Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I‘m only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical worlds.

For Golden, based on an idea by Rhapsody over on LOTR_Community_GFIC

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Took, the Terrible!

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Pippin knew he was a mass murderer, but he didn’t care.

“Take that!” he hissed fiercely, swiping at an unsuspecting life form.

Red fluid dribbled down his fingers.

“And that!”

The blood of another innocent victim crossed his palm and he knew only delicious satisfaction as its existence abruptly ceased.

Merry watched him impassively and Pippin, taking his cousin’s inaction as full permission to continue with his deadly work, smashed into another tiny figure. It was crushed before it could so much as protest at the treatment.

The future Thain of the Shire glowered at them hatefully, wishing they would all just die, die, DIE! His revulsion at every breath they took was all-encompassing and he stabbed at another, sundering spirit from form for all eternity.

“When I’m the Thain,” he told Merry passionately, “I will lead a battalion of hobbits out here and we’ll wipe them off the face of Middle Earth!”

He wiped his bloody hands on his breeches and Merry rolled his eyes in disgust.

Pippin’s foes were beginning to take a stand against the mass extermination, incensed at the loss of their kin. They launched an all out attack on the rampaging hobbit, throwing themselves at him in wave after wave of righteous fury. But the Took pulled his sword from its sheath and began smiting them in their droves. Dozens fell, lifeless, to the ground. They would never stir again and he exulted wildly at their destruction.

“You’ll need to do much better than that!” he crowed victoriously. “You’re little match for me, but please, do continue to try. Watching your worthless forms gasp their last is a pleasure beyond measure!”

He sneered at their pathetic attempts to defeat him and, catching sight of a burning log by the feeble fire, decided to have a little more fun at their expense. Lifting the glowing stick, the Took shoved the red hot end of it amidst the frenzy of his foes and squealed with delight as their flesh melted. The stench was nauseating and he breathed of it deeply, thrilled to know that he - and he alone - had caused such devastation.

“Do you see what I can do?” he gloated at Merry, who was covering his mouth and nose to minimise the penetrating reek of roasting corpses.

“Yes,” his cousin mumbled in disgust through his fingers. “And I wish you wouldn’t.”

Pippin was dumbfounded. “What? You’re not feeling sorry for them, are you?”

Merry glared at him. “I’m feeling sorry for my nose,” came his muffled reply. “I’m weak enough with their draining every last drop of blood from me, without you adding the stink of fried flesh to the mix!”

The tweenager was livid at the lack of support and opened his mouth wide to voice a scathing retort when an enemy honed in with the accuracy of a woodland elf. Staggering, he grasped at his throat in horror as he flailed about the reeds, choking and spluttering. His agony was eternal, or so it seemed: it was a full minute before he was able to recover himself after the near deadly attack.

Finally, gasping and coughing, with fat tears leaking from his eyes, he collapsed beside his reposing cousin.

“Merry,” Pippin squeaked in shock.

“What?”

“I think I swallowed one.”

“Well, at least that will teach you to keep your mouth shut as long as we’re still in the Midgewater Marshes.”

Huffing in annoyance at the lack of sympathy from his Buckland kin, the tweenager stood up and left him to take a seat next to Frodo, where he could glower at the Brandybuck in safety. At least a Baggins could always be counted on to act with proper decorum!

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Author's Note: Please note that the blood the midges shed is Pip's - I don't mean to insinuate he bled by the gallon and I know it would take thousands of midges burning at the same time to create such a stench (as one individual pointed out elsewhere). This is just a bit of fun.

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I’m not getting paid for this in any way and am only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical worlds.

Credit: www.bbc.co.uk/gardening/plants www.Northamptonshire.co.uk/gardening/septdiary2004 www.telegraph.co.uk/gardening/howtogrow/3337816/On-the-spot-the-best-white-flowers-for-shade

Dedication: A little bit of gardening angst for Antane.

A Gardener’s Lament

Hobbiton, 1421 Shire Reckoning

It was the start of a warm, sunny September and Samwise Gamgee was in a bit of a reflective mood as he knelt in the garden of Bag End to take stock of the summer blooms.

An infant’s cooing floated towards him from the direction of kitchen window, making him smile. Frodo had sole care of Elanor for an hour or two while Rosie went to the market for supplies with her mother - a duty which his dear friend adored. The Hobbit babe was one of the few people who could elicit a smile of genuine happiness from him these days and he was often to be found cradling her in his arms on the garden bench of an afternoon, enjoying the beauty of the day from a nicely shaded spot while he told her stories of Elves, Men and affable Dwarves. In the evening, he would sing her lullabies in the sitting room before Rosie whisked her off to bed. These were the moments the gardener lived for: to see his master so content was almost worth the worry of fretting over his declining health - for it was plain for any fool to see that the Master of Bag End was not faring well.

Enough of that! Sam dispersed his sudden melancholy with a vigorous shake of his head and returned his attention to the soil beds at the rear of the garden.

Frodo would be fine, he just knew it. His friend hadn’t survived the horrors of Ring-bearing to succumb to the taunts of dark dreams!

His practised eye swept over the shady borders of the garden and he suddenly wished it were spring, so he could see the funnel-shaped flowers of Oliphaunts Ears. Their cheery name and pleasing shape reminded him of one of the nicer parts of the quest and the magnificence of the creatures they took their name from. For the moment, their beds were occupied by some colourful flowering asters whose lilac-blue, daisy-like petals were put into sharp contrast by the dark green leaves on their stems. At the edge of the garden, near the base of a little wall, rose-pink amaryllis proudly displayed their trumpet-like petals. Both these plants would fare well for a while yet and, satisfied, Sam moved further on.

Ah, the coneflower. He knelt down again and fingered some of the purple, pink and white petals; all were showing the droop of lost youth. Time to divide them. Gently digging the soil from their bases, he exposed the undersides and gently lifted them from the ground, taking care not to damage the root systems. After dividing each plant into several portions, Sam dug over the original sites before replanting the newer divisions, leaving enough room between each to allow them to grow. He discarded the old, woody centres on to the compost heap and, brushing off his hands, turned to admire his work. There, that was much better! Out with the old, in with new - that was the way of nature after all.

The sound of an Elvish song drifted through the air: Frodo was singing Elanor into her afternoon nap. Sam sighed. He was worried that the other Hobbit hadn’t left the Smial to sit on the garden bench with her as usual, but, truth be told, he hadn’t done that for over a week, which was becoming a cause for concern to him.

Not that he would let it show. If Frodo suspected Sam was beginning to lose sleep with worry over his friend’s health, it would distress the elder Hobbit, and that just wouldn’t do at all. He was pale and sickly enough as it was, without adding another burden to him.

Sam blinked rapidly. What was wrong with him? His master was alive! He had survived a horrific ordeal and was now back home where he belonged, cradling his dearest friend’s daughter and soothing her with sweet song - he should be happy. But he couldn’t shake the creeping feeling of dread that was burgeoning in his heart, like dandelions invading the flower beds and pathway.

He took a deep, cleansing breath and forced his chin up. There now Samwise Gamgee! No need to be occupying your mind with wild imaginings, when you should be occupying it with the autumn beds instead! Resolving to lose himself no further in gloomy thoughts, he marched towards the marigolds. Their sunny colour always cheered him up. The yellow flowers remained vibrant for the moment, so he wouldn’t have to worry about removing any fading blooms until later that month.

Satisfied, Sam moved to the roses. His beloved wife had been named for these blossoms and several graced the garden of Bag End. Velvety red, pink and yellow petals seduced eye and nose with their summer finery and he delighted at the sight of them. They were his favourite flower: elegant, understated, yet bold and vibrant - sort of like his master. He caressed the flowers lovingly, before checking for fading blooms. Spotting a few, he removed a pair of scissors from the deep pocket of his overall and began to prune the branches with sharp cuts that slanted away from any remaining buds, removing additional branches that may cause congestion before securing the new shoots with string. This occupied him for almost an hour; inspecting, cutting, removing, tying and by the time he was finished, he was very well satisfied. He mulched the beds with some well-rotted fertiliser from the local Hobbiton farms, thankful that the plants were not too near the actual Smial itself. It wouldn’t do to put him off his dinner, after all.

Gathering his scissors and string, Sam dusted himself off intending to head for the vegetable patch. As he passed by the rosebushes he had already seen to, he caught sight of a bush he had neglected. Approaching it, his found his gaze inexplicably transfixed by the ivory flowers; the clustered blooms of each branch sporting a delicate apricot centre. They had weathered the hot summer well and he inhaled deeply of their honeyed fragrance. He reached a hand out to touch one, but it hovered in mid air, refusing to go any further.

They were so pure, so ethereal, so very frail. They may have weathered the warmer elements, but autumn would soon be arriving, depriving the blossoms of the heat they enjoyed and then winter would follow - to deprive them of the remaining light. Their petals would inevitably wither and fall, leaving the branches naked and cold.

A pang of sorrow, so acute that it robbed him of breath, flooded him, causing the scissors and string to fall from his grip.

Why? Why?

The single word rebounded through his head and he fell to his knees; great, fat tears of despair leaking from his eyes. It wasn’t fair! Hadn’t he tended them well? Didn’t he nurture the delicate blooms, cherish their purity, guard their innocence fiercely as he would guard his own child? He fought desperately to control his sobs as the ivory blossoms seemed to glow at him with a brilliant, white light.

Just like Frodo.

Because, no matter what he did, Sam knew that his gardener’s touch could not save his master. Frodo’s innocence was gone, lost on the long, painful trek from Crickhollow to Mount Doom. The joyful laugh that used to resound in Bag End’s halls was now little more than a mockery, a ghost of the past. His insatiable desire for knowledge of the world outside the Shire’s borders had been replaced by a quiet acceptance of its cruelties and an almost obsessive desire to write of them to the exclusion of all other activities. Indeed, were it not for Elanor, the Hobbit would spend most of his time locked in the study and Sam’s concern would be allowed to grow unchecked by the occasional sighting of him.

The roses were oblivious to his grief, of course, but the sight of their apparent indifference to it caused a swelling of anger in the miserable gardener and he reached out to them in uncharacteristic fury, ripping the blooms from their branches as if the very sight of them was responsible for his own woes.

“Useless, stupid, crawling things!” he spat, face glowing with passion. Why should they be allowed to flourish while his master slowly faded? They might cast their petals in the colder seasons, but their glowing vitality would be in evidence again come spring.

The same couldn’t be said about his master.

For Sam was beginning to doubt that Frodo would live to see this time next year. The last anniversary had taken a terrible toll on him and the ailing Hobbit had needed weeks to recover afterwards. It was now only a month until the next one. Would he survive that? Would Sam and Rosie’s loving ministrations pull him safely through the terrors that lurked in the recesses of his mind, ever ready to strike, always happy to hurt? Could Sam himself bear to see the shivering, sweating form of his master in the small hours of the night, deliriously striking out at unseen demons and begging for his friend’s help? It destroyed a part of the gardener’s soul each time he witnessed it, the hollow feeling of utter helplessness was crippling.

A joyful giggle shattered his moment of sorrow and, spell broken, Sam ceased his demolition of the rambling rose bush, looking at the destruction he had wrought in disbelief. He had managed to rip a goodly amount of blooms from the bush in his fury and it lacked the appeal it boasted minutes before. Wounded branches, snapped in half by the gardener’s violent tugs, swayed gently and petals were strewn over the grass, stained with fat blobs of red.

Frowning, he brought his hands up to eye level and saw that they had been viciously scratched by the bush’s many thorny protrusions. Wincing, he pulled a few remnant thorns from his fingers and palms and wrapped a clean handkerchief around the worst of them on his left hand.

He knew it had been a foolish thing to do, ripping at his lovely roses, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. It was difficult getting up every day, putting his best smile on and pretending that everything was going to be all right. Perhaps he was fooling himself: Frodo might never get better. But the thought of losing his friend was infinitely worse than the trek to Mordor had ever been; worse than watching him claim the One Ring at the Crack of Doom. What would he do without him if he didn’t recover? Would his Rosie be enough to heal the void his master left behind if Frodo died?

Leaning back on his heels, he surveyed the ruined bush. The damage was great, but not irreparable. With some selective pruning and a lot of love, the blossoms would flourish and grow again.

Why couldn’t he do that for Frodo?

“A garden can be a thing of great beauty, my lad. But even the best gardener can’t make it do things that goes against nature. A rose won‘t bloom in winter, after all.”

The Gaffer’s words to him when he first saw the splendour of Bag End’s blossoms came rushing back to him.

Was that the problem? Was the Shire, once the Spring of Frodo’s life, now his Winter? Did he need to be planted in warmer climates, richer soil?

And did Sam have the heart to uproot him and send him safely packaged on his way to this far green land?

Wiping the angry tears off his face, he started to gather the ruined flowers that lay scattered around him and picked himself up, placing the dead blooms on the compost heap.

He would not give in to the inevitable just yet. As long as he had breath in his body, Samwise Gamgee would offer his ivory rose warmth and light. He would prune it, mulch it and watch it flourish and grow - or else he would turn his back on his beloved craft forever.

After all, any gardener that couldn’t make a rose bloom each year, wasn’t worth his weight in fertiliser.

And with that, he walked to the vegetable patch to pick some tomatoes for his dinner.

