Rating: G
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.
Summary: Sayhello wanted smut and likes Valinor stories - one out of two aint bad!
Dear Mr. Frodo,
It’s Spring again and another year gone by. Some things have changed and some have stayed the same, as they always do and always will, I don’t doubt. Rosie delivered me another fine son -- my sixth son and thirteenth child, bless them all. We call him Tolman after Rosie’s da’ – the old man passed on last year, and so that’s all our parents gone now.
We’ve taken to calling the new baby Tolly. He’s not going to like that much when he gets older, I dare say, but it suits him now. And can you believe my Elanor is married now and like to have a babe of her own soon? My first grandchild! It’s a strange thing to have sons and grandsons born all at the same time. I do believe it’s time to be letting the younger ones carry things forward. My heart tells me somehow Tolly will be our last.
The Shire is a thing of glory right now, Mr. Frodo, and I do wish you could see it. It took years of planting and digging and weeding and rains and healing, but it’s just like new again, or, to put it more proper, just like old.
The cherry trees are blooming and the willows are hanging over the Brandywine all soft and green. Right now, all I want is to be out of doors, digging in the dirt and smelling the flowers and whistling with the birds. I’m in your library, at your desk, sitting in your chair, and I keep half-expecting you to come up behind me and put your hand on my shoulder and ask me what I’m doing. And then, sudden-like, I long to be with you wherever you are, and not in my garden at all.
I’m beginning to understand your meaning when you spoke about being torn in two.
I must be going now, dear Mr. Frodo. I hope it’s Spring in the West. I don’t know how it can be as beautiful as it is here, but then you’re there, and that should be enough beauty for anyone. I do hope you’re happy and at peace, and not missing your Sam too much.
Ever your servant and ever your friend,
Samwise Gamgee
Sam wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. Foolish Samwise he reprimanded himself You’re blessed every which way you turn, and here you are crying like an old fool. Well, no fool like an old fool, as my Gaffer used to say.
He gazed down at the parchment. The letters were neat and regular, not pretty like Mr. Frodo’s writing, but serviceable. He checked that the ink was dry, smoothed the parchment down with his hand, then folded it neatly into a small square. He tucked it carefully into the large leather pouch that hung always from his belt, the one with his best secateurs and the little corked jars for collecting seeds from the plants he found on his travels around the Shire.
He stood up slowly and stretched. No doubt about it, years of labor were taking their toll on his back and on his knees. Thank goodness for the lads, Sam thought with pride. Young Frodo had turned out to be a dreamer like his namesake, but Merry and Pippin, who had come along after, were turning into keen plantsmen like their father and would one day have the family business well in hand.
He followed the familiar hum of activity outside to the garden. The flowerbeds that surrounded the winter vegetables were awash in the blues and yellows of spring: daffodils, hyacinths, cowslips, violets, and windflowers. A flash of blue caught his eye, something that did not quite fit in with the rest. Sam felt his heart swell with a sensation that was pleasure and pain all at once. An early cornflower had thrown up a single sapphire blossom, the first of many to come that season.
Cornflowers were Sam’s secret pleasure, for they reminded him of Frodo. The blue, he fancied, precisely matched the unmistakable color of his master’s eyes, and Sam made sure to collect seed from his brightest cornflowers every year so as always to have them in his garden. He sighed.
“Is that you, Sam?” Rosie asked without turning around. Sam looked up guiltily. Baby Tolly was strapped securely to Rosie’s bosom in a quilted sling while Rosie pinned laundry to the line with the rapid ease of many years’ practice. Without pausing, she turned her cheek to receive Sam’s kiss.
“Yes, it’s me, alright. It’s time for me to be goin’,” Sam said.
Rosie removed the clothespins from her mouth and turned to face Sam with a smile.
“Alright, dear heart, don’t you worry about me. I’ve got Rose and Goldilocks to help me with the little ones, and there’s not much Merry and Pip can’t handle these days on the farm. As for the Shire, it can take care of itself for a few weeks.”
