Sometimes, long after it was over, the hobbit woke to darkness, choking on his tears and hearing the sea.  Often, he found himself gazing westwards, wondering.  Time passed, like time always does.  Still, he remembered his master and a promise.   

            Shoulders that had borne many burdens, the smallest not the least (a shudder whipped through him when his thoughts dared turn that way) were still bent with the weight of his people.  He was old now, old and grey and desperately tired.  He had poured himself out of the years, selflessly; he had given everything once… and stayed to see it through. 

            His wife had passed him by, his children had grown; his younger travelers were now wise.  Far away to the east the last companions dwelt:  the dwarf in his lovely caves, the elf in his woodlands and the man in his tall, white tower.  

            But it was to the west his thoughts now turned.  There was one last road to take and one last burden to set down.  The sword the hobbit took, and the mithril coat. He had earned the right to them.  These things could not be left here; he understood that…although the truth brought him great sadness.  All the things that had been fought for were lost to wayward legend.  He would not have the sword lost.  It had saved the old hobbit long ago; more importantly, it had saved another. 

            “Sting!”  He called in the darkness, every fall,   “Attercop, attercop, tomnoddy!”

            A brief flickering of blue always rewarded him, a trick of elven magic for his children.  But the sword had not forgotten these words and others more powerful that he had called out in darker times and places; its memory was long.  His hands, once strong and quick, gripped the hilt.  For a moment he forgot the endless rush of days, weeks, and seasons…and then he closed his eyes, slumping under the weight of his pains. 

            For years he had hidden his struggles.  Not even his kinsmen had seen the way the old hobbit’s hands sometimes shook or noticed his weakness growing.  Yes, he had given everything once…had become a creature unrecognizable to another of his kind, a thing of iron-will that would not stop for thirst, hunger or pain.  It had just taken longer for the marks to show. 

            Now, at long last, he could go.  His beloved Rose had gone, and his children no longer needed him.  He had carried them all unflinchingly year after year.  He had helped to guide his land to peace and bounty unknown.  He had served well.  Now the only burden was the book…the book and the promise he had made untold years before. 

             “I’m coming, Mr. Frodo…”

The sea tossed under the sun; white sails billowed and flailed.  On a far beach, precious gems danced in the waves that washed radiant upon white glossy sand, sun shining brilliantly, blurring the landscape into gleaming shocks of color that dazzled the mortal eye.         

The old hobbit fell to his knees at his master’s feet.  The waves foamed cool around his legs; he dug his hands into the gritty sand.  It was real.  Sam looked up, into the eyes of the one he had missed for so long, and whispered,

            “I’m here. I’m home.”