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Author’s Note: This is wildly new territory for me as I know absolutely nothing about plants and gardens other than what I have extrapolated from the above websites. Any errors in the portrayal of them such as type, best conditions to grow, etc are purely my own and I freely hold my hands up in admitting to them. I have not given ‘secateurs’ their proper name in this fic, merely because I don’t believe they would have been known as such in the Shire (it seems a bit French to me and I’ve never heard of a French Hobbit before). Other than that, I hope you enjoy! 

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. Not me. I’m not getting paid for this in any way and am only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical worlds.

Redemption

‘Tis a strange thing to see one’s life flash before one’s eyes.

'Tis a feeling I have experienced before, though not with such finality. This time shall be the last. Every fibre of my wounded body tells me this and the Orc arrows that protrude so mockingly from my chest confirm it.

I am dying.

The cries of the little ones resound through the air, but my failing form will allow me to do naught to answer their desperate calls. They are captives now and I find myself wishing my little friends the mercy of a swift death, rather than suffer agonies untold at the hands of the Enemy.

Oh, the pain! ‘Tis a merciless force that leaves me gasping for the breath my ruined lungs will scarce allow me. I bid my disappearing friends farewell for ever as my body falls against a tree, powerless to support the weight it once carried without thought.

I have failed them both.

Nay, I have failed all of them: the Fellowship, my people, my kin - and I yearn for the sanctuary of death as the Ring-bearer‘s look of betrayal comes once again to my mind‘s eye. 'Twould be an agony beyond endurance to live with the knowledge that I am a traitor to the People of the West.

What would my father say now if he knew that his favoured child was devoid of the honour of his proud ancestors? That I had been the instigator of the Hobbit’s flight from the security of the Fellowship?

For I know Frodo has fled.

I saw it in his eyes as he flew from my fevered grasp not minutes ago. I have shattered his trust in the goodwill of my people and he roams undefended on the banks of the Anduin with a weapon that may now fall into the Enemy’s hands without the protection of the Fellowship. He will die and my people will fall because their Lord failed in his sworn duty. The reality of what I have done shames me more than anything else that has passed in my life.

Once, Boromir of Gondor was a proud and noble man: a warrior who fought to rid Middle Earth of the blight of Darkness, but now?

Now I am naught but a shell of the noble line of Stewards. No longer a bastion of honour, a defender of the weak. Nay, now I am a pillar of infidelity, an agent of weakness who spreads distrust and fear amongst his friends and tries to crush the innocence of the smallest in our Company.

Death, take me now! Why do you linger so when I am eager to taste your embrace? Show me the mercy of oblivion that other mortals have ever feared, for I offer myself to you freely! Why has your presence not blessed me with its touch? Must I endure knowledge of my actions beyond this day?

I cannot.

The wind stirs the leaves that lay on the forest floor and I watch them flutter past with my fading vision as I remember times of old.

Forgive me, Faramir, for my weakness. Though I yearn to be at your side once more, stilling the terrible momentum of the Enemy towards our City, I fear I am no longer worthy of your noble company. You have ever been my heart’s anchor, brother, my mind’s ease. Though it was I that soothed your childhood woes at our father’s bitter rejection of his truest son, and I who taught you the arts of warfare; you are the better Man, the wiser child. Would that I could see you now to tell you this! Would that I could make our father see the truth of it! But, alas! I must abandon you to your own path and trust you to make of it what you will. I know that you will not disappoint me: you never have.

You never could.

Cries of dismay echo through the air and I know that the others have found me. Aragorn drops to his knees and cradles my broken body, tears shining in his eyes, and I want to tell him that he should not let them fall on my account.

He does not listen.

My guilt at attacking the Ring-bearer consumes me and I speak of my actions in the forest, when I tried to take the cursed thing from the Hobbit’s gentle grasp. 'Tis a shame I have never before experienced, admitting to such a thing, but at least I have the comfort of knowing I will not live long enough to try it again.

But he does not judge me for my weakness. Indeed, he comforts me: he talks of redemption and honour and I dare to hope that it may be true. This stranger from the North who claims to be Isildur’s Heir holds my dying form and offers forgiveness to this errant soldier. His eyes hold not pity for the suffering, but sincerity and nobility - and only now do I see that he is whom he claims to be.

A King. My King.

Gondor’s King.

My heart swells with hope for my country. This Man will save her! I know it now - I feel it.

With the remnants of my life‘s strength, I clasp his arm and beg him to save our people where I have failed and he grasps my shoulders firmly, speaking with vigour when he replies that I have not failed, that I have conquered my foe.

That I am victorious.

Can it be thus?

The desperate flight to save Merry and Pippin would make it seem so, but I was little concerned with my own failures or the glory of victory at the time. Perhaps that may be considered a victory of sorts, though it would have been a sweeter one if I had saved them.

I could have rushed after Frodo instead, to finish what I had started: if I had found him, he would not have been able to stand defiant for long when the overwhelming call of the Ring in my mind demanded that I act to secure it for Gondor’s deliverance.

Fool that I was! Only now, at the end, do I see that the One Ring is little more than a deliverer of strife, a harbinger of evil. Only now do I understand the burden the Hobbit carries, the struggle he endures to control his own thoughts as he bears it ever nearer the land of its foul creation.

Only now do I pity him his burden.

I hope he can forgive me as easily as my King does.

“…be at peace. Minas Tirith shall not fall!”

My lips turn upwards in their final act, but I am unable to reply to his spirited declaration, unable to tell him that he has my absolute faith to achieve that which I could not.

I am unable to ask that he bid my troubled father and my beloved brother farewell.

Death has finally graced me with its presence and I cannot regret it.

And as my last breath is expelled at its gentle touch, I rejoice in the knowledge that I shall soon be with my dearest mother.

Death is not the end: it is merely the start of journeys new.

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Author’s Note: Aragorn’s dialogue (what there is of it) is taken directly from The Two Towers: Book 3, Chapter 1.

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I‘m only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: www.Tuckborough.net.

Mother of Hope

I watch as they bring news of my passing to you.

Ah, Gilraen! Beloved! Queen of my heart!

The sight of your grief aches more than the arrow which deprived me of your sweet embrace.

Weep not, gentle wife, I beg you! For I may offer no comfort while my spirit lacks form. It is a cruelty beyond pain to see you suffer; to witness bitter tears that kiss your cheek when I may not!

Your father had the right of it. He alone sensed the solitary years which stretched before you when first I spoke of my love. He alone saw the truth of your fate on the day we wed.

And now he grieves by your side, knowing that necessity will compel his daughter to flee his home forever, if hope for our people is to flourish in safety. How he must despise me for robbing him of his joy, for he may never see your face again, lest it be in the mists of the afterlife.

I shall beg his forgiveness when death brings him to me.

There! The sons of Imladris lead you now to the mare which will give you passage to their haven. Our son sits before you in fear and confusion - he weeps, though he does not know why. It is enough for him to feel his mother’s desperate grip on his little form as you clasp him to your bosom.

All is not well. He senses this. Grey eyes seek the answer to his unspoken question: demand the reasons for his mother’s sorrow, but he would not understand if it were given.

Swift be elven steeds as they carry you both through unsafe lands to Imladris. Certain are they in their footing across the dreary ground as the sky sheds its own tears at your pain. The borders of my childhood home open their arms in comfort and cloak you in the warmth of their glowing benevolence.

Would that it were I!

Imladris Fair witnesses the arrival of her mortal Queen, grave yet composed as you alight the mare that bore you hence. Our son sleeps fitfully in your arms, lost in a dream which offers small respite from the burden which awaits him. Elven arms offer to relinquish you of his weight, that you may walk unhindered to your chambers, but you refuse: clinging proud and fast to the lasting proof of our love, the irrefutable evidence that once you knew happiness.

Elrond approaches, grey eyes filled with compassion, and his hand settles on the one I cherish. Yet dry now are cheeks which flowed with grief hours before. Already is the path before you clear. You must be strong for our son. Your example will teach him the value of grace and humility, strength and fortitude.

Courage.

For there is no other alive on this earth more able to show a future King of Men this quality. Who else could? ’Tis a simple enough matter to take up arms and fight for the survival of one’s people. To take a wife and sire a child, then leave for weeks untold to guard borders from evil sway.

But to wed where one knows bliss may not endure? To wait thereafter in fear, never certain of the safe deliverance of one’s beloved heart from the heat of battle, until its beat can be heard with naked ear? To know the grip of grief when Elven heralds confirm the hated status of widowhood? And to accept with grace the inevitability of raising the child that remains among strangers who will surely mould him for War?

The Lord of Imladris leads you through the corridors of his haven. He offers words of solace and understanding, watching with quiet concern as you walk beside him in silence, but they are of little comfort. At the end of the hall, a room awaits and you find escape from his pity for a while as you settle our child to bed. But you cannot stay in the room forever and gaze at our son’s slumbering form. His future must be determined, and your own place therein assured. Elrond is a parent too, though, and he knows your fear. Though Aragorn’s path must now be guided by the wise and powerful, you shall not be excluded from your rightful role and he would never usurp your place in your son’s heart. Our child sleeps peacefully now, as if he senses the security of his surroundings, and as I gaze upon your face I see the tears return to their former tracks.

You weep quietly, unheard in the halls of your gilded prison. For though others may be blessed to call this place home, evermore shall it be for you the purgatory of your existence. Its elegant rooms may offer sanctuary to our son and relief to your mother‘s soul, but never shall it be a balm to your broken heart.

Forgive me my selfish need to call you mine. I never meant to wound you thus. ‘Twas my desire to lead you through life with a smile on your lips, yet all I have done is seal your doom. But even though you face the long years ahead with ears that will ever be deaf to the beat of my heart, I know that you would not regret your choice. Our spirits may be sundered by death, but our love will ever light your days and its legacy will bring peace to the lands.

For our love is Hope.

And you are its Mother.

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Author's Note: Hope is, of course, little Estel. But you knew that, right?

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. Not me. I‘m only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: Tuckborough dot com, en dot wikipedia dot co dot uk, encyclopedia dot farlex dot com and flowers dot org dot uk.  

A Little Ray of Sunshine

Sitting by the ivory statue of his master in the middle of the King’s Gardens, Sam cradled six and a half month old Tolman in his arms and relished the gentle heat of the mid-Spring afternoon. A single white cloud passed across the sky, briefly blocking the Sun’s brightness on its journey north, but otherwise it was a beautiful day and the Mayor of Michel Delving was enjoying the delicate scent of the tulips, hyacinth and lilacs that filled the expansive gardens. Rosie and Elanor had gone to the lowest circle half an hour ago, leaving him with the baby and them very much looking forward to being able to browse the colourful stalls without being stopped every five minutes by Big Folk eager to catch a glimpse a real Hobbit infant. He was using this rare chance alone with his youngest to visit Frodo’s statue and share anecdotes of his beloved friend’s more pleasant times in the City while the ladies were absent.

He shook his head in fond exasperation at the thought of the besotted Gondorians. “’Course, there’s plenty of other little ’uns for them to admire in this City, leastways as far as I can tell,” he informed his wide-eyed son. The babe was watching him intently, as if absorbing his every word. “Seems like every time I turn a corner, there’s a lady with a child no older than you in her arms. What do you say to that?”

Tolman didn’t say anything to that.

“I see,” said his father gravely. “You’re upset ‘cos your old Sam-dad hasn’t introduced you to any of them yet.” He tickled his son’s cheek, producing a wide smile which showed off the babe‘s solitary milk tooth. “Well, I don’t blame you for thinking your old Dad’s a bit of a ninnyhammer. S’pose I should have thought to do something about that earlier.”

Tolman’s mouth rounded in an ‘o’, as if disagreeing with his father’s opinion of himself.

“Well then, seems like the best thing to do is invite one or two of them round for elevenses in a day or so, so’s you can make their acquaintance. What do you say to that, son?”

A bubble of saliva rose out of the babe’s mouth, growing larger with each breath. Tolman’s eyes were drawn to it instantly and his breathing quickened at the fascinating discovery. Sam watched as the bubble rose and fell, rose and fell with increasing rapidity the more excited he became until one very large puff of air caused it to swell and burst.

Pop!

He laughed as Tolman’s delighted giggles resounded around the garden, flowing over the statue of a slightly pensive Frodo. At the same moment, the lone cloud above drifted away from the Sun and her rays lit the ivory features, making it glow.

“Would you look at that!” declared Sam cheerily. “Even your Uncle Frodo’s laughing at your silly ways.” The proud father dropped a kiss on his son’s forehead. “Not that I blame him, my lad,” he said softly to the brown-eyed infant. Tolman gurgled happily as his father gently raised one of his little feet and proceeded to blow noisily onto the sole, his cries of delight resounding around the otherwise peaceful serenity of the beautifully tended garden. “You’re as bright a ray of sunshine as I’ve ever seen.”

“Then I believe that his father ought to invest in a mirror, for he is as bright a ray of sunshine as I have ever seen.”

Surprised, the stocky hobbit looked up from the bench he occupied to see the glorious figure of Arwen Undomiel smiling down on him. Her long dark tresses tumbled down her back, enhanced in their beauty by the pale blue gown which flowed over her graceful form. Embarrassed, he removed his son’s foot from his lips and flushed.

