Sam Gamgee was brought to Minas Tirith as a hero, for he had successfully made his way to Mount Doom and cast the Ring into the fire. Once Sauron was destroyed, his armies were thrown into confusion and swiftly defeated. This great victory was credited to the little hobbit's courage and determination, for all battles would have been worthless if he had not completed the quest.
There were ceremonies in his honor and songs that praised his brave deeds even as the armies of Gondor traveled from Corvallen Fields to the city, but even at the height of the celebrations, joy was shadowed by sorrow. Victory over Sauron had come at a great price. Thousands of men had been lost in battle. King Theoden of Rohan had fallen, and Lord Denethor had died in Minas Tirith by his own hand. And, the most painful loss to some: Frodo had been struck down in the pass at Cirith Ungol by the monstrous spider Shelob.
Sam had not allowed himself to grieve before, not while he had a job to do. From the moment he'd realized that he must carry on the quest in his master's place, he was determined to do it in a way that would make Frodo proud of him. He mustn't sit weeping until the orcs came and caught him. If he did, then the Ring would fall into the Enemy's hands, and all that was good in the world would be lost to darkness. He couldn't let that happen, not after poor Frodo had given so much to see that it didn't. Frodo's sacrifice mustn't be in vain.
And so Sam had taken the Ring and, with one kiss of farewell--Frodo wouldn't mind it this once; Sam thought he would under-stand--he'd reluctantly left his master's body behind and gone on into Mordor alone.
He wept now. Once all the celebrations were done, Minas Tirith turned to the serious business of rebuilding the parts of the city that had been damaged in the war. Sam, no longer required to appear in public, retreated into the house that Gandalf had taken in the uppermost circle of the city, and let his tears fall until he thought they would never stop. The pain he had not allowed himself feel before came crashing in on him. It tore at his heart, wrenched the sobs from his body, and cast a black gloom over his mind. On the worst days, he didn't get out of bed, but lay curled with the curtains shut and the blankets pulled over his head. There didn't seem to be anything worth getting up for.
How could he go on living without Frodo? Part of himself had died too that day, when he'd seen his master lying lifeless and known that the worst had happened.
Maybe that was what had given him the will to go into what had looked like certain doom: as he'd struggled on toward the fiery mountain, he hadn't cared if he lived or died as long he did this one last thing. Once his task was finished and the Ring destroyed, he had fully expected his life to end there on the mountainside. It had come as a surprise, and almost a dis-appointment, when he awoke to find that he'd been rescued after all.
But he was not alone in his grief; the other members of the re-united Fellowship were with him. They understood how dearly he loved Frodo, for they had loved him too. They shared his sorrow and helped him through those miserable weeks. His friends made him get up when he didn't want to, saw that he ate, cared for him--how odd that was, having such fine folk tending to him! Merry and Pippin spent as a lot of time with him, and Sam found their companionship most comforting; they had known Frodo longer and better than anyone, excepting himself, and he could speak of Frodo to them as he couldn't to the Big Folk. That seemed to help.
Then, one day a few weeks after he'd been brought to the city, Sam stood on the terrace behind the house with Merry and Pippin, when the sound of blaring horns caught their attention. They went to the balustrade to see what was happening.
A band of soldiers was marching up through the maze of streets from the lowest levels of the city. One man ran ahead of the others, up toward the citadel, as if he brought important news to the King.
"That's Ernebor's patrol," Pippin identified them. "Aragorn sent them off to clear the mountain passes into Mordor." Since he was serving as the King's squire, he knew this sort of thing. "They were supposed to be gone for another month or more. I wonder why they've come back so soon?"
Then all three hobbits saw the reason for the party's return: one of the soldiers bore a tiny bundle, no larger than a child, wrapped in a cloak. Even at this distance, they could see the bare, furry feet, no human child's, dangling free.
Sam felt his heart contract painfully, and his vision blurred. That grief, which had begun to subside, stabbed at him anew. He felt as if he were seeing his master fall all over again.
Beside him, Merry groaned. "It's Frodo. They've found him."
When he felt Merry's hand slide into his, Sam squeezed it hard. Pippin drew closer to put an arm around his cousin. Together, they stood leaning on each other with tears flowing unchecked down their faces and watched the man bring his small burden up to the level just beneath them.
They knew that Frodo's body had been found by the Enemy. The mouthpiece of Sauron had presented his mithril shirt, elven cloak, and a short-sword to Gandalf at the Black Gate as proof that he was their prisoner, and Gandalf kept them still. From the minute he'd left Frodo, Sam had been tormented by thoughts of his master's body hacked to pieces by orc swords; he found some comfort now in knowing that that hadn't happened, not if these men had found him whole.
"At least," he said in a voice choked with tears, "Mr. Frodo'll have a proper burial now. We can give him that." They were far from home, but a tomb here in Minas Tirith, where Frodo's memory would always be honored, was much better than lying out to rot on the cold stones of Mordor. "Where are they taking him?"
Pippin climbed up on the balustrade to look down into the street directly below. "It looks like they're going to the Houses of Healing."
This seemed odd, until Merry remembered, "They've got rooms in the back, where they place the fallen who don't survive their wounds. It's where they'd lay him out."
"There's Aragorn," Pippin reported, leaning farther over the balustrade's edge. "He's just come through the gate, and Gan-dalf's with him. They must be going there too."
The three hobbits exchanged glances, then ran down to the Houses of Healing without saying another word.
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Lost Heroes by Kathryn Ramage
Story notes: December 2003
