Sam, my dear, dearest Sam . . .
Once, so long ago it now seems, I dreamt of the sea, crashing against a shore framed by gray towers. It was a night eons before tonight, when we slept in the comfort of the house of Tom Bombadil. The gulls where crying, and the sea was shining, and I was sailing away. It frightened me, for I did not want to leave. I knew I was leaving you behind, my love.
And here we are, past the end of all things, and I will never fully heal. Too wounded am I, too deeply, too perilously to ever again be Frodo. A shell I am, hollow, cold as the frost. And as the frost I cling to the life of the green, green grass, a last effort to remain. I cling to you, my Sam, in the hopes of lasting myself, when the last shred of what I was, was torn from my body on the slopes of Mount Doom.
Grace, given by Arwen Evenstar, Queen of Gondor; passage into the west. The ships wait for me Sam. My dream told me, that distant night, not only of a departure, but also of a destination. White shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.
That doesn't seem so bad. Except lining the shores are naught but Elves. No Samwise. And in the gathering of greeters, I will be alone. Surrounded by praises, not for my deeds, but ours. Our deeds, my Sam, and you will not be there to hear it.
And yet the pain stabs at my shoulder, spreading throughout my body, meeting with the pain from my hand. Another pain, this one on my neck, from the sting of a spider. And within me, I begin to understand.
There is no life for me here, Sam, no way for me to go on. I have been hurt too profoundly and irrevocably. Bag End is no home. And even you, my dear Sam, are not what you were for me. Do not mistake me, I still love you completely, yet I cannot love you wholly, for I am not whole myself. The Ring will always posses a part of me, surely you can see this.
They tell me I will find peace across the sea, should I chose to go. I may pass there until all my wounds and weariness are healed. Lady Arwen seemed so sure that time would heal my wounds. Time heals all wounds.
I fear it is not so. I fear I will always carry with me this shadow of a doubt, this burden. I fear the fire I see when I close my eyes will consume me. I need you Sam. I need you to drive out my darkness, and fill it with your light.
But you have changed as well, Sam. More so than me, in many ways. You are strong now, your courage not hidden so deeply from the world. I had seen it in the way you protected me, even if before it was merely from the prying eyes and gossiping tongues of the neighbors. Now the world can see it. And you return here, hero and Master Gardener of your entire beloved Shire.
And with this change, dear Sam, came a need for something more, did it not? A need for a hobbit hole of your own, with children and a bit of earth under your hands. And you are torn in two, between your love for me and this new need that I cannot satisfy. Go, my Sam, and marry the lass whom you choose. I shall not hurt you any longer. I will give you Bag End, for you and your family have tended it well over generations, and it is only fitting that you should inherit it from me.
I love you Sam. I love you so much it hurts, more even than the physical wounds I carry. It hurts because my love hurts you, divides your heart and loyalties, and keeps you from peace. I am not at rest, and therefore you cannot be. My faithful Sam, forever by my side, even when your heart is ripped from your chest as you do so.
Gandalf says if I go, the memories of the tortures endured will fade. I will forget. Gandalf is never one to speak lightly, and I am concerned by his choice of words; forget. What will I forget? I wish to forget the pain, which ails me, but some things I wish to remember forever. If I am to forget, I can only hope I will remember you. It frightens me Sam, the possibility of forgetting the greatest love I have ever known.
That is what you are Sam, the greatest love I have ever experienced or even heard of. I think I love you more than even Aragorn loves Arwen, or Beren loved Tinuviel. More than Merry loves Pippin. More than Rosie could ever dream of loving you, my dearest, my beloved, my Sam.
But the road goes ever on and on, my Sam, and though I am weary of such adventure, one last trip calls to me. The sea calls, loud and crashing, yet soothing to the troubled and the exhausted. There is a light on the water, which I must pass alone.
You will want to come with me. You would if I asked you. It is as it was when Bilbo left, leaving me. I would have gone, if only he had said the words, but he knew I was still in love with the Shire, as you are now. You do not really want to come. And yet, my heart tells me that some day you may, once you have been one and whole for many years. And then perchance, you too will sail across the sea and join me in a life everlasting.
I long for such a day, my Sam, when we are together at last in peace. And I doubt very much I shall find serenity before then.
And until, the wounds shall pierce and burn eternally, frozen into the flesh. I wish for nothing more than for all of this to never have happened. What Grace hath given me, let me forget.
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What Grace Hath Given by Gwendelyn Lee
Story notes: WARNING: ANGST, and not mildly. Frodo thinks on why he must now leave for the Havens, and what his Sam will think. Sort of wrote itself in all one sitting. Oh, and all feedbackers will receive virtual hugs and the opportunity to comfort Sam.
