Frodo Baggins sat on the ground, his back against the trunk of a massive tree. It towered over him and surrounded him in deep shade, and some of the great branches hung nearly to the ground, so he felt he was in a green and silent room. But through the leaves he could look out at a world of bright sun, for the tree stood alone in a wide field of tall grass and wildflowers. Bees hummed lazily among the flowers, and a blue butterfly dipped and swooped over the field.  The air was hot and hazy.

Frodo stared out unseeing, absently picking at the thin grass under the tree. “I miss Bilbo," he whispered. "I miss Bilbo.  Even here, we're mortal after all.   Not like the Elves.  It's lonely without him, even with Galadriel and Elrond and all the rest.   I wonder if Sam will ever come here.   Are there ships any more, sailing from the Havens?"

He fell silent, fingering the white jewel that hung from a fine chain around his neck.   Bilbo's death had been peaceful, gentle.   And the old hobbit had become so tired and frail, even amidst the beauty of Tol Eressea -- Frodo couldn't truly grieve for him.

When first they came, Bilbo had roused from the sleepiness that had been creeping over him during the last years in Rivendell.  Almost he seemed young again, and they had tramped far and wide together through a countryside as fresh as the first day of creation.  They’d come home at day’s end, tired and happy, to toast cheese over the fire and talk far into the night. Some nights they had not come home at all, but slept out under the stars, peaceful and unafraid.  They had listened to hours and days of songs and ancient tales, rejoicing in the fair company of the Elves, till their own hearts sang and their minds stood wide in wonder.

And Bilbo had healed.  The subtle mark of the old accursed Ring had left him.  But gradually the sleepiness had come over him again, and he stayed close by the home fire, yet still happy and content.  At length he lay down to the last, good sleep, whole and clean, however frail.  Frodo couldn't begrudge him that last sleep.

But he missed him.  And now, with Bilbo gone, he wondered if he himself had truly healed.  If he would ever heal. He looked at his hand lying on the ground beside him, maimed and scarred, and sighed.

"You've found a cool shelter from the sun, my friend," said a voice from just outside the perimeter of the tree's branches.

Frodo jumped, startled out of his reverie.  A tall stranger peered in at him through the leafy walls of his refuge. A man, not an Elf.  Now that was odd. When had he ever seen a man here in Elvenhome? Even Gandalf.... when he had stayed here.... he wasn't really a man, though he appeared like one.

"May I come in?"  the man asked.  "It's a bit warm for hiking over the field in the afternoon sun."

"Oh, of... of course,"  Frodo stammered.  He got to his feet courteously. "Of course.  Come in where it's shady.  But -- if you will not think me ungracious for asking -- who are you? I am Frodo son of Drogo, at your service."

The stranger ducked under the branches and came in, laughing a little.   "Oh, I know who you are, Frodo Baggins.   You are well-known here, you understand.  Ring-bearer."

Frodo's polite smile faded, and he resumed his seat, regarding his visitor a little warily.   The tall man sat down before him, not leaning against the tree but directly in front of him.  Looking at him.

"You are not glad at that title, Frodo,"  he said quietly. "Yet that was a great Quest, and you did well to fulfill it." His voice was mild, but there was that in his face which forbade evasion, and Frodo could not meet his eyes. 

He fidgeted, playing with the jewel at his throat, sliding it back and forth along its chain.  Memories crowded in. Finally he flung himself face down on the ground, his head on his arms. 

"It was a great Quest.  It was fulfilled.  But that was not my doing," he said hoarsely to the ground.

The stranger was silent.  A little wind rustled in the branches overhead, and out in the field a bird called.  The silence under the tree grew and grew until it was a presence, waiting.

"The Ring conquered me," Frodo choked at last. And with that bald statement, the dam broke. Sobs shook him, and burning tears.  Shame and sorrow and regret: he had given his whole self to the Quest, all that he could give, and it had not been enough. In spite of all that he could do, the Ring had conquered, and he had fallen. If not for Smeagol! Smeagol who had taken the Ring  -- and his finger -- into the Fire.  He was no better than Smeagol after all.  He was only luckier. Or not. For even now, even now, the fiery Ring haunted his dreams at times. Especially now, with Bilbo gone.

He wept until he felt drained, washed out, and his breath came in long gasps.  When, when, had this little Eden, Tol Eressea, been witness to such a storm of sorrow?   As his sobs quieted, he became aware that a hand was stroking his hair, very gently.  He reached up his maimed right hand and caught at those caressing fingers as he might have caught at a lifeline.  Rolling onto his side, he stared up into the stranger's face.

"Who are you?" he asked shakily.

"I am a physician, Frodo," the man said softly.  "I have come to heal you."

Frodo studied his face.  It was a young face, and strong, and full of gladness. But the eyes, though they sparkled with aliveness and joy, held depths of wisdom and .... suffering?  Frodo looked down at the hand he held in his, and gasped.  It was wounded, a raw unhealed laceration that pierced it right through, from palm to back.

"You are wounded," he said, wondering.

"I also fulfilled a Quest.  These are the wounds of my Quest."   He held out his right hand for Frodo's inspection. It was pierced through like the other.

Frodo sat up and took the stranger's other hand in his own. He looked at the deep, raw wounds and shuddered. Tears started to his eyes again, but he blinked them away and stared into the man's face.  "Tell me,"  he said. "Tell me of your Quest."

The stranger's voice grew pensive. "You journeyed far, Frodo, and suffered much, to destroy Sauron's Ring.  But though the Ring is gone into the fire, evil has not departed from Middle Earth.  Sauron was a servant only, of a Master yet more evil than himself.

"But my Quest is to root out evil itself from my children's hearts, and make my creation clean again.  For I am the Son of the One, Iluvatar's Son."

A light shone from the stranger's face, and suddenly it seemed that the dimness under the tree had become brighter than the sunlight field beyond.  Frodo gazed at him in awe, and slowly terror took him.  He let go the wounded hands and hunched over, shielding his head with his arms, as if expecting a mighty blow.  He trembled and shrank into himself, making himself as small as he could.

"No, Frodo, no!"  the voice said urgently. "I have come to heal you, not to punish you. Look at me!"  Hesitantly Frodo obeyed, and found to his astonishment that the bright face before him was wet with tears.  His own maimed hand was taken gently by those two hands with the terrible wounds, and held, warm and comforting.

"You have done well, little one.  You have fought the good fight. Do not be afraid.  For what you did not do is atoned for, and whatever you did amiss, is forgiven.  Will you trust me for this?"

The eyes of the man before him searched his own, probed into his  heart and mind and will, till Frodo felt that a clean wind was blowing through him, and all the dark thoughts and memories were swept away.  A joy kindled within him and he laughed softly.

"Yes, oh yes, lord!" he whispered. And the joy welled up and grew inside him till he could hold it in no longer, and he laughed aloud and sprang up and danced a little on the thin grass under the tree.  But the Son of Iluvatar still held his hand, and ducking under the branches, he led him out into the sunlight.

"Soon you must come home, Frodo," he said.  "For your time in  Eressea was for your healing, and you are healed now. And the long home of mortals is not here, whether men or hobbits.  But you shall not come alone."

Frodo looked at him questioningly.

"Samwise left the Havens ten days ago," the Son said, and a smile danced in his eyes.   "He has not forgotten you, Frodo.  Will you go down to the shore and welcome him?"

"May I?  And will you come with me?"  Now Frodo understood what Sam had felt long years before, torn between two yearnings.