“Careful, girl, or you’ll have me thinking I’m of no use around here anymore,” Sam said with a smile that belied the heaviness in his heart. Rosie studied Sam’s face knowingly, then in a stern voice said, “Make no mistake, Sam Gamgee, you have plenty of work to be getting on with here. Go enjoy your trip as you always do, but be sure and return to us here with a willing heart. I can’t do without you, nor can these children of yours. Nor can the Shire itself get on without its mayor.”
With that, she embraced Sam. The baby was squeezed gently between the two of them, and Tolly’s soft, new scent mingled with Rosie’s own clean, wholesome one. Feeling easier in his mind, Sam kissed the baby’s head and set off on his annual journey to the Grey Havens.
Sam vastly preferred walking on his own two feet, as would any sane Hobbit, but he could not be away from home for the length of time it would take even his sturdy feet to carry him, so he had borrowed a pony from Farmer Goodacre’s stables. Sam enjoyed the quiet companionship of Brown Bob as the miles melted behind him. The rhythm of Bob’s hoofbeats paced and steadied his own thoughts.
After over a week of riding, Sam caught the first gust of sea air that told him he had reached the spot where the River Lhun widened to become the Gulf of Lhun. Very soon, indeed, the waters of the Grey Havens were glittering before him, their sparkling silver reflecting the flat grey sky, so different from the blue skies and waters of The Shire.
Dismounting, Sam approached the dock from which Frodo had sailed and stood gazing for long minutes across the sea and into the West. He paid his respects in the same manner he had done every year since Frodo’s departure, bringing forth into his mind’s eye every memory he could muster of his old friend.
Over the years, Sam found that the evil memories of the Quest had faded. This year, he was surprised to find that even the pain of Frodo’s last years in the Shire, a time of melancholy and inner-struggle -- a period which Sam had found even more difficult and wrenching than the Quest itself due to his own inability to ease his friend’s pain -- even those sad memories had thinned to a mere melancholy ribbon that threaded through his vast store of more cheerful thoughts.
Sam indulged himself in his reminiscences. He had been just a lad when Frodo had arrived in Hobbiton and nearly every memory of Sam’s life was punctuated by images of Frodo: reading alone under a tree; studying at his desk, brow furrowed in study; laughing into his ale in the Green Dragon; watching fondly as his friends rough-housed in the fields; walking the by-ways of Hobbiton with Bilbo and Gandalf, animatedly engaged in some deep philosophical argument. Later, after Sam had become Frodo’s gardener and cook, he smiled to remember how Frodo had admired his skill with the land and his cleverness in the kitchen. Later still, after Sam had become Frodo’s servant in all things, he remembered the peaceful lines of Frodo’s fair face in sleep.
Almost unconsciously, Sam reached for the leather pouch at his side and removed from it the parchment letter and one of his seed-collecting bottles. He rolled the already-folded note into a tight scroll and put it in the bottle. Stuffing the cork in securely, he tossed the jar onto the silver waters.
It has been like a dream at first, Frodo’s sojourn in the Undying Lands, a soft-edged reverie. He had arrived with no other thought than to rest and find peace within his mind and soul. To do so, he had had to unlearn many of his Hobbit ways and adopt instead the ways of his new family, the Valar, the Maiar and the Elves who resided with him in that fair land. With their wise and patient help, he was able slowly, slowly to loosen the knot of pain deep within himself. Relief had crept into his very bones with such infinitesimally steady progress that he was hardly aware of the passage of time.
All through those first years, he wandered the shores of his new home, breathed the warm, soothing air, wondered at the seasons, each so mild he could not at first distinguish one from the next. Something in Frodo’s essential Hobbit nature would not let him remain insensible to the pleasures of daily life, though, even in this serene place. Over time he became familiar with the strange flowers and trees, with the particular sparkle of the sand on the shores, with the music of the strange new birds. Eventually, he turned his hand to reading and writing again, reveling in the stories and poems that had always entranced him before the Quest.
As he sank into his recovery, Frodo would unexpectedly find a tune from the Old Days drifting like pipe-weed smoke through his mind and, with it, a flash of memory: Sam singing in the Green Dragon. A field of elegant wildflowers brought to mind Sam’s whistled tunes among the vegetables and flowers in his old garden at Bag End.
