard of him?” The pony nickered again and Sam smiled.
“Sam!” Frodo called from the parlor window. “Come in, Sam! We’ve a guest!”
Sam turned from the pony and walked down the path to their door. He couldn’t imagine who had come calling. As he opened the door, he turned once more to gaze at the small carriage, and the pony that pulled it. “Hmmm…” Sam said, pondering.
He walked slowly toward the parlor, feeling a bit insecure and shy. They’d received only a few visitors since he’d arrived on their island. Frodo reasoned that the folk who lived here were simply giving them time to ‘catch up’ before they came to call. Sam always felt bashful around strangers, unsure of how to treat Frodo when others were near, not wanting to presume.
As he was thinking, Frodo appeared before him and took his arm. “Come,” he said, tugging him toward the archway. “Come. A surprise for you, dearest Sam! Come see!”
Sam entered the parlor and stopped. For a moment he stood stock still, blinking in surprise. “Sam!” A well loved voice cried. “Sam, my dear boy, how good to see you!”
“Mr. Bilbo, sir!” Sam stammered, moving toward him with a shy smile. “My goodness, but you look fine, sir! So much younger then when I last saw you. The blessed lands are a fine cure for aging, and that’s a fact!”
Bilbo rested both hands on Sam’s shoulders. “And don’t you look fine, Sam Gamgee!” He said brightly. “Frodo has told me all about you. Thirteen children, and seven times the mayor of Michel Delving? You have been a busy Hobbit!” He winked and pulled Sam forward into a hug. This served to raise a whole new blush on Sam’s cheeks, while Frodo smiled with great affection at both of them.
“Come,” Frodo said to Sam, tugging him toward a small couch. “Sit with us. Look what a nice tea I’ve made, Sam. And Bilbo brought tarts! He’s been waiting to see you.”
“Indeed I have, Sam,” Bilbo said. “Frodo has told me some, of course. But there are many things I wish to hear from your own lips. And I have questions, my lad. Questions a-plenty!”
“I’ll do my best to answer, sir,” Sam said, glancing nervously at Frodo. “I’m not good at fine talk, you understand. Not like you and my Frodo here. I - I mean Mr. Frodo.” Sam’s blush grew even deeper, and he gnawed his lip awkwardly.
“Sam!” Frodo exclaimed. “Are you embarrassed? Embarrassed about us?”
Sam gave Frodo a horrified look. “Shhh, Mr. Frodo!” he hissed in an undertone. Then in a more normal voice, he continued: “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Frodo laughed softly and wrapped his arm around Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, stop. Bilbo knows all about you and me. Do you think I could live here, alone for 60 years and not talk to my closest relative about the pain and longing in my heart?”
Sam glanced from Frodo to Bilbo, his eyes wide. “I - I suppose that would have been a hardship, Frodo, me dear. I was blessed to have many friends, in the Shire and out of it, who knew my heart and were kind to me when I spoke of it. But I didn’t know - I mean I wasn’t sure - I mean… oh stars! I don’t know what I mean!”
Bilbo reached across the settee and laid his hand on Sam’s arm. “Sam,” he said seriously, his face sober. “I’ve always known. Even when you came ‘round Bag End as a tween, your heart was ever in your eyes when you looked at Frodo. And do you think I haven’t been told how you offered up your life time and time again to save him during the great Quest? And the difference in him now that you’ve arrived! Why he positively glows with joy. Can you believe I would object to anything that made him this happy?”
Sam covered Bilbo’s hand with his. “Thank’ee, sir,” he said shyly. “Be sure, then, that this heart,” … and here he laid his other hand on his own breast… “still feels the same as when I was a young’un tendin’ your garden.”
“I believe you, Sam,” Bilbo said, patting Sam’s arm and leaning back. “And I hear you and Rosie bore many children! How grand!”
“I loved my Rosie, and that’s a fact. Good to me, she was, and as fine a mother as any lady in the Shire. When she passed over…” he stopped for a moment and his head dropped. Frodo took his hand, and Sam squeezed it gently. “When she passed over,” he continued in a shaky voice. “I felt that I had lost a friend dear and true.”
He paused, and looked long into Frodo’s eyes. Then he turned to Bilbo. “But much as I love all those dear ones, my heart has ever been here, with my treasure.”
