Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

The sun stops shining this morn. It comes up same as always, but it’s as cheerless to me as that Dawnless Day. I wake early and know somewhat’s amiss. There’s a cold next to me as I’ve naught felt before. She’s not even been sick. I’d no warning at all and I stare at her for an hour afore I can let myself believe it. I take her hand and hold it until Frodo-lad comes to fetch us for breakfast.

Long after they take her away, her side of the bed remains cold. Never again will her laughter ring through the smial, or her smile greet me in the morning. Never again will I feel her softness aside me, or her kisses on my face. Her children will never have the joy of her advice again. They’ll have to rely on their memories now, as will I. But my memories have been fading of late, and I never want to forget her.

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, which I’ve yet to leave though it’s now past noon. I stare at the portrait of us just after our wedding. A young Rose beams down at me in her wedding dress. Her hair is done up and her eyes shine with mirth, beautiful as a flower in full bloom.

Our first kiss as husband and wife, our first night spent together, our firstborn child, our first year of many more to come, all spent under this roof. Now I’m to spend my first night alone.

I lay back, hug her pillow, breathe in her scent that lingers there still. I close my eyes as the first tear falls. My Rose has left me, gone to where I can’t yet follow. I’ve been torn in two all over again.

It happened the last time we visited the King and Queen at Lake Evendim. I opened my big mouth, saying as I’d take word to Lady Arwen’s folks about her and the children if I ever sailed to Valinor. It had seemed an impossible dream then, despite the Sea-calling. Now it is a foolish hope, which I’ve learned over the years is the best kind of hope.

Rose had known. She’d once dreamt of me there and described things to me as I couldn’t imagine. She’d even drawn it, white beaches behind sparkling towers. I pull out that drawing and stare at it, tracing it lightly with withered fingers. I wonder if she’d been right. I suspect as she was. She’d had the Vision, though it didn’t come to her often. If I go and it’s just as she saw it, it’ll be as though a part of her is there.

I’ve no delusions that Frodo will be there. Arwen had warned me the Undying Lands can be hard on mortals. Oh, he’d be healed sure enough, but it would shorten his natural life. He’d be nearly as old as the Old Took now. Even the Old Took wouldn’t have lived so long there, and he hadn’t had Frodo’s ills. There’s a chance Frodo might’ve chosen to wait, despite the stress as it’d cause him. I hope not. Much as I’d love to see him again, I wouldn’t want him in pain acause of me.

Do I leave my children and my home? I’ll be leaving them eventually either way. I doubt I’d make it through the winter if I stay.

I’ll go then, see my friends, meet some Elves, them as had never set foot on Middle-earth. And I have a promise to keep, before the end.

All the stories I’d heard about the Elves hadn’t prepared me for the real thing. When I finally met some, here in my very own Shire (though it’s not my own as Gildor told Frodo that night), they’d been more marvelous and magical than I had ever imagined. They were somber too. Their eyes held a weariness I hadn’t understood then, and wouldn’t until the Quest’s end.

What would the Vanyar be like, they who’d made the trek to Valinor before anyone else and never left, who had never known war or sorrow? Would their glory overwhelm me or would they be so much a part of the land I wouldn’t be able to see them for the trees?

I know now it’s better to go in without expectations. Then you’ll only ever be surprised and never disappointed. “Take things as they come and you’ll never have a worry,” as Gaffer would say.

Only thing I know is I wouldn’t speak the language. I’ve no Quenyan and only a few phrases in Sindarin that wouldn’t be much use; Dwarvish will be even less helpful, especially as I don’t know what it means.

“Are you sure about this, Granddad?” Perty asks between swings while breaking firewood. Perty is Goldilock’s eldest son, known to the Shire as Peregrin II. Goldi’d sent him up here under the guise of cheering me up, though I suspect she wanted him out from under her foot hair also. “There won’t be any hobbits there to keep you company.”

“No, but there’ll be Elves. Elves and elves.” A dreamy quality sneaks into my voice. I’m growing eager, and that’s a fact.

There’s no way of knowing what the weather will be like in Valinor. Do they even have weather there? I can only assume they must, so I pack for every type of weather I can think of, along with a couple of suits for dinner parties. I tuck a pipe and a couple of pouches of weed away, one for Gandalf, just in case. I pack my brushes: head, foot, tooth and lint.

Case full, I call Holfast to take it to the carriage with the other packages, then go into the study for my coat.

The study’s packed floor to ceiling with the gifts to be handed out tomorrow morn. The packages for Outside were sent last month. In that shipment had been letters to Strider and Lady Arwen, King Eomer, Faramir and Eowyn, Gimli, Legolas, and many other friends. The Fellowship will be getting copies of the Red Book with instructions to send on any corrections to Elanor in Westmarch.

To my grandchildren, I’d written down my silliest poems and some of their favorite stories. Widow Rumble’s granddaughters had made the copies for me, enjoying them nearly as much the children do.

My children will get their own letters and special gifts, of course. Some of their gifts had been easy enough to figure out. As for the others, I can only hope the gifts I chose will bring them as much comfort and joy as they’ll require. Each was chosen with care, on what I thought they’d appreciate the most or get the most use of. I’ll never know if I was right.

Not since the Birthday Party has such a gathering been seen in the Shire, but we Gamgees, Gardners and Cottons are a large brood. There are Tooks and Brandybucks in attendance, Bolgers, Boffins, Bagginses, Goodloves, Rumbles, Twofoots and Goodchilds. Only Elanor and her family are missing, but I’ll see them soon enough.

Of my siblings, only Goldie is still around, a widow herself. I don't like leaving her alone, but she’s got her children and grandchildren, plus Jolly, Nick and Nibs. I know she’ll be all right.

The feast begins at teatime. The children play games and there’s much dancing and food. The cake they haul out is bigger than any I’d seen afore. I watch them carrying it and wonder if anyone will be talking about this party in the years to follow, outside the family. It makes me blush, but I think maybe they will.

The only things missing are the fireworks. Only a few of us here remember them. No one but Gandalf could make such wonders. I hope he’s still got a few rockets in Valinor, as I’d dearly love to see them again.

Robin comes to get me at nine. Everyone’s distracted with a dance, and I slip away, my own attempt at a disappearance trick. It almost works, but then I’m surrounded by my children, grandchildren, Peregrin and Meriadoc. No tears for now, just smiles, good wishes and hugs for our friends in Valinor.

I say goodbye a couple times over afore Robin can get me in the carriage. Then we’re off, and I’m looking back at my family and Bag End for the last time. I look until the hill bends and takes them from view, but the Party Tree can still be seen for miles, white and glowing against the night sky.

Now as it’s the following morning, Bag End’ll be swarming with folk coming to collect their inheritances and children hunting for buried treasure. I’ve got Robin’s gift with me, so he’ll not have to wait 'til he’s home to open it. I wait until we’ve ordered first breakfast afore giving it to him.