“Oh, hullo my Lady. I hope we weren’t disturbing you none. We were just having a little chat with Uncle Frodo, weren’t we my lad?”

He looked hopefully at the infant for confirmation, but Tolman was too busy investigating the new arrival to support his claims, his little mouth formed into another perfect ‘o’.

“May I?” requested Arwen and he handed her his son, then sat beside her as she took her rest on the bench. Tolman immediately buried his face in her neck and began to chew on her hair.

“Looks like he’s hungry again,” the Hobbit said grinning widely. Arwen laughed, a beautiful, melodic sound that was as captivating as the baby’s giggles.

“Such young ones often are, although perhaps this is especially true for a Hobbit child,” replied the Queen of Gondor, her grey eyes sparkling with mirth.

“You have the right of it there, my Lady. Young Tolman here could eat even a Took under the table and that’s a fact!”

Arwen removed the child from the feast of her hair and settled him in the crook of one arm, tracing his tiny features with a delicate finger. “Such a joy our children are to us,” she murmured as the Hobbit child tried to grasp at the finger with his little fists with the clear intent of sticking it in his mouth.

Sam wholeheartedly agreed. “That they are. I don’t know where Rosie and I would be without our little ‘uns. ‘Course, some of them aren’t that little any more. Seems like only yesterday Ellie-lass was that size.”

He indicated his son, who had successfully captured the Elven Queen’s pinkie and was sucking on it happily.

“And now she a tweenager, all grown up and soon to be thinking about a family of her own.” The gardener shook his head in wonder. “If young Tolman here’s not an uncle himself by the time he’s thirteen, my name’s not Sam Gamgee!”

“Or Sam Gardner,” added Arwen with a smile.

Sam laughed.

“And do you look forward to holding your first grandchild?” the beautiful elleth enquired.

“Don’t see as how anyone wouldn’t,” Sam replied. “Though I must admit, sometimes I wish my own little ’uns would never grow up. There’s nothing like the sound of their voices filling up Bag End first thing in the morning, or their laughter filling up my heart on a cold winter’s night. I remember when Frodo-lad used to trail after me when I was planting the spring bulbs. He’d ask why I was putting them in the soil and I’d tell him it was to make them grow up big and strong. One afternoon, I came out to prune the roses and found him ankle deep in dirt. Ruined my begonias with all that digging, he had, and when I asked what he thought he was doing, he said he was trying to grow up big and strong, too!”

Sam chuckled at the memory. “I didn’t have the heart to scold him, poor lad. But now, he’s almost a tweenager, and he’s lost his fondness for following his old Sam-Dad everywhere. Doesn’t seem that fond of gardening anymore either. He likes his books and his drawings and is more content to sit in the garden and paint pictures of the blooms than try to turn himself into one.”

“It makes you sad to know they will one day leave you?”

“Well, yes. I suppose it does. But they’ll never be that far away, I hope. The Shire may be a big enough place for the likes of us Hobbits, but even at that, our family‘s never more than a few days journey by cart.”

A gentle sigh reached his ears and Sam tilted his head to find the elleth gazing wistfully across the wall enclosing the King’s Gardens.

“A few days journey…”

Her voice was low, and he thought that perhaps she didn't realise she had spoken - or that he had heard - but he saw a brief flicker of sadness cross her face after the words left her lips and he frowned slightly.

“Are you alright my Lady?”

Grey eyes fell on his concerned face. “Forgive me, Sam. I was merely wondering if my…well, it is of little matter, for it is done now and I cannot regret it.”

She turned her attention once more to baby Tolman who gazed at her solemnly. The infant seemed to have sensed her moment of sadness and had stopped sucking on her pinkie, holding it fast with his little fingers instead.

Sam was surprised at her show of emotion, although he had his own suspicions at its cause. Still, he had never seen the beautiful Queen anything other than composed, and although she was not exactly weeping, he had spent too much time in a houseful of children not to notice when one of his brood was unhappy. And, Queen or not, Arwen Undomiel was still someone’s child, if not his own.

“You miss your father, don’t you?” he asked gently.

A sad smile confirmed his suspicion, but she avoided his steady gaze.

“I am very happy with the gifts I have been blessed with,” she said. “I have the love of the Man I cherish and a son as fine as the babe I hold in my arms. It would be improper of me to deny the joy that has graced my life thus far.”

“But sometimes you feel sad knowing that your father isn’t here to share in your happiness.”

Sam leaned back on the bench and waited as she struggled to answer.

“Yes.”

The solitary word was an admission of her secret pain and his heart ached for her. It seemed to him that most people would look at her and think her the most blessed of all Eru’s children: beautiful, wise, kind, Queen of not one, but two Kingdoms, beloved by her people and worshipped by her husband and fine young son. But he knew what her choice had cost her. She was sundered from her father by a Sea she would never be able to cross, she would never see her mother‘s loving smile as she stepped off the boat in Valinor, and the trial of loss stretched before her when Strider finally accepted the Gift of Men…a gift which would now one day come to her, too.

The gardener frowned in thought. It was more than likely that nothing he said would allay her sorrow: he was very surprised indeed that she had admitted it to him at all. Perhaps if one of her brothers were here, she could have found solace in their familial comfort, but he was no grand, clever Lord with all the answers. He was just a simple gardener from the Shire.

But he was a father, and he couldn’t ignore a child’s cry of pain.

“I know this may not be of much comfort to you, but you’ll see him again one day, lass.”

Now she did raise her head and turned it towards him in surprise.

“You know that is not possible, Sam, for I am mortal now. The shores of Valinor would never accept my presence, even if I had the heart to make the journey.”

“Begging your pardon, but that’s not what I mean. I’m talking about when all of this…” He swept his arm in a wide arc, indicating the garden and beyond, “…is gone and we’re in the next life.”

Arwen smiled sadly. “In the next life, mortals and Elves will never meet.”

Sam huffed and shook his head in the manner reserved for disbelieving fathers everywhere.

“Now why would you think a thing like that? Of course we will!”

“I thank you for the solace you offer, but such a thing will never happen. The lives of Elves only endure as the world endures and when it is gone, who can say for certain what will happen to them? Not I. The choice I made to be with Aragorn also offers me the chance to join other mortal Children of Ilúvatar in singing the Second Music; and though I do not regret it, I sometimes wonder how I may rejoice in my fortune when I shall never see my beloved parents again. My days at present are full and blessed, but there are times when it comes to me that I shall never see their faces or feel their embrace in the remainder of this life or the eternity of the next, and those times are a pain of exquisite woe.” 

“Now, now, lass. You don’t think the Valar let all the different races of Middle Earth mix with each other, be friends - and sometimes family - just to tear us apart forever at the end of all things?” Sam asked. He gave her hand a fatherly pat. “’Course they didn’t! Why, that would be just plain cruel, and I don’t know’s I’ve ever heard about a cruel Vala before, have you?”

Arwen’s lips quirked at the absurd question and the gardener nodded his head in satisfaction. “That’s as I thought.”

“You speak as if the Valar themselves have told you of their plans,” she remarked as Tolman started plucking at the sleeve of her gown. The babe captured a fistful of the filmy fabric and shoved it in his mouth.

“I’m sure the Valar have better things to do with their time than spend it chatting with the likes of me,” he laughed, amused at the thought. “All I‘m saying is that they saw fit to put us all on this earth together and watched while we forged bonds of friendship and love. They’ve seen the good we can do when we work as one. They let us know the joy of each others’ company and even saw fit to send Wizards to unite us all against great evil, and their aid helped us prevail against it. If they thought we could do so much good together on Arda, what makes you think they’ll ignore that by parting us in the afterlife? That doesn‘t seem like a very sensible idea to me.”

The mortal Queen did not answer, but Sam didn’t mind. He had just planted the seed of hope in her mind and she needed time to get used to its presence. Birds fluttered around the garden looking for worms and other delicacies to bring their fledgling chicks and he watched them compete with each other to find the fattest treats for their offspring.

After five minutes, Arwen’s delicate tones broke the silence. “How is it that you can speak with such conviction on something which, to me, seems like naught but a beautiful dream?”

He shifted his weight as he turned to face her fully. “I don‘t have a proper answer to give you for that, lass. But it seems to me that none can know the mind of Eru Ilúvatar - not even the wisest of the Elves, begging you pardon. We don’t really know what he plans for us all and so we’re left with no other choice but to take our best guess using what knowledge we have. Perhaps my belief is nothing more than a simple Hobbit’s nonsense, but then, even my belief could be as valid as that of the most learned of Elves. But I know the truth of my belief because I feel it in my bones. I don’t need anyone to tell me that’s the way things’ll be or not. I know it as sure as I know that Mr Frodo’s safe and well and sitting in some garden in the Fair Lands with his nose stuck in a book. It’s as plain to me as the nose on my face. Mark my words, you’ll see your father one day. It may not be in this life, but that’s no matter. This life is a drop in the sea compared to the one to come, even by Elven standards. When the time’s right, your old Dad will sweep you up in his arms and tell you how happy he is to see his daughter again, and the joy of it will make you forget you ever doubted it was possible.”

She gave a muffled sob and Sam stuck a hand in his pocket, fishing around until he found the required item before withdrawing a clean handkerchief. He shifted closer to her as she fought to control herself and passed it to her, patting her shoulder in comfort. “There, there now, lass. That’s right: let it out. There’s not anyone here to see you but your old friend Sam and little Tolman, and he won‘t let on, will you lad?”

Tolman was gazing at the weeping Queen with wide eyes, unsure of what he had done to upset Aunty Arwen.

Sam gently rubbed her shoulder as she softly wept, whispering words of nonsense that always soothed his own children’s tears. Soon, the storm passed and the only signs it had ever broken were a few sniffles and her slightly puffy eyes.

“Feel better now, lass?”

Her lips curved into a sheepish smile. “Forgive me my foolishness, Sam. I do not know what came over me.”

“Forgive? Why, there’s nothing to forgive! It‘s only natural that your feelings are all wobbly in your condition.”

“My condition?” Arwen’s eyes widened in surprise.

“The babe of course. Eldarion is going to be a brother by the end of the year, isn’t he?”

“How could you possibly know that?” she asked in confusion.

“You seem to forget that I’ve got the Shire’s largest family,” he replied sagely. “I don’t think there’s anyone more qualified than me to tell when a lady is in the family way.”

A small burst of laughter escaped her lips. “Spoken like one who has endured much throughout each of his own wife’s quickenings.”

“You don‘t know the half of it,” he grumbled and proceeded to relate to her some of Rosie’s more frustrating maternal moments, including the time she sent him to market late one stormy afternoon to satisfy her cravings for beetroot, only to find it had shut early due to bad weather. The sodden Hobbit had ridden all the way out to the Cotton farm to ask her father for half a dozen jars and by the time he got home, dripping wet and sneezing violently, she was tucked up safe and warm in her bed, sleeping soundly without a care in the world.

“I lost my fondness for beetroot after that too,” he declared, winking at her theatrically. Soon the garden was filled with the sound of her disbelieving laughter and his own heart warmed to see her happy again.

Tolman was beginning to grow restless in Arwen’s arms, fidgeting with the soft folds of her dress that couldn’t quite allay his hunger.

“Perhaps it is time for afternoon tea?” suggested the now-smiling Queen as she freed her wet sleeve from the baby’s grasp.

“That sounds like a right good idea to this hungry Hobbit,” Sam declared happily, plucking his son from her arms. “And to this one too, no doubt,” he added as Tolman’s mouth found his father’s ear and began to suck on it noisily.

They rose from the bench and made their way towards the King’s House.

“Sam?”

Sam was slightly distracted with trying to loosen Tolman’s tight grip on his curly head as the babe chewed on his father’s earlobe with single-minded determination. “Hmm?”

“You spoke wrongly in one regard.”

The little gardener tilted his head upwards and met her sparkling eyes. “Which one?” he asked, slightly concerned that he may have somehow offended her.

“You were of great comfort to me. None may know for certain what awaits us after our lives pass, but your words are as wise as any I have ever heard. They give me reason to hope that one day, I may know the joy of my parents’ loving embrace again. How can I ever thank Harthad Uluithiad for such a gift?”

Sam, ever uncomfortable with such glowing praise, flushed in embarrassment. “Oh, there’s no need for thanks between friends, my Lady.”

A soft smile graced her lips. “It pleased me more when you called me ’lass’. Still, you are wrong. A treasure such as the hope you have imparted to me cannot go unrewarded. What is your wish, dear friend?”

Tolman’s sank his one and only milk tooth into the soft flesh of his father’s lobe, making him wince. “There’s no need for rewards between friends…lass. We only do by each other as comes natural to us. However, if you absolutely insist on rewarding me,” he said, fighting to tug the grunting infant from his flesh, “you could do me the favour of rescuing me from this little ‘un before the minstrels of Gondor start singing a lay about Samwise of the One Ear and the Infant of Doom!”

And, laughing merrily, Arwen spared him the dubious honour of a song about his terrible fate at the hands of a ravenous babe, and together they left the King’s Gardens to find the child something more palatable.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is the property of JRR Tolkien, his family, New Line Cinema, etc. Not me (unfortunately). I am making absolutely no profit from using the great master’s wonderful characters.