“I know that, Sam,” Bilbo said as he poured Sam a cup of tea. “But now, Master Samwise, word has come to me that you have become a poet of some skill. And long e’er this we were told that you visited with Kings and were deep in their counsel.” He glanced up at Sam, eyebrows raised. “It’s two dollops of honey, as I recall. Yes?” He paused with the honey spoon poised over Sam’s tea.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam replied. “But as for visiting Kings, ‘twas just our Strider.” He smiled then sipped his tea. “Try though I might,” Sam said, setting his cup down, “I could never leave off the old way of speakin’ with him. And, bless him, if kingship wasn’t swift put aside when we were together. Just two old wanderers we became, smoking our pipes, drinking our ale, and boring all about us with our stories.”
Frodo laughed, delightedly. “Oh, Sam, I can just see the two of you! And how goes it with Strider and Queen Arwen?”
“Very well, when last I heard, my dear. You know, he came to visit with his whole court some years back. Wouldn’t come into the Shire, though I begged him. Wouldn’t break the law he made himself about big folk not being allowed past our borders.” Sam glanced shyly at Frodo and Bilbo and murmured low. “He made me Counselor of the North.”
“How fine, Sam!” Bilbo said cheerily. “And well deserved is such favor. He has and holds his throne because of you.”
“Oh, no, sir!” Sam protested. “It was my Frodo, here, who bore that terrible thing. And suffered so from its evil. I only helped.”
“Sam!” said Frodo with disbelief. “How can you speak so? You, who rescued me from despair in Cirith Ungol? You, who carried me up the side of the Mountain of Doom when my strength failed and I could go no further? You only helped?” Frodo tightened his arm around Sam’s shoulders and snuggled him close. “Whatever was accomplished in that horrid place was not done by me alone. Without you, Sam, there would have been no victory for any of us. And Middle-Earth would have fallen into shadow.”
“Sir, please don’t go on so. ‘Twas you who had the burden of that black and evil Ring. And I know better than anyone else what you suffered because of it.” Sam bent his head and pressed his forehead against Frodo’s shoulder and spoke haltingly. “Please, don’t go on so.”
Frodo kissed his hair. “All right, Sam. I’ll stop praising you if you wish. But it won’t change what I know to be true.”
“Ah, Sam,” Bilbo said quietly. “You’ve come so far from that young lad covered in grass stains and garden dirt who used to beg me for stories and to learn his letters.”
Sam turned to Bilbo. “Mr. Bilbo, you don’t know what a kind deed it was tellin’ me those stories, and teaching me my letters like you did. So often when we were on the hard trail with that evil Ring, I’d feel like I couldn’t go another step. The path was right hard. And toward the end we had no food, nor drink, nor proper rest. But I’d think on those stories in my mind, and I’d feel the heart return to me to go on.”
Bilbo blinked back tears. Sam spoke with simple earnestness, and a light of love and gratitude shone from his eyes. “Why, Sam,” Bilbo said softly. “I had no idea the stories stayed with you so long.”
Sam nodded. “They stay with me still, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam continued. So, see, you had a part to play too, in the great Quest. You were there with me, tellin’ me of Gil-galad and Elendil, and the Silmarils . And it seemed to me that with such great folk countin’ on us to do our job, I’d best push on another mile.”
“And now the Shire folk make up songs and stories about you and Frodo!” Bilbo chortled. “Did you ever think you’d see it, Sam?”
Sam frowned and shook his head sadly. “No songs or stories of my Master are told in the Shire. Leastways, none I ever heard tell of. I had to go to Minas Tirith on visit to Strider to hear songs and stories told of my Frodo and all he did for Middle-Earth.”
“What’s this?” Bilbo said, obviously distressed? “No songs or stories about you in the Shire? Why, that’s outrageous!”
“It’s fine, uncle,” Frodo soothed. “Have more tea and one of your good tarts!”
“It’s not fine!” Snapped Bilbo. “Not fine by a good long way!”
“’Tis Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin who are praised in stories and songs,” Sam reported, dejectedly. “They both were right brave and strong when we had to chase old ‘Sharkey’ out of the Shire, so there’s no wrong in them havin’ their deeds sung out.” He paused a moment. “It’s just that my Frodo should have his songs and tales too after giving of himself as he did.”
“Fools!” Bilbo sputtered. “Fools and dunderheads! And I suppose Merry and Pippin bask in their glory.”
“Well, sir, they do, and that’s a fact, that bein' their nature and all. But they speak out proper-loud about Mr. Frodo’s deeds too. And even about mine. But the folk don’t listen near as much to that talk.”