He shakes the bundle, makes his guesses, then opens the parcel. I imagine the look of wonder and shock on his face are the same as the other children’s when they open their gifts.

I’d decided to give him the journals I’d kept as a child. He, more than any of the other children, enjoyed hearing about my childhood, would come and ask me questions about when I was growing up, before the War and the Troubles. What was Bagshot Row like? How big was the old Party Tree? Did I often go playing in the gorge? He liked hearing about my cat Nibbler and how my siblings and I conned Gaffer into letting us keep him.

He looks at the journals and lifts the first one out gently. It’s the journal Gaffer’d given me on his birthday, just after I started learning my letters. Gaffer had resisted those lessons for a long time. It was Halfred who’d convinced him to let me learn, and when he gave me that journal, I knew as he had no hard feelings about it, no matter how much he complained.

Robin opens it to the first page, where long ago I’d written my name in sloppy, too-large letters. He’s careful of the aging parchment as he touches the fading ink. He puts his nose close and smells its leathery scent.

“Thank you, Dad.” He speaks too soft for me to hear, but I can read his lips well enough.

“What about the others?” Robin asks, resting the journal back in its parcel.

Frodo will get Bag End and its properties; I know he’ll divide the numerous properties up among his siblings as will suit each of them best. Rose gets my receipt box, full of all my favorite receipts from the Shire and Outside. Merry gets Sting, for he’d always loved it most, and to Pippin I left my walking stick and Elven cloak and brooch. For Goldilocks, I’d left Lady Galadriel’s box. The Elven rune, the letter G, had once stood for Galadriel, then garden, Gamgee and Gardner. Now it’ll stand for Goldilocks, and she can keep her trinkets in there.

Hamfast and Bilbo, being the green thumbs after Frodo, will get my favorite gardening tools, along with seeds of elanor and niphredil. Daisy gets the healing stones Gimli had given Mr. Frodo and me in Minas Tirith, and Primrose will have the little storybook Mr. Frodo gave me his first Yule in Bag End, complete with all its illustrations. For Ruby, I’d framed the family tree she’d scribbled on long ago, adding her imaginary little sister Lily to the Gamgee clan, and Tom, my traveler, will receive the Star of the Dúnedain.

“Will you keep one, over there?” Robin asks, motioning towards the journals.

“I think you do, Dad. How else are the Elves to know who the Ringbearers are, what with you leaving all this here? You’ll need to ask for parchment when you get there, so you can write it all down for them.”

We see the tower hills long afore we get there. The towers loom overhead, beacons for hobbits seeking Westmarch. Strange that so many hobbits migrated here, when once these towers were looked upon with fear. It’s said as you can see the Sea from atop the tallest one, that being called Elostirion. Strider’d told once me it houses a palantír. Just thinking of that orb gives me shivers, just as thinking of the Sea gives most other hobbits shivers. Yet here we all are, and beyond belief the inhabitants of Westmarch have come to think of the towers as their own. Some will even tell you how hobbits built them long ago.

We reach Undertowers at midday. The town’s located on the easternmost hill, just beneath one of the shorter towers. Its shadow sweeps the town like a sundial. The bakery gets it first at six, the inn at noon and the post office around four. It’s currently near the inn, so that’s how I know it’s nearing luncheon.

Elfstan’s waiting for us on the lane by the market square, and he jumps into the carriage when Robin stops for him. He hugs me fiercely and starts rambling about a hiking trip he took with Fastred and the elves they met on the road to the Grey Havens.

I sit back and listen to his story. After three days in a carriage, I’m sore and tired, yet the closer I get to the Sea, the more restless I become. It’s as though my body can’t make up it’s mind to fall asleep or wake up.

Elanor’s baking a feast and refuses to let me help. Robin joins her in the kitchen while the grandchildren, six in all, keep me company. I tell them a few stories and they make up songs. After luncheon, we go out for a walk about the town. Elfstan’s eager for me to meet his lass, Iris. Together, they glow with first love and I feel a pang of longing for my Rose looking at them.

Once my legs are stretched and my back loosened, I feel better. I take a nap shortly after returning and wake up feeling refreshed. Fastred’s home from his warden duties by then. We chinwag in the study until it’s time for supper.

I watch and listen as we eat. The children hang off their father’s every word, and Fastred gazes lovingly at Elanor at every opportunity. They joke easily, talk over each other and pass the dishes around like a dance in perfect synchrony. I know then they’ll be all right, all my children and grandchildren.

The grandchildren work on their projects after supper. Elfstan, May and little Samwise have their studies. Tonight’s subject is Bandobras Took and they take turns telling the story to Celandine and Tulip. Wee Rolo crawls between them wanting to play, so it’s a long time afore the lesson’s over.

Once Robin’s seeing to getting the children abed, I pull out the Red Book and give it to Elanor. “I’ve told everyone to send you any corrections or additions,” I say as it exchanges hands. She hugs it to herself and though she tears up, she doesn’t cry. “It’s for you to tell the story now.”

“The Tale of Frodo the Ringbearer and Samwise the Stouthearted,” she says and smiles. She knows the story well. It will never be forgotten.

Midnight’s always been our time, Elanor and me, so I’m not surprised to find her waiting for me in the study when I tiptoe out. She’s got the Red Book open to the family trees and looks up as I come in.

I wish I didn’t. I want nothing more than to follow my Rose, but I can hear the Sea calling. I don’t hear much these days, but those endless waves follow me through the day and into my dreams, and they’re growing louder the closer I get to the Sea.

Elanor understands all this without me having to say. She closes the book and takes my hand, studying its many lines and spots. I can almost pretend she’s a child again and we’re speaking to each other in Bag End’s study, discussing her questions or reading Strider’s letters.

“It must be lovely, if my Lady is anything to go by. Do you think he was healed?”

“Lady Arwen thinks so. She let me see him once, that year in Gondor when Tom was born. He was walking along the beach, and I felt he was happy.”

“I’ll have to ask him,” I say. “Look up in the sky some night. Mayhap you’ll see them.”

It’s just as I remember: white cliffs leading down to a wide, crystal shore. Elven buildings of old sit amongst the cliffs looking out on the sparkling sea. A great white ship is anchored at the dock.

Elfstan navigates the road to the shore, where we’re greeted by a group of elves, friendly and smiling. They immediately begin unloading the carriage as Elfstan and Elanor dismount. Elanor helps me out and we move ourselves out of the way as the elves work.

To my embarrassment, they bow to me and say how honored they are to be sailing with me, Panthael. Elfstan points out a small group and confirms these are the ones he and Fastred had met earlier.

Elanor wants to see the towers. A woman greets us as we approach and offers to show us around. She tells us all about the towers, when they were built and who lives there now. She pauses on the stairs when I need to catch my breath. We eventually make it to the top. There’s a bench encircling the wall and we stand upon it to look out over the sea. From this height, it seems to go on forever. My stomach drops. How long is this boat ride going to last?