Credit: www.Tuckborough.net

A Familial Bond

Minas Tirith

On the third day after the crowning of Gondor‘s long-awaited King, Meriadoc Brandybuck left Frodo in Gandalf’s illustrious company and exited the sixth-level apartments intent on meeting Pippin, who would soon be finished his duties as Guard of the Citadel for the day. It would have been an easy enough matter to remain in the house and continue his exploration of the extensive property and its gardens, but it was no fun to do so alone and he was feeling restless. Frodo and Sam were happy enough to remain on the lower level of the property in one of its many reception rooms, or in the large walled garden (which would at some point know the ministrations of an eager hobbit gardener, no doubt) and only rose above it when Nature demanded that they take their evening’s rest, but he enjoyed investigating the higher levels and all the mysteries it contained.

Frodo.

A brief cloud passed over Merry’s face as he paused at the front door. He threw a brief glance behind him in the direction of the rear of the house, but he could not see Frodo sitting in the garden from here, nor hear his soft, musical voice as he spoke quietly with Gandalf.

His cousin was improving after his ordeals during the quest, but Merry knew it was going to be a long, painful process before he would ever be the carefree, happy hobbit he had known as a lad.

If he ever fully recovered at all.

Sighing, Merry shook his heads to dispel the cloud of concern and decided he was being silly. Frodo was alive, safe and recovering nicely. He had been through a great ordeal of late, but his cousin was strong and determined. If anyone could defy the odds and rally again, it was a Baggins - and this Baggins in particular!

That was enough to cheer him up, so he exited the building into the warm afternoon sunshine and walked down the path before turning right and passing the stables a few minutes later. He passed several people leaving the stables with their horses and all offered the hobbit a friendly wave or a few awed glances (which made him smirk). Most Gondorians had never seen a hobbit before, but some were familiar with his kind after Pippin’s previous stay within the City walls and he was keen to let them know he could be every bit as affable and charming as his younger cousin.

More so, actually. He was a Brandybuck after all and it would not do to be outshone by a Took - even if he was family.

Grinning to himself, Merry entered the sloping tunnel and moved upwards, nodding at the guards as he approached the Citadel-gate. After a few pleasantries, he gave the password and they allowed him access to the upper level. He passed through the gate to the Court of the Fountain and crossed the paved surface before halting near the withered White Tree of Gondor. The nearest guard threw him a brief, assessing glare before resuming his stony gaze across the Citadel wall and Merry stifled a smile, assuming that he had just been judged as posing no threat to the dead symbol the tall man guarded so jealously.

Merry remained standing for a few seconds more, debating whether he should search the Towers encircling the Citadel for his cousin or not. But a quick glance at the sombre-faced guard a few feet in front of him convinced him that it may be considered impolitic to distract Pippin at his post, even in the final few minutes of his duties. He sighed. He really did not want to return to the house after coming all the way up to the seventh level. But if he stayed where he was much longer, the imposing guard (who was squinting suspiciously in his direction again) might change his mind about the threat the hobbit posed and decide to attack first and ask questions later.

Not that he would have difficulty disposing of one (very tall) Guard of the Citadel! After all, had he not helped to despatch a Nazgûl - and the deadliest one of them all at that?

Of course not! One guard did not give Meriadoc Brandybuck cause for alarm.

But the other three might…

Deciding to forego unnecessary confrontation, Merry turned on his heel and walked towards the stone wall enclosing the highest level of the City. He would enjoy the afternoon sun and while away the minutes waiting for Pippin there, for his cousin could not fail to see him when he made his way from whichever Tower he currently occupied to the Citadel-gate. After Pip’s duties were complete, perhaps he could encourage him to take a jaunt down to the lower levels. There were several drinking establishments within Minas Tirith and some of the lesser damaged ones had reopened for business. It was his duty as a friend of the King to investigate whether or not they were fit for trade…

And his duty as a hobbit to sample the foreign ales they contained, too. How would he know which to recommend to Frodo and Sam otherwise when they finally decided to explore the City?

Pleased with his unfailing logic, he leaned against the short (for men) wall and let his gaze wander across the Pelennor. Much had been done to clear the wide expanse of the destruction it had known so many weeks before when Sauron’s host had made its attempt to raze Minas Tirith to the ground, although it would be some time yet before the area was carpeted in the emerald green grass it had once boasted. Rain had washed away the blood and ash weeks ago, but some areas were still rough and scorched from both masonry which had been hurled from the City itself into the belly of the Enemy and fires which had burned in the enemy camp. Patches of newborn green were evident across the fields and they would spread quickly as Spring progressed, but, for Merry, it was still a pock-marked, scarred reminder of the recent battle.

There were, scattered across the fields, small groups of soldiers and ordinary Gondorian citizens valiantly attempting to fill the remaining craters with earth and smooth them over, so that - one day - the Pelennor might be fit to lay at the foot of their City again. The bodies of friendly forces had been returned to family for burial, the dead Men from the East had been buried in several mass graves. Only the orcs, trolls, and any other evil beasts from Mordor had been burned far away from the City walls, although Merry imagined at times he could still smell their lingering stench in the air.

This was one of those times.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust and chided himself for being so fanciful as his gaze slipped across the Pelennor, searching for the spot where the Witchking had met his doom. It would be impossible to pinpoint it from such a distance, but he could not stop his visual wanderings. It was almost as if he needed to reassure himself that the despicable being had, indeed, perished beyond recovery - that he would never return to haunt more than the hobbit‘s dreams. As if sensing his morose intent, Merry’s right arm gave a twinge of protest and he rubbed it absently.

Attempting to lift his sudden descent into the doldrums, he raised his eyes and looked beyond the Pelennor to where the Anduin flowed passed the City on its way to the Bay of Belfalas. The once-great city of Osgiliath was visible to the far left and he recalled that Boromir had fought there with his brother, managing to cast down the bridge which joined the two halves of the former capital and prevent the advance of Sauron’s forces into their lands. But eventually - inevitably - the Enemy had found their way across, and the beauty that Osgiliath once boasted had been defiled by their destructive presence.

A pang of sorrow hit him at the memory of his dead friend. How he missed Boromir! How he wished that he could have known the joy of their ultimate victory over the evil which had threatened his home for so long - an evil Boromir had long fought against.

But Boromir would never know that victory now. The Enemy had killed him in the end as he fought to save Merry and Pippin. The Enemy had deceived his father and precipitated Denethor’s spiral into madness before he killed himself and tried to kill his remaining son.

Uneasy at the course his thoughts were taking, Merry shook himself from his reverie and ripped his gaze from the distant Osgiliath, transferring it beyond the Anduin instead. But beyond the River, the hulking outline of the Mountains of Shadow only served to remind him of what had happened beyond the bleak range.

And what Sauron’s Ring had done to his beloved cousin.

Gripping the wall tightly with both hands, Merry shivered, no longer enjoying the sunshine so freely on offer. Frodo had had another nightmare last night…

In fact, the nightmare had been so violent, that his elder cousin’s yells of terror had echoed throughout the house awakening every last inhabitant. Merry had rushed to his bedroom to find him gasping in terror in Sam’s arms as Gandalf hovered over them both trying to calm him. Pippin had stumbled into Merry at the doorway, clasping at his arm in fright before they both rushed over to the bed to help soothe their cherished cousin. It had taken several minutes to calm him down, but once he had, Frodo only apologised for disturbing everyone’s rest without specifying what had disturbed his own. Every attempt to cajole him to elaborate had been met with gentle, but firm, refusal, until Sam - fed up with their persistent badgering - had sent them off to their own quarters.

Merry remained awake for a good while afterwards, ears straining for any sounds of further distress from his cousin’s room. He did not like feeling so helpless in these situations. Frodo had looked so small in the man-sized bed! So thin! His features were still gaunt - despite the fact that it was several weeks since Sauron’s destruction. No longer was he the carefree spirit who had laughed and joked with him over huge picnic lunches during summer visits to Bag End; who had read stories about Elves to his younger cousin and given him a deep appreciation for the beauty of the written word; who had scolded him after a quarrel with Barimac Greenglass had escalated into fisticuffs, but promised not to tell either of their parents if they apologised and shook hands.

Now he was solemn, quiet and pale.

Oh, Frodo tried to rally his spirits whenever they were around - and a good deal of the time he managed this very well. But Merry was not fooled. He saw how his cousin picked at his food instead of consuming it with gusto as every hobbit should. The Master of Bag End did not actively participate in discussions when all the hobbits were together. He listened, of course, but when it was his time to contribute, the crafty Baggins would simply ask a question related to the topic at hand - one that required a long, convoluted reply - then sit back while the others debated it fiercely. But during the small hours of the night, Frodo was unable to fool them at all, for he could often be heard calling out for Sam, or prowling the corridors restlessly because his sleeping hours offered him only torment.

Merry clenched his jaw as the forbidding mountain range dominated the horizon. How he hated them and what they hid! They were well named indeed, for Frodo was naught but a shadow of his former self. His innocence was gone forever, eroded by the trinket of a tyrant who had once dwelt behind the very mountains he now watched.

He suddenly gasped with the pain of it, fighting to hold in the sobs which threatened to wrack his body.

It was not fair! Why had he not been able to help? Why had he allowed himself to be so easily captured at Parth Galen? He should have followed Frodo all the way into Mordor as he had promised to do all those months ago before they even left the Shire! He should have saved him from the deceitful Gollum! Saved him from the hated Ring! Oh, if only he had seen it perish in the fires of Mount Doom - as he had seen the Witchking perish on the field of Pelennor! That way, he would know that it, too, was gone forever - that it could never really hurt Frodo again!

“Mr Merry? Are you all right, sir?”

Merry was pulled from his unpleasant thoughts by the sound of Sam’s voice and he whirled around to see the gardener gazing at him with some concern.

“Sam!” he gasped, surprised at the other hobbit’s presence. It was not like the gardener to venture to the seventh level if he could help it, and certainly not on his own. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, just running an errand for Mr Gandalf,” he replied mysteriously.

Merry frowned. Sometimes Sam could be even more evasive than Frodo.

Sam ignored the frown. “But what’s disturbing you so Mr Merry? You looked all done in, hanging on to that there wall. You’re not feeling all poorly-like now, are you sir?”

He sighed. The gardener looked quite concerned on his behalf and he did not want to alarm him. It would not do to have Sam worrying about him when he already had a full-time job caring for Frodo.

“No, I’m fine,” he lied.

Now Sam frowned. “Begging your pardon, sir, but no you’re not. Why, you’re as white and shaky as a snowflake being tossed by the wind.”

Bother! And he thought he had managed to control himself. Merry was annoyed, more so at his own lack of control than anything else. Trust Sam to notice the slight tremble. He was definitely worse than Frodo.

“Honestly, I’m fine,” he lied again, turning his back on the gardener so he could not see the lie in his face. “I was just enjoying the view."

There was a touch of irony in his voice at that. Enjoying the view! Who could enjoy such a view? Still, he thought, it should be enough to get rid of Sam. It was well known that the once-sturdy hobbit hated heights and there was little chance of him lingering to interrogate Merry if he did not move away from the wall.

But Sam surprised him by stepping forward and taking his place next to him.

“Well, it’s a right fine view and all, sir - if you don’t look straight down, that is,” said his determined companion nervously. Merry glanced at him and saw that he, too, had now lost a little colour from his face.

“You don’t have to stand there if it makes you feel uneasy,” said Merry thoughtfully, touched that he would sacrifice his own comfort to bring some to a friend.

“Oh, I’m not uncomfortable,” squeaked Sam, attempting a brave face despite the outrageous lie.

Merry grinned. The only thing more stubborn than a Baggins was a Gamgee. Valar help Rose if Sam ever plucked the courage up to ask for her hand.

“What were you looking at, Mr Merry?”

The question was unexpected.

“Nothing in particular.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it must’ve been something in particular.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You looked angry.”

“You said I looked poorly.”

“Well, you are related to Mr Frodo, so it’s only natural that you can do both at the same time, if you take my meaning.”

Sometimes Merry wished Sam was not quite so perceptive; but then, it was probably the result of spending so much time with the notoriously cunning Frodo Baggins, so he could not blame him, really. Still, he was not used to baring his heart to Sam. They were friends, of course, but he was not as close to him as he was to his cousins - and Pippin was usually the one he spoke with when he was feeling a little ’off’. Besides, Sam had suffered beyond those mountains, too - he did not want to remind him of that.

His companion had other ideas though. He gazed at Merry with his patient brown eyes and it felt almost to the younger hobbit as if he was waiting for the Spring thaw.

“Go on, sir,” Sam said gently. “Tell your Sam what’s nipping at you toes and let him chase the frost away for you.”

Your Sam. Merry almost teared up at that. The gardener had never used those words with him before - only Frodo ever had that privilege.

But then, everything was different now, was it not? They were none of them the fresh-faced innocents from the Shire any more, despite the cheery façade they presented to strangers. They had all suffered: they were all still suffering to some extent, and it was in the inherent nature of the gardener of Bag End to reach out and soothe a troubled heart.

He sighed in defeat. “I was watching the mountains.”

Sam glanced at them automatically and tried to stifle a shiver, but Merry caught it and immediately felt guilty.

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

Brown eyes swivelled to him again, this time wide with surprise. “Whatever for, Mr Merry?”

“For making you feel uncomfortable.”

“You haven’t. Whyever would you think such a thing?”