"I will walk with you a while.  Indeed, I have been with you on all your journeys, though you did not know it." Frodo stared at him in wonder, as understanding dawned. 

"Always? Truly?" he murmured.

Even as they walked, he clung to the wounded hand in his. But as they came to the top of the last hill and looked out over the sea, a grey-sailed ship was putting into harbor, and among the tall Elves on her deck was a short, stocky figure leaning far out over the rail, his hand shading his eyes, searching the shore.  Frodo broke away running, laughing and shouting as he ran.

"Sam!  Samwise Gamgee! Over here!  Sam!"

And Sam heard his shouts and looked up to see Frodo pelting down the long hill to the harbor, his face shining with joy.

Sam Gamgee stood on deck, the salt spray in his face, squinting to see into the light of the setting sun.  The ship was tacking into harbor, and tall Elves crowded round him, their voices blending in a kind of music as they called out greetings to friends on shore.

 A narrow beach ringed the harbor, wet sand gleaming golden in the evening light, and grassy dunes rose behind the beach, mounting rank by rank to high, rounded hills. The   sun’s path lay crimson across the water.   Suddenly a flight of seagulls swept out toward the ship as if blown by the wind, and a few of the birds settled on the shining water, bobbing up and down on the swell. The waves murmured against the sides of the ship, and peace lay on land and sea.

But Samwise, leaning on the ship's rail with his hand shading his eyes, was oblivious to mere scenery.   He was watching a small figure that charged headlong down the hill toward the harbor, arms waving, exuberance in every movement.   For just a moment he stood silent, caught by a happiness that left him breathless and immobile.

"Frodo," he whispered.  "Frodo!"   He turned and began to push his way through the Elves to the gangway.   "Begging your pardon, sir.  Begging your pardon," he repeated automatically as he made his way through the crowd. 

He was scarce waist-high to the Elves, and his face was wrinkled with the years.  But that aged face was lighted by such blazing joy that the Elves smiled to see him, and they stood aside, glancing at the shore where the runner stood now, motionless, yet somehow still radiating excitement and glad welcome.

 Sam surged across the gangplank almost in one motion, but staggered and nearly fell as he stepped on the quay.   After days at sea, the solid ground under his feet threw him off balance.   A hand caught his elbow and held him upright, and a laughing voice at his ear said, "All right, old lad, don't fall on your face, first thing off the ship!   Sam, you've gone gray!"

Sam got his feet fairly under him and snorted indignantly.   "Well, what did you expect, Mr. Frodo?   I'm a hundred and two years old!"   Then his eyes softened as he looked into Frodo's face and reached out to embrace him.

"No need to ask how you are, Mr. Frodo," he said, his voice breaking.   "I can see for myself, you're all well.  I had to see, I had to know..... you're healed, Mr. Frodo."   

# # #

Hours later, they sat by Frodo's fireplace with mugs of hot spiced tea.   The evening was cool, and it was pleasant to wrap their hands around the warm mugs and stretch out their bare feet to the fire.   The flickering light gleamed and danced on chairs of polished wood, some copper pots hanging from the mantel, and a dozen silver wine goblets in a corner cupboard.   The room was cozy and homely but not very big, and Samwise could see only two doors, both closed, that might lead to other rooms.

"Well, it's a proper hobbit-hole and no mistake," he said cheerfully, but privately he was remembering Bag End, and he wondered much to find Frodo in so small a place.

Frodo seemed to catch his thought, and laughed up at him as he piled wood on the fire.  "Now, Sam, you won't cozen me with polite half-truths, so don't try.   You think this a sad comedown from Bag End.   Probably you thought I'd have a half-dozen rooms in Elrond's house, all full of Elven carvings and a fountain or two.  Truth, now!  Isn't that what you expected?"   He got up, dusting off his hands, and turned to pour more hot water from the kettle into the earthenware teapot.

"Well," Sam muttered, "it's no more than you deserve, Mr. Frodo.   Or a big house of your own, more like."   There was a hint of worry in his eyes.   "To own the truth, I did think you would be in Elrond's house.   Is Mr. Bilbo there?"

Frodo's smile faltered.  "No.  No, he's not.   Sam, there's something I have to tell you.   Explain to you."   He sat down and poked absent-mindedly at the fire.  The room was very still.

"They call these the Undying Lands, you know --  Tol Eressea and all these Western lands.   Because the Elves live here, and in the Blessed Realm the Valar, and they're immortal, of course.   But Sam, old friend," he glanced at Samwise, then stared into the fire again.   "We're not immortal, Sam.   Not in Middle Earth, and not here either.   Do you understand me?"

Samwise got heavily to his feet and came to stand by him,  his hand on Frodo’s  shoulder.   His face looked tired and old.   "Yes, I understand you, Mr. Frodo.  You're telling me Mr. Bilbo's gone, he's dead.   And you've been here all alone, in this little hole no bigger than the one I grew up in, in Bagshot Row.   And I've been living in your beautiful Bag End where you rightfully should have been all along."

He stumped back to his chair and sat down, elbows on his knees, his head leaning into his hands.   "I should have come long ago, I should have come as soon as the children were all married and settled down.   But there, how could I have left Rosie?   She was a good wife to me, the best, and she needed me.   And I loved her, Mr. Frodo."   He sighed deeply and shook his head.

"Sam, don't!"  Frodo cried out in dismay.   "No, you don't understand at all!"  He leaned forward and took Sam's hands, forcing Samwise to look into his face.

"Sam, I don't want to say I didn't miss you, of course I did, how could I not?   But I've been happy here.   Bilbo and I were happy.   We lived in this little hole because we wanted to, it was like home, it was a little piece of the Shire here in Elvenhome.   It's small because we didn't need anything big.   We were outside so much, walking over the island, visiting with the Elves.... sometimes we even slept out under the stars.   And when," he swallowed hard,  "when Bilbo died, this was still my home.   I didn't want to live anywhere else.  There's a bedroom here for you, if you want to stay with me.   Or I know Elrond would give you rooms in his house.   If that's what you want."

"Elrond?" Sam repeated, sounding bemused.  "Why would I want to live with Elrond?   Meaning no disrespect to him, you understand, and if his house here is like Rivendell, it must be a wonder.  But I've been missing you for sixty years, Mr. Frodo.   Every day for sixty years.   If I don't see another soul on this island, I wouldn't care.   Just so you're here.”

He ran his sleeve across his eyes.   Frodo stood up and clapped him on the back.

"Well, that's settled then.   We'll be very comfortable here, old lad, you'll see.   But as for seeing other people -- well, you've got other friends in Eressea besides me, you know!   Galadriel will want to hear how the gardens are growing back in the Shire, and the trees, especially the mallorn.   And Elrond will be glad indeed to hear any news you can bring him of Queen Arwen and Elessar.   Anyway, there'll be a feast tonight, a real Elven revel. A welcome for those who came on the ship today."

Sam gave a rather shaky laugh and hoisted himself up.   "Ah yes, I'd forgotten that Elves don't sit down to dine until the moon is up and sensible hobbits are off to bed!   Well, just you show me where my room is, and I'll put on a clean shirt and be ready to go."

Frodo chuckled as he opened one of the closed doors.   "It's all those years of being the Mayor, Sam.   You're ready for a banquet and a speech anytime now, at a moment's notice.  How many terms did you serve as Mayor, anyway?"

"Seven, Mr. Frodo.  Seven.  And I can give as good a speech asleep as awake, by now -- though maybe neither one is worth listening to!"