There’s tears in her eyes, as in mine, but I know she’s happy. She hugs me and kisses my cheek. “Take care, Sam-dad.”

I hug Elfstan next. I feel as though I should say something wise and important, but all I can think of is, “Well, I’m going.”

I sit with the elves Elfstan had met so as I can feel connected to my family when we set sail before sunset, and it anchors me as we travel between worlds. The ship’s large enough that it hardly feels like it’s moving, and the salt air is cool upon my face.

We follow the sun over the waves, but She outpaces us eventually. Night sets in, and the stars are brighter here somehow. Soon the elves are singing. I hear the name Elbereth and know they’re praising her.

The elf next to me points upward. I follow her arm to where Eärendil sails overhead, keeping pace with our ship. I shiver, both from chill and knowing we’ll soon be sailing the same skies as the Mariner himself!

Excitement spreads through the boat, and soon I’m singing Bilbo’s Mariner song. I can hardly believe I remember the words. The elves listen quietly, some smiling widely as they remember their little silver-haired bard.

After a time, a small group forms at the bow, looking at something in the water. Curious, I get up to see what the fuss is. Below us, a pod of porpoises are leaping from the water, leading the ship with glee and fanfare.

The porpoises keep us company for several leagues, never tiring or veering off course, yet gradually growing smaller in size. Before I know it, they’re mere specks in the ocean below us and we’re sailing through the sky as the world drops away. There’d been no lurch or tilt, no warning at all, and I have to blink several times to be sure of what I’m seeing.

We’re on the straight road, and far ahead, there’s a small light in the distance: a curtain of silver glass.

At first, the curtain looks like a thin, white line cutting across the sky for as far as the eye can see. It’s farther away than I assume, because it never seems to get any closer even after sailing for another hour or more.

I start to look at the stars again, and I’m surprised to discover that they’ve shifted. They’re dancing around the sky, and all the constellations I know from a lifetime looking up from the Shire are gone. An elf notices my distraction and starts to explain why they move around so, but I’m only half-listening to him.

By the time I look back at the curtain, it’s grown wider, and slowly, it grows to cover the entire sky before us, so that every direction we look is pure white. At first, it does look like glass, but it ripples like the ocean across the night sky. I look closer and see now that it’s not crystal glass at all. It’s more like a cloud, if clouds could be woven together like a tapestry, and there are little white lights twinkling and shimmering inside it, giving it that crystal look.

I hold my breath as we pass into the cloud, not knowing what to expect. It’s huge, larger than aught I’ve seen before, and I’m sure it’ll take ages to get through it. But no sooner do we touch the veil that we’re already through, passing it as if it weren’t even there. The ship touches water again, salt air fills our noses and there’s dawn approaching from behind.

I look back at the curtain and am surprised further to see it already far away, and the stars, still sharp against the approaching dawn, look naught like I’ve ever seen, but Eärendil’s there, still keeping pace.

If I failed to describe the elves all those years ago in the Woody End, I can’t begin to even think of words for Aman. All I can say is it’s joyful and wondrous, and beyond anything I could've imagined. Valinor stretches from one side of the sea to the other, green as emeralds and peridots. It looks more alive than even growing things do.

I figure that’s where we’re heading until the ship turns and heads for an isle in the bay. An elf with some Westron explains to me as Tol Eressëa, that which they call the Lonely Isle, is not the Blessed Realm proper but many Elves live there, having been brought there by Ulmo in the days before the Sun and Moon. Lady Arwen had told me that’s where Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo would’ve lived, the Blessed Realm itself being far too powerful for their mortal bodies to withstand long enough for proper healing of mind and spirit.

The isle looks small, but as we draw closer I see it’s quite large. The shores are sparkling white and the buildings, elegant Elven designs, are made of sandstone. They almost look like they were built out of the sand and turned brown by the sun overhead after Ages of the world had past.

Elvenhome. I’m here at last and after all these months - nay, years - of waiting, it seems like it came too fast. There’d not been enough time to prepare for this, not in my short lifetime, and probably not in the lifetimes of my shipmates either.

Then I hear, or think I hear, a glorious song coming from the sea and air, lush and moving. I strain my ears to hear the music. There’re no words I can understand but somehow I know the song is saying, Welcome.

There’s a gathering by a large dock where our ship will soon anchor. Elves start waving, so I wave too though I can’t yet see who’s standing there - or not, as the case may be.

We come to port and the gangplank is raised. I sit, thinking to let those with family waiting go first, but they all step aside and look at me. By some mutual consent I know naught of, I’m to be the first to disembark.

A couple of my traveling companions step up behind me to help me down the plank, if needed. The elves on the dock are quiet now and smiling. Those in the back stand on tiptoe, as if I’m someone important to be getting a glimpse at.

I swallow, put on my Mayor of the Shire face and start down. The plank is sturdy but the ship bobs. I grab for the rope, which is at my eye-level and only somewhat helpful. My companions stay close, steadying hands ever at the ready.

Halfway down the plank, I notice who it is I’ve been looking at since I stepped off the ship. The tall chap with the short beard and long robes of red and silver is none other than Gandalf! I laugh and he laughs. I was expecting the White Wizard, not this ethereal being standing amongst this majestic crowd.

Next to him are Galadriel, Elrond, and a woman who can only be Arwen’s mother. There’s a few more of Elrond’s household, but no sign of Frodo or Bilbo. While I expected it, I admit I’m disappointed. I push that aside to focus on my friends before me.

The city’s grand as Minas Tirith, but larger and more cheerful, with tree-lined lanes and gardened terraces. The buildings look like they’re built out of the earth, elaborate sand sculptures my grandchildren would’ve loved to see. Flowering vines climb up the walls and sunlight bathes the streets.

A receiving house for newcomers sits a few blocks from the dock. Many who are on the ship make their way there. I’m shown to a room on the first floor with hobbit-sized furniture. I take a nap to sleep away my sea legs, then wake an hour later, hungry and eager to explore.

Gandalf’s disappeared but there’s food and fresh water waiting on the table. I eat and set out to see the city. I find a bakery, cobbler, market, and a library that’d take an elf’s lifetime to read through. The books are all in Elvish but some have pictures, beautifully drawn. There’s gardens everywhere and elves of course.

Oh, the Elves! So fair and tall, and joyful and humble. Those untouched by the troubles of Middle-earth are even more regal than those I’ve come to know back home. Some are sitting and talking, painting or reading, or walking with their little ones. I’ve naught seen an elven child afore. Even they are taller than me!

Everyone knows me, stopping for a word or two that I mostly don’t understand. A few speak Westron and talk to me about this and that. Mostly they want to know about home and what’s going on there. A few suggest places for me to go that Frodo had enjoyed visiting: a meadow, a forest trail, a shaded glen. I must remember to visit these places when I can.

