"What's Become of Your Wings?" by Tialys

Sam discovers that Bilbo is not as powerful as he believed.

Thanks to Periantari and Lady Eleclya for their wonderful help!

The voice grated hard at Sam’s flushed ears and he leaned harder against the balcony rail, trying to drown out the sobbing voice.

Though gaining infamy through his actions before, he was truly not trying to eavesdrop – quite the opposite. How he would have given anything to shut out the trembling words floating through the wide archway behind him, but the shaking sobs gave the voice fresh volume and the words carried.

Sam had only stepped out onto the wide platform overlooking Rivendell for a moment to catch a breath of air and a brief, cooling breeze before returning to Frodo’s bedside. As he had turned back to the archway, the frail voice of his former master had brushed teasingly at his ears. Bilbo had evidently entered the room while Sam was admiring the view from his master’s room and had been there, unnoticed, for a few minutes. The old hobbit was deep in conversation with his nephew – a dialogue one-sided to all but him. Sam stepped quickly out of the archway and pulled himself against the cold, metal railing of the wall surrounding the balcony, placing himself as far from the rather personal conversation as possible.

Sam was tempted to just step back into the room, but after catching enough of the words he knew this would be startling to the poor hobbit and decided against it. He tried to concentrate on the picturesque vintage of the river – his view being particularly well-placed – but the thin, fine voice floating through the wide doorway of Frodo’s chamber pierced its way easily through the sight and dug fiercely at the gardener’s mind.

A stuttering and almost gasped sob rang through the air and Sam started as Bilbo suddenly cried out, “But this was my fault, my boy! My fault! ... No, no. You don’t – you don’t understand and I can’t...” But the hobbit’s words finally faltered and he lapsed back into the shaking sobs that would forever haunt Sam’s memory.

My fault...

“No.” Sam clapped a hand over his mouth. The word had been but a whisper, but to his shattered mind it seemed a scream. He stood silent, frozen, pressed harshly against the chill stab of the iron railing, his eyes wide and sparkling wet and his world at his feet in tiny pieces.

“Hold still, Sam-lad. I can’t see with you squirming like that!”

Eight year-old Samwise ignored his master’s protests and jerked his offending limb out of the older hobbit’s grasp, scowling darkly at the blood now trickling down his arm.

“Now, see, you’ve got it bleeding again, Samwise.” Bilbo muttered, but his tone was light and his gaze reassuring.

Reaching across the kitchen table, Bilbo plucked up the wet rag again and, after capturing Sam’s arm in his ink-stained hand, gently brushed away the scarlet trail down Sam’s arm, pushing the dirt-covered sleeve away from the cut first.

“Can’t have dirt falling in your arm, now, can we, lad?” And Sam was forced to giggle before glancing back to his arm.

While reaching across himself to clip a dead stalk of tomatoes, the shears had slid from Sam's sweating grasp and sliced a deep line in his arm – his first gardening casualty. He had seen the blood and rushed in terror to the large, green door of Bag End. The door had swung open wide before he had a chance to knock – Bilbo having heard his gardener’s pained cry through the study window – and Sam had been quickly led into the cool of Bag End’s kitchen.

After staring, unblinking, at the rather deep gash in his arm, Sam raised wide eyes to his master and whispered with all solemnity, “Am I going to die?”

Bilbo blinked furiously, shook his head and turned back to his gardener with a smile.

“Of course not, Sam-lad!” He exclaimed, his smile spreading onto Sam’s face, “I just need to get you patched up and you’ll be good as new, though a bit more careful with the shears, I hope.”

Sam nodded frantically, entranced by the bright white cloth winding its way around his arm, standing in shining contrast to his sun-browned skin. As the ugly stripe of red vanished beneath the gentle winds of white, Sam could not help but smile, despite the growing sting in his arm. Mr. Bilbo could always fix everything.

Sam pressed his hand firmer against his mouth in a weak attempt to crush the sobs rising in his throat.

My fault...

Deep in Sam’s heart a tiny hobbit child knelt on the ground, trying through his tears to pick up the millions of shattered fragments – what remained of his childhood beliefs. But the pieces were too small and their edges too sharp, and all the child could do was sob as each attempt brought fresh blood dripping from his torn fingers.

Sam stood for a time, unnaturally still as silent tears brimmed in his warm, brown eyes. Coming to himself, he grew steadily aware of the stifled silence humming against his ears. Stepping hesitantly to the archway behind him, he peered guiltily into the room, squinting into the dark corner where Frodo slept.

The large elven bed holding his master was cast into shadow now, as was the spindly chair placed beside it. Bilbo was slumped in the chair, his arms hanging off the sides of it at odd angles and his head bowed forward to rest on his chest in sleep. Assured by this, Sam crept soundlessly through the room to kneel before the old hobbit, the threat of discovery gone.

A trembling hand on the armrest for balance, Sam leaned in closer to his former master, studying the wrinkled face sadly. The last pale rays of sun fell gently across the left side of the hobbit’s face, highlighting his profile and accenting the tired marks of age patterned about his brow. He seemed much older than when Sam last saw him, lacing his speech with poorly masked insults and chuckling as he disappeared from sight.

Rocking back on his heels, Sam stretched a hand out and slipped a quilt from its stack at the foot of Frodo’s bed. Unfolding the blanket with a quick wrist flick, Sam spread it gently over the old hobbit, careful not to wake him, and rose to return to the darkening balcony.

“Thank-you, Sam-lad.”

Sam stiffened, hardly breathing, his back a rigid outline again the glowing sunset.

“Frodo’s doing much better,” the old hobbit continued in his faint, aging voice, not noticing the gardener’s unease. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he woke up right now. Everything bad always seemed to happen to him, you know? But I could always fix it then.”

Sam closed his eyes slowly, praying the old hobbit would dismiss him before he collapsed.

“What’s wrong with me, Sam?” Though Bilbo’s voice was stronger, an edge of desperation ripped its edges, lifting the question above the quiet murmuring of Sam and grazing his ears weakly.

Flashes of a small child painted their way across the sunset’s gleam and Sam’s bittersweet smile greeted the tiny lad as he dashed out of Bag End, a burst of white cloth glowing in the sun from its place on his arm and the lingering glint of admiration shining in his bright eyes.

“Nothing, Mr. Bilbo. Nothing at all.”

July 12, 2004