The hobbits slept late the following morning.   Sam's dreams held the echo of music that rang like crystal, and stars that seemed to hang lower and burn brighter than they ever had at home. He woke at last to brilliant sunshine framed by a round window, and a tantalizing aroma of ham and eggs from the next room.

For a few moments he lay still in luxurious comfort, running his eyes around the little bedroom.   If the room was small, the bed was large and piled high with feather mattresses and big square goosedown pillows, soft as clouds.   The headboard and footboard were intricately carved, but evidently not of Elvish make, for the style of the carvings reminded him strongly of the furniture he had left behind in Bag End.   A hobbit had done this work, and looking closely at the headboard, he found scenes of the Shire set one after another in carved, leafy frames.

Here was the front door of Bag End, the rather rough figure of a hobbit sitting on a bench beside it, smoking a pipe.   There was the inn at Bywater, its door hospitably open and a plume of smoke rising from the chimney.  Another view of Bag End, the garden this time, and Samwise grinned as he recognized his old Gaffer leaning on a shovel, his expression as irascible as he remembered it.  An inside view of Bag End came next, Bilbo sitting in his favorite chair and beside him on a low stool, a hobbit child holding a book.

"Why, it's me!"  Sam muttered in amazement.  "That's me, and old Mr. Bilbo teaching me my letters.   But who in the world  carved all these pictures?"

Fascinated by his discoveries, he scrambled to the other end of the bed to examine the footboard.    The scenes of the Shire continued there:  the old Mill set beside the Water,  Bagshot Row as it had looked when Sam was a child, Brandy Hall with its hundred windows, and  on the far right side, a young hobbit  with a mischievous expression in a patch of mushrooms, a half-filled bag in his hand.  

"Well, I know who that's meant to be, right enough!"  Sam was chuckling to himself, when a couple of sharp raps sounded on the bedroom door and a merry voice called,  "All right in there, I know you're awake!   Come on out and have breakfast, Sam, or do you want breakfast in bed?"

"Don't you dare, Mr. Frodo!   Just give me a moment!"  He flung on his clothes and hustled into the outer room, where breakfast was spread on a table washed in sunlight.   Frodo sat at one place smiling up at him, and Sam felt a rush of happiness at the sight of him.  It still didn't seem real that he was here, and the long years of separation were over.   He thought  it would take a while for that joy to seem commonplace.

"What were you doing in there, old lad?"   Frodo demanded cheerfully as he poured the tea.   "I could hear you creaking about and muttering to yourself for a long time.   I thought the smell of breakfast would pull you out here in a hurry, but I finally had to knock, or it would’ve been cold."

"Just taking my bearings, Mr. Frodo,"  Sam said around a bite of ham.   "Looking over the ground, you might say. Or the bed. Who carved the headboard in there?   It looks like hobbit work, but I thought you and Mr. Bilbo were the only hobbits here."

Frodo watched him from the corner of his eye, a grin tugging at his mouth. "What if I told you I carved it myself? And the footboard too, mind you."

Sam stopped chewing in astonishment.  "You?  Now Mr. Frodo, I never knew you to so much as whittle a stick, so don't ask me to believe you did all those pictures! That's fine carving, that is; you can see the expressions on the faces just as plain, and every scene as clear as day. How would you learn to carve like that?"

Frodo laughed outright. "Well Sam, I'm afraid I’ll have to ask you to believe it, for that bed is my own work.  There are wonderful woodcarvers among the Elves, and they taught me.  It took a long time, of course. But even here the sun doesn't shine every day, and it was a good way to pass wet days before the fire.  And then toward the end Bilbo couldn't get out much, and I didn't want to leave him. He enjoyed  watching those pictures of the Shire take shape."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "I can see that he would have.  Well, you're a marvel, Mr. Frodo. I often wondered what you’d be doing with yourself in Tol Eressea, but I must say I never thought of woodcarving!"

Frodo pushed back his plate and poured himself another mug of tea.   "Well, you know, Sam, the Elves are at it all the time, making beautiful things.  We didn't see that so much in Rivendell, we weren't there long enough, and then we were always caught up in the Quest, going and coming back.  But here I had time to notice what they were doing, and the things they make are wonderful.   And they were so patient about teaching me....."  

His voice trailed off. After a bit he asked almost shyly, "Did you like the one of you and Rose?"

"Me and Rose? Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I must have missed that one. But I'd dearly like to see it!   Wait now and I'll go look again."   He got up quickly and went back into the bedroom,  but though he looked closely at each carving, there was none of Rose that he could find.  

"Look on the other side of the footboard, Sam," said Frodo from the doorway.  

Samwise walked round the end of the bed.   The footboard extended right to the floor and there were more pictures on this side.   In the very center was a raised wreath of roses intertwined, and inside the wreath a bridal portrait of Sam and Rose.  Frodo's carving had caught their very expressions on that long-ago day, Sam looking shy and proud and happy all at once, Rose glowing with youth and love. 

"My word, Mr. Frodo!"  Sam groped behind him for a chair and sat down heavily, not taking his eyes from the picture.  "You caught her to the life, that you did.  "Twas just like that she looked the day we were wed, and she didn't change all that much, Mr. Frodo, not through all the years.   She got laugh lines, you know, and her hair got gray, but her smile was just the same, and her eyes."  His own eyes had filled with tears, and Frodo came to stand behind him, laying his hands on Sam's shoulders.

"I'm glad you like it, old lad.  I hoped you would."

Sam reached up and gripped Frodo's hand.   "You couldn't give me no better present, Mr. Frodo, nor anything I'd treasure more. 

“When we went off with the Ring, all those years ago, I had to leave Rosie, but I had you.   And then when you went to the Havens, I thought my heart would break, but -- I had Rosie.   But these last months....  she died on Mid-Year's Day, Mr. Frodo, and then I didn't have neither of you.   I didn't know what to do with myself, and that's the truth."

Samwise rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve and stood up, going over to the bed again.   "Now, what are all these other pictures?  I never looked at this side at all, or I'd never have missed that one of Rosie."  He began at the top left corner, and saw himself, a sword clutched in both hands and a monstrous spider crouching over his head.   "Ugh!  Now Mr. Frodo, you didn't need to be carving that!  I'd as soon forget about that monster!"

Frodo laughed and came to his side.  "No, Sam, that's one I do want to remember. If it hadn't been for you, I would have been dinner for that monster, and I don't choose to forget it. Or the other times you saved my life.  Look, here's the room at the top of the orc tower -- I'll never forget  waking up and finding you there, when I was expecting an orc with a whip! " 

Sam shook his head, but looked in silence from one picture to another. There indeed was the tower room, and himself holding a beaten-looking Frodo in his arms. In the top right corner  he was bent almost double, carrying his master up the slope of Mt. Doom. The last carving showed him at the Sammath Naur, holding Frodo's hand and plainly urging him away, while the mountain erupted above them and rocks fell from the sky.

"I did this side of the footboard last, after I had really learned to carve.   Because this was for you, Sam; these were the pictures I really wanted to make. To say thank you.  To let you know I never forgot you, even though I couldn't stay in the Shire.    And your wedding portrait, because I was so glad you had Rose to make you happy. "   

He turned to look at Samwise, and he was smiling through tears.  "I know I've said it before, Sam, but I'm glad you're here."