There’s a feast that night and everyone is in attendance. Gandalf meets me at the door and introduces me to so many elves I soon forget their names. I’m most eager to meet Elrond’s wife, and I sit with them and Galadriel as the food is served. I see in Celebrían a quiet strength that I’ve oft seen in her daughter, and she has the same blue eyes and snowy complexion as Arwen. She has Galadriel’s hair though.

The food is grand and the wine smooth as silk and delightful as children’s laughter. After the food comes songs and poems. There are silly songs and mournful ballads; some are clearly made up on the spot. At one point, Gandalf nudges me to stand. Hands behind my back, I begin reciting The Man on the Moon Came Down Too Soon. Those there who know it smile, remembering their old friend.

Celebrían then sings a ballad I can’t understand. Gandalf translates the words: it’s a song she composed about her children in Middle-earth, wondering about their adventures and hoping their lives will be peaceful now. I think of my own children and of Arwen, and it strikes me as we both have families left behind we won’t be seeing again.

Several others of Elrond’s folk are here as well. I speak with Lindir, Erestor and Glorfindel and make plans for visits at some future point. Near the end, I find myself alone with Gildor, one of the first Elves I’d ever seen.

“Did you guess all those years ago as we’d both be standing here someday?” I ask him.

He smiles warmly. “I knew only that I was in the company of great beings. How great even I could not then foresee. I am glad to see you again, elf-friend.”

We sit on the balcony to enjoy the view of the sea and the many boats coming and going in the bay. I study Gandalf as we eat.

He looks both the same and different: same bushy eyebrows, twinkling eyes, long nose, same frame. His hair’s a smoky black, he’s got nary a wrinkle and there’s a soft glow about him. He’s certainly more relaxed, propping his feet on the railing.

“Aye. That and what happened to all my luggage.” For I only have my small suitcase here.

I’ll have to wait to fulfill my promise then. I settle back and wait for Gandalf to continue.

“You will learn all about your master as time goes by,” he says. “For now, he wanted you to have this, when and if you eventually arrived.”

He hands me a letter from his robe pocket. I expect to see the stilted writing of Frodo’s maimed right hand on the envelope. Instead, it looks much the same as it had prior to Frodo’s injury, if still somewhat slanted.

“Some pipeweed then?” I ask. It’s early for smoking yet, but I see no reason to wait. I retrieve my pipe and weed pouches from my suitcase.

Gandalf fishes his pipe from another pocket. He stuffs and lights his pipe with almost childlike relish and inhales slowly. He glows brighter somehow. “Ah! Old Toby! The finest weed in the Southfarthing.”

Where to begin? There are so many things I wish to tell you, I fear this letter may grow quite long.

First and foremost, I regret that I cannot be here for your arrival. Imagining you in Elvenhome is quite a treat! You’ll love it here as I do and be welcomed as family. Secondly, because I know you’ll ask and not be satisfied with any answer lest it be from me directly, assure yourself that I am healed and well, and have been for many years now. It took longer than I would’ve liked, and I became frustrated at times, but I was finally able to set aside my doubts and fears.

But enough of such dire thoughts! There are so many more pleasant things to talk about. For instance, did you know that Gandalf sings? And quite well actually! Ask him for a song as soon you get home.

He rambles on about his many friends, most I’ve yet to meet, and some place called Elmoth, where he spent much of his time. He’s been all over the isle, from what I can gather and relates a few of his more inspiring adventures while hunting or hiking. There’s a buck out there somewhere wearing one of his necklaces around its antlers. He named it Pippin.

There’s not a hint of anything dreary, and I feel the tension begin to drain away as I read on. Whatever else he’d been, he’d known peace, I’ve no doubt of that now. That alone is worth the coming.

Though I go before you once more, I have no doubt that we’ll meet again. Until that time shall come, take care, my brother.

I return to the library with Lindir after second breakfast. I imagine Frodo spent much of his time here, so I’m surprised when Lindir tells me otherwise.

“Certainly, he did love it here and came whenever he was in the city, but he preferred to pursue his other interests or learn new ones. He learned to sail and tried his hand at sculpting and weaving. He loved gardening and painting most.”

After a few hour’s browsing, I find some storybooks for children that Lindir offers to translate into Sindarin and Westron. “Won’t that mess them up, writing in them?” I ask.

“They’re books. They are meant to be written in,” he says. I can’t argue with that.

Over the next few days, Lindir shows me the cafe where Frodo often ate that served a berry tart even Rose would envy. Near there is the seawall where he’d watch the ships and draw his sketches. Across town is the seamstress who made his robes (and she offers to make some for me as well) and the stationer who supplied him with his parchment and canvases.

I can easily imagine Frodo here, chattering away with his new friends. Everyone speaks of him with great respect and fondness. They tell me how he would tell stories to the children just as Bilbo had and how he’d recite poems on impulse. One of his ocean paintings even hangs in the grand hall of the theater here.

I walk the city alone my last night and wish Rose could be here. It’s not as she drew it, but it’s similar. The pang that hasn’t gone away since her passing makes itself known as I stargaze. Will I ever be whole again?

Gandalf arrives early the next morning to take me to Elmoth. Shadowfax had passed years ago, but the horse we ride now is just as fine to my reckoning. I don’t tell him that though.

As we ride the coastal road, he points things out and explains how everything works here. It’s a bit like the Shire really: no real leaders, unless you count the Valar, and everyone minds their own. Oddly enough, there’s no money here or even bartering. That’ll take some getting used to, but it’s good news for me as I’ve got no money and naught to be bartering with.

I ask him anything that pops into my head: when are market hours, where’s the best fishing, does it get cold, does it rain, what’s considered neighborly behavior. After a few dozen such questions, Gandalf laughs heartily.

Elmoth turns out to be a small coastal town about ten miles out of Avallónë. A wide bay sits at the feet of tall bluffs, atop of which are many grand houses. The bluffs stretch on for some miles, opening up to the town bustling with midday activity. Halfway up the edge of the bluff and dug into the rock is a smial. Above it sits an Elven home.

Gandalf greets those we pass with cheer and soon we’re heading up the path to the smial. There’s a kitchen garden and a small stable. The lane continues to the house above, where many folk are moving about. From this angle, I can see the bluff flattens out to a plateau behind the houses but not much else.

I’m told Frodo built it with his own hands, and since he wanted a place for his friends to come visit comfortably, he had the house just above built as well, with a tunnel connecting the two. The kitchen garden has been kept up by someone, for there’s nary a weed and the bushes are heavy with fresh berries. A round green door with a knocker is framed by round windows and flower boxes full of delicate bluebells.

Inside, the musty air is being let out by the ocean breeze through open windows. The floors are polished and the shelves dusted. Someone is keeping it up, for nothing appears to be falling apart from disuse. The entrance hall lets into a cozy parlor, followed by the kitchen and pantry. Across the hall is the bedchamber, bathing room and study.

