“Well, I’m back!”

Three small words, and yet they said so much.  Rosie heard Sam before he had appeared at the door.  She knew that he would see to the ponies before he came in.  She took the opportunity to boil the kettle and stoke up the fire.  Her heart thumped in her chest, knowing that the last few days would have exacted a terrible toll on her gentle, beloved Sam.

He stood in the doorway and one look at his face, grey and defeated, confirmed her worst fears. She drew him into a tight embrace as he stood uncertain and unresponsive before her.  She kissed his cold cheek.

“Come on Sam, come and get warm by the fire” she whispered. She unclipped his cloak, helped him out of his jacket and guided him to the chair near the fire. She could see him shivering with cold and grief; she reached for one of Elanor’s blankets and tucked it around him. She poured him a cup of hot, sweet tea and after a moments pause added a large tot of brandy.  When she turned back Sam was rocking backwards and forwards and staring blindly into the depths of the fire. She called his name softly but got no response. She called again, and with a hand to his cheek turned his face towards hers.  She nearly cried out at the look on his face when his eyes met hers, for the loving spark had been extinguished and in its place deep pools of grief and pain.

“He’s gone”!

The finality of it seemed to wash over him. “He’s gone to the sea with Mr Bilbo and the Elves and he ain’t never coming back!... He’s gone and left me… what will I do now?”

Rosie put down the mug she had been holding out to him.  She sat down on his lap and enfolded him within her arms.  At this his control crumpled and he broke down. Tears flowed as he was wracked with sobs that robbed him of breath. He clung on to her as though he was drowning and she was his only point of safety.  She rocked and caressed him for a long time until he gradually calmed and his breathing settled. She handed him the mug of tea but his hand was still too unsteady to hold it, so she put it to his lips and held it until it was finished.

Leaving Sam by the fire she busied herself, putting a warming bottle in the bed and running a hot bath.  She tipped in some of the lavender oil she normally used for Elanor’s baths, hoping it would help Sam to relax.

“Come on Sam lets get you warmed and settled”

“Just leave me be Rosie, don’t fuss…just let me be!” It nearly broke her heart to see his anguish but she knew she had to be strong.

“Sam Gamgee, don’t you go telling me how to look after my own! You are cold and tired and full of grief, and right now I know what is best for you, so don’t you dare argue with me!” she said, taking his hands and pulling him to his feet. He put up a token resistance but one look at her convinced him that she was determined to have her way. In truth he had neither the energy nor the heart to resist her. She guided him like a reluctant child to the bath room; helped him out of his clothes and waited until he was settled in the warm, scented water. Rosie returned to the kitchen, banked down the fire, and put out the lamps.

As she had hoped Sam had relaxed into the warmth and comfort of the tub. For a moment she thought that he had fallen asleep but when she touched his shoulder he turned his sad eyes to her and sighed, Rosie’s words dried up before she could utter them; words were of no comfort now. Within ten minutes Sam was dry and dressed and tucked up in bed. Before she slipped in beside him Rosie lifted the sleeping baby from the crib and placed her onto Sam’s chest. He looked at her with questioning eyes and before he could form his words she put a finger to his lips.

“This is how you go on, Sam! This is what’s important. You, me and our family! Maybe the future isn’t going to be what you hoped or expected, but all of the pain and suffering and sacrifice that you and Frodo and the others endured was to secure the future, not just of the Shire but for the whole of Middle Earth. You all paid a heavy price and you did it willingly.” She squeezed his hand and raised it to her lips. “You have a future; here with us….it’s what Frodo wanted… he waited to make sure you were happy….”

Elanor stirred and settled her face against his neck.  He felt her soft breath against his skin and at that moment his world shrank to cocoon him within the arms and safety of his family. He pushed down his fears and his grief and locked them within his heart to protect himself from the pain and loss.  He made a vow to himself that he would shed no more tears even if it meant living with the knot that had lodged within his breast.

***

Sam lay in bed for two days. Mostly he slept, rousing only enough to take the meals and drinks that Rosie brought to him.  She sat at his side and fed him as though he were a sick child, coaxing  and cajoling until he had finished.  Sometimes he would lay awake staring at Elanor sleeping in her crib for an hour or more at a time as if seeking answers to questions he couldn’t yet frame. He rarely spoke, seeking solitude in silence.

On the third morning after his return Rosie decided to take matters in hand and push Sam gently towards a normal routine. She had chores to do and the baby to care for and she reasoned that the sooner Sam took up the reins of his responsibilities the easier he would find it to regain his equilibrium. When breakfast was nearly ready she called to him from the kitchen. When this failed to get a response she marched into the bedroom, threw back the curtains and pulled the covers off the bed.

“Come on, Sam, breakfast is on the table getting cold and I’ll not have good food go to waste!” Sam recognised this as a veiled challenge but a lifetime of compliance was too hard to counter and he sat up.

“All right, Rosie lass, I’m coming!”

He dressed slowly and shuffled through to the kitchen.  Breakfast smelled good but he had neither the appetite nor the inclination to eat. He moved the food around the plate listlessly, conscious of Rosie’s silent disapproval.  When she went out into the garden he quickly scraped the remains of the food into the bin. “Don’t you go telling on me now Ellie” he whispered. Elanor was banging a wooden spoon onto the table top.  She flashed him a wide toothless grin and continued her game. At a loss what to do next Sam wandered out into the garden. He stood and watched as Rosie pegged washing on the line.