These memories pleased him. He laced them into the texture of his new life like golden threads into a beautiful piece of cloth he was weaving for himself. They brought him no longing, no homesickness, only the comfort that came from the knowledge that if he so fondly remembered his old friends back home, then surely they must be remembering him fondly too.
One day, Frodo was strolling along the shore, gazing across the water to the Lonely Isle. In the clean air, it looked close enough to touch. He had sailed there a few times with Bilbo to explore its wooded hills. He was thinking about those excursions when a glinting light distracted him and drew his eye to the water between him and the island. A small, shiny bobbing shape disrupted the water’s glassy sheen. Frodo tracked the item’s slow progress as it floated steadily nearer and nearer to shore. Finally, he was able to reach into the water and lift the object out: a small jar with a cork in it.
The Undying Lands, 40 Years Later
From the moment Frodo discovered Sam’s letter, it was as if he had awakened from a long, refreshing sleep. All his thoughts turned towards the welcome he would provide his friend and the long life they would lead together. Frodo knew it might be many years yet before Sam’s arrival, but he spent that time working patiently to make his new home comfortable for his old friend. He waited with a lightness in his heart that he had not experienced since childhood.
When at last the day of Sam’s arrival came, Frodo hurried to the quayside in the company of his old friend Gandalf -- called in this land by his Maiar name “Olórin” – but to Frodo he remained ever “Gandalf,” the same wise, kind and dependable presence he had always been.
Frodo stared across the shiny flat plane of water to the distant horizon for any sign of the White Ship. He stared so long and hard in the bright sunshine that for a moment his vision seemed to white out and the sea to dissolve into a blank mist. He blinked hard to clear his vision, and when he opened his eyes again, there was the White Ship, mere yards away. He began to tremble with excitement, and he felt Gandalf’s steadying hand on his shoulder.
Sam stood at the prow, looking surprisingly small. Frodo had been surrounded almost entirely by Big People for so long, he had almost forgotten what his own kind looked like. Sam’s hair was grown white, and he seemed to be favoring one leg, but even from the dock, Frodo could make out the sparkling eyes as bright as ever.
When the boat reached the dock and weighed anchor, Gandalf stepped forward. “Welcome to the Undying Lands, Samwise Gamgee. You are most welcome,” he said, with Elven formality. He led Sam down to the dock. As he descended the gangway, Sam seemed to grow young before Frodo’s very eyes; his hair deepened to its familiar light brown, the limp vanished from his walk as he hastened forward, and all in an instant, Frodo felt Sam’s strong and capable arms surrounding him in their familiar tight embrace. As Gandalf watched the reunion unfold before him, his serious expression relaxed into a smile that then transformed into peals of delighted laughter.
After parting from Gandalf with promises for many more such gatherings, Sam and Frodo began the pleasant walk along the shore that led back to Frodo’s home. Sam looked about him excitedly as they walked, almost overwhelmed by the newness that surrounded him at every turn. Back in Middle Earth, he was extraordinarily well traveled by anyone’s standards, most especially for a Hobbit, but the sights he was taking in now far surpassed anything he had ever experienced.
“And what do you call that tree, Sir, the one with the big purple flowers?” Before Frodo could answer, he was already crying out, “Did you hear that bird, Mr. Frodo? Such a song, like an angel – wait, what’s that?” he interrupted himself, and dropped to his knees to examine something that had caught his eye on the path, “Mushrooms!” he sang out with joy, “Can you cook with this kind?”
“Sam, my dear Sam,” Frodo laughed. “You must watch where you’re going, or you’ll start our time here together with a broken ankle!”
Sam smiled sheepishly and stood up. “I hardly know where to look or what to think,” he said with wonder.
“You’ll grow used to it, as I have,” Frodo said encouragingly. “You’ll grow to love it, as I have, too.”
Sam stopped walking again. This time, instead of turning to exclaim at another new sight, he turned to look at Frodo.
“I do know one thing, Mr. Frodo,” he said.