The furniture is sparse, just the basics, no clutter of mathoms from endless birthday parties. His wardrobe holds a few silk robes and some plain hobbit clothes for mucking in the gardens. The pantries are filled with sacks of flour and meal, fresh milk, eggs, cheese and meats, and herbs hang drying overhead.

I scan the books and scrolls on the shelves in the study. Many are in Elven but there are a few written in Westron in Frodo’s own hand. There’s also rolls of paintings, which Gandalf said Frodo would hang as the mood struck him, explaining the many empty frames on the walls throughout the smial. Many of the paintings and charcoal drawings are by Frodo’s own hand, and I’m heartened to see they’re of happy things, not that dark stuff I’d discovered in the Bag End study after he sailed.

I go back to the kitchen and look over my stores to plan luncheon for Gandalf and me.

In the study, I find a journal nearly filled in Frodo’s hand. Once again, the last few pages are for me. I take the journal outside to enjoy a smoke with Gandalf and read through Frodo’s recollections, which are at first random and unclear, but gradually become coherent and joyful.

Gandalf shows me the garden atop the bluffs that Frodo had designed. There’s roses, bellflowers, geraniums and dahlias blooming in colors so brilliant they almost hurt to look at. There’s sculptures of giant eagles, soaring dragons and a pair of trees. An arbor encases a sculpture of Frodo’s parents.

There’re lanterns hanging from poles along the garden paths and near the house are pits smoking with roasting meat for the homecoming feast tonight. I meet many more folk and some of my neighbors, including a couple with two young twins who, by elven reckoning, are about the same age as Perty.

The feast starts with food and drink followed by songs and poems. The food is wonderful, the wine rich and the mood high. I get Gandalf to sing with little wheedling. His voice soars clear through the garden and entrances everyone.

The sun sinks beyond the distant hills and the stars come out in their strange constellations. The lanterns are lit and I sit with my new friends and start to learn some Quenyan.

Near midnight, I see Faeglin,* one of Gildor’s folk from the Woody End. He lives nearby just past the town and was a great friend to Frodo, according to Frodo’s letter and journal. He’s just as I remember, fair and soft spoken.

I excuse myself to walk along the shore. I smile as I think of my Rose and how she’d love it here. She’d charm all these fine folk, of that I’ve no doubt.

* - You can read more about Faeglin and their reunion in “For Eyes to See That Can” in my GamgeeFest Keepsakes collection.

I spend the next morning unpacking and the next few days getting familiar with the town.

I didn’t bring much. My clothes in the wardrobe, grooming things in the bathing room and that’s about it. I’ve brought knickknacks as the children’ve made for me over the years and place these about the smial. The family portrait that was done at the last Free Fair goes in the parlor over the mantle. The hall gets all the small ones, which I arrange into a family tree without thinking.

After elvenses I get out to see the town. It’s small but has most of the essentials, and anything else could be got from the city. There’s a fish market and a small dock. There’s a spot for folk to bring their garden harvests. Seems as everyone has planted different things, so there’s a good variety. A few others who live near the woods have fruit trees and I get myself an apple. It’s odd not to offer money or anything in exchange for it, but I remember the berry-laden bushes in my own garden. I’ll cut those tonight and bring them down tomorrow.

There’s a post office and even an inn. There’s a communal oven for baking bread and for preparing feasts. Most everything else you need could be found by knocking on doors and finding out what the person there enjoys indulging themselves in. There’s a chap as sews things, a lass who paints and weaves, a carpenter eager to make whatever you wish, and on and on. It takes me several days to get comfortable with the idea, but then there’re folk knocking on my door, drawn by the smell of cobblers, pies and biscuits.

That’s when I understand it: we’re just one large family providing for each other.

There’re four other houses atop the bluff besides Big House of Near Water. I meet my neighbors at the party that first night and visit them each over the next few days.

My nearest neighbor is none other than Erestor. His wife’s a golden-haired beauty named Glorwaith. I’m told she came here with Celebrían to keep her company. They both love to fish and Glorwaith designs things, such as a sculpture of a seabird made from white seashells. They’ve no children yet but are planning for one soon.

Next is Erúvë. She’s one of the Vanyar and like the others I’ve met, she seems more vibrant somehow. They’ve a light that shines out brighter than the others. She sings and dances at festivals and teaches dance to anyone wishing to learn. She makes the best bread as I’ve ever tasted and has a collection of stones she sculpts into sea creatures.

Past her is a family: father Rimbe, mother Sermë and their twin sons Yulion and Lenwë. The twins are twelve, by Elven reckoning, and already tall and lean. They like to hunt in the woods with their mother while their father enjoys taking long treks in search of irons and metals for his craft. They’re a joyous family and the twins are often at Near Water. I learn it’s them who have kept the place up since Frodo’s passing.

The last house is a guest house for whoever needs it. Currently, it’s housing some folk from the other side of the isle who come for the hunting once a year. They’ve deer hides with them and give me a soft pelt for the coming winter.

At week’s end, I host a brunch for my neighbors in the garden, and for the first time I don’t miss my family.

“No time like the present,” Lenwë says in practiced Westron. An identical grin flashes on his brother’s face.

I look at the skiff that Frodo’d used to go fishing, and I’ve determined he must’ve been mad indeed to go out on that vast ocean in that tiny boat. It’ll tip over with the first wave, I’m certain.

“It’s sturdy,” Yulion assures me in Quenyan, holding up a steady hand to help me with the translation.

I clutch my rod and take a deep breath. Best get on with it. They hold the skiff while I climb in, then shove the skiff off the shoreline and jump in once it’s deep enough to row. It bobs a fair bit but rides the waves with ease. By the time we get to a spot they deem good enough, I’m more relaxed.

We bait our lines and cast them, then set the rods against the hull. Yulion and Lenwë stretch out, hands behind their heads. I’m reminded of Elladan and Elrohir and wonder what they’re doing right now.

“Do you have any fishing games?” I ask. They shake their heads, confused. I try again. “We could find shapes in the clouds or make up riddles, if you knew what I was saying.”

I think more and snap my fingers as an idea comes. I dig in the supplies and bring out the twine. I cut a length of it and make an outline of an apple on the sitting board.

The twins catch on immediately and give me the Quenyan word. We spend the day making pictures, learning words and catching fish. I even forget to be afraid of the water and start making plans for next time.

Erestor, Rimbe and Faeglin come up with the idea to take me to a rock. That’s all they’ll tell me but they seem fair excited about it. So at the beginning of my third week, we set out early in the morn and head up the coast on horseback.

It takes two days of riding to get there. On the way, we pass into grasslands, barren of wildflowers at this time of year but with trees as old as the elves themselves, and just as grand and majestic.

Near the end of the second day, we come to a giant boulder as sits in the middle of just such a field. It looks like naught more’n an ordinary rock to me. It actually reminds me of Three-Farthing Stone and brings to mind images of me, Robin and Tom wasting a Highday away, or me and Merry meeting over our Conspiracy.

Erestor laughs and helps me down from the horse. “This is not just any rock. This is the Looking Stone.”

