The Westering Sun

Sam always watched the sunsets. If there was a sunset Sam would be outside on the bench, pipe and mug of ale in hand. He knew why he liked to watch until the sun had dipped below the horizon, but it was not something he could put into words, although Rosie, Merry, Pippin and the children understood.

       Sometimes Sam could feel almost philosophical; his time would come, and he had treasures enough in Middle-earth to content any sensible hobbit. However, there were times when he was accutely aware of the hole in his life, so much so that it was almost a pain, like a missing limb. There were days when the memories were so sharp he could hardly bear it, and the only way to cope was to work until he was too exhausted to feel anything. He would creep to the Party Field and lie beneath the mallorn, thinking until he fell into sleep with the sound of the sea in his mind. On days like that he felt he would never be one and whole, as Frodo had wished.

        Yet Frodo had told him he would be whole, when they had parted that day on the shore at the Havens. "Live your life for me, Sam. Do all the things I cannot do, and joy in the doing," Frodo had whispered as he kissed him. "Be happy, my Sam.............."

       Sam swallowed a large gulp of ale, and looked through blurred vision at the great orange ball of the sun. He could hear the children inside as the little ones were prepared for bed, and he smiled fondly. Ellie was bossing them all, as usual, and Merry-lad was stirring the others to the verge of mutiny. Goldie was throwing a tantrum and Rosie-lass sounded querulous and close to shouting, until their mother's voice sounded loudly through the smial and told them all firmly to behave or else. Sam grinned. No-one argued with Rose when she used that tone. He knew that when they were ready they would go to the study, which was just as Frodo had left it, to stand before the portait of their absent uncle and say good-night, as they always did. Ellie had begun the ritual when she was little, struggling to get down as Sam carried her to bed, running into the study and blowing a kiss. "Night-night, Fo!" Sam had wept that night, and a good many times since. The portrait had been done for Frodo's coming-of-age, by an artist from Dale, and captured every bit of Frodo's extraordinary beauty - the delicate bone structure, tumbling glossy dark curls, the arching brows, rosebud mouth, perfect skin and, most importantly, those incredible eyes. They shone with life and impish mischief, bluer than any flowers in the Bag End garden, the colour of a summer sky..........

       Sam did not really remember when he had first seen those eyes, but he remembered the first time he truly noticed them. Frodo had been a frequent visitor to No.3, Bagshot Row, and had met baby Sam only a few weeks after his own parents were drowned. He would help Bell Gamgee with chores and sit rocking the baby on his lap for hours. In Sam's mind he had always been there, like his own family. When Sam was four he had accompanied his father to Bag End to help with the weeding. Even at that age Sam recognised most weeds and was a quiet, well-behaved lad who would not disgrace the Gamgee name. The had worked for a while, Sam toddling to and fro with his little trug and tipping the weeds into his father's barrow, when the door opened and out came his young hero, more like one of the Elves Sam loved to hear about. He was carrying a tray with a jug and three glasses, and he smiled as he saw the two hard-working gardeners, already sweating in the summer heat.

        "Good morning, Mr. Gamgee. Hello, Sam-lad, how are you? My word, you're working hard! I've brought lemonade for you - you look as though you could do with it."

        "Mornin', Mr. Frodo. Thankee, sir, that's mighty welcome, aint it, Sam?" The Gaffer smiled down at his youngest son who was gazing up at Frodo with his mouth open.

       The child started when addressed. "Yes, Dad," he said, blushing a little to be caught staring. Frodo grinned.

       "Can I help you, Sam?" he asked, crouching down to look into Sam's face. "Bilbo's busy and I'd like to try my hand at gardening." Sam's eyes grew round with wonder and, Frodo thought, some horror.

        "It's not a job for you, Mr. Frodo! You'll spoil your lovely clothes and get all dirty!" The chubby, sun-browned little face was full of dismay at the prospect. Frodo laughed at this, showing the gap in his front teeth which added to his charm, and gathered Sam in for a hug.

       "These old clothes? They're not my best things, dear lad, and I've a mind to get dirty today."

       Sam could smell the soap from Frodo's bath as he pressed his face against the teenager's neck. When he pulled back slightly and looked at Frodo he found himself staring again. Frodo's eyes seemed to fill his whole vision; he had never noticed how blue they were, and he found himself looking up at the sky and back into those eyes to compare the colour.

       The Gaffer looked almost as doubtful as his son, but he remembered that this particular week was about the time of year when Frodo's parents had drowned in a terrible accident four years before. Perhaps it would be good for the lad to do something to take his mind off such a sad time. Working in a garden in the peace of a summer day was the most soothing activity Hamfast could think of.