The gardener was obviously puzzled because he hadn’t addressed him as ’Mr Merry’ or ’Sir’ - something Merry had been trying to snap him out of for years. Perhaps he should apologise to him more often?

Making a mental note to give that serious consideration, he returned to the subject at hand.

“I know the sight of those things must make your blood turn icy.”

Sam snorted. “There’s a few things that make my blood turn icy, Mr Merry, sir, but the sight of a few mountains sitting so far off in the distance that they can’t ever harm me isn’t one of them.”

‘Mr Merry’ and ’Sir’ in the same sentence? The gardener was obviously making up for his earlier omission.

“That may very well be, Sam. But the sight of these particular mountains must cause you discomfort.”

A short silence. He looked over to see the gardener studying them thoughtfully, as if weighing the truth of his statement.

“Maybe they do, Mr Merry, just a little. But not for their own sake, if you take me. Only for what they’re hiding, and that’s not as much of a threat any more.”

Not as much of a threat any more. He had said ‘not as much of a threat any more’, not ‘not a threat any more’. If Sam thought that - if he still felt discomfort even to a small extent - when faced with an indirect symbol of Sauron‘s tyranny, what must Frodo feel with all the memories he harboured?

The memories of Sauron’s Ring.

He gripped the wall again, feeling helpless once more.

“That’s why I’m sorry,” he admitted in a small voice.

Merry could feel Sam’s eyes on him.

“You didn’t put those mountains there, you know; they were the work of hands greater than even the Dark Lord’s, sir. You’ve naught to feel sorry about.”

A bitter laugh escaped Merry‘s lips. If only Sam knew how completely he had failed his cousin! He must know, surely? After all, he had been there in Crickhollow when the Brandybuck had made his faithless promise.

“I think I do, Sam.”

“Well, that’s just daft. It’s not your fault they are what they are, or that they are where they are, now is it? You might be the future Master of Brandy Hall, but you can’t control things that as happens so far outside your home, you know, sir!”

The future Master of Brandy Hall clenched his jaw. Was Sam being deliberately obtuse, or just evasive again?

“If I am to be Master of my father’s home, then it will be my duty to know what happens outside of it as well as in,” he stated firmly. “Is that not what a good Master does? Takes care of his household and family? Protects them from threats seen and unseen?”

Sam had now turned away from the imposing view and faced him fully, but Merry would not take his eyes from the mountains.

“There’s not a one alive as can protect from the threat of the unseen, Mr Merry,” he said gently. “Any good Master will care for his own to the best of his ability, but not even the wisest of them can protect against unknown threats. The most he can do there is rely on others to keep a watch for danger. That‘s what friends are for.”

The last few words jarred his frayed nerves.

“What if your friends are faithless and untrustworthy?” he demanded heatedly, finally abandoning his view of the mountains to face Sam. “What then? What if they promise you safety, but abandon you in your hour of need. Are they still your friends then? When the unseen threat is finally banging at your door and they have left you to struggle alone!”

His pitch was rising and he felt his face flushing as he glared at Sam in challenge. The gardener was confused, but not intimidated.

“I’d say that all depends on the reason they left in the first place…”

“There is no reason that could forgive such a betrayal. No excuse for weakness!” Merry barked, cutting him off before he could finish. “If someone promises to help, then they should help, shouldn’t they? That’s what friends are for. That’s what family is for! Or at least it should be!”

Sam laid a hand on his shoulder. “Now then, sir. I’ve not met a family yet that would abandon one of their own just because there was a little trouble on the horizon. Even the S-B’s - begging your pardon, what with them being distant relations and all - never abandoned each other, and they were as unpleasant a folk as I’ve ever met. But they always stuck together. As for their friends, well, they never really had any, so there’s not much of an issue there, I suppose.”

Merry shrugged his hand off and backed a few steps away. “It’s not about the S-B’s, Sam! Can’t you see that? And I’m not talking about ‘a little trouble’, either!”

The force of his anger shocked him and he began to pace backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards in an effort to burn some of it off in case he started shouting. He did not want to bring the Citadel guards rushing over if they thought there was a chance he might attack one of the Saviours of Middle Earth.

“It’s more than that,” he declared passionately, tugging at the collar of his fine silk shirt before thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m talking about someone who promises to stick to you through thick and thin to the bitter end, but becomes unstuck at the first sign of adversity! I’m talking about someone who promises to follow you like a hound and keep trouble off your back, but falls at the first hurdle and lets trouble stab at you where it hurts most. I’m talking about someone that you trust - someone you love - disappointing you in the most acute and painful way possible!”

“And who would that be, Merry?” queried Sam casually.

Merry did not even notice that Sam had finally used his first name alone in his address. He was too upset, too frustrated.

“Me, of course! Who else? I was the one who made those promises to him back in Crickhollow! Me! And what happened? I left him! Like the fool that I am, I allowed myself to be captured and left him! And look at him now! He’s suffering, Sam - and it’s my fault!”

“Now that’s enough of that, Meriadoc Brandybuck! I’ve heard a lot of daft things in my years, but that’s about one of the daftest and no mistake!” said Sam firmly, stepping in front of him and effectively halting his worried pacing.

The swift blockade only served to anger the troubled hobbit.

“It’s all very well for you to talk about daft, isn’t it?” he cried. “You went all the way with him. You protected him. You stuck to him.”

“And what good did that do then? Did it save him from the spider? Did it save his poor, dear hand? Does it save him from the nightmares?”

Sam’s voice was uncharacteristically harsh.

“But you were with him until the very end!” yelled Merry, now beyond caring if the guards heard him or not. “I was supposed to be there too. Maybe if I had been, I could have saved him from that ghastly spider, or saved his finger, or saved him from his nightmares!”

“So what you’re saying is that I wasn’t good enough? That I didn’t try hard enough? That I wasn’t strong enough or clever enough like you might’ve been?” Sam yelled back.

Merry stilled in shock at the words, and now he was the one watching as Sam paced back and forth. The gardener had never raised his voice at him like that before and he was stunned that he had pushed him to do so.

“Don’t you think I tried to protect him better than I did?” he demanded furiously, rubbing at his head in agitation. “Do you know how hard it was, watching him slip further away from me the closer we got to that cursed mountain? How much I hated that slinker Gollum for plaguing each step he took? But I could do nothing to rid him of any of his burdens because that Ring was fighting too hard, and that slinker was clinging too much. Just getting him up and walking was a battle in itself near the end. Is that what you wish for? To have seen the friend you love so much fade before your own eyes and know there was little you could do to stop it but haul his battered body off the ground and push it ever closer to the place you know will probably kill him? Watch him gasping for air in a poisoned land that would choke the life from all decent folk? Watch his tongue swell for the want of fluid, but not able to offer him anything for his relief except filthy drain water - if even that?”

Sam lowered his voice, but his eyes still burned intently as they pierced the Brandybuck. “Would you want to watch him standing at the Crack of Doom, when madness finally overtakes him, and listen to a voice that’s not his own claim the very burden he tried so desperately to rid himself of? Do you think even you could‘ve helped him then?”

“No! Stop, Sam, please. I can’t listen… I didn’t mean…”

They faced each other, cousin and friend both, tormented and angry - but not really angry at each other.

“I never meant to imply that you didn’t take care of him, Sam. Please believe me,” whispered Merry, horrified into shame that the gardener might have thought for one second that he did.

His companion gave a sheepish chuckle. “I never thought for one second that you did, Mr Merry.”

Now Merry was confused. “I don’t understand. You just said…”

“Oh, I know what I said,” replied Sam, waving his hand in airy dismissal as if his passionate speech had been nothing more than a bee sting. “But I wasn’t angry at you, I was angry at me.”

“Angry at… Why on earth would you be angry at your…”

It suddenly hit him.

“You think you failed him too, don’t you?” gasped Merry in disbelief.

“I think we’re both a couple of ninnyhammers is what I think.”

Merry was reeling. “But you were with him every step of the way! All the way to Mount Doom! You carried him up the stupid thing and got him back out of it to safety!”

“If you can call a tiny ledge on the side of an exploding mountain safety, though I think the credit for getting him to real safety belongs to the Eagles, if you take my meaning.”

He said it with so much plain hobbit sense that Merry had to laugh. And once he started, Sam lost control too and their hearty guffaws rang through the air in direct contrast to the heated words of a few seconds previously.

It was several minutes before they regained control and took a seat by the wall they had leaned over earlier.

“I’m sorry for shouting at you like that, Mr Merry,” said Sam contritely after the last of their chuckles had subsided. “It wasn’t my place to do so and I beg your pardon for it.”

“Now you’re the one being daft, Samwise Gamgee,” replied Merry, slapping him playfully on the arm. “If I recall correctly, I started shouting first. You had every right to retaliate.”

Sam grinned. “Well, maybe you’re right. Still, I expect I could’ve made my point in a more polite manner. You do know what my point was, don’t you sir?”

Merry cocked a mischievous eyebrow. “That I’m a self-centred, boot-loving Brandybuck?”

To his amusement, the gardener took a suspiciously long moment to mull that over before replying:

“I don’t remember anyone saying anything about any boots.”

He laughed again. “You’re worse than a Baggins, Sam Gamgee! So, I’m just selfish, is that it?”

“Course not, Mr Boot-loving Brandybuck, sir. My point is that it wouldn’t have mattered who was there. He would have had his work cut out either way, given his burden.”

This was a truth which could not be refuted. Sauron’s Ring was an evil too powerful for any to have withstood indefinitely. That Frodo had managed to do so all the way to the Sammath Naur was a feat of incredible strength of character. Could he, Merry, have withstood its dreadful lure so long, or remained as true of heart as Sam had in its presence while he followed his master into that cursed place? Would he have been able to do as Frodo bid and allow Gollum to lead his friend into the Black Lands, knowing all the while that the duplicitous wretch was just waiting for the chance to murder them both and steal back his Precious?

Could he really have gotten Frodo all the way to Mount Doom, watching his beloved cousin suffer and struggle with his burden all the way before it finally claimed him and only Gollum’s greater lust could save the day?

He would like to think that he could, but in the end it did not matter. Frodo was saved and though he suffered yet, he would recover - but only over time. Merry knew he must be patient and accept this.

Sam‘s earthy hobbit tones intruded on his musings. “You were wrong about not being there all the way to the end, though.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Merry, completely mystified. Of course he had not been there all the way to the end - that was the spark which had ignited their little argument in the first place.

“Well sir, when we was in the Dead Marshes and poor Mr Frodo was getting the shivers at the mere thought of what lay beneath the water, who do you think cheered him up?”

“You, of course.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “No. You did. He told me about the time you took him swimming in the Brandywine and jumped in with all your clothes still on. ‘Trust a Brandybuck to do such an unnatural thing’ I said to him. And he laughed - he actually laughed in the middle of the Dead Marshes, if you can believe it. Said as how your mum was none too pleased that you‘d ruined your best Sunday breeches in such a careless manner.”

Merry smiled softly at the memory his words conjured. He remembered that day. Esmeralda Brandybuck had been livid when he walked nonchalantly back into the hall in dripping wet clothes and tried to blame it on the rain (it had been sunny all day).

“That laugh kept him going for a good while, you know. Helped him endure the horrors of them stinking marshes and no mistake.”

The gardener clasped his hands tightly together and rested them on his lap. Merry watched little patches of white appear around the areas where his fingers dug into the back of his hands and wondered what was causing his tension.

“Course, the closer we got to the Black Lands, the harder it was to get him to so much as crack a smile, as weighed down as he was with his burden and all. Sometimes he’d go for hours on end without so much as a word and his face all tense and fraught as he struggled against the Ring’s pull. I’ve never hated anyone or anything as much in my life as that Ring, sir and that’s a fact!”

Merry sympathised completely.

“But he never failed to perk up whenever we talked about you or young Mr Pippin. The mere mention of either of your names was enough to distract him for a while. He talked about your determination in Crickhollow, you know, and he was worried that you might not forgive him for slipping away and making it impossible for you to keep your word.”

The Brandybuck was startled to hear that. “But that’s ridiculous! That wasn’t his fault! He did what he felt he had to - I don’t blame him for that. Anyway, me and Pip had just been captured by Saruman’s orcs, so I couldn’t have kept my promise even if I wanted to!”

Sam smirked. “I’m right glad you think that way, Mr Merry, because that’s as good a reason for not being able to keep your word as any I’ve ever heard.”

The younger hobbit chuckled in disbelief. He had just been outmanoeuvred. “Why, Samwise Gamgee! If you aren’t the most devious of all scoundrels, then I don’t know who is!”

“Coming from a Brandybuck, I’ll take that as a compliment, if I may.”

“You may,” he laughed, amused at his friend’s teasing. Sam was right: he should not blame himself for events that were beyond his control. He may be a Brandybuck, but he still only hailed from a simple, peaceable sort of folk who preferred good food and a quiet life to the more adventurous hustle and bustle that lay beyond their borders. Hobbits did not usually go looking for adventure or threats which lay beyond the Shire.

Not that he was simple, of course.

“You were also with Frodo when we made our trek across the Gorgoroth,” said Sam returning to the matter at hand. “When the ash and the poisons of the land were choking him so much he could barely draw breath and there weren’t so much as a drop of water to be had, you and Mr Pippin were there in that old drinking song you both love to sing at the Green Dragon. Do you remember it?”

