Samwise Gamgee puffed on his pipe and smiled mischievously at the children gathered round his bench. The night air was cool and dry with just a hint of a chill. Autumn was on its way, and fall was a perfect time for sharing stories under a starlit sky.
"Just a box of dried flowers, he says; no fancy birthday gifts for Mr. Frodo! He weren't too fond of the practical, just a touch away from the girlish, if you'll pardon me for sayin'." Here Sam grinned wide. "So packed up all those flowers we did, since relatives all over the Shire would be droppin' by to pick up what's theirs, bein' it was Mr. Frodo's first birthday at Bag End. And along comes Mistress Lobelia, her greedy self, grumblin' at nothin', but quick enough to take what's hers. Then she opens her box, and now what do you suppose she did? Screamed, that's what! Tossed her box right on the road and ran away.
"Now since it was on the road, mightn't you think I should pick it up and claim it? That's right, and so I did. Snatched it up and lifted the lid. And out springs a toad, right at my face! Flowers for all but Mistress Sackville-Baggins, and toads for her, and rightly so, I'm thinkin'! Accident or no!" And Sam burst into hearty peals of laughter.
All the children giggled, for they had heard the story of Mistress Lobelia many times and the Tale of the Toad had become a favorite. But for Sam, every telling was a memory of the first time, when his story amused a circle of companions camped in the woods of Hollin. He could still recall the look of gentle pleasure on Mr. Frodo's face. It was a memory he held quite dear.
"Tell another! Tell another, Master Samwise!" The children clamored for more, and their happy, pleading voices warmed his heart, but Sam had other ideas.
"Go along with you, now! I've work to be doing, and it's past time for you little ones to be getting on home." He smiled at the disappointed murmur that swept the group, and patted the nearest child on the head as he eased himself up from the bench. A chorus of goodbyes followed him in through the door of Bag End.
Tonight was not a night for dawdling; his old bones were feeling rather light, and he had places to be.
Into the bedroom he went, and from beneath the bed, took out a small bag, one that had been waiting there for a very long time.
Sam had kept this particular bag packed most of his long life. It once sat bulging beneath the bed he shared with Rosie, where its fat and misshapen presence had been a temptation and torment to his children. Many times Sam caught Elanor fiddling with the strings when she was a baby, but he gently smacked her hands away, and with her wide eyes she conveyed her understanding.
Every so often the shape of the bag would change. It had seemed to grow extra lumps and bumps as it migrated from beneath the great bed to the small closet in the bedroom and back again. The children had whispered and giggled about it when they were young, since curiosity is strong with all children. They'd teased their father about it, and asked its purpose -since the bag never went with them on any journey -but Sam merely laughed with good humor and ignored their questioning. Only Rosie had noticed the look in his eye, the light that sparked there, but her wise smile in return gave nothing away.
His children were forbidden to touch the knapsack, and because their father rarely forbade them anything, they were content to leave it be. As they grew older it was all but forgotten.
The years had flown by, for a happy man does not count the days or hours, but instead finds the time passes swiftly when he has lived well and fully. Sam's children had been a joy to him. He had taken on countless duties in the Shire, and made friends a-plenty; he'd taken a wife who could cook and who was fair to look upon; and had been given a home to share with those who were dear to him.
Beneath his bed, the knapsack had remained like a signpost on an abandoned road.
The idea that he should have a bag at the ready had come to Sam long ago, as he returned to the Shire one sad evening with Merry and Pippin riding beside him. On that night he had left his pony in the paddock, with an extra ration of feed, and gone into a house that seemed half-empty. He'd hugged his wife and cuddled his daughter, and told Rosie of a tall white ship sailing off to the West. His tiny daughter had bounced upon his knee, amused by his silly faces, but his gaze had been wistful and far away, and he thought long of Mr. Frodo, and of the lands over Sea.
That night, he'd set out the sack he had carried with him on his travels. Emptied of its contents, it had seemed in need of a purpose, and the urge had come upon him to fill it again. For a time, he had hovered near his sleeping wife, watching her in the moonlight as he fought the impulse, but his heart felt cracked in two. Eventually he'd taken an old shirt and placed it inside the bag, but his hand lifted heavy; his obligations were nearer than the reach of memory, and all the more dear to him because of what was gone. The feeling of being torn had lessened, but an ache remained, a hollow place once filled with the delight of friendship.