Frodo sat quietly through this, then patted both their hands. “The Shire was saved, my dear Hobbits. That’s what matters most, and all that ever mattered. If I am not praised in song or tale, why fret? I am praised here, where it matters most. And by the ones who matter most. And you say they sing of us in Gondor?” Frodo asked, smiling, trying to turn Sam’s mind to a happier memory.
“The King’s own minstrels sing such songs of ‘Frodo Nine-Fingers’ as would be fit for Elven voices,” Sam said softly. “Strider himself sang one such song for me when I saw him there.”
“Have you memory of it, Sam?” Asked Bilbo. “I’d love to hear it sung.”
Sam blushed and glanced swiftly toward Frodo, as though embarrassed. “I’m not much of a singer, Mr. Bilbo,” he murmured.
“Sing it, Sam,” Bilbo encouraged, leaning across to pat Sam’s arm. “Sing to me of Frodo-Nine-Fingers and Samwise the Stouthearted.”
“I’m not a one for such things,” Sam said quietly. “That’s YOU, sir. Or my Frodo here,” he said, patting Frodo’s hand.
“Not so!” Frodo said, smiling. “And I am the one who knows this right well. Do I not hear this sweet voice singing day in day out as he goes about his tasks? Singing to the flowers. Singing to the rain. Singing in the tub.”
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam protested. “Now you’re tellin’ tales yourself!”
“Not tales,” Frodo said stoutly, grinning at Bilbo. “Don’t believe him, Uncle,” he declared, hugging Sam’s arm and smiling. “He tells a grand story and sings a sweet song! All heart and feelings, is our Sam. I’ve no longing to hear a song sung to my praise, but I know it would please you, so make him sing it while I freshen our pot.” He carried the teapot back into the kitchen.
Bilbo leaned forward and placed his hand on Sam’s arm. “Please, Sam,” he asked. “I would so love to hear it, and most particularly from your lips. Frodo’s right,” he continued. “You’ve a heart for singing, Sam. You know why songs are made. You know the love in them. Sing, Sam.”
Sam patted Bilbo’s hand. “If you wish, sir. And you’re right. I seem to know, a bit, why songs are made. They hold our feelings about the things we’ve done. Hold them safe, seemingly. So when memories start to fade a bit, the song can call them to us and make them bright and new again. Like it just happened the day before, if you take my meaning.”
Bilbo nodded and puffed his pipe thoughtfully. Twilight had fallen and the late afternoon sun cast a soft glow on the flowers. Sam stared out the window, a distant look on his face. He didn’t speak when Frodo re-entered the room and poured fresh tea into each cup. And when Frodo sat back down beside him and lifted his cup, Sam stood and placed his hand on Frodo’s shoulder.
“Since you ask it, my dear Hobbits, I shall sing Strider’s song of ‘Frodo of the Nine Fingers’. I remember it well, for I asked Strider’s minstrel to write the words down for me so I could put them in my memory.”
He slid his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. “A song of Frodo of the Nine Fingers,” he said softly. When he sang, his voice was clear and melodious. The plain, simple voice of a plain, simple Hobbit.
Frodo of the Nine Fingers, a Hobbit
A gentle, peaceful soul, was he
Til evil pressed his homeland, fair
And from the Shire he had to flee
A fellowship walked by his side
Of men, Hobbits, Dwarf, and Elf
But only one the long road took
To follow him where evil dwelt
Before him lay the cursed path
The burden, leaden, 'round his neck
The mountains dark and fearsome rose
Above his bent and battered head
No food had they, no rest, no peace
Cruel enemies took dreadful toll
Though captured, tortured, and in pain
They moved on, steadfast, toward their goal.
Frodo of the Nine Fingers endured past hope
Though blinded by the searing eye
His heart was faithful to his task
And never would he turn away.
He stumbled hard upon the rocks
Laid low, now, by his burden's weight
The Wheel of Fire burned in his eyes
Yet Frodo crawled to meet his fate
Then Sam the Stoutheart, lifted him
And carried Frodo on his back
Up to the very Crack of Doom
And there the Ring was destroyed at last.
Frodo of the Nine Fingers
Was hurt too deeply to find peace
He left to dwell across the sea
Where evil memory cannot reach
We who loved him then as now
Will not forget his gentle heart.
We wish him peace and miss him still
Of all we do, he is a part.