Merry did. He began to sing it as they leaned against the wall surrounding the Citadel and his clear, sweet notes were a balm to both their ears. Sam joined in before the first verse ended:

*

An ale! An ale!

An ale to make me hale

A beer! A beer!

A beer to bring me cheer

*

A glass of wine

Is very fine

Its fruity bliss

A throat doth kiss

But always first

To quench a thirst

Drink golden yield

From barley field

*

An ale! An ale!

An ale to make me hale

A beer! A beer!

A beer to bring good cheer

*

“That’s the very one, Mr Merry. Your presence - and Mr Pippin’s - was in every note of that song and it helped carry him further towards the mountain despite his troubles.”

“You sang it to him? On the Gorgoroth?”

“That I did, Mr Merry, sir.”

“I’m surprised you had the energy to do so if it was as harsh and dry as you say it was.”

“Oh, it were harsh and dry all right, or my name’s not Sam Gamgee. But it were even harsher watching him suffer, so I needed the help of a Brandybuck and a Took to help him on his way, if you take my meaning. And as sure as the roses bloom at Bag End, there you both were when he needed you! He weren’t fit to do much singing himself, of course, but he was able to bob his head a little, and hum a verse or two. And when the Ring had finally been destroyed and we stood on that rocky ledge while the mountain behind us exploded with more fury than Mistress Lobelia at the reading of a Baggins will, when all the world seemed to us to be drawing to a close and I was wishing for songs and lays about Nine-fingered Frodo and the Ring of Doom, do you know what he said?”

The younger hobbit shook his head. This was news to him, for he had not known that Frodo had said much of anything at that point.

Sam shook his head in wonder. “He watched fire and rocks tumbling down the mountain, and smoke curling thick in the air and he said: ‘Merry and Pippin will be so upset at having missed all the fun, Sam. However shall I make it up to them?’ And then he smiled in that way he does when he’s having a little joke! Having a little joke - right there on Mount Doom itself. That‘s the Brandybuck in him, you know.”

A horn blew short and sharp from the Tower of Ecthelion, signalling the changing of the Guard, but Merry was too distracted to pay it much heed.

“So you see, Mr Merry, you did keep your promise to him - you and Mr Pippin both. You stuck to him through thick and thin to the bitter end, just as you said you would, and he was thankful for it. There’s no amount of distance that could ever come between you both, and truly part you, as long as you’re in each others hearts and minds.”

It was impossible not to see the sense in Sam’s words, and they lifted Merry’s spirits to new heights. He had stayed with Frodo. Even though they parted physically at Parth Galen and were not reunited until after the Ring’s destruction, he had helped his cousin in ways he could not have dreamed of. That gave him a certain peace.

“Thank you Sam,” he said gratefully. “I should have known that out of sight does not always mean out of mind - especially because he was with me too: when Pip and I were captured by the orcs and later escaped into Fangorn, when we fought together with Treebeard and the Ents to still the dreadful might of Isengard, and also on the Pelennor when I was fighting against all the hordes of Mordor and beyond and taking a stab at the Witchking himself. He was with me each and every time, encouraging me ever onwards and beaming with pride at my accomplishments.”

“And also throwing in the odd word or two to stop that Brandybuck head of yours swelling fit to burst, I should imagine,” said Sam dryly, and they both laughed.

“Yes, he might have chastised me on occasion for that, too,” Merry chuckled. “Either that or it was his fussy gardener, because you were with me too Sam.”

The gardener blushed. “Well that’s a right decent thing for you to say, Mr Merry. Though why you want my nonsense clogging up your head I’ll never know.”

Shaking in head in mock frustration, Merry pulled himself off the ground and reached a hand out to help his companion do likewise. He held on to Sam’s hand when the gardener was standing and took a step forward to clasp his arm warmly.

“I want your ’nonsense’ clogging up my head because you are important to me too, silly Gamgee. You were my friend even before we started out on this quest you know - even though you drive me to distraction with all those ‘Mr Merrys’ and ’Sirs’.”

Sam flushed.

“But you’re more than that now. You saved Frodo’s life. You took care of him when I couldn’t and placed his comfort before your own every step of the way. You starved so that he could eat, thirsted so that he could drink and climbed with him over your very back so that he didn‘t have to.”

“Stars and trumpets, Mr Merry! You make it sound a lot more impressive than it actually was…”

Merry cut him off with a wave of his hand. “No, Samwise Gamgee: you make it sound a lot less impressive than it actually was. You always try to avoid attention. You’re too much like Frodo in that respect. But you forget that I know Frodo very well, and I know you very well too. I’ll never forget what you did for him and I’ll always cherish you for that. But I’ll always cherish you for your own sake too, because you are kind and patient, faithful and wise.”

Sam was clearly touched - he could not even answer and his eyes were suspiciously moist. Wishing to spare him any further embarrassment, Merry decided to lighten the topic with a little humour. He released Sam’s arms so the gardener could discreetly wipe his eyes and casually brushed at his smart green coat.

“And let us not forget, that you and Frodo are as thick as thieves, more so now than ever before. Why you’re practically brothers! And as Frodo is my cousin, there is really only one thing left to say…”

He trailed off deliberately waiting for Sam to take the bait. He was not disappointed.

“What, Mr Merry?” the elder hobbit asked curiously. “What is there left to say?”

“Welcome to the family, of course! You are now part Gamgee, part Baggins, part Brandybuck and part Took! What do you say to that, you boot-loving Bucklander?”

He laughed at the look of sheer astonishment on Sam’s face and slung a comradely arm round his neck.

“Oh, come on Sam, it’s not so bad,” Merry said cheerfully as the gardener continued to gape at him. “Just think, with all that Brandybuck blood flowing through your veins, you’ll be able to look forward to a nice swim in the summer, instead of running for the hills whenever you see a body of water larger than your bathtub!”

Sam glared at him. “I do not run for the hills Meriadoc Brandybuck. I just…I just don’t go anywhere near the river if I can help it. And anyway, if I’m part Brandybuck, then you’re part Gamgee, so that means there’s no excuse for not rolling up your sleeves and helping me manure the garden beds in Spring.”

Not in a thousand years would Merry go anywhere near that barrow of horse droppings his new ’cousin’ rolled through Bag End’s front gate every April. But Sam need not know that.

“Ah, but you’re forgetting that I like plants more than you like water,” he said smugly. “It won’t be as much trouble for me to get stuck into a garden as it will for you to get stuck in a river.”

The gardener glared at him again and then they both laughed, before they were interrupted by a new arrival.

“Hullo you two!” said a cheerful voice and they looked ahead to see Pippin approaching, looking very smart in his silver and black livery. “I didn’t know you were coming to meet me. Where’s Frodo?”

“He’s in the back garden with Mr Gandalf,” replied Sam. “I was just on my way back to him this very minute.”

“On your way back to him? What were you doing here then?”

Pippin’s innocent enquiry made the gardener flush and Merry realised he was embarrassed. It took him a few seconds to recall Sam's evasive reply to a similar enquiry he made a short time ago and his natural curiosity reared its head once more.

What on earth was this errand Gandalf had despatched him for?

“Nothing much, Mr Pippin.”

“Oh come on Sam! It must have been for something to drag you all the way up to the Citadel with Merry.”

“Actually, I was up here already…enjoying the view,” offered his cousin without elaborating. Sam frowned at him, but he merely grinned in return. He was determined to eke out the other hobbit‘s secret.

The Knight of Gondor’s eyes widened in surprise as he stared at the flustered gardener. “So you came up here all by yourself? It must have been something really important, then. It’s not Frodo, is it? He is all right? Only he looked to be in a terrible state last night and I was worried about him all day…”

“Frodo’s fine, Pip. And he’ll keep being fine as long as we allow him time to recover properly from his ordeal, isn’t that right Sam?”

The older two hobbits shared a look of understanding and came to a silent agreement that they would not tell him of their earlier discussion. That was to be their own little secret, for the moment at least.

“That’s right, Mr Merry. Mr Frodo’s fine today. Recovering nicely in the back garden with a book and a nice plate of cheese and ham sandwiches and a few spiced buns.”

“Sam, if it’s the last thing I do, I will make you stop calling me ‘Mr‘!”

“That goes for me too. You can’t go around calling us ‘Mr’ all the time - you are family, you know,” said Pippin, not realising that Merry had already welcomed him into it. “Anyway, stop trying to change the subject by talking about food. I know you’re only trying to distract me. What were you doing up here by yourself? You might as well tell me now, because I can always find out from the guards if you don‘t.”

Merry grinned. It was not often that it was someone other than him on the receiving end of one of his younger cousin’s blunt threats, and he was enjoying the novelty.

Especially when Sam began to squirm and mumble something about trolls not ‘doing their jobs proper-like‘.

“I heard that,” said Pippin, pouting slightly.

“Oh, all right! IhadtomeettheemissaryfromtheWoodofGreenleaves.”

“What did you say?” Merry asked, laughing at the gardener’s impossibly fast explanation.

“He said he had to meet the emissary from the Wood of Greenleaves,” Pippin offered, showing off like a true Took. “What emissary is that Sam?”

Sam huffed in annoyance at being so easily deciphered. “The one that came to pay his respects to the new King of course.”

The news was a bit of a surprise to the other two hobbits, especially Pippin.

“I didn’t see any emissaries arriving while I was on duty.”

“And there were no crowds on the street to welcome them either when I left the house, which you would expect,” Merry added, puzzled. “After all, Gondorians love Elves even more than you do, Sam.”

By this time, Sam was scarlet with embarrassment. “It wasn’t an official visit as such, he arrived early this morning. Mr Legolas’ old gaffer sent him with news that Dol Guldur has been destroyed and the shadow has lifted from the forest that used to be called Mirkwood. And also to say well done to his son and old Strider and such.”

This was very welcome news indeed. Legolas would be so happy! Merry and Pippin were thrilled for their friend (after they stopped laughing at Sam for referring the Elven King Thranduil as ’Mr Legolas’ old gaffer’).

“But why would Gandalf send you on an errand to see this emissary?” asked Pippin, still trying to get to the heart of the mystery.

Clearly unhappy at having to go into greater detail, Sam started fussing with his smart blue weskit, one of the many new items of clothing he had received from the grateful tailors of the city.

“Seems that Mr Legolas wrote to his gaffer when we were on our way to Cormallen and told him about Mr Frodo’s spot of bother up at Cirith Ungol.”

Suddenly, Merry understood. “You mean, he wrote to him and told him how one small hobbit gardener from the Shire battled the mother of the Great Spiders that have infested his forest for almost two thousand years - almost certainly killing her…”

“Now then, Mr Merry. There’s none as can say for certain that she’s dead…”

“And none can say she’s not. Has anyone bothered to check?” asked Merry smugly. “So, anyway, as I was saying: he wrote to his father to tell him that you mortally wounded her…”

Sam frowned in disapproval, so he quickly amended his words.

“…probably mortally wounded her and Thranduil was so impressed he sent an emissary all the way out here just to thank you. Am I right?”

“Don’t be daft. He didn’t come all the way out here just to see me. He came to see Legolas and Strider.”

“So why did Gandalf send you up to see him then?” challenged Merry with a knowing smirk.

“Well if you must know, he brought me a letter from Mr Thranduil saying he was very happy that Frodo and I were recovered.”

“That was nice of him,” said Pippin, greatly impressed.

Merry was not convinced that was all there was to the letter. “And?”

The gardener began to fidget. “Well, he says hullo to you two as well. He was very impressed that you fought that horrible Witchking and stuck him with your sword. And he says he wouldn‘t mind meeting the hobbit that even a mountain troll can‘t flatten.”

Pippin stuck out his chest proudly. “Yes, well. I am indestructible, it seems.”

Merry rolled his eyes at his cousin before rounding squarely on the bashful gardener. “Samwise Gamgee, if you don’t tell me what he said this very instant, I shall go straight to the King and tell him you are suffering from a relapse. Strider will have you whisked off to the Houses of Healing and swallowing all sorts of nasty remedies for the next week! You‘ll not get so much as a whiff of a mushroom if Mistress Ioreth has her say!”

It was the ultimate hobbit threat and it worked. Sam caved in under the extreme pressure.

“He says that he’s honoured to know his son is a great friend to Shelob’s Bane and that the Elves of the Wood of Greenleaves will sing of the victory at Cirith Ungol even after every last Elf in the Wood has left for the Undying Lands. There! Are you satisfied, you bothersome Brandybuck?”

The bothersome Brandybuck was more than satisfied. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? And imagine that? An Elven King singing the praises of a fussy hobbit gardener who is always trying to make his deeds seem less important than they actually are! I’d love to see you trying to convince Legolas‘ crusty old gaffer that he shouldn‘t clog his head up with nonsense! He’d probably be so annoyed with you he’d have you shot by his Elven archers! At least you‘d die happy, though. You‘ve always admired Elves.”

Sam glared at the cocky Knight of Rohan while Pippin guffawed heartily. But the staring contest did not last for long and Merry was glad to see him finally give in to the laughter that was bubbling under the surface.

Two minutes later, with arms linked together (and all thought of investigating the newly opened Inns on the lower levels dismissed for the present), the merry trio left the Citadel to share the news from the Wood of Greenleaves with Frodo - or at least Merry and Pippin would share it with him.

