My sweet, dear Sam, even in the dark I can see each crease of your ruddy face, earnest and pained as your beloved Bill is set free. How you grew so attached to such an animal I shall never know, or perhaps I already do know, but in the end you were it's salvation. Bill Ferny deserved that apple to the forehead - oh yes, my kind Sam, he did. Seldom have you even raised your voice to anyone, and heaven forbid actually throwing a good apple! You saved that poor beast, though, and you cared for it, and now you must watch it go and know that whether it lives or dies is no longer in your grasp. I don't pity you, but I do wish I could do something other then wait for Gandalf to open the door, and see you in my mind's eye.
I see you as I knew you, though, my beloved, and I wish you remained that same hobbit. Already this adventure has begun to cut away your softness, and I fear that by the end of all this you will not bear scant resemblance to the image of you from the Shire. The Shire - do you know that I miss it, Sam? Oh, if only for the hours we could spend together, just talking! We journey now, and we scarce have time to talk. And best of all, when we were talking, sometimes I could make-believe that we were more then friends. Certainly more then master and servant, we passed that particular distinction far in the distant past.
In any case, sometimes I could see a faint glimmer of love in your eyes, when talking about the garden, or the shire, or most painful of all, Rosie Cotton, though that particular love was dull and tarnished. When you did that, my Sam, I must confess that I forgot that you were not speaking of me, and made-believe that you would never leave me, never leave me. Folly and foolishness, of course, and a game that always left me gasping for breath not of air when you left, a game that banished all thoughts of winning and when I lost, the sweet torture brought bitter tears to my eyes that were slow to vanish.
How could you possibly know that your presence is both balm and brand to me? I have seen you grow weary of talking to me, as if my presence made you uncomfortable. Why? You try to hide it, and you're polite as ever, but it cuts me more deep then even my game of make-believe. I say to you to go, and you refuse kindly (oh, my sweet Sam! Even in the worst of situations you are only your perfect self!) but your relief is clear. Do you go to your Rosie, when I set you free?
I don't see why I do this, do you? I no longer harbour secret hopes, it has been long months since I last saw a glimpse of love when simply talking about me. You were daydreaming, I know now, but still, that one shrouded, blushing glance was all I needed for hours of blissful hope. I'm too old even to hope now.
Too old, too strange. "Eccentric", they call me in polite circles, and that's not the half of it. I know I am strange looking, Sam -hobbit weight has never sat on me, I remain thin, and, as Gandalf described me, "Taller then some and fairer then most." My face is thin and my eyes take up far too much of it, I have little muscle and I am pale from a life in Bag-End. But you! You, my darling, you are sun-kissed and weather-worn from a lifetime working (for me, and I treasure your gardens!)
You followed me into this insanity, why? You didn't need to! I would have missed your dear voice and your manner, but it would be better then your coming into the shadows with me! Already the ring has begun it's treacherous hold on me, and I fear that when this is over I shall be more changed then weight loss and sun-tan.
My dear, sweet Sam... thank you for not giving me more false hopes, for though this endless pain is all too real, at least it is not the maybes of stray glances full of love.
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