Sam stopped singing and stood silently before the other Hobbits. Bilbo’s hand was over his heart and his eyes were closed. But Frodo was staring directly at Sam, tears swimming in his eyes.
“Oh, Sam!” he said softly. “To think of it! We really did find our way into songs and tales!”
“Strider, himself, made this song,” Sam said. He bent over Frodo and brushed his thumbs softly under Frodo’s eyes, wiping away the tears.
“And a fine song it is, Sam,” Bilbo said, finally opening his eyes. “And you sing it as sweetly as any court minstrel.”
Sam reseated himself next to Frodo, holding Frodo’s hand in his. He sipped his tea then shook his head. “I never saw myself as one who could make song, Mr. Bilbo. But I’m happy if it was to your liking.”
Sam turned to Frodo. “And, my sweet dear, on the calendar day when that evil Ring was cast into the fire, the King always holds a feast. We were there for it one year, Rosie and me, and our Elanor. There is music and singing, and many tales told of those times, and food and drink that would put another feast to shame. But folk are not allowed to eat or drink until the King makes his toast to the company.”
Sam's voice grew soft. “He stood, our Strider, crowned and robed and looking as splendid as the ancient kings of old. He lifted his golden goblet, the jewels on it twinkling in the candlelight, and he spoke, low and soft. ‘To Frodo…’ said the King.”
Sam smiled at Frodo and lifted his hand to wipe a tear from Frodo’s cheek. “And the whole company of fine ladies and gentleman followed the King’s lead. They lifted their glasses and said: ‘To Frodo’, and your Sam right there among them.”
Sam suddenly blushed and ducked his head. “There’s more!” Said Frodo. “Come now, Samwise the Stouthearted,” he teased. “I know that look. There’s more, and you’re hiding it. Praise for you, no doubt. Come now,” Frodo said firmly. “I’ll hear it all, Master Gamgee.”
“Well, sir,” Sam said softly, glancing at Frodo and Bilbo. “Strider also made to lift the glass to me.”
“Hooray!” Frodo cried. “And well he should! How grand that the King showed you such favor, dearest Sam. I know he loved you well, even in the old days when we traveled together.”
“I tried to make him stop, but he’d have none of it. Insisted on toasting me as well, and the company with him.” Sam smiled, blushing to his ears. “You know me, Mr. Frodo,” he said. “I’m not a one to want such praise. I know who bore the greater burden in those times.”
Frodo looked out the window, staring toward the distant hills. His face was beautiful in the deepening twilight, but his quietness worried Sam. “Mr. Frodo?” he asked. “Are you feelin’ alright, my dear?”
Frodo turned, instantly, to Sam. “Yes, Sam,” he said. “I’m feeling quite fine. I’m sorry if I seemed to drift. I was just thinking of those days and all we went through.”
“Curse me for a dolt,” Sam said sadly. “Why did I sing that fool song?”
"No, Sam," Frodo insisted. "I'm not sorry you sang the song. Not a bit! It's hard, at times, to think of such things. But the thought of evil days cannot harm me now." He looked at Sam, and then at Bilbo who was smiling at both of them. "I am healed," Frodo said in a hushed voice. "I can hear such things and not be stricken to the heart by memory! I am free of it!"
His face, as he gazed at Sam and Bilbo held a beatific glow, and Sam was reminded of the inner light he so often saw illuminating his Master's face and body. He tried to speak, to tell Frodo of his joy that his beloved was himself again. His same happy self of the old, youthful days in the Shire. But he choked on his words and could only bow his head and lift Frodo's hand to his lips.
Frodo smiled, and raised his other hand to touch Sam's cheek. Then he turned to Bilbo. "Uncle, you are staying for a day or so? Sam and I want to spend some time with you!"
"Yes, my boy," Bilbo responded. "I'd planned to stay for a bit if it's no bother." He sipped his tea, feeling quite content. "I feel sure that Master Gamgee here has other tales to tell. And I still have a question or two. You told me much when you came back to Rivendell after the Quest, but I was so tired then that I don't really remember much of it." He laughed and took another huge bite of tart. "Mmmm.. quite good if I do say so myself. Grew the raspberries in my own garden! You must visit, Sam, and tell me what you think of it, you being the head Gardener of the Shire.”
