Fourth Age, 62.

The silver horses gleamed as Merry slowly raised the horn. Their shapes, stretched flat in a powerful gallop and once so sharply outlined, were rubbed smooth from his hand. It would be the last time he blew it and the last time he held it. Around him the crowd murmured, stirring in anticipation.  Most of them had not even been alive the first time the horn of Rohan sounded in the Shire; they only knew it as the signal to what had become an annual celebration, a tribute to the last battle fought in the war of the ring and the only real battle as far as the Shire-folk were concerned.

            Merry took a deep breath, waiting for the world to fall away like it always did, leaving only the sound of his heartbeats.  It was the same every time when he blew the horn, the same rush of blood and a thrill he’d mostly forgotten.  But…this was different. He couldn’t feel anything but the wind and the press of hobbits around him.  Merry’s brow furrowed as he shifted his fingers on the horn’s polished surface...what was wrong?  He swallowed nervously, moving his feet as the crowd got just a little louder.

            Something was not right.  There was a sense of disquiet in the air, and of misplace, absence.  Merry looked up at the mallorn tree and frowned.  Usually it was still in bloom, but this year there was not a single flower.  Even the gold leaves seemed limp and dull, twisting listlessly in the breeze.  All around him were hobbits, husbands, wives, little rosy-cheeked lads and lasses, young hobbits and old hobbits waiting for the horn’s cry—the signal to celebrate.  They were growing impatient. 

            “Merry?” Pippin’s voice made him jump.  Blushing, Merry realized he’d been staring up at the tree for quite some time.  “What is it?”

            “The tree, Pip, look.” He murmured. “Do you think it’s dying?”

            “Why would it die?” Pippin said incredulously. “Sam’s been out here every week for years…”

            And there it was.  As Pippin trailed off, Merry remembered what was wrong, what was missing. 

Fourth Age, 61. September.

Sam didn’t said goodbye when he left.  Merry awoke early that autumn morning in his outer chambers, neck cramped from sleeping in his armchair, a habit he’d gotten into in these later years.  Shuffling to his bedroom, still half-asleep, he was stopped by a servant knocking at the door.  The young hobbit’s face was familiar, but Merry couldn’t put a name to it.  He supposed he should pay more attention to that, but there were so many more hobbits these days in the Hall, it was hard to keep track. 

            “Yes?” He yawned, thinking about nothing more exciting than trying to remember to ask for extra strawberry jam for his biscuits. 

            “Excuse me, sir, but…Master Gamgee…have you seen him, sir?” The hobbit’s seemed to be greatly confused. 

            “Sam?” Merry frowned; he hadn’t seen Sam in a month.  “No. Why?” 

            “He came in late last night, after you’d retired…” He hesitated. “Are you sure you did not see him? He came to your chambers.”

“Of course I’m sure!  I’m not so old and doddering yet.” Merry snapped, irritated at the lad’s tone.

“I’m sorry, sir.  He…he asked us not to wake you…he left a package in your study.” The youngster was looking down now and Merry was already beginning to regret his outburst. 

“Oh…well, is that all?” Merry asked in a kinder voice. He was puzzled, why would anyone feel the need to inform him of Sam’s actions this early in the morning?  Surely he would see him at breakfast.

“No…no sir. Master Gamgee is missing.  The room we gave him was untouched.  He must have ridden away again during the night, but left no word…”

“That’s odd.” Thoughtfully, Merry continued, “You said he left a package in my study?”

“Yes, sir and a letter.”

“Thank you.” Merry entered in the hall and, still in his robe, padded around the corner into his study.  Sure enough, there was a large package sitting on his desk and next to it was a very thick envelope. He stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him.  As he approached the desk, Merry hesitated, cold anxiety worming its way into his gut.  It wasn’t like Sam to vanish like that.  Forcing himself to move, he picked up the letter. 

            “Merry” was written across the front in Sam’s familiar left-slanted hand. Nervously Merry worked his letter-opener, freeing the papers inside.  Odd, there was only a single sheet of regular paper, the rest was something else.  Merry left it in the envelope and removed the stiff, thicker paper.  As he began to unfold it, Merry caught his breath; suddenly he knew exactly what it was.

            “How did you know?” He whispered, astonished.  Merry had never mentioned his coveting it to anyone. 

It was the map. Big as two hobbits put together, it showed everything, from the elven towers in the West, to Mordor and beyond, with rough sketches of the Undying lands in the margins.  The beautiful thing had been hanging behind glass, in a frame Sam’s father had built has a tweenager, in Bag End’s study since long before it was Frodo’s wall, never mind Sam’s.  Gigantic and skillfully done, not even Gandalf had known exactly where it had come from.

Bilbo’s old map had each landmark carefully drawn in ink, the cities, mountains and rivers in multiple colors—the Shire was in warm greens and yellows.  Small illustrations decorated the empty spaces:  trees, dangerous animals, kings’ flags and towers.  Merry had desired it since the first time he saw it.  Bilbo’s had been the first to give him an idea of what might be beyond the borders of the Shire; all the maps of his youth showed only blank space past the four farthings, most never even had Bree on them.  There was only one reason Sam would take the map down.  He was gone.

“Oh Sam, you said you’d wait for us...” Merry’s eyes filled with tears as he carefully refolded the map.  He should have known Sam would leave in September, but the older hobbit had promised to put off the journey until Merry and Pippin came and said their goodbyes.  Dear Rosie had passed in mid-summer and Merry had tried to repay an old favor by inviting Sam to stay with him in the Hall for a while.  Unfortunately Sam had refused.  The last time Merry had seen him was in August when young Bilbo was hired on as Master Gardener to the Hall gardens. They’d celebrated and Merry had, with the aid of Pippin’s timely arrival, managed to beg Sam into staying a little longer.   “…but I suppose you’ve waited long enough.” He sighed. It was a sad blow. One by one all of Merry’s good friends had passed over the years, now only Pippin was left to him of the four hobbits who had gone so far. 

“I hope you find him happy.” Merry smiled suddenly through his tears. “Or those elves will have trouble, I’ll bet.”

Merry placed the map on an empty space on his bookshelf and turned to the sheet of paper.  Picking it up, he walked around the desk and sat in his chair.  The package could wait a moment.  The letter was typical of Sam—short and direct.  Consisting of three brief paragraphs, it did not take Merry long to read, but he spent a long time sitting in his study that morning. 

A few hobbits, early risers and servants, walking by that part of the Hall, speculated to themselves worriedly—it sounded as though the Master were weeping.