Sam would have denied it, but he was tired.   It had been a bleak summer for him, with Rosie's death, and then having to be strong in spite of his own sorrow, to comfort his grieving children.   Never mind that the "children" were all grown hobbits with little ones of their own -- they missed their mother, and they leaned on Sam. 

All summer he'd had various sons and daughters -- and grandchildren – coming to stay at Bag End.  "To keep Da company,"  his children told each other.   "He'll feel so alone, without Mother.  Some of us had better stay with him."    Sam was glad to have them.  Still, there was no getting away from it, it was tiring to have houseguests all the time, however much he loved them.   The grandchildren ran in and out slamming doors, shouting, quarreling sometimes, as children will.  Several fell out of trees in the orchard and had to be patched up.  One fell in the Water and was carried home half-drowned.

 And his sons and daughters sat up late, long after the grandchildren were asleep, after Sam would have been asleep, if the truth were told.   They wanted to talk about Rosie;  they cried, sometimes, leaning on their Da's sturdy  shoulder.    Sam sat up with them night after night, stifling his yawns, holding back his own tears, to comfort them. 

When  summer ended, the children had to go back to their own  homes and see to the harvest.   Sam sighed in relief and called in a couple of neighbor lads to help him pick  the apples.   The quiet days in the orchard were some balm to his heavy heart, but he felt the strain in his knees at night, after climbing a ladder up into the trees all day.  His shoulders ached, too, even though the two lads carried the heavy baskets of apples most of the time.  And Rosie wasn't there, this harvest, to massage the kinks away.

 "You're getting a bit beyond it, Sam Gamgee,"  he told himself ruefully.  

He sat long at the table, one morning after the early apples were in, nursing his breakfast ale and thinking.  There was nothing to keep him in the Shire, with Rose gone. The children, of course, but they had lives  and families of their own.   He didn't want to become a burden on them, and this harvest  had proved to him that he was, indeed, getting beyond it.

Sadly he admitted to himself that  he no longer had the strength to keep up Bag End the way he wanted it kept.    Better to turn it over to one of the children -- Frodo-lad,  probably.  He'd like to see a Frodo be  master at Bag End again.   He would give the Red Book to Elanor; her home at High Towers would be on his way, on the road to the Havens .    He got up from the table and went to wash out his mug, his decision made.  It was time to leave, time to go after Frodo. 

And so he had gone.   Once he had decided, it took very little time  to get his affairs in order, so he could set out on Frodo's birthday at the end  of  September, as seemed proper to him.   He had ridden slowly to the Havens and boarded the Elven ship, and  at last here he was in Tol Eressea, in Frodo's house.  Frodo's hole, rather. And he was glad he had come!   He was happy, so happy that there seemed to be a perpetual smile hovering at the edges of his mouth, ready to beam out  for any reason, or no reason at all. 

But  he was still tired.

Frodo noticed it.   Sam rose late in the mornings, even though they'd been early to bed the night before.  He moved slowly, and he soon fell into the habit of having a nap after lunch, in a hammock under the trees of Frodo's  (rather neglected) garden.   Frodo watched and waited, hoping the wholesome air of the Undying Lands would work its gentle magic on Sam as it had on Bilbo, restoring a measure of strength and vigor.

And gradually it did.  Sam still wanted his nap after lunch, but he had more energy in the mornings.  Frodo began to take him  walking round the neighborhood.   Galadriel showed them over her gardens -- a  special treat to Samwise, though Frodo found it rather dull, listening to the two gardeners in deep discussion of  annuals and perennials, cultivars and fertilizers.   He had never gone in for garden lore himself,  in the Shire or in Eressea.   But Sam seemed to get back some of his old vitality, strolling in Galadriel's gardens, and Frodo counted the visit a success.   They visited Elrond's garden too, but Frodo left  Sam to explore the garden  paths in Elrond's knowledgeable company, while he went to explore Elrond's library instead.    Even for Sam, he didn't think he wanted to hear any more about fertilizer.

After that, however, Sam declined to visit any more gardens.   "Never mind, Mr. Frodo,"  he said firmly.  "I've spent my life in gardens, so to speak, and I do love them.   But it's you I've been missing, and it's no pleasure to you to be dragged down a garden path all morning.  You'd better take me to some of the places you do like, Mr. Frodo.  Come, now!   All the years you've been on this island, what are the places you keep going back to?"

Which was why they found themselves this afternoon, hiking along a woodland trail several miles from home.  Frodo had planned the trip carefully, worried that Sam's strength wouldn't be equal to the long walk, though certainly he seemed stronger than he had been.   A month on the island had made a world of difference.  Still, they stopped for a long rest at lunchtime, with a nap, and they carried blankets to spend the night out in the woods.   Frodo wouldn't risk exhausting Sam by trying to go and come back in one day.

He hadn't told Sam where they were going, though they could hear the waterfall  before they came to it.   Even so, when they stepped out from under the trees and saw Tinuviel's Veil, Sam caught his breath in wonder.  It was so tall, so shining,  a slender stream of clear water falling from an impossible height, splashing in a basin of  black rocks that gleamed with wet.  The spray  caught the light in sparks of color and little rainbows.   A rocky stream flowed out from the basin, a trail of rushing water that ran away into deeper forest.

The trees had been thinned back from the base of the fall and for a little way along the stream, leaving a  grassy clearing.  The late afternoon sun filled it with warm yellow light, defining every rock and leaf, transforming the falling water into a veil of molten gold.

After his first exclamation of delight, Sam was mute.   He lowered himself carefully to the ground and sat leaning back on his arms,  gazing at the falling water as if he could never get enough of it.  Finally he turned to Frodo with shining eyes.

"Stars and glory, what a place!   I'd walk a week to see this, I would indeed!"   He chuckled at the  expression on Frodo's face.  "You don't think I could walk a week,  Mr. Frodo.  But I could, to see this!"

Frodo  clapped him on the back.  "I believe you could, Sam.   Anything you put your mind to, you'll do;  I should know that by now!"   He turned to rummage in his pack, bringing out a couple of pans  nested one inside the other.  "We'd better get a fire going and start supper.  The sun will be down before long."

They poked around the edges of the forest picking up dead wood and pinecones.   Frodo produced  a small ax from his  pack and started hacking the wood to size, while Sam sat on the ground and watched, much amused. 

 "Well, Mr. Frodo, you've got very handy since we last camped out together, I will say!”

Frodo grinned.  "I had to learn, since you weren't along to do the work, Sam.   I never realized how much work you did, till Bilbo and I started camping out together.  Be glad you didn’t have to taste my first efforts at camp cooking!"   He grimaced at the memory.  "We could have used my biscuits for charcoal, if we'd wanted any charcoal."  

Sam  laughed and  pushed himself up, grabbing the pans .  "All right, Mr. Frodo, if you're making the fire, I'll get the water.  That used to be your task, you remember.  We've just changed places, is all.    But I can still cook, if you want me to."

Frodo tried to look insulted, then gave it up and chuckled.  "Yes, Sam,  you 'd better cook!  I  don't suppose I'm up to your standard even now."  

"I'll wager you're pretty good, though, Mr. Frodo.   You wait and I'll show you a few little tricks I know.  Camp cooking is a bit  different, but it's not hard."

By the time darkness fell, Frodo had had his cooking lesson and the pans were empty, filled with fresh water and sitting by the fire to soak.  The hobbits, pleasantly tired but not yet sleepy, were stretched out on their blankets watching the stars come out.

"You haven't told me much of what's been going on in the Shire, Sam,"  Frodo said, after a long silence. 