Sam smiled, holding Frodo's hand closely within his. "I'd be honored, Mr. Bilbo, sir," he said softly. He squeezed Frodo's hand and rose. "Beggin' your pardon, dear friends, I'll go now and see to Mr. Bilbo's room." He pressed a soft kiss to Frodo's dark hair and quietly walked out of the parlor and up the sloping ramp to the bedroom area.
As he made Bilbo's bed and poured fresh water into his pitcher, he thought of the many times in his life that this dear, old Hobbit had been kind to him. Times when the parlor at Bag End had been turned into a classroom as Bilbo taught him his letters. 'Yes! C - A - T, is CAT!' Bilbo would exclaim. 'Very good, Sam!'
Times when Sam would sit, with a smudged face and grass stained clothes, on the parlor floor at Bilbo's feet listening to tales of elves and kings. And he thought of the courage and inspiration that this knowledge had given him when he needed it most.
Sam had nearly gotten lost in the hectic Hobbit-hole at Number 3 Bagshot Row. Being the fifth child out of six meant that Sam didn't get the special privileges of the oldest child nor the special spoiling reserved for the youngest. His rowdy older brothers, Ham and Hal, teased him unmercifully but were too much older than he to include him in their pastimes. His two older sisters, Daisy and May, were busy helping their mother with the household and Marigold, the baby.
More often than not, it was Sam who was on the receiving end of the Gaffer's hard names. And in time he came to believe they were true. His inquiring, sensitive nature was subdued in the rowdy Gamgee household, until folk began to mistake his quiet ways for slowness of mind.
Bilbo knew better. He saw the delight with which Sam greeted Bilbo's stories and attempts to teach him his letters, and he gave Sam his special attention. Sam was never merely 'the gardener's son' when he walked through the round door of Bag End. He was 'Sam'. Sam, who was capable and bright. Sam, who could learn and be better than he was. Seeing that he was a quick and dedicated learner, Bilbo never hesitated to expand Sam's knowledge. On countless occasions he had wandered home with one of Bilbo's books tucked beneath his arm.
The Gaffer didn't hold much with such things, however he grudgingly allowed it, feeling - or rather hoping - that no harm would come of it. But Bell Gamgee, Sam's mother, encouraged Sam, and was deeply grateful for the attention that Mr. Baggins paid to her youngest son. She refused to allow her formidable family to tease Sam about his book-learning, and right up until the time she passed away, Bilbo received weekly rhubarb pies and platters heaped with Bell's famous strawberry tarts as tokens of her gratitude.
Though he could never have found the words to explain it, Sam was deeply aware of the many ways his life had been enriched by the knowledge he gained from Bilbo. He knew that he would never have had the strength to do all the things he had done or the confidence to become all that he had become without Bilbo's teachings. He couldn't forget it and he never stopped being grateful.
He paused for a moment beside the desk and seeing paper there, scratched out a short note:
Dear Mr. Bilbo,
Forgive me if I seem bold. I don’t mean to be, sir. But I wanted to tell you something, and feel right shy about putting such thoughts into voice, if you take my meaning.
You were ever kind to me. As a father you were, in many ways, meaning no disrespect to my Gaffer. And from the heart I wanted to thank you, and tell you that I loved you as a child, and still do as a grown Hobbit.
Your humble servant,
Samwise Gamgee, a Hobbit of the Shire.
He hesitated for a moment, then blotted his paper and laid it on Bilbo’s pillow. He stood beside the bed for a moment, staring at the paper. He turned and moved toward the door, then hesitated and looked back at the paper again, wondering if he was being too forward in leaving this message for Bilbo.
Then something in his heart, the same courage that had moved him many years ago, stirred again and he turned decisively and walked down the corridor to the parlor where the other two Hobbits were still sitting.
He laid his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “I’ll be bedding your pony down now, Mr. Bilbo,” Sam said. “He seems a fine fellow!”
“He is!” Bilbo exclaimed. “His name is ‘Little Climber’ as he seems to love climbing up and down the hilly roads here about.” He laughed affectionately. “He never seems to tire. He has a stout heart in spite of his size.” Bilbo glanced up at Sam. “Like some others I know.” He glanced out the window to where his small pony stood patiently waiting in the gathering dark.
“Yes, indeed, Sam. I’d be grateful if you’d see to him. Just let him graze the field free of his harness. He's a gift from Gandalf, don't you know. So he won’t bolt. He’ll stay close, never fear.”
