by Silent Draco
The tale in part was revealed only to Cirdan of the Havens, before he sailed with the Last Ship into the Uttermost West. He murmured hints of this to the Gardners, the hereditary Masters of the Westmarch and Mayors of the Shire. Only this brief account remains from the days of Frodo IV Gardner.
Chapter 1 – A Reluctant Traveler
“Well, Bill,” Sam sighed, “let’s get on the road. ‘Tis time, me boy.” Bill (the tenth of his name) snorted, tossing his head, and set off at a walk down the Row and toward the Great Road. This time, he looked back as if in question as Sam tugged the reins to turn him west, not east toward Bucklamd. “Aye. Time to go.” Bill drooped slightly, as if he knew what this meant, and set his hooves on the firm surface at a measured pace. The leaves were just turning for autumn, and read and gold decorations now dappled trees and Road with colors, like a finely woven shroud