“Come again?” I ask, wondering if I’d heard wrong, though my hearing’s improved somewhat since coming here.

“Come. We’ll show you,” Faeglin says and together the four of us climb the boulder to stand atop it.

I look and gasp. I hadn’t realized how far we’d come since we’d left the shore this morning, but we’d come across the narrowest part of the island to the opposite end. There before me across a wide, clear bay is Valinor proper. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to it. I know without asking that they brought Frodo here, that he stood in this same place and looked at this same wonder.

It’s a month afore I get Elrond, Celebrían and Galadriel out to visit. We’re in the Big House, waiting for supper to finish simmering. Since arriving, I’ve spent as much time here as in Near Water, with so many folk coming and going.

Feaglin and Erestor had hauled the last packing crate here this morning. I bring my guests into the parlor and open the crate. I explain about Lake Evendim and the promise I made. “Some of the letters, these here, were written then. The rest were sent over the years until the last package arrived just a few weeks afore I sailed. I put them in order for you.”

They’ve have tears in their eyes as they pull out the largest of the portraits and unwrap it. Arwen, Aragorn and their two sons grin up from the canvas. It was painted somewhere near the ocean and not too long ago. The smaller bundles include drawings from Arwen of the children growing up and lockets of their hair.

Galadriel smiles at me warmly as Celebrían hugs me tightly. “We cannot thank you enough for bringing these.”

In another package are two journals, one for each child, written mostly by Arwen but now and again with a passage from Aragorn. They hold stories of the children’s adventures, daily things like lessons, trips to the market and battles over bathing.

I can see they’re eager to open the letters. I leave them to finish supper. I’ve learned how to make a few Elven dishes but they take time, enough time for my friends to read through the first stack of correspondence.

After spending some hours searching the box of mementos (and there’s a few from Elladan and Elrohir as well), Galadriel excuses herself to walk in the garden. I follow after a few minutes and find her sitting under the arbor.

“I’ve a letter for you as well, my lady,” I say and hand her the missive that had come with the last package.

She takes it, smiling when she sees her husband’s handwriting. She holds it carefully as she continues to look out to the east.

“How he always picked at the lint on his robes when he was bored. It always annoyed me.”

“Elves have lint?” I ask before I can stop myself. I blush as she laughs. She pats the bench next to her, so I sit. “I miss her smell,” I say. “And her laugh, her smile, listening to her and the children making breakfast, holding her at night in my arms.”

She places a warm hand over mine on the bench. “I am sorry your loss, Panthael. To lose someone after so many years together is indeed a sorrow.”

“I’d known her my whole life almost, but even that is not as long as you and your husband’ve had.” I don’t have to say as she’ll see her husband again someday.

“The amount of time is not what matters, but how that time is spent. Did you love her well, Master Panthael, and did she know it?”

“Of course,” I say at once. I’d always made sure that she and the children knew how much they were loved and appreciated.

After Rose died, I’d thought I could tough it out for my children’s sake, as Gaffer had. It’d only taken a few weeks to know I couldn’t do that. Everywhere I went and everything I touched reminded me of her. Sometimes that was a comfort, but more often than not, it squeezed my heart so much I could hardly breathe.

Sailing - fleeing - had become a life preserver for my sanity. I know that now. I’d come to get away, more’n any other reason.

“I never understood,” I say, “what it was like for Gaffer after Ma died. I was just a faunt; I hardly remember her. I never thought much of how it must've been for him to lose her and still have to raise us. I always respected him, but not nearly enough for what he did. He was stronger'n I am. He stayed and did his duty to his family... I ran away.”

Galadriel squeezes my hand. “Would staying have benefitted anyone?” she asks gently.

I can list all the justifications I’d made when I decided to sail - my children are grown and no longer need me, I’d made a promise to Arwen, I’d needed to satisfy my curiosity about Frodo and Elvenhome. Truth is, I never would’ve come if not for Rose.

“Instead, you found the courage to leave and seek healing, just as Frodo. Unless you believe him a coward as well.”

“Then do not judge yourself so harshly. Sometimes leaving is the most courageous thing you can do. Frodo did so. Twice.”

Behind the bluff is a forest of many different trees. Faeglin goes there often to hunt, and sometimes I tag along to stretch my legs. I’ll collect rocks along the way and come home with a string of coney or squirrel brought down by well-placed missiles. Today, neither of us are armed.

In a clearing a few miles into the woods are two stone markers. Bilbo had only managed to see the first winter here, long enough for Frodo to get settled and make friends. He had gone peacefully in his sleep.

“And Frodo?” I ask, brushing twigs and leaves from his marker. There’s a date there, but it’s not one I can reckon. In his journal, Frodo had kept track of the dates, but only for the first few years.

“It’s been about twenty of your years now,” Faeglin says. He places a wreath of pine boughs, seashells and berries between the markers. “He was at peace at the end, filled with joy and light.”

“He missed home, but it was not a burden. He had many friends here and was rarely alone, except when he wished it. He passed peacefully while napping in the garden. He was smiling.”

Faeglin wanders off and leaves me by the markers. I touch the runes that spell their names: Bilbo, my first master and tutor, and Frodo, my friend and brother at arms. I remember them both as I’d last seen them, standing on the docks at the Grey Havens, the sun lighting their faces and hope in their eyes. If I couldn’t see them one last time, I couldn’t ask for a better parting than the one I’d already had.

We take a different route through the forest as we leave. We’ve baskets for gathering and Faeglin’d promised Erúvë he’d do some rooting for her. I’m fair certain there’s love brewing there but I don’t press the matter. Elves live so long, I don’t imagine they feel much rushed in matters of the heart as we mortals do.

“I know that hoofmark,” he says, excited. It appears to be as normal a deer track as any other to me. “Come, Panthael. You’ll want to see this.”

I glance up at the sky, but the tree cover is too heavy to get a glimpse of the sun. Still, it has to be near teatime. I hope this doesn’t take too long.

We follow the tracks for what feels like miles as the light fades. My stomach grumbles, so I pull out some bread to nibble on. I offer some to Faeglin but he declines, bent on his task.

At length, we reach a clearing but just before we get too close to the wood’s edge, he stops me. Raising a finger to his lips, we slowly creep forward, making nary a sound. There, in the middle of the clearing, is a large buck with a rack of antlers nearly as big as me.

I’m wondering why Faeglin is so excited and about to ask when the buck lefts his head, sniffing the air. He’s smelled us and is trying to decide if we’re a threat. He turns his head and the moonlight catches on something tangled about its antler. It’s too far away to see clearly but it appears to be a polished stone attached to a leather cord. A necklace.

Autumn here’s been mostly mild. Today it’s raining, so I get a fire going and bring the rolled paintings from the study to the parlor. Since my arrival weeks ago, I’ve been too busy to look at them any further’n I did that first day. Today’s as good a time as any to fill up the empty frames.