It had been an afternoon of surprises for all of them, and a day of reckoning for at least two. Their shared love of Frodo had drawn them all together as friends many years earlier, and now it drew all of them even closer as family.

And that bond was never broken.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Author's Note: This is just my own wild guess at how Merry and Sam (and Pippin, of course) might have become closer than friends. No doubt it started during the hobbits' recovery at Cormallen, but that would not suit the purpose of my story, so forgive the 'artistic' licence (one of the many in this chapter, no doubt).

Hope you enjoyed it, regardless,

Kara's Aunty ;)

Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is the property of JRR Tolkien, his family, New Line Cinema, etc. Not me (unfortunately). I am making absolutely no profit from using the great master’s wonderful characters.

Credit: www.Tuckborough.net

Note: Inspired by Antane's non-fiction paper 'I have something to do before the end'.

Antane is a MEFA 2009 award winning author (first place!) for her beautiful story The Letter. Nip over and give it a read, folks! 

Water of Life

Faramir passed swiftly through the Citadel-gate on his route from the Houses of Healing to the first ever session of the Royal Court since Aragorn's crowning. He had barely begun to cover the distance from the gate to the Tower of Ecthelion when he paused in his journey, having spotted a familiar sandy-haired figure staring intently at the fountain by the White Tree of Gondor. Tall guards clad in silver and black, with elaborately winged helms on their heads, surrounded the dead tree. After a cursory nod in his direction, the nearest two resumed their silent vigil, leaving him to his own devices. With a few long strides he drew level with Sam.

“Good morning, Master Gamgee,” he greeted the hobbit. “Are you also keen to witness the Court proceedings of the day?”

To his surprise, Sam did not respond. Faramir’s brow furrowed slightly when he registered the hobbit’s sombre expression.

“Samwise, are you well?” he asked of the little gardener, laying a friendly hand on the hobbit’s shoulder. Sam jumped, startled by the unexpected contact.

“Mister Faramir! Oh, begging your pardon, sir! I never saw you there.”

“Indeed you did not,” said Faramir, smiling kindly. “Nor did you hear me. Do you find the fountain so fascinating that you are blind and deaf to all else?”

Sam blushed, turning his face back to the graceful curves and hollows of the white marble structure that glistened pearl-like in the afternoon sun.

“No, sir,” he said softly, his brown orbs fixed directly ahead once more. “Leastways, not by the fountain itself.”

Finding the comment rather curious, Faramir allowed his eyes to follow Sam’s and found that the hobbit was, in fact, not staring at the fountain proper, but at the crystal clear water that spilled from its topmost level all the way to the wide bowl at its base.

“It sparkles like sunlit stars, doesn’t it, sir?” said Sam in a low voice, completely entranced by the falling curtains of water. The early afternoon sun danced prettily across the water’s surface, making it look like a shower of falling diamonds.

Suspecting Sam’s words to be more of a statement than a question, and wondering what had put him into such a reflective mood, Faramir wisely remained silent in the event he would elaborate. A few moments later, his patience was rewarded when Sam spoke once more.

“We don’t have such things in the Shire,” Sam said, indicating the fountain with a nod of his head. “I don’t think as it would have occurred to a Hobbit to make such a fine display with water, being such a plain-living folk as we are. It doesn‘t really seem to serve any proper function, except to look pretty.”

The hobbit spared him an apologetic glance.

“Meaning no disrespect, Mister Faramir, sir,” he muttered, embarrassed that he may have caused offence.

Faramir chuckled and took a seat on the low circular wall enclosing the fountain. He regarded Sam with understanding eyes.

“There is no slight taken, Samwise,” he assured him. He dipped a hand in the swirling water at the base and trailed it backwards and forwards. “I suppose it may seem like an extravagance to one who has never seen its like before. But you do like it, do you not?”

Sam nodded, his eyes travelling up, down, then back up again, as they traced the journey of the tumbling liquid.

“I never saw it before …” began Sam, before trailing off. He reached out with his right hand and stuck it under the falling water, allowing it to dance flirtatiously across his palm before slipping through his open fingers.

“What, Sam?” enquired Faramir gently, slightly concerned at the marked absence of the gardener’s normally sunny disposition. “What do you see now that you did not see before?”

Silence ruled for almost a minute between them, broken only by the tinkling of falling water and the distant noises of life from the lower levels. Faramir began to wonder if his grave companion would respond, when, eventually, Sam did. The hobbit’s voice was low, almost a whisper.

“I see …” His voice wavered slightly, then rallied. “I see life. I see more water in this one fountain than I ever saw in all of … that place. Mordor.”

The Steward knew Sam was referring to the Black Lands before he put the name to them. It saddened him to see the hobbit so waylaid by the evil memories of his recent trials.

“I imagine you saw very little water in those cursed lands,” he stated.

Sam laughed, a bitter, harsh sound that seemed foreign coming from the lips of such a gentle being.

“Oh, there was water all right, sir - but what there was of it was as foul and evil as the master of Mordor himself, if you take me. Wasn‘t fit for a dog, let alone a gentlehobbit the likes of Mister Frodo.”

The hobbit sighed as he watched the shining crystals of liquid splash into the base of the fountain.

“I would’ve gladly offered up my right arm to have been able to give him something as clean as this in that dreadful place. He was so thirsty, Mister Faramir. We both were.”

Sam withdrew his hand from the flow of water and shook the excess drops carefully into the fountain’s base. Then, instead of wiping his fingers dry on his brown breeches, Sam lifted them to his mouth, closed his eyes, and quickly licked the remaining moisture away with a little sigh. The Steward of Gondor was struck by the simple act: it seemed to carry the ghost of desperation with it and, with sudden clarity, he realised just how terrible the final days of the Quest must have been for both Ring-bearers.

“Don’t seem right to waste it, somehow,” Sam offered sheepishly, having licked his fingers dry.

“You need not explain yourself to me, Master Gamgee,” said Faramir. “It is thanks to you and Frodo that we may all enjoy such simple pleasures.”

With that, he scooped a handful of water from the fountain and brought it to his lips, tipping the liquid into his mouth and swallowing.

“It is quite delicious, is it not?” he said, smiling at Sam.

The hobbit nodded, clearly relieved that he had not acted inappropriately.

“Yes, sir. That it is. No wonder gardens like it so much!” Sam chuckled ruefully, shifting his weight from one curly-haired foot to the other. “Funny thing is, I was always afraid of the water - ’specially if it came in something larger than a glass. Now, though … Well, I still can’t say as I’d be happy to throw myself into this here fountain and swim round it like a fish - or a Brandybuck, come to think of it …”

They shared a laugh at the thought of Merry amusing himself in the Citadel fountain.

“… but, well; it doesn’t seem as bad now as it used to. As a matter of fact, it sort of reminds me of Elves.”

Faramir’s dark eyebrows rose in question. “Indeed?”

Another sheepish hobbit grin.

“Sounds a bit silly, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all, Master Gamgee. I find your observation intriguing. Perhaps you would care to share it in more detail?”

Sam thought about that for a second, then, with a shrug, took a seat next to the Steward, positioning himself on the wall in such a way that he was facing the man, but could still keep the fountain in clear sight.

“Well, water’s pure, just like the Elves are. When sunlight hits it, it glows brighter than all the mithril in Moria. Elves glow too. It moves as graceful-like as they do. And if you listen to the sound the water makes as it drops - more of a tinkle, than a splash - it reminds me of Mister Legolas when he laughs. I would say it’s clear like Elves are, but I’m not sure that’s true.”

“You do not think the water clear?” asked Faramir, slightly puzzled.

“Oh, water’s clear enough, Mister Faramir, sir. It’s the Elves as isn’t. Not all the time. Sometimes if you ask them a simple question, they’ll give you an answer that’s not an answer as such. For instance, I asked Mister Legolas what it was like to be a Prince, and he said that I was the one as ought to be able to tell him. Now, I’m sure Mister Legolas is as clever as a Took in a tight spot …”

The Steward laughed again.

“… but sometimes I wonder if he wasn’t walloped at the Black Gates by a troll’s club. Mr Pippin assures me he wasn’t, but how would he know? He was lying under that troll for most of the time! Anyway, other than that, that’s how water reminds me of Elves, sir.”

“It is a fascinating comparison. I cannot say that it ever occurred to me before you explained it, but I now find that I agree with you.”

“You do?”

The hobbit stared at him in surprise and he nodded.

“Certainly. It is as pure and fair as the Elves themselves. Yet, I find also that it reminds me of you.”

His remark caught Sam off-guard, and brown eyes widened once more in surprise as they met his grey ones.

“No disrespect intended sir, but I don’t see as how you could think that. I‘m just a simple Hobbit gardener.”

“That is because you cannot see yourself as others see you. People rarely do. But, allow me to explain: where you see the grace and purity of Elves, I see the grace and purity of Samwise the Stout-hearted. I see the strength of the mightiest of waterfalls in the set of a simple Hobbit gardener’s jaw as he leaves comfort behind him and follows his friend into danger. I see the unstoppable force of a river in the squaring of his shoulders as he carries his friend up a burning mountain in order to spare him the journey by foot.”

Sam blushed and averted his gaze, clearly uncomfortable with the praise, but Faramir was content to let him look where he wished, as long as he listened.

“I see a deep pool of tranquillity in his very presence,” continued the Steward, “as he chases away the terrors of a troubled mind with a soothing embrace. I see the simple beauty of a stream weaving its merry path through golden fields as he enriches the lives of all around him. You are the water, Samwise. You are the giver of life to those weakened by despair and fear. Frodo could not have thirsted in Mordor as long as you were there with him, for you were his fountain of hope.”

When Sam looked back, his eyes were suspiciously moist.

“That’s a right nice thing to say, Mister Faramir. No wonder Boromir loved you so much. I’ve said it once before, and I’ll say it again, if it’s all right by you: you truly are of the highest quality, sir.”

Sam’s simple statement touched the Steward deeply and he had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. “I have said something to you before that I shall also repeat: the praise of the praiseworthy is above all rewards. Yet I amend it now to include: unless the praiseworthy may also be counted as friend.”

There was a twinkle in Sam’s eye as he countered. “Then I’d be right honoured to count you as my friend.”

Faramir laughed. “You will not accept even the simplest of compliments?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I just did. I accepted the friendship of the praiseworthy,” said Sam, his homely face now lit with a smile. “There’s no greater compliment than counting the Steward of Gondor among my friends.”

“Unless it is counting the King himself among them,” teased Faramir.

“No,” replied the hobbit with a shake of his head. “I hold you both in the same high regard, sir. Which is quite the turnaround, now that I think on it.”

There was a mischievous gleam in the hobbit’s eye that made the dark-haired man chuckle.

“And why is that, Master Gamgee?” he asked with mock severity, rising from his seat. Sam followed in kind and they circled the fountain together.

“Well, I didn’t much trust old Strider either when I first met him. Thought him every bit as shifty as you and them Rangers back in Ithilien. Only he smelled a lot worse.”

Faramir threw back his head and laughed heartily. “Then let us hope he thought to bathe before Court commences, or it may well be the first and last audience of his reign.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, sir. Mister Frodo’s already with him, see? Came up before me with old Gandalf while I was still weeding the garden. And if I know Strider, he’ll not want to risk Frodo losing his lunch by reminding him of a barrel of my best fertiliser!”

And with that, the chuckling friends left the sparkling fountain behind them as they headed towards the Tower of Ecthelion and a fragrant King of Men.

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Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, New Line cinema, etc. I have written this for my own enjoyment.

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net

Summary: Gimli spends some time with one of Bag End's most precious commodities.

The Jewel of the Shire

“Uncle Gimli?”

Gimli, on an impromptu visit to Bag End with Legolas, paused in the act of filling his pipe and lifted his bushy head to find ten-year-old Elanor approaching the garden bench where he sat. He had forgone the visit to market with Legolas, Sam and four of the Gamgee offspring to enjoy some Old Toby instead (free of the elf’s disapproving glare). Mistress Rose’s soothing voice drifted from one of the Smial's open windows as she lulled baby Goldilocks into her late-morning nap.

Elanor came to a halt a few feet away from him, her wide blue eyes rounded in curiosity, her delicate fingers plucking at the hem of the pretty yellow dress she wore.

“Aye, lass?” he said, a smile playing on his lips as she abandoned the dress to twirl her golden ringlets instead.

“Uncle Legolas said there aren’t many dwarf-lasses left. Is that true?”

“Aye, ‘tis true, lass,” affirmed the dwarf matter-of-factly.

Elanor frowned, her rosebud lips rounding into a silent ‘oh‘. Gimli stuffed another few pinches of Old Toby into his pipe, allowing her the time she needed to form her next question. He did not have to wait too long.

“Does that mean,” she began, studying him from beneath her lashes, “that lots of dwarf-lads must do without a wife then?”

“Aye, lass.”

A soft breeze stirred, tugging playfully at the oldest Gamgee child’s curls. She paid it no heed, instead regarding her honorary uncle with a touch of anxiety on her pretty face.

“Did you have to do without one?”

Gimli, who had just reached for his tinder box, paused once more.