"No, I haven't, have I?  It all seems so far away, now I'm here."   Sam  propped himself up on one elbow.   "Well, it's changed some, you know, Mr. Frodo.   It feels different, somehow, with the elves almost all gone.  Not that we ever saw much of them,  but we always knew they were there, if you take my meaning.  And now they aren't.

"King Elessar came North for awhile. And then  Rose and I were in Gondor for a year, so Elanor could be at court.  Queen Arwen made her a maid of honor."   Sam's voice was warm with pride, and Frodo smiled in the dark. 

 "Did she grow up as beautiful as we thought she would, Sam?"

"That she did, Mr. Frodo!   Elanor the Fair, folks call her.  She’s married now; they live over by the Tower Hills.  I left your Red Book with her.   Fastred, her husband that is, he's a great one for Shire history.  He'll keep the book up to date."

"That's good, Sam.  I'm glad someone will be keeping it up.  But -- the Tower Hills?   That's not in the Shire.  I didn't know anyone lived over there."

"They didn't, not when you were still at home.  King Elessar started that,  he added  the land all the way to the Tower Hills, to the Shire.  Back thirty years ago, I guess.  There's lots of hobbits settled out there now."   He glanced at Frodo, trying to read his expression in the firelight.  "The Thain,  Mr. Pippin that is, made Fastred the Warden of Westmarch.   My little girl is quite the lady now."

Frodo turned his face to Sam, reaching out to grasp his hand.  "I'm glad, Sam.  She was a darling little girl, and her family deserves all the honor the Shire can give them."  

Samwise shook his head, serious now,  gripping Frodo's hand even as Frodo tried to pull it away.  "It was you carried the burden, Mr. Frodo.  The Shirefolk never gave you the honor they should have done, and I'm ashamed for them!  But I  know well enough who saved the Shire, aye, and brought King Elessar to his throne, too.  Truth is truth, Mr. Frodo."

He released Frodo's hand then.  Frodo lay on his back, staring up at the sky.  "Yes, truth is truth, Sam Gamgee,"  he said at last.  "Good night, now.  Sleep well."   He closed his eyes, and before long Sam heard a gentle snore.

Sam rolled up one of his blankets for a pillow, then wrapped the other one around himself.  It was getting chilly.  Well, it was beginning November, after all.  And  the leaves just starting to turn, now he thought about it.  Winter must come late to Tol Eressea.  He watched as the moon rose,  a few days from the full.  This would be the second full moon he'd seen from the Lonely Isle.  It didn't feel lonely to him, not with Frodo here beside him. 

Frodo was sound asleep, his arms behind his head.  His face in the moonlight was peaceful, and now and then he smiled a little.  Sam lay for a long time watching him.  Through all his busy years in the Shire, in the midst of his own happiness, somewhere in the back of Sam's mind his disquiet about his master had lingered.  Now at last he could see that Frodo was healed.  Healed and  happy.  Even his voice had a sort of  lilt to it, that Sam remembered from the old days, before all the trouble began.

"And that ought to be enough for me,"  Sam told himself irritably.  "He's here and I'm here, and he's all right.  So why can't I get to sleep?"

He struggled out of his blankets and  stood up, walking quietly to the water's edge.  He'd become accustomed to the noise of the waterfall and hardly heard it now, but close to the stream he was aware of  the soft, gurgling sound of water rushing away over the stones.  Going down to the sea, he thought.  Always down to the sea.

He sat on a rock beside the stream and looked up.  The dark sky seemed almost to pulse with stars,  shimmering diamonds that trembled and danced till Sam felt a little dizzy watching them.  He heard nothing beyond the rippling of the water;  then suddenly he felt someone behind him.  "Mr. Frodo must've woke up,"  he thought, a bit dazed,  and looked back without alarm.   A tall man stood there, close enough to touch, watching him.  

"Can't sleep, Samwise?"  he asked.   

Sam stood up quickly, his knees protesting.  He really was too old, he reflected, to be sitting on a cold rock in the middle of the night.  He felt half in a dream, and his tongue was thick as he answered, "How do you know my name?  Begging your pardon, sir."

"There are only two hobbits in Eressea, Sam.  And I know Frodo."  The man sat down on the rock Sam had vacated, bringing him  eye to eye with the hobbit.   "Your Mr. Frodo is all right, Sam,"  he said.  "You can be at peace about him now."

Samwise looked into his face, but could think of nothing to say.  It was a kind face, but the eyes were very knowing.  If you had anything you wanted to hide, it would be uncomfortable, looking into those eyes.  So Sam thought, but he had nothing to hide.

The man held his gaze, laying  gentle hands on his shoulders, like a blessing.   "He's all right, Sam.  He's healed.  Go to sleep now, and don't fret about him anymore."

Sam let out a long breath.  He'd known that, really, ever since he stepped off the ship and saw Frodo's  face.  Only he had worried and fretted over his master for so long, it was as if he couldn't stop himself.  Now he felt that  a heavy load was rolled off his shoulders, a load he hadn't been aware he was carrying.

He turned without a word and went back to his blankets, falling asleep almost before he put his head down.  In the morning he remembered nothing about his midnight visitor, but his heart was lighter than it had been in many years.

The rain was pouring down in sheets, and any outdoor activity was out of the question.   Frodo sat by the fireplace with his woodcarving tools spread out around his feet, his full attention given to the round of wood upon his knees.   He chipped at it  carefully, biting  his bottom lip in concentration.

Sam’s bedroom door opened and he came in, buttoning his shirt.   “Morning, Mr. Frodo.  What’s the plan for today?”    He lifted the big skillet down from its hook on the mantel and reached into the larder for the egg basket.

Frodo looked up from his work.  “How about a walk across the island, Sam?  We haven’t been over to the south end yet.” He kept his face straight with an effort, but the corner of his mouth twitched. 

Sam peered out the window at the rain cascading down.  The path from the front door ran with water, and the steps were little waterfalls.  “Guess I’ll pass on that, Mr. Frodo.  I never was much of a swimmer, if you take my meaning.”

Frodo laughed aloud.  “Oh Sam, it’s so good to have you here!  I could never joke with the Elves, you know?”

“No, they’re wonderful folk, but not much for jokes,” Sam agreed.  He picked his way around the tools on the floor and set the skillet down on a bed of coals he raked out of the fire. He squatted beside it, a long fork in his hand.  “What are you making there, Mr. Frodo?” 

“Oh, just something Galadriel asked me to carve for her when we were there for dinner last week,”  Frodo said vaguely.  Sam raised an eyebrow at this evasiveness, and looked curiously at the block of wood, but said no more.     The bacon sizzled in the pan and he gave his attention to his cooking.

The weather didn’t improve during the morning.   Frodo washed up the breakfast plates and went back to his carving. Sam sat at the table with a sheet of  paper before him, chewing on the end of his pen.  He was trying to write a poem, but he wasn’t getting on very fast.  He had written:

           I never saw the Sea before that night. 

           I stood and watched upon the Western shore

           The star-glass flash and vanish out of sight

           Held in a hand that would return no more.

           I hardly saw the ship through blinding tears:

           To lose my master seemed a grief too sore,

           Away beyond the circle of our years

           To where my steps could follow him no more.

He was stuck there. What he had written certainly expressed how he  felt when his master left the Havens sixty years before, but he couldn’t think how to make the transition from that old sorrow to his present happiness. He doodled on the edge of the paper, drawing a trailing vine down the margin, then adding tiny berries hanging along it.  It was very quiet in the little room, and the hobbits were startled by a loud knock on the door.