“Don’t just stand there dreaming, Lad, you go and see to the ponies while I finish here”. Sam entered the stall and habit took over from thought. He replenished the feed and water and brushed both ponies until their coats shone, all the while muttering soft endearments to them.  He found the task comforting.  With their grooming complete he turned them loose into the paddock and cleaned out the stall. As he watched the two ponies grazing placidly in the field he caught himself envying their simple and uncomplicated life.

***

Their life did resolve into a kind of routine, though it was not as Rosie had hoped.  Sam continued to flounder from day to day, lost in a haze of misery.  He helped her around the home and garden when she asked, but he failed to see what needed doing without being prompted.  The energy and drive that had kept him hard at work ever since he was a lad seemed to have deserted him.  The garden especially began to show signs of neglect; weeds competing for space amongst the flowers, and the grass, normally clipped and tidy was unkempt. He abandoned his care and stewardship of the recently planted seedlings. He rarely ventured beyond the edge of the garden.

It was two weeks before he plucked up the courage to enter the study; he was afraid that the memories there would overwhelm his fragile sense of control.  It was in the early hours of the morning, after another sleepless night, just as dawn began to lighten the sky that he made his way to the door. He held a lantern in one hand and raised the other to knock.

“Well you are a fool Sam Gamgee, you're the master now there is no one  going to bid you enter?” he scolded himself. He pushed open the door and peered in cautiously as though expecting to be caught trespassing. The light from the lantern illuminated the familiar scene in front of him and moving quietly he entered and closing the door he leaned back against it.  He had known this room since he was a small lad, the familiar smells reminded him of a thousand evenings spent here, first at Bilbo’s knee listening to tales of adventures and Elves and dragons, and later companionable evenings with Frodo.  He put the lantern on a shelf next to the door and picked up a small, glass inkstand. It was so familiar to him that he felt rather than saw the designs that decorated it. It had been Mr Bilbo’s prized possession, a gift from the Elves on his great adventure. It was small and rounded, and deceptively heavy. The glass was an opaque, milky colour and the decoration of leaves and flowers were embossed upon its surface. When Sam was a child it had always stood in pride of place on the desk, always filled and ready to use. After Bilbo had gone it had been placed on the shelf, a decoration to precious for everyday use. Frodo had his own inkwell; a small, glazed earthenware pot, decorated with his own shaky initials, made for him by Pippin. Sam weighed the trinket as his eyes move around the room.

He noticed that the room was uncharacteristically tide. The books neatly filed on the shelves that covered two walls: the desk normally an untidy mess of papers and documents was clear except for the big, red leather journal set in the centre. On top of the journal he could see a letter and Frodo’s big set of keys. He continued his surveillance from his position by the door. His eyes roved over to three maps pinned up on the wall.  The first was the oldest and showed the most sign of wear.  It was Bilbo’s map, detailing his journey long ago when Gandalf and the Dwarves had plucked him from his comfortable bachelor life and whisked him away to face dangers and adventures in far away places. Sam had always loved to hear Bilbo’s tales but now the realisation that his own and Frodo’s trials stemmed from Bilbo’s discovery of the ring darkened his memories. He had a sudden desire to tear the map from the wall and shred it into a thousand pieces. The sudden upsurge of anger took him by surprise; it was so powerful it made him gag. He was suddenly relieved that Bilbo had gone over the sea, relieved that he was beyond his reach! All of Sam’s anger was directed at Bilbo: angry that he had found the Ring, angry that he had brought its taint into the Shire and angry that he had passed its evil to Frodo. Sam could never remember lifting his hand in anger to anyone; even on the quest he had only lifted his sword in defence of Frodo or his companions, but now he wanted to hurt Bilbo, hurt him for what he had done. Sam looked at the inkwell in his hand and with a hiss of suppressed pain he threw it at the fireplace.  The glass exploded as it hit the hearth, glass fragments showering rainbow prisms in the light of the lantern as the shards settled on the floor and desk. His anger dissipated like a swirl of mist, he looked down at his empty hand and shoved it down into his pocket.

He dragged his eyes to the second map. This was the most familiar, and to Sam the most reassuring. It was a map of the Shire, centred on Hobbiton and detailed all the familiar haunts and pathways of his youth. This was the Shire of his memory. The Shire when life was sweet and uncomplicated; before darkness and fear had invaded his life.

Finally Sam turned his attention to the third map. It had been given to Frodo on their return journey to Rivendell. It was a beautiful Elven map of Middle Earth.  Sam pulled a  cloak from the back of the door and laid it on the floor to cover the shards of glass. He moved forward and raised the lantern to take a closer look.  Coloured lines marked the journeys of the Fellowship. From Hobbiton, to Bree, to Rivendell and beyond to Caer Andros was marked with a single black line; dates and notes marked in Frodo’s small script charting the progress of the quest. From Caer Andros the breaking of the fellowship was marked with a spider web of different coloured lines marking the individual journeys of the companions until they finally converged at Minas Tirith. Frodo had used this map to assist him in writing his narrative in the Red journal, a task that had consumed him mentally and physically.

Sam turned to the desk; he picked up the keys and put them in his pocket.  For the first time he noticed that the letter was addressed to him.  He turned it over and traced his finger gently across his name. He brought it up to his face, but there was no familiar scent there, he sighed and tucked it, unopened, into the front cover of the journal; not yet able to face this final communication. He left the room sadly and locked the door.

***