Frodo had enjoyed painting and had written about the ones he felt were especially fine. There are nearly sixty tubes here, labeled by room. It takes me most of the morning to look at them and decide which ones to hang. I keep changing my mind; they’re all so marvelous. There’s the ocean, woods, animals, portraits. Some are cheerful, others thoughtful, but none of them mournful.

I get to the bedchamber last, with a dozen tubes for the three frames there. I pull them out and get quite a surprise. There’s Bag End and Hobbiton, the Hill and Water, Tuckborough, the Free Fair, Brandywine, Buckland. They’re done by memory and nostalgia, or so I assume until I get to the last three. I open them up and stare in amazement. There’s Peregrin hunting with his sons, Meriadoc and Estella holding wee Niphredil, and there’s Rose feeding wee Primrose, her belly swollen with Bilbo as Frodo-lad, Rose-lass and Merry study on the parlor floor.

I swallow the tears and stare in joy and wonder. No memory painted these. I go over the others: that’s me on stage as Mayor at the Fair; that’s Bag End with the trellises young Hamfast had installed for the kitchen garden; there’s Peregrin the Thain smoking a pipe at dusk at Great Smials. I put Rose and the children on the wall opposite the bed and resolve to speak with Gandalf as soon as I may.

It’s a few days before I can get ahold of Gandalf, and a few more before I meet him in Avallónë. We lunch at the inn as he explains.

“Aye. He knew the names of my first six children, and he knew as I’d be Mayor.”

Gandalf nods. “Mind you, prophecy is not the same as when you looked into Galadriel’s mirror, or when Pippin and Denethor looked into the palantír controlled by Sauron. Such devices can be dangerous, for what they show us, while the truth, is not always interpreted truthfully. As such, they must be used with caution and wisdom. Galadriel knew this; Denethor did not.

“Prophecy is a gift given us by the Valar. We do not control it, and it cannot be used at will, for such power is easily abused. Still, there are ways to make oneself more open to receiving the gift, and only those with great skill are able to navigate the visions while receiving them.

“They came to Frodo when he was most especially homesick. Such occurrences were more common when he first came here and grew less frequent as time passed.”

Homesick. I know that feeling well. During the busy days I can ignore it, but at nights and in the early mornings, when all’s quiet, I can feel it closing in on me if I let it.

Gandalf looks at me thoughtfully, as if he’s read my mind - and he probably has. “You do not have this gift, of course, but there may be something I can do for you. It’ll take a few days to arrange it, if you’re able to wait.”

So as it turns out, Tol Eresseä has a seeing stone. Gandalf comes a few days later to take me to the tower where it’s kept.

“The Masterstone is the strongest of the Palantír,” he says as we climb up the long stairs. He looks down and must’ve seen the worrit on my face since he quickly adds, “No, Samwise, it is not dangerous, in and of itself. It is a window into the East, nothing more. I pled your case before Taniquetil. You have been permitted this one glimpse. Use it well.”

“Anyone who wishes may request to use it, though not all are granted permission. Frodo, as with many others, had no need for it. Others may find it a temptation, using it to look back, getting lost it what was or might have been, forgetting the here and now. They must be kept away from it. Mostly, it is only those who have business yet in Middle-earth who use it.”

“I have on occasion had need of it. On those instances, I bring word to those here who have loved ones there, such as Celebrían. She was always grateful for the news, but nothing seen within the orb can compare to the treasures that you brought her and Elrond. I’ve not seen her so happy since she returned from her visit with you.”

We eventually reach the top and I sit on the bench to catch my breath while Gandalf fiddles with the stone. When I’m ready, I mount the stool Gandalf had brought with us. I put my hands on the cool glass, and Gandalf places his hands over mine. He gives me a wink of encouragement. Taking a deep breath, I look into the stone.

At first, I don’t see much more’n a swirling mass of smoke. Next thing, we’re sweeping over the Grey Havens and Blue Mountains on the way towards Westmarch.

Robin’s still there, along with Rosie and Daisy. They’re helping Elanor plan the Yule feast. At Great Smials, Goldilocks and Perty are baking in their kitchen, while Peregrin naps in the library.

Next comes Bag End. Holfast, Bilbo and Hamfast are preparing the garden for winter. Frodo-lad’s entertaining in the parlor. Merry’s there with his wife, and Athelas and Tom are visiting. Athelas ain’t showing yet, but I know somehow they’ll have a bairn come summer.

Ruby, Primrose and Pippin are in Bywater with their families. They’re patching the barn roof yet again, while Goldie, Nick and Nibs entertain the faunts and prepare a feast to feed the whole town, seems like. And over in Buckland, Meriadoc’s going over the accounts with his sons.

The picture fades and the smoke returns. I step back and blink, not quite believing what I’d just seen. I feel as I’ve been lifted off my feet and can’t quite find the ground again. I go to stand on the bench, hoping that the ocean will help root back here in Avallónë. Quite the opposite.

From here, the city below looks small and distant except for the towers that reach up like fingers over the rest. The ocean stretches out behind them to the blue horizon. I stare in wonder, for spread before me is the drawing Rose had done years ago. She really had seen it and all this time I’ve been looking at it from the wrong angle. For the first time since her passing, I can feel her near me, a soft peacefulness.

The first snow falls as we reach Near Water. With Gandalf and Faeglin’s help, I get the paintings for the Big House hung. These are much larger and naturally higher up, and beyond my ability to hang myself. I make mulled cider and we chat or read as the snowstorm continues through the day. I settle my guests for the night and go back to the smial via the tunnel rather than risk the steep path outside.

Once tucked in bed, I pull out Frodo’s journal and flip to the end. I’d kept my promise to Robin, jotting down memoirs as they occur to me. Most of the stories are from my children’s youths, and a few are from the Quest, including how we turned Rivendell upside down. I recount births, deaths, courtships, travels, and the various antics of myself, Merry, Pippin and Frodo in our misspent and carefree youths.

I probably should be writing more about the Quest and the defeat of Sauron, but that tale’s been written and these folk here know far more about the full story than I ever will. They don’t know so much about the Shire or Hobbits, and that I can maybe teach them something about if anyone reads this.

Tonight I write of the snow that fell the year Rose and I were married. We’d gone out in the early morning to walk atop the fresh snow and ended up on top the Hill beneath the oak, looking out over Hobbiton. The wounds from Saruman’s nasty work were gone and the young trees were growing swiftly. The mallorn stood tall above the rest and smoke rose from the stacks of New Row.

“A new beginning for a new adventure,” I end with a flourish. What will be my next adventure, I wonder.

I don’t know if time moves differently here or not, but it’s certainly harder to keep track of. I do my best though, marking each day to reckon its passing when I remember. Near as I can tell, it’ll be Yule in a week. Gandalf stays with me after returning from Avallónë and sends out messages while I begin to prepare for the day.