Sam opened it and a slender Elf stepped into the room, water streaming from his hair and clothes. Frodo sprang up to greet him. “Orophin!  Come in!  Heavens, you’re drenched!  Will you have a glass of wine, or would you rather something hot? That rain must be cold to walk in!”

The Elf smiled and shook himself, rather as a dog might.  Droplets of water flew everywhere, sparkling as they fell, and he looked to be quite dry. “No, Frodo, I cannot stay.  I came only to bring you a message from the Lady Galadriel, and I have more to deliver.” He reached into a packet that hung at his belt and pulled out a small green envelope. “The moon will be full in two nights,” he said, and with this cryptic remark, he nodded his farewell and went back out into the rain.

Sam closed the door, brushing water droplets from his arms and shoulders. “Wonderful folk, Elves,” he said again. “A good thing he can shake himself dry like that, if he’s got to go delivering messages in this weather!  But why does it matter when the moon will be full?”

Frodo had opened the envelope and was reading its contents with unmistakable delight.  “Because, old lad, Galadriel is offering us seats in her boat for the Autumn Moon Regatta!

“That’s quite an honor, Sam!  Galadriel has the fastest boat on the island, but it only carries seven: five passengers and a crew of two. I’ve been on it once or twice, but that was a long time ago.”  He raised his eyes to Sam’s face and smiled. “I think this invitation is really meant for you more than me, Samwise. Galadriel thinks very highly of you.”

Sam made no answer, but he had gone rather pale. “How about a mug of tea, Mr. Frodo?”  he said at last.  Without waiting for an answer he went over to the fireplace and busied himself pouring water into the teapot.  Frodo stood in the middle of the room, the invitation hanging from his hand, watching Sam in perplexity. There was a sudden crash as a mug slipped from Sam’s hand and shattered on the stone hearth.

Frodo moved then, going to Sam and drawing him away from where he was trying to pick up the broken pieces with clumsy hands. “Leave it, Sam!” he admonished.  “Here now, sit down and tell me what’s the matter.”  He pushed Sam into a chair and handed him a mug of tea, then poured another for himself.

“All right, Samwise -- out with it.  You look as if you’d seen a wraith, but why?”

Sam took a long swallow of tea.  “Nothing for you to look so worried about, Mr. Frodo,”  he said with an attempt at a laugh.  “Just what is this Regatta we’re invited to?”  As he had intended, the question distracted Frodo.

“It’s a gathering of boats from all over the island, Sam.  They sail out together at sunset,  in all directions, like the rays of the sun.  And each boat is lighted from end to end with colored lanterns, only each one has lanterns all the same color – gold, blue, green, or white.  When the moon comes up, they race back to the island, and the first boat of each color that reaches the island is the leader for that color. As the other boats get back, they fall in place behind their leaders and the lines of boats sail round and round the island,  weaving in and out  so the  different  colored lights make patterns in the dark.”  

He broke off, chuckling. “One year there was a collision, and Elrond’s boat capsized. So Elrond and a dozen others were swimming around in the dark, and the other boats going every which way trying to pick them up – the amazing thing was that none of them rammed each other in the melee!  Oh, but Elrond was angry!”

Sam regarded him with horror. “A good thing you weren’t in Elrond’s boat, Mr. Frodo!”

 “Well...  actually,  I was!  I hadn’t swum a stroke since I was a lad at Brandy Hall, but I remembered how to swim in a hurry, believe me!  But that was just the one time, Sam.  It never happened again –  they rehearse ahead of time now, to prevent accidents.”

He was pacing around the room, his face glowing, bursting to share his excitement with Sam.  “All the while they’re sailing, there’s singing, too -- a singer on each boat.  They prepare all year for this, you know, and every year the songs are new, written just for the Regatta.  All the singers for each color  take a different part of the harmony.  Oh, Sam, it’s wonderful!  Galadriel’s boat is sure to be one of the leaders, so we’ll be right at the front.  Just wait – you’ve never seen anything like the Regatta!” 

 He fell silent, lost in memories -- bright ribbons of light that wove ever-changing patterns through the darkness, jewel-like  lanterns reflecting in the black water, waves of music rolling out over the sea.  A great circling web of sound and color, with himself and the Elves caught up in the circle and moving with it, and over their heads the glorious full moon of autumn sailing across the sky.  And this year Sam would be there too!  His happiness felt almost too great to bear, and a deep thankfulness came over him.

“And then what, Mr. Frodo?   How long does it last?”  Sam asked.  Frodo blinked, recalled to the present moment.

 “It goes on all night, Sam; until dawn.  And there’s feasting too. Sometimes the music changes to  two part harmony, and  then everyone on the boats that are silent  can eat, and toast the ones who are singing.   When the sun comes up there’s a last song to welcome her: that song is the same every year, and everyone sings. Then the boats come back to the harbor, and they’re put in dry dock for the winter.   The Regatta is for all the little boats that belong to the island, the ones that don’t go out in the winter storms.”

Sam listened  in growing dismay. This plainly was a highpoint of the year on Tol Eressea, a celebration that could not be avoided without giving offense.  And it means a lot to Mr. Frodo,  he thought. He’s that happy to get this invitation!

 He sipped his tea, remembering the ten-day voyage that had brought him to Eressea.  Only his deep longing for Frodo had gotten him onto the Elven ship, and only the prospect of seeing his master again had sustained him during the voyage.  And that had been a full-sized ship, not a tiny yacht built for speed!  Sam, in all his long life, had never lost his fear of boats.

He was surprised at Frodo’s enthusiasm for this Regatta – especially after the near-disaster with Elrond’s boat! Hobbits as a rule disliked the water.  But there, Frodo had grown up beside the Brandywine; he’d spent his childhood boating on the river with his Brandybuck cousins. Frodo had never feared the water.

“Sam?”  Frodo’s voice broke in on his thoughts. “Are you all right?”

Sam shook himself mentally and forced a smile. “Yes, I’m all right, Mr. Frodo.  I think I’ll go have a lie-down, if you don’t mind. This rain pouring down all day wears me out, somehow.”

Leaving Frodo staring after him, Sam set down his mug and retreated to his bedroom.  He did not lie down on the bed, but drew a chair over to the carved footboard and sat down before it.  He looked again at the pictures of himself -- fighting Shelob, with  Frodo on Mt. Doom, rescuing Frodo from the orc tower. Here were some of the most terrifying moments of his life.  

Although if Frodo had known, he could have added another picture: Sam in the small Elven boat on the River Anduin. To Sam’s mind that trip down the river, endless days in a frail cockleshell on the water, had been as bad as the long dark of Moria. Except the Balrog, of course. Worse things had come later on, to be sure; but  his fear during that river journey had been very real.

And it was all so long ago.  He had not thought  to find his courage tested again, here  in Eressea.  He shuddered, thinking of Frodo overboard, struggling in the dark water. What if he had drowned, and Sam had come to Eressea to find him dead already, like Mr.  Bilbo --?  Sam drove that thought back.  Frodo had not  drowned, he was right in the next room, up on end with excitement at the thought of another boat ride!

Sam sat alone most of the afternoon, wrestling with his fear. Frodo would not insist that he take part in the Regatta, he knew that, but neither would Frodo go without him. If he refused his place in Galadriel’s boat, Frodo, too, would stay ashore.  