“And what’s that, Sam?” Frodo asked. He was almost as overwhelmed as Sam by the marvelous new thing his life had suddenly become.
“I know how I feel, Sir – and that’s happier than I’ve been in sixty years.”
They walked more quietly now, the fullness in their hearts precluding conversation.
After a time, Sam mused aloud, “I’ll have to learn what the seasons here are like. Wait!” he suddenly looked worried. “There are seasons here, aren’t there, Mr. Frodo?”
“Yes indeed, we have seasons,” Frodo replied, “but they are long and slip one into the next so mildly that you hardly feel them passing.”
“I don’t know if I’ll like that,” Sam frowned. “I like to know what’s what. How do you know when to plant?”
Frodo laughed. “You can make it your special study, Sam, to learn the ways of the sun and the moon and the clouds and the winds and all the flowers, shrubs, and trees here so that to you, at least, each season will stand distinct.”
“Yes, I can see I shall have to do that ” Sam said seriously. “I’ll not have you missing any of your favorite fruit or veg, Mr. Frodo, just because I didn’t get the seed in the ground at the proper time or prune at the right moment.”
“Sam, you’ll be the finest gardener in the Undying Lands, just as you were in the Shire,” Frodo said fondly.
They turned inland from the shore, leaving the sea breezes behind, and entered a sheltered valley surrounded by woodland. They now followed a wide, grassy ride that opened occasionally into small glades that returned again to wooded path. The ground was soft and springy, most pleasant under tough Hobbit feet. Sam had become so used to being surrounded by trees that it came as a surprise when he and Frodo suddenly emerged onto a sunny meadow full of flowers.
Frodo said, “And now I have a surprise for you – something that will help you with your new project, in fact.” His eyes sparkled with excitement.
As he gazed at the meadow, Sam thought at first his eyes must be deceiving him. He had already accepted that every flower, herb, and tree in this fair land was strange to him, and it would be some time before he could identify them all and come to know their uses, but the flowers in this meadow struck his eye with such poignant familiarity, he nearly cried at that sight of them.
“Cornflowers!” he exclaimed in wonder.
“Cornflowers,” Frodo confirmed.
“But… but… what -- how?” Sam stuttered.
Frodo reached into his vest pocket and removed an old, graying, piece of folded parchment. It was limp from repeated handling and folding, but Sam recognized it immediately.
“My letter,” he breathed.
“Yes, dear Sam. I received your letter, and have kept it with me these many years, right here in my vest pocket, next to my heart.” He then told the story of how Sam’s letter had come to him that day, forty years ago, and how he had lived ever since in the cheerful expectation of his friend’s arrival.
“But the flowers?” Sam asked.
“That’s the wonder if, Sam!” Frodo cried. “At the bottom of the jar in which you sealed the letter, I found a single seed. I knew it must be something you that had been picked up from the Shire and carried along with your letter, and I longed to know what it was. So I planted it, and watered it, and weeded it, just as you once showed me, and it grew and blossomed into a cornflower. I knew cornflowers were your special favorites, and so I set my mind to having as many as I could ready for your return. I collected seed from the plants every year and planted and replanted, and, well,” Frodo laughed with pleasure at his own accomplishment. “Here they are! All for you.”
Sam stared at the glorious sight, speechless.
“I wasn’t always dreaming, you know, Sam, when we were in the garden together back in the Shire. Much of the time, I was watching you at work, and even learning a bit on the way.” Frodo put his arm around Sam’s sturdy waist. “Truth to tell, watching you at work was as much beauty to me as was looking upon your garden at the height of if its blossom.”
Sam turned away from the wonderful sight and looked into Frodo’s eyes, which were an exact reflection of the azure blanket beyond. “Mr. Frodo,” he said, “You are as dear to me as a whole ocean of cornflowers.”
“And so are you to me, Sam.” Taking his hand, Frodo led Sam into the midst of the blooming field. When they were standing in the center, surrounded on all sides by its enchanting beauty, Frodo said, “And now you will always know that when the cornflowers bloom here in the Undying Lands, it is Spring, just as it is in the Shire, and you will remember this joyful day when we were at last reunited.”
The End