With care, he slid the bag beneath the bed, and put it from his thoughts.
Once in a great while Sam would find the bag on the bed, smelling of sweet herbs and fresh air, and knew that its contents had been washed in cool spring water and packed up once again. His darling Rosie had said not a word, but all was understood between them.
As Sam had grown older, and his belly had grown larger in his contentment, the old, tight clothes waiting inside his knapsack had been whisked away and replaced with new trousers and shirts. Rosie had made cleaning rags of the remainders, and hummed a tuneful song of heroes and battles as she polished the silver. And when finally the soft cloth of the old sack grew tired and torn, patches had appeared, made of pieces of old blankets. Sam had hugged Rosie, and kissed her, and chortled to see the blush upon her cheeks, for he had loved her understanding and her skill with the needle.
The seasons had dwindled and grown ever shorter, until one mid-year day when spring had given up her blossoms to a private winter, and Rosie left him in her sleep. Sam had laid his love to rest in the Shire, and for a short time had mourned her. Bag End had seemed dark and cold with its brightest light put out.
But on a cool September morning, Sam awoke and found he was turning westward, just as the leaves changed to an autumn hue. One last day he spent in his old dwelling place, putting things in order, setting his papers to rights and preparing to leave his beloved Shire once more.
At last the time had come to pack his bag in earnest.
With a tug, the bag fell open to his inspection. Sam tossed aside the clothes that were too small or too old; instead he packed comfortable trousers and shirts and all sorts of small things. But he knew he was overeager, and after some thought, he removed most all of his belongings from the brimming pack, and kept only those few things he knew he might need.
Into the knapsack went his trowel with the worn handle, as well as seeds culled from the blossoms beneath the sill of Bag End. He was sure there would be gardens aplenty where he was going, and he intended to keep his hand in as long as he was able.
He packed in a little soft-cloth sack; the rustle of pipe-weed whispered back to him. Not too much, but just enough to enjoy a good smoke for old time's sake. Next to the little sack he laid a lumpy package wrapped in the remnants of a grey cloak; inside was his trusty pipe, nestled against a second pipe made of fine light wood and wrapped with gold. Sam intended the second pipe to be a gift, and knew it would be well received.
Next, Sam rolled a few papers together carefully. These were his songs and stories, cobbled together on parchment because his memory was not what it used to be. So many happenings in the Shire, and so many years gone by! It would not do to forget any detail in the telling of it, once he and Mr. Frodo were catching up on times past. He set them gently in amongst the other items.
With an eye to haste, Sam looked about the room. Set aside in a separate parcel was the book with the red covers, now filled to the last page with stories and accounts of adventures; keeping it company was the Star of the Dunedain, his precious gift from King Elessar. Those he would entrust to Elanor, for the Star would compliment her beauty well, and the history would be hers to guard. He knew her face would reflect her sorrow - her mother gone but a few months, and now her father off to parts unknown - but of all his children, she best could understand, for she knew his heart.
Sixty-three years of packing, and now he was off. He slung the bag and parcel up and fixed them to the saddle, then mounted his pony. The Shire was sleeping, but morning would come soon and find him forever gone.
Sam did not hurry, for it made his heart glad to ride past the dwellings of those he had loved and served for so long, and who had loved him in return. With each mile he rode, his heart shed a bit of its sadness and made room for happiness yet to come.
He turned the pony west and set off at a trot. Sam needed no map, for there was only one route to the Sea, and he knew the way. At the end of his journey, Mr. Frodo would be waiting to greet him with a cry of welcome and arms flung wide. Sam would fly into the warm embrace he had longed for so often, and then he would unpack his bag, and drop it useless beside his bed, and travel no more.
Autumn swept into the Shire on the soft breezes of morning, but Samwise Gamgee was not there to greet the change of season, for he had gone home at last.
End
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Story notes: Notes: The slash isn't too obvious in this, but I promise it's lurking just beneath the surface. I haven't read the Epilogue from History of Middle Earth so I don't consider anything written there as canon for the purposes of this story. This is for JK, my favorite hobbit-fancier. It's all her fault.
Book canon; spoilers for the end of the book and beyond
Chapter end notes: I would love to know what you think!