He stared at the carved pictures. Those had been deadly dangers, but he had found the courage to meet them for Frodo’s sake. To spend a night sailing around Eressea on a little boat  (even the fastest boat on the island, he recalled with a shiver) --  that was no real danger at all.  Even if the boat capsized, he could hold onto the side, couldn’t he?  He felt a wave of self-disgust at his faintheartedness. After all his adventures, to still be afraid of the water! 

He’d bring no honor to Frodo, if he refused to go. Whatever his master might think, the Lady’s invitation was surely a tribute to him, more than to Samwise.  Frodo had been the Ringbearer, when all was said and done. 

In the end, his love for his master won out.  Frodo was pleased  beyond words at this invitation, anyone could see that.  Sam would do nothing to dampen his joy, not if he had to sail to Valinor in a washtub!  A leaky washtub!  With this thought, he got up and set the chair back in its place against the wall. Squaring his shoulders, he stepped back into the outer room. 

“Well, Mr. Frodo, what do you say to a bit of supper? ” he asked cheerfully.

Frodo looked up from his carving. “That would be fine, Sam,” he said, but  as Sam moved around the room preparing the meal, Frodo watched him with lingering concern, wondering why he didn’t look more rested from his long nap.

“Maybe you’d better teach me that song, Mr. Frodo. The one we’ll be singing, when the sun comes up.”

Frodo had finally finished the carving he’d been working on.  He leaned it up against the mantel shelf and stood back with his hands in his pockets, looking it over critically.  It wasn’t bad, he thought.  He’d caught a sense of movement in the sails of the Elven ship, but best of all he’d caught the expression on Sam’s face. Sam stood at the gangway hanging onto the rail, just before he stepped ashore onto Eressea, and his face blazed with joy like a lighted candle. Frodo smiled, remembering.  He wondered what his own face had looked like at that moment.  A mirror image of Sam’s, probably.

Samwise came in from the garden with a head of lettuce in each hand. “Well, we can have salad one more day, Mr. Frodo, but that’s about the end of the garden for this year.  That frost last night finished everything else.  It’s nice and warm this morning, though.”

His eyes fell on the carving, and he laid the lettuce down on a chair, taking the wooden  plaque in his hands. “So this is what you’ve been working on so secret!”  He carried it over to the window and held it to the light. 

“You get better with every piece you do, Mr. Frodo.  You need to find a new model, though -- you’ve done about enough pictures of me.”

Frodo laughed, taking the plaque from Sam and setting it back on the mantel. “ I had to do this one, Sam. Galadriel requested it – she said your face when you landed was ‘the most gladsome sight she’d seen in a long age of the world’, and she never wanted to forget it.  What’s more, I agree with her.”

“Well, I was happy enough to see you, Mr. Frodo!  And I’ve been happy every day since.”   He gathered up his lettuce from the chair and carried it to the larder. “We’ve got a nice morning for a walk, should you want to take one, Mr. Frodo.”

“Yes, I do.  We still haven’t been over to the south end, and there’s something there I want you to see. We’d better go today, before we get another week of rain!”

They started out right after breakfast, setting a good pace until they reached the dunes and were slowed by walking in the loose sand. After two months on Eressea, Sam was far stronger than he had been, and the hike was a pleasure to him.  From time to time there was a break in the dunes and they got glimpses of the sea, a deeper blue now that autumn was here.  A honking of geese broke the quiet as they turned away inland, and the ragged flight formation passed above them.

By the time the sun was well overhead, they had come to the edge of a wide field.  Pale seedheads of grass and clouds of fairy asters came up to their waists as they waded into it.  In the middle of the field rose a mighty tree, a lone monarch in a sea of grass, its leaves gleaming golden in the sun.  Halfway across the field, Sam realized what it was. He stopped and stared in disbelief.

 "But Mr. Frodo, it's a mallorn!  A mallorn tree!"

His blank astonishment set Frodo laughing.  "Yes, Sam, it’s a mallorn.  Why, did you think the Shire had the onlymallornwest of the mountains?  Galadriel brought the seed with her when we came, and she planted it here so she'd always have a little piece of Lothlorien."  After a pause, he continued thoughtfully, "But you know, it's a little piece of the Shire too, now.  I used to come here often and sit under it, especially when I missed the Shire.  Missed you, old friend."

Suddenly his face was very sober.  "It nearly killed me to leave, Sam, after you stuck with me all that way.  I never would have got to the Mountain without you, and I certainly would never have made it back home! You were the real hero of the tale.  And then I go off and leave you!  Oh, I felt like a traitor!  But I felt a black traitor anyway -- when the final test came, I  claimed the Ring, and nothing can change that. If it hadn’t been for Smeagol...." 

He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "I used to wake up at night, thinking about it.  If  Smeagol hadn't taken it from me, what then?  I know I couldn't have thrown it into the Fire.  The only way would have been to throw myself in, Ring and all. I wonder if I could have done it?"

Sam stared at him in horrified pity, then reached out and gathered him into a massive hug.  "Mr. Frodo!  My word, Mr. Frodo!  No wonder you had to leave, if that’sthe way you were thinking.  And not thinking clear, mind you!  Because you weren't in your right mind, so to speak, by the time we got to the Mountain, and it's no use to say any different."

He held Frodo at arm's length. "But there, you would go and torment yourself for it, all the same. It's the way you are, and I love you for it.  But never a word to me!  All I knew, you were going off to the Havens because your shoulder pained you, that old wound from the morgul blade."  He shook his head.  "I never could fathom why you left.  It never seemed like enough of a reason, if you take my meaning.

"Well, now I understand, anyway.  If you'll pardon me saying so, Mr. Frodo, you think too much!  You're not still tormenting yourself that way, are you?"

Frodo laughed in spite of himself.  "What, by thinking?  No, Sam, not anymore.  Not since -- well, I had a visitor one day.  Under the mallorn, in fact.  I was sitting in there -- come on, let's get under there, it's like a room, all cool and shady.  You'll like it.  We can talk there."

He pushed through the tall grass in a burst of speed that quickly left Sam behind.  Sam panted along in his wake, quite unable to keep up.  When Frodo reached the tree he looked back to see Sam still a good twenty yards behind,  plodding along  clutching his side.

"Oh Sam, I’m sorry!"  He hurried back to offer his arm, but  Samwise shook off the proffered help impatiently.

"That's all right, Mr. Frodo.  I can walk all right; I just can't run.  You may not be immortal here, but you haven't aged any, that's certain!"

Frodo chuckled and kept pace beside him.  When they reached the tree he held one of the low branches aside so Sam could pass under it without ducking.  "Here you are, Sam.  How do you like my parlor?"

Samwise looked round in delight.  The silver trunk of the mallorn rose like a great pillar from the grass. The branches sprang from the trunk many yards above their heads,  a high ceiling of interlacing  silver that came down  around them like a tent, nearly touching the ground at its farthest tip.  The room so enclosed was large and full of diffused golden light.

"Stars and glory, Mr. Frodo!  This is something like!  I'm only surprised you don't set up housekeeping in here entirely, and leave the hole behind. Though I suppose it would be a bit damp in the rain."

He sank to the ground, leaning against the massive tree trunk and stretching out his legs thankfully.  "Ah, that's better!  Now all we need  is a cool drink and a bite to eat, and we could stop righthere the rest of the afternoon.  Have a bit of a nap, maybe, when we get done talking, and walk back in the sunset.  We should’ve brought our lunch, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo smiled and turned out his pockets, producing  two water bottles and several packets of food.  "There you go, Sam!  And that's not water in those bottles, that's good Elvish wine.  Would I take you hiking over the island and not bring anything to eat?  Give me credit for a little hobbit-sense!"

They fell to as if they hadn't eaten a large breakfast a couple of hours earlier, and nothing more was said for half an hour.  At last Samwise sat back, stoppered his bottle, and ran the back of his hand across his mouth.  "Much better,”  he said.  "Now let's see what I have in my pockets."  He pulled out two pipes and a soft leather pouch.

"Sam Gamgee, you villain!  I haven't smoked a pipe since I left the Shire, and you've had these in your pocket ever since you got here, and never said a word!"

Sam laughed and shrugged, handing him the pouch and one of the pipes.

"To own the truth,  I'd forgotten them till just now.  But a pipe goes well after a good meal, and with a good talk.  And I want to hear about that visitor of yours, Mr. Frodo.  Sounds to me like he did you more good than Gandalf and all the Elves, and I want to know what he did to put you right again.  For you're all right now, sir, as right as anyone ever could be."

Frodo filled his pipe and lit it, taking his time.  Finally he said,  "Well, Sam, I don't know just how to tell you about him.  The whole thing was very strange.  He was a man, to start with -- and you know, they don't come to Eressea.  Not ever, yet here he was, and he knew all about me.  And I told him everything;  I just broke down completely.  And Sam, I'd never even seen him before, I have no idea where he came from.  And I haven't seen him since."

They smoked in silence for a while, and Sam waited.

"Well, I asked him who he was, and he said he was a physician, come to heal me.  And then I saw his hands!  He had these awful open wounds on his hands, not healed at all, as if -- I don't know, spikes or something had been driven through them.  There's some Elven tale, remember?  about an Elven lord who was tormented by Morgoth, chained to a cliff and a spike driven through his hand?  That's what his hands looked like, only it was both hands, and anyway he certainly wasn't an Elf.

"I asked him about the wounds, and he said he had fulfilled a Quest, a Quest to  ‘banish evil out of the hearts of his children’. That's how he put it, ‘the hearts of his children’, and then he said he was Iluvatar's Son.  Have you ever heard of Iluvatar, Sam?"

Sam nodded, puffing on his pipe.

"Yes, Mr. Frodo, I have.  In Minas Tirith it was, when I was there with Rose and Elanor.  Queen Arwen was telling me some Elvish legend, how that Iluvatar, or maybe his Son, would enter right into creation and set things right.  Put an end to evil, I guess you'd say.  Someday.  Iluvatar, that's the Elvish name for Eru, the One.  But the time seems all wrong, Mr. Frodo.  Everything was peaceful and that, when I left the Shire, but I wouldn't say that evil had been driven from the world. Not yet."

"No,"  Frodo agreed.  "But that's what he said.  And then, I can't describe it.  His face got bright, brighter than the sun, and he said that whatever I had done wrong, or hadn't done that I should have, it was forgiven.  It was like he just looked right inside me, and all of a sudden I felt clean through and through, and so happy I could have flown off into the sky like a bird!"

 He stopped and looked at Samwise in some embarrassment.  "You must think I've gone crazy, Sam."

Sam shook his head and smiled.  "It's the right kind of crazy then, Mr. Frodo.  You still look about happy enough to fly away.  Don't you do it though, not without me!  I don't want to go through that again."

Frodo laughed, then sobered.  "There's more, Sam.  He said -- well, he said he had been with us on all our journey. Even though we didn't know it, and it got me thinking. Why did the Eagles come just when they did, just in time to rescue us from the Fire?  Or way back in the beginning, when Gildor and his Elves came along just in time to drive away the Black Rider?  Or Tom Bombadill, down by the Withywindle the very day we needed him, when he wouldn't be there again till spring?  There were so many times when it seemed like someone was helping us, protecting us."

"Mmm-hmm."  Sam nodded, considering.  "Or how about this, Mr. Frodo. You probably don't remember, you were that far gone, but on the side of Mt. Doom.  I was carrying you, and halfway up my back just gave way.  We were lying there resting, and suddenly it was like someone called us, said  'Get up, go on, or it’ll  be too late!'  You felt it too, you got up right away, same as me.  Only, who could have been calling us?  But it was true, right enough!  It would have been too late, if we'd  have rested there much longer."

A sudden memory stirred in Sam, of midnight by a rushing stream and a man with knowing eyes.  He said nothing, but he regarded Frodo thoughtfully.  After a few moments he nodded as if he'd made up his mind. 

"What I think, Mr. Frodo, I think you really did meet Iluvatar's Son, whatever that may mean.  And he healed you.  And I thank him for that, with all my heart."

He fell silent, and for a time all was quiet under the tree.  Finally Frodo knocked the ashes out of his pipe and stood, walking over to look out through the branches.  "There's, well, there was one more thing, Sam."

Samwise had stretched out comfortably on the ground, his now cold pipe cupped in his hand, on the edge of falling asleep.  He opened his eyes and looked at Frodo inquiringly.  Frodo hesitated, his face troubled, and Sam sat up slowly.

"All right, Mr. Frodo.  What's the one more thing?"

"He told me you were coming, Sam.  He - he said that now I was healed, I would have to go home soon.  But I wouldn't have to go alone, because you were coming."  Frodo had been staring out at the field as he spoke.  He turned back now to find Samwise regarding him quizzically, half smiling.

"Home not meaning the Shire, I take it,"  Sam said quietly.  "And you're wondering what I'm going to say to that, me having just got here, so to speak."

Frodo nodded.  He came back and sat beside Samwise.  "I don't really mind, not for myself.  I've been here a long time.  But for you......"  His eyes were sorrowful.

Sam laughed softly and reached out to grip Frodo's shoulder, shaking him gently.  "Mr. Frodo, I'm a hundred and two.  I've had a long, full, life and very few regrets.  And wherever "home" may be, my Rosie girl is there already.

“ I didn't come to  Eressea wanting to be immortal like the Elves;  I came to see you again.  And now I'm sleepy, and begging your pardon, but I'm going to have a nap."   He knocked out his pipe and put it in his pocket.  "And don't you go flying away like a happy bird, either, while I'm asleep, Mr. Frodo!  We'll go together like he said."

He rolled up his jacket and tucked it under his head as he lay back down.  Frodo stretched out  on the ground beside him, his head pillowed on one  arm.  He smiled and reached for Sam’s hand. 

"It's been a long road, hasn't it , Sam?  A long road, and a hard one.  But a good one, in the end.  I'mglad you'll be with me.  I’d been dreading it, going alone."  His eyes closed.  "One more journey together."  His voice was almost too low for Sam to hear.

Sam watched him, wakeful after all, his free hand smoothing Frodo’s hair back from his face.  Frodo's breathing, at first deep and regular, gradually became shallow and slow.  Sam leaned over and looked at him closely, then gently kissed his forehead.  He shifted round to lean his head against Frodo's shoulder, and with a long sigh he closed his eyes. 

"Coming, Mr. Frodo,"  he murmured.

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Notes:  Maedhros was the Elven lord Frodo is referring to.  He was chained to Thangorodrim by Morgoth,  and a spike driven through his hand.  He was rescued by his friend , Fingon, who was forced to cut off his hand in order to free him.  From the Silmarillion.

The legend of how Iluvatar would enter into creation is from the Arthrabeth, the Debate between Finrod and Andreth.

This story has a sequel, Long Home of Mortals, also on this site.