gayalondiel_bak | I wrote something...

Having said that I didn't have time and energy to write, this little piece came to mind today while I was working. We were listening to the RotK soundtrack, and Rachel and I got to talking about the meaning behind the lyrics of 'Into The West'. This is the result of that conversation...

Epilogue
Sam stood at the door, unable to step through it, unable to turn back. Upon the tray he grasped, the teapot steamed indifferently, marking each passing second with the loss of a few more drops of heat. The small butter-pats began to wilt at the corners as they warmed, and his knuckles grew white as he gripped the tray tightly.

Rosie stood a little way off, silent but supporting him nonetheless with her loving presence. He looked up at her, and in her gaze read everything that he needed to know: that they loved him as he loved them, that they would understand, and that he had to be the one to go to them. That this was between the three of them, and his darling wife and their dearest child would still be here, waiting for him, when it was all over. He smiled softly at her, tears already threatening the corners of his eyes, and stepped beyond the threshold onto the soft grass, warm in the summer sunshine. The touch of grass was one he relished, throughout his life but so much more since they had come home.

His mind wished that they had chosen to go elsewhere, somewhere disconnected where it could be unreal. But they were where his heart had directed to him even as he wrote, sitting against the beautiful mallorn tree that gleamed ever more beautifully in the golden afternoon light. As he approached, Merry looked up and smiled, while Pippin closed the book reverently, running one hand gently over the cover. Even at this distance, he could see the tear tracks on both faces. In silence he approached them, and busied himself as long as he could in pouring the tea and offering Rosie's special fruit loaf to both. When Pippin spoke, it was with a hoarse, tired voice, and Sam knew that he had read the book aloud, read it to Merry, to the others.

"It's amazing, Sam," he said. "It's beautiful."

"Most of it is Mr. Frodo's work," Sam reminded them. "All I wrote was the final chapter."

"About the havens," Merry smiled sadly. "I wondered about that, Sam…"

"I know," said Sam hurriedly. "I know, and I hope you're not offended, but it sort of wrote itself. I think it's what he meant, if you understand me…"

Pippin reached out and took Sam's hand, pressing it lovingly. "We do understand," he said. "It felt so right, before we ever read it even. It is right."

Merry nodded his agreement, but spoke no word as the tears came again unbidden to his eyes and began to spill over his cheeks. Swiftly Pippin was beside him, pulling him into his arms and holding him protectively even as he too began to cry. Sam joined them, freed now from all restraint of rank by the bonds of love between the three. For a long time the cousins wept, their tears watering the soft earth beneath them where the roots of the mallorn spread, supported by Sam's strong yet gentle embrace.

Finally Merry pulled back, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, but not moving beyond the reach of his dear friends' arms. "I am sorry," he whispered. "But I miss him - I miss them both."

"We know," said Pippin, sniffling slightly. "But do you remember what he said? He wanted us to go on, Merry, the Shire is meant for us. I don't think the book is finished yet."

"No," agreed Merry. "I noticed you worked all of that in, Sam?"

"How could I not?" he replied simply. "It's meant to be told, Mr. Merry. Not just for us, but our families, our children, and their children, and everyone forever. It's one of the Great Stories, and it's meant to be told. That's what Frodo wanted."

"Are you sure? That he wanted things this way, I mean?" Pippin looked earnestly at Sam, his gaze filled not with accusation but with honest hope, brightened by many tears. Sam met him with soft yet determined eyes that had yet to shed a tear.

"Yes," he said with certainty. "There's no other way of explaining it, leastways none that I could think of. And I'm not sure I thought of what I wrote, if you understand me - like it was a dream I once had, or a tale I heard, then forgot, and I remembered it all of a sudden. I think it's near what Mr. Frodo had in mind, leastways by what he told me when he was sick, the last time."

"I think it's exactly that," said Merry, smiling gently. Sam bowed his head, finally allowing a single tear to escape.

It slid swiftly over his cheek and fell, free in the air for a moment before splashing on the earth beside him and soaking gently into it. Here the grass had not yet retaken the ground, though it had been dug and replaced many months ago, now. Here upon these two mounds, no grass grew, nor dared any other weed or creeping plant intrude upon the hallowed ground. Two flowers only grew here, although none could say how they had found the place, since never had they been seen before September, when the ground had been freshly dug.

Upon one mound lay pale niphredil, and the other bore yellow elanor. They bloomed unceasingly, the winter flowers of Lothlórien, a constant reminder of the two blessed souls who took their final rest in the gentle earth beneath Galadriel's gift, where the Party Tree once grew.