I bake pies, biscuits, cakes and scones. Sermë comes with a wild boar she speared in the woods. A pit is dug and lined with baking stones before the ground can freeze. It takes some doing, but we eventually figure out how to keep the underground oven warm and cover the boar the day before for a slow roast. Glorwaith and Erúvë plan the decorations. Several of Erúvë’s little sculptures are turned into ornaments for the rose bushes and when Galadriel arrives, she puts lights along the paths.

By week’s end, every house on the bluff is bursting with guests. I’m surprised at how quickly word has spread, though I’m reminded again they’ve got better avenues for news than the Quick Post. Nearly all of Elrond’s and Galadriel’s folk are here, and those who live nearby come in for the feast, bringing their own dishes to add to the bounty.

I know as Yule means naught to them and they’re here only for me. I’m baffled but touched and I spend the day playing host to my own Party of Special Magnificence. I even have mathoms for my guests, mostly things that Frodo had acquired over the years but also things I had brought with me, little mementos of home.

The boar is dug up at noon and the feast begins. There’s enough food for fourths and fifths and there’s no corner as is left unfilled.

The ocean wind turns colder after the sun sets, biting into bone. The bonfires are lit to keep away the chill, and the blue lights Galadriel hung earlier flare to life, adding their quiet beauty to the night. Gandalf’s been hinting at a surprise all week and now he hands out sparklers to the children, who light them and run about the garden with them, just like at the Birthday Party.

“Panthael, look!” Yulion says and lights a string of crackers so they all go off one after another.

“That’s neat!” I say in Quenyan, though since it’s Quenyan, I’m actually saying, “That’s most splendid!”

Gandalf starts the show after dessert’s served. The first rocket is the old Party Tree, which transforms into the mallorn. Galadriel winks at me. I had attempted to draw the mallorn for her, with little success. The second rocket is Bilbo’s dragon, then there’s the Eagles and the Ents. There’s also rockets that make pretty patterns and colors of nothing in particular.

I lay back on my blanket to give my neck a rest. Weeks of looking up hasn’t helped it none. I lay between Lindir and Haldir, with Glorfindel behind me, and watch as the rockets soar into the sky. I begin to feel like I’m going up with them, following them skyward. I can no longer feel the ground beneath me or hear my friends around me. I see only the green of the Hill and its sheltering oak.

I go up to the oak and put my hand to its bole, though there’s naught there but sparkling light. My hand goes through it and soon I’m looking down: at the fireworks, the garden, Tol Eressëa, Arda. Ahead of me is a single light growing brighter with each moment: the star of Eärendil.

I’ve had some strange dreams in my life, but this one starts out simple. I’m walking along a road and on it are different memories from my life: Daisy and May teaching me to bake, learning my letters with Mr. Bilbo, digging in the garden with Gaffer, searching for Elves in the Woody End with Tom and Robin, the Birthday Party, the Conspiracy, Mt. Doom, Gondor, getting married, my children’s births, becoming Mayor, greeting Aragorn and Arwen outside the Shire with Peregrin and Meriadoc, talking with the children about eagles and the Dark Lord, holding my first grandchild in my arms.

The road ends at the Grey Havens and I board a ship which sets sail at once. I’m alone onboard, or so I think at first. I walk the deck towards the captain’s wheel and there stands a tall Elf, grand and imposing. There’s a star upon his brow and a lovely white bird on his shoulder. I stop next to him and he looks down and smiles.

“I’ve dreamt of you before,” I say, recognizing him at once.* Given the excitement of the Birthday Party and everything that followed, I’d forgotten all about that dream until some weeks after. For whatever reason, I never told anyone about it.

“This is no dream, Samwise,” Eärendil says. He speaks in an ancient language I can’t place but somehow I understand him.

“It’s not?” I ask as somewhere down below another firework blooms, brightening the sky. It feels like a dream. “What is it then?”

He says naught else as we sail through the sky toward a star as doesn’t seem to move. It grows nearly blinding as we draw closer and I shut my eyes against it.

I hear singing and turn my head toward it. After a while, I open my eyes cautiously only to find myself in a hall of sorts, shaped from trees and hedgerows. A woman of unending beauty stands before me. She’s dark as night, her skin light as the moon and her eyes sparkle as stars. She is not the one who’s singing.

“No, but I can’t be thinking of any other way as how I got here. I was watching Gandalf’s fireworks, then I was on Vingilot and now I’m here. Where is here?”

“These are the Halls of Mandos, but we thought it would be easier if I spoke with you instead. Do you know who I am?”

I think briefly as thousands of images go through my mind. “Nothing, fair lady.”

I think of my children and family in the Shire: they are taken care of, by and for each other. I think of my friends in Tol Eressëa: they’ll discover my absence soon. They’ll add a third marker next to Frodo and Bilbo. They’ll find the journal and read our stories.

I think of everything I’ve seen since coming to the West: all of Frodo’s favorite spots, the elves so fair and yet so plain, the children with their laughter, the museums in Avallónë and my glimpse of home.

Elbereth takes my hand and leads me to a door beyond which is a valley green and fair.

The valley looks strange and familiar at once. There’s the Hill, both Party Trees, a great river leading to the ocean nearby and a wide forest. There’s music in the wind and earth, a tune older than existence.

A pretty hobbit lass stands nearby, smiling. I’ve only seen her that young in portraits. I walk into my mother’s arms and she smells exactly as I expect: dough and camellias.

I drape my arm over her shoulders and let her lead me. We don’t talk. We don’t need to. I can hear in the music everything she is thinking and feeling, as she does with me, almost like we’re one soul.

We round the hill and there before me is everyone I’ve known and lost: Gaffer, my siblings, all my extended family. I greet them all one by one, and each greeting fills a small part of the loss within me. Then Bilbo steps out of the crowd and shakes my hand. Next to him are two hobbits I’ve never met but know instantly.

Drogo shakes my hand proudly but Primula hugs me. “Thank you for looking after our son.”

Primula looks behind me. I turn. It’s Frodo and Rose. Both look as they did in their youths, happy and carefree. Rose has ribbons in her hair and Frodo stands with an ease he never had in life. They’re both smiling to beat the sun.

I pull them both into a hug. My Rose and my Frodo. I shall never be torn in two again.

Now I come to the end of the road. I've had a blast and will always treasure this time we spent together. I've been waiting to write and post this particular story for a couple of years now because I always knew this would be my last one. I had hoped to put it off a little longer because there were other stories I wanted to tell, but alas, my muses have gone on to pursue other adventures and I must follow them.

For anyone interested, you can check here on my LJ fic journal where I put up a list of my unfinished stories and ideas, along with some brief descriptions of how I was going to wrap up the various loose threads I've left my universe. They're yours for the taking to do whatever you want to with, so if you see one that appeals to you, take it. Just credit me with the prompt (you don't have to follow through with my ideas for the prompt at all) and leave a link to your story there so I can make the appropriate recommendations.

To The End of His Days by GamgeeFest