Sam went outside to bed the pony. He removed ‘Little Climber’s harness and led him across the road to the field which was covered in sweet grasses. “You can eat your fill here, Little Climber,” Sam told him, scratching the pony's nose. He then stored Bilbo’s cart next to a storage shed on the side of their Hobbit hole and went back inside.
Frodo and Bilbo were saying their goodnights.
"Goodnight, dearest Uncle," Frodo said. "We three shall have a fine breakfast in the morning and then, perhaps, a walk and a long chat."
"Sounds wonderful, my boy," Bilbo said, standing at the door to his bedroom. "Sleep well, both of you."
"Sleep well, Mr. Bilbo," Sam said, turning, with Frodo, toward their bedroom door.
They didn't speak as they undressed and drew on their nightshirts. Frodo clambered into bed and lay, leaning on his elbow, watching Sam as he picked up clothes and snuffed a lantern. Finally Sam walked to their bed carrying a small candle which he set on the bedside table.
He smiled at Frodo as he pulled on his nightshirt. "What a fine evening, my Frodo."
"It was wonderful, Sam," Frodo said. "I was so proud of you. You don't usually speak out that way. I was afraid you'd sit quietly and not talk of the things you've done."
Sam nodded, sliding onto the bed to sit next to Frodo. "I was shy of doin' it, and that's a fact." He shook his head ruefully. "But I thought that would please Mr. Bilbo, and…," he hesitated, then spoke… "… and that means a lot to me."
"Pleasing Bilbo means a lot to you?" Frodo asked.
"Because he's always been kind to me," Sam said.
Frodo smiled and stroked Sam's cheek with gentle fingers as Sam looked into his eyes. At that moment they both jumped as they heard an odd noise. "What was that?" asked Frodo, looking about.
Sam jumped off the bed. "There's a note been pushed under our door." He ran to fetch it.
"It must be from Bilbo," Frodo exclaimed.
Sam walked to the bed with the note between his fingers. "It's got my name on it."
"Sam!" Frodo said, delighted. "Read it! What did Uncle say?"
Sam hesitated, fearful that his note to Bilbo had been found offensive. "Well, maybe - I mean, maybe I - oh drat it all! You see, Mr. Frodo, I left him a note! And now I'm fearful that I made too bold and now I've gone and upset him." Sam sat on the side of the bed, staring at the note with a sad face.
"May I?" Frodo asked, holding out his hand for the note.
Sam handed it to him, gratefully. "Read it, Mr. Frodo. But don't tell me if it says bad things to me…" He covered his eyes with both hands.
"Sam!" Frodo said, amused. "Stop that. I'm sure you couldn't have said anything wrong in your note to Bilbo. Don't be a goose." He opened the note and read it silently as Sam watched.
Frodo smiled, his eyes glowing with bright tears. After only a moment he handed the note to Sam. "Read it," he said.
Sam took the note and read:
Dearest Samwise,
I love you too. Always have and always shall.
Your Uncle Bilbo
"Oh my," breathed Sam. "Oh my!"
"See?" Frodo said, prodding him with a finger. "I told you!"
Sam turned to Frodo, a bewildered look on his face. "He says he's my Uncle," San said. "Like I was part of your family. Beggin' your pardon, my dear Frodo, but has he taken leave of his senses?" Clearly, Sam found the note astonishing.
"Of course not," Frodo laughed, hugging Sam tight. "He loves you, Sam. He says it here, and I know it to be true. Loved you as a lad, as I did. And loves you now, grown Hobbit that you are. And why not?" Frodo added. "You are as fine a Hobbit as ever lived in the Shire."
Sam shook his head in disbelief and laid the note carefully on the table. "Well, that's a marvel, and no mistake. Me. A part of the Baggins family." He turned to Frodo and winked. "The well-to-do Baggins family, so I hear tell."
Frodo laughed. "The queer acting Baggins family, more like you hear tell."
Sam stretched out beside Frodo and gathered him close. "Tomorrow will be a fine day, my Frodo. Stories, songs, dear Mr. Bilbo visitin', and me feelin' - - feelin' as though I have a family again." He looked into Frodo's eyes and after a moment kissed him tenderly, his fingers trailing down Frodo’s cheek. "To have all of this, and you beside me,” Sam whispered. “I could ask for no more, my dear one?"
"Well, you could, perhaps, ask for just a bit more," Frodo said, smiling.
Turning, Sam snuffed out the candle, then turned back and slid his hand under Frodo’s nightshirt. "Aye," he whispered. "That I could."
- End