“Not exactly,” he said after a moment‘s thought. Truth be told, it had never occurred to him to woo himself a wife - he had been far too busy fighting a war, then submerging himself in the wonders of his new realm, to dally with the fairer sex.

“Oh. So do you have a dwarf-lass back in the Glittering Caves, then?” enquired Elanor with a hopeful smile.

He shook his head. “Ah, lass. There is no lady among my own kind to whom I could ever lose my heart, even were I fortunate enough to find one who was free,” he said simply, thinking of she who had been lost to him before he ever stepped foot inside the Golden Wood.

“Did all the other dwarf-lads find the lasses before you did?” probed Elanor gently. Gimli fought hard to suppress a chuckle at her woeful expression.

“That is a reasonable assumption,” he replied, unwilling to admit he had not even bothered to search for one himself. It would only disappoint the lass.

His little companion sighed heavily at this great misfortune. “But who will cook for you when you go back to your dwarf-hole?” she demanded, staggered by his lack of a sweetheart. “Who will wash your clothes? Who will scrub your floors? Or kiss you goodbye when you go a-wandering in them Glittering Caves of yours? Who will wait up for you with a warm mug of milk and give you a telling-off for coming back late?”

Elanor stood with her arms planted firmly on her hips, impatiently awaiting his answer. Her sweet face was scrunched into an expression of outrage so reminiscent of her mother’s that Gimli found it difficult to stifle a snort of laughter. Reluctant to offend the lass by chuckling openly, he managed to turn it into a strangled cough. After a few convincing gasps, during which the lass clambered on the bench and dutifully patted his back to aid in his recovery, he turned to face her, brown eyes twinkling furiously.

“’Tis a dilemma indeed, little maid. Perhaps, if Mahal favours me, I may yet find such a jewel before I succumb to infirmity.” He winked at her conspiratorially. “But until that fortunate hour is upon me, mayhap I can convince a certain elf to take up the position as servant in my home? I find that the idea of Legolas scrubbing my floors and cooking my meals holds a certain appeal.”

Gimli chortled in amusement at the thought, then added, “I may forgo the peck on the cheek, though, if that is all the same to you?”

To his surprise, she did not chuckle at his wit. Instead, she shook her head gravely, curls bouncing wildly from side to side.

“No, Uncle Gimli. Uncle Legolas is a prince - any hobbit of sense knows that princes can’t cook! You’ll fade to skin and bones, and then you‘ll be too weak to come and visit me again!”

Wide blue eyes searched his face imploringly. “And princes don’t do much scrubbing or washing either! Your dwarf-hole will fall to ruin, and your clothes will follow straight behind it!”

So passionate was her protestation for his welfare that Gimli had not the heart to point out that he had managed to get along very nicely without such wondrous aid, thank you very much. Cave floors required no scrubbing, and even he was able to roast his own rabbits! Despite these (for him, at least) glaring facts, the dwarf was touched by her childish concern for him.

“There’s only one thing for it, Uncle Gimli,” Elanor announced, her face brightening in a sudden smile.

“One thing for what, lass?” he enquired, wondering if she was referring to his imminent starvation, or the hovel she believed he lived in.

“If you can’t find a dwarf-lass to look after you, you’ll just have to wed me instead. I can cook. And clean. And I washed all my brothers breeches yesterday afternoon. Rose-mum said I did a very good job of it, too! I‘ll take proper care of you, better than any prince!”

A burst of warmth that had little to do with the Sun flooded his heart, and he beamed at the lass.

“Ah, little maid, I doubt that any dwarf has ever received such an enchanting offer! And were I several decades younger, and you several decades older, I would be honoured to accept it. Alas, but I fear it is not meant to be.”

For a second, Elanor looked very despondent. “But who will look after you, Uncle Gimli?” she asked softly.

“Do not fear, lass. If ever I reach the point where I despair for my next meal, or a clean tunic for my back, I shall do what you would do in the same situation.”

Her face perked in curiosity. “Yes? What will you do?”

“I shall plead to my own sweet mother for aid,“ replied Gimli, tickling her cheek with a meaty finger.

“Uncle Gimli, if I want a meal or a clean dress, I can see to that for myself!” she said with a despairing roll of her eyes.

“Then you are more adept with homely matters at ten years of age than I ever was!” he chuckled, busying himself with the lighting of his pipe. Once lit, the dwarf inhaled deeply of his Old Toby and blew the smoke over the garden path, well away from his sombre companion.

“Still, perhaps you’re right after all, Uncle Gimli,” said Elanor with a sigh, taking his free hand between her own smaller ones and patting it fondly. “Perhaps it’s not a very bad idea for you to ask your mum for help, instead of being wed to me.”

“Ah. I see you have finally resigned yourself to the difference in our ages. Good. I would be loathe to deprive some strapping young hobbit of a lass as fair as you. ‘Twould not seem right to steal the Shire’s brightest jewel and hide her in the deep caverns of a crusty old dwarf‘s mountain.”

Again, Elanor surprised him.

“No, that’s not it, Uncle Gimli,” she said, throwing him a cheeky smile. “It’s just that, begging your pardon, I wouldn’t be able to kiss you goodbye when you went a-wandering. I don’t think I’d be able to find a cheek to plant one on under all that hair.”

Gimli threw back his head and roared with laughter and, this time, Elanor did join in.

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Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net.

Bitter Legacy

"Papa! Papa! Oh, my Papa!"

The unexpected cry was loud enough and joyful enough to draw his attention to the window of the sixth circle residence that morning, and Frodo peered through it curiously, his keen eyes fixing on the courtyard ahead.

Across the sun-dappled cobbles of the main thoroughfare, a mother and child rushed from their elegant white house and threw themselves joyfully at the tired figure limping towards their door. Their cries of surprise and welcome were promptly stifled as the war-weary soldier, revitalised at the sight of them, dropped his cloak and travelling pack and gathered both wife and daughter into his arms, clinging to them desperately, gazing at both in awe as if he could never have hoped to behold such a wonder again in his life. Fatigue was chased from his face by the ecstasy of familial reunion; cares and woes fled under the force of the sweet kisses bestowed to his cheeks, his lips, his brow, by his precious ladies.

Tears there were also, but not bitter, as those shed in night's darkest hours, when one's heart trembles with fear knowing that its answering beat is separated by leagues and wars, facing darkness inescapable. Nay, these tears spoke of darkness lifted, of prayers answered. They spilled from eyes like diamonds from a dwarven cave, sparkling joyfully in the warm sunshine glow of a spring noon.

A few tears there fell also from Frodo's eyes as he watched the poignant scene, though his lacked the joy theirs exuded. Happy as he was to see a reunion so sweet, he could not stave off the pang of regret it caused him. Realisation engulfed him there and, for one lingering moment, the truth wounded him deeper than the loss of his finger, or Shelob's poisonous sting - or even the Morgul blade: he would never know the pleasure of a lover's kiss, or revel in the sound of his child's laughter. No tender admonishments from a devoted spouse, forced to wait long for his return, no loving fingers to brush the worry from his brow, no son or daughter to cling to him and beg a bedtime tale of dragons or beauteous princesses …

Such delights were as lost to his future as they had been for the past seventeen years or more of his life.

Unable to bear the pain, he averted his gaze to the damning stump on his right hand.

Yet another legacy of the One Ring …

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Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings is owned by J.R.R. Tolkien, his family, etc. Not me. I'm only dabbling my unworthy fingers in his magical world.

Credit: www dot Tuckborough dot net.

Formidable

Elrond and Mithrandir swapped a knowing look across the Ring-bearer's bed: the hobbit's breathing was becoming more laboured, his skin was clammy and ashen, and he had fallen from restless motion into deathly stillness.

Frodo was fading fast.

If they did not remove the shard on this attempt, he would be lost to them ere morning fell. The Lord of the Last Homely House passed a handful of athelas leaves to his foster son for preparation. He shed his long-sleeved outer robe and washed his hands carefully in the bowl of purifying herbal solution on the elegant nightstand beside the bed. After drying them, he then picked up the sharp blade and towels which he had earlier set aside.

“It is time.”

The Grey Wizard nodded in agreement of his host’s simple statement.

“Masters Meriadoc, Peregrin,” said Elrond sombrely, addressing each in kind, “I must ask that you leave, for the present. What I now do is not for youthful eyes to see.”

“No! Please let us stay!” protested a wide-eyed Pippin, horrified that they were being asked to go at such a time.

“Peregrin Took, do as you are bid,” growled Mithrandir, more out of worry than anger.

"But he needs us!"

"What Frodo needs now is the aid of a skilled healer, not the protestation of a troublesome Took!" Mithrandir's grey eyes softened at Pippin's dejected expression. "Do not fear, young Pippin; we shall see that he is brought back to you whole."

Merry, however, was not quite ready to concede defeat.

“We can help, if you’ll let us …”

Elrond held up his free hand to silence them. “Forgive me, gentle hobbits, but I must insist. I simply cannot hope to give this most delicate of tasks my full concentration if I must also worry for the distress you will surely experience. Yet you may still be of aid, if you are willing to keep Master Bilbo company in his room whilst I tend to his kin. He will have need of the comfort you bring. Erestor will show you to his chambers.”

Defeated, the pair followed the silent seneschal from the room, leaving Elrond to settle his gaze on the remaining hobbit. Sam was diligently wiping cold sweat from his master’s brow with a damp cloth.

“Samwise?” said the elf expectantly.

Sam paused in his ministration to look him full in the face, brown eyes glinting with determination. “No.”

The hobbit’s response was soft, but decidedly firm. Clearly, Sam had no intention of being as easily dismissed as his fellow travellers. Elrond experienced a brief burst of surprise: he had not expected rebellion from the humble gardener.

“You know what I must do, Master Gamgee. His discomfort will be more than you can bear to witness.”

At first, he thought the hobbit would ignore his words, for Sam resumed his careful wiping of his master’s brow. Then he spoke again in that same low, firm voice.

“If he must endure it, then so will I.”

Feeling slightly frustrated at the hobbit‘s stubborn insistence, Elrond looked to Mithrandir in a silent appeal for aid; but, for some reason, the wizard studiously avoided his gaze. Fortunately, the Maia was not his only ally in the room.

“Frodo would not have you suffer thus on his behalf, Sam,” said Aragorn quickly, laying a large hand on the hobbit’s shoulder and pulling him gently from the bedside. “Go now. Use this time to take some rest of your own, for you have not slept since we arrived. I will send for you if there is need of your presence.”

Elf, man and wizard waited for him to see reason and leave, that they may commence with the last, desperate struggle to save the Ring-bearer. But Sam stood firm.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you‘ve not slept either. So I’ll go if you go.”

Aragorn frowned. “You know that is not possible, Sam. My presence as a healer is required in order to assist Lord Elrond in liberating Frodo from the thrall of the Dark Lord‘s poison.”

“And my presence as a hobbit is required in order to hold Frodo’s hand while you're doing so. He’ll need the touch of something familiar while you Big Folks are all digging about in his shoulder. How else is he to know he‘s not being attacked just for the spite of it?”

“We have no intention of attacking him, Samwise Gamgee!” barked Mithrandir gruffly. The hobbit flinched, but did not retreat.

“Well I know that, Mr Gandalf, and you know that; but do you as think Mr Frodo - poorly as he is right now - knows that? He’ll only know as what he feels, and if he feels naught but knives and greedy fingers, well then; who’s to say he won’t fight you with every breath left to him? Might even make your job twice as hard with all his strugglin’. No, Mr Gandalf, sir. A hobbit hand is what’s needed, and I’ve got two to spare.”

Elrond could almost swear Mithrandir was suppressing a smile as his shrewd gaze fixed on the rebellious hobbit.

“I could just pick you up and remove you bodily, you know,” threatened the wizard, though his tone was now more resigned than harsh.

“Then you‘ll have to nail shut every door and window afterwards, ‘cos there‘s more chance of the Dark Lord saving us the trouble of a war by crying his flaming eye out than there is of me staying put outside this room when my master needs me.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Elrond had to stifle a smile. If only the hostilities with Mordor’s evil master could be so easily avoided! But the grim set of his jaw and the finality in his voice told Elrond that Sam did not share in his amusement. As far as the stubborn gardener was concerned, the matter was settled. And with Frodo’s spirit ebbing away every second they dallied, Elrond had no choice but to agree.

“Very well, Master Gamgee,” he conceded. “You may stay and offer your master as many hobbit hands as you have to spare; but see that you do naught which may interfere with our urgent task!”

Willing to be obedient once more, Sam nodded and moved to the left side of the bed. Clambering up on a stool, he picked up his friend’s hand and clasped it lovingly to his chest. “You won‘t even as know I‘m here, Lord Elrond, sir.”

Given that the little gardener had just successfully outmanoeuvred an elf lord, a powerful wizard, and the hope of the West, Elrond doubted that claim. Samwise Gamgee was a formidable opponent, when pressed. He would certainly never underestimate the humble hobbit again.

He caught Mithrandir’s gaze lingering thoughtfully on the hobbit’s curly head, and briefly wondered if he had suspected that all along. His own eyes fastened on Sam’s hands as he clasped that of his friend’s.

Tightening his jaw determinedly, Elrond pictured in his mind the bloody path the Morgul shard was travelling as it sought to rob loyal servant of beloved master; then he focused his thoughts, and set his blade to halting its journey forever …

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