       "Well sir, if you really want to do something..........I don't suppose Mr. Bilbo will mind. Sam, why don't you show Mr. Frodo those roses what need dead-heading? P'raps you can sweep up the fallen petals for him?"

       Sam's face lit up. "Can I, Dad? I'll be very good, I promise. Come along, Mr. Frodo, I'll show you..........."

       Clutching Frodo's long fingers in his plump hand, Sam trundled off round the side of the house, Frodo walking obediently behind, ruffling Sam's fair curls. Sam was overjoyed to be spending time in his favourite place with his Mr. Frodo. Every so often he would look up and try to catch a glimpse of those lustrous eyes; all of Frodo's soul was visible there, innocent yet wise, vulnerable but strong.

       They worked together, laughing and talking, Frodo telling stories of Elves and dragons, until the sun was low in the sky, only pausing for meals and a sit in the shade. Sam thought he had never passed a more perfect day before or since, for the sharp clarity of sensation and the sheer joy of living flowing through him, and sometimes he wondered if Frodo felt the same.

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       Those eyes. Sam remembered his terror on the way to Rivendell from Weathertop, watching those limpid pools become dull and clouded, the whites frighteningly bloodshot. He had never known such fear as he experienced then, out in the wild, watching Frodo's agony and distress and not being able to stop it. His relief in Rivendell had been proportionate to the horror; seeing Frodo sitting up and smiling at him, feeling the warmth flowing through those long, scholar's fingers. He thought of all the other times on the Quest when Frodo's eyes had begun to reveal the inner torment of bearing that thing - the crazed rage when he thought Sam meant to take it, and the self-revulsion which followed and was far worse. The dull acceptance that everything was hopeless, and that moment on the side of Mount Doom when he saw his master was himself again, worn and shattered but no longer crazy with that voice in his head and the wheel of fire round his neck. Most of all he remembered the sad, gentle acceptance of himself as a sacrifice for the Shire and Middle-earth: ".........when things are in danger: someone has to give them up so that others may keep them. All that I had and might have had I leave to you." All that I might have had.............Sam burned with resentment sometimes when he thought how much Frodo had given up to keep everyone safe in their snug little world. He wanted to stand in Hobbiton square and shout at everyone. He knew what they said about Frodo behind his back; they certainly didn't dare say it to his face, or anywhere in earshot of the Master and the Thain, but he knew, and sometimes part of him felt they had deserved to be shaken out of their complacency by Saruman and his thugs. Frodo would not have thought like that though, so Sam choked down his anger and tried to be philosophical about things. Folk didn't change and it was no use wishing otherwise. Sometimes he read things to them out of the Red Book but mostly he kept his thoughts to himself. Some things were too big to even think about...........

       Sam puffed more strongly on his pipe and watched the sun slide behind the hills, and he sent his usual message with it as it passed into the West: Tell him I'll come to him one day. Doesn't matter how far he goes, I'll always follow. I love him, and no amount of distance and time is going to change that.

       "Dad?" Young Fro's voice, tentative and concerned. "Are you alright?"

       Sam looked at his son's face and smiled shakily. "Aye lad, I'm fine. Just..........remembering."

       "Does it ever get any easier, Dad?" The boy sat beside his father and leaned into the familiar embrace. He was sixteen now, a tall and handsome lad with Rose's honey coloured hair and his father's hazel eyes.

        Sam looked thoughtful. "It's like a scar, son. Sometimes it doesn't hurt much and sometimes it throbs and burns until I don't know what to do. But I have you and your Mum and your brothers and sisters, and you make everything better. I know that one day I'll go to find him, but that day is a long way off, and I would never leave you and your Mum, now would I?"

       "Do mortals live forever in the Undying Lands?"

       "No, but they probably live a lot longer than they would here. He'll wait for me - he told me my time would come, so he'll wait. I hope he's well now and healed of all his hurts, although perhaps we'll both only be completely healed when we find each other again. The stories go on, lad."

       "Stories are supposed to have happy endings," young Frodo sniffed, fumbling for his handkerchief.

       "And I daresay this one does really. I have a family I love and a beautiful home, and the best garden in the Shire. That's a good deal more than most can say. I have the respect and love of the Shire-folk, and the King of Gondor himself thinks your old dad to be wise enough to be one of his counsellors. Besides, the story hasn't ended yet. The road goes ever on and on, Mr Bilbo used to say." He kissed his son's cheek and held him close. "Come on, or your Mum'll be fretting and supper will be spoilt."

       They walked toward the house and in through the round, green door to a warm welcome and the smell of cooking, but as he shut the door Sam thought he could hear the cry of gulls and the creak of ship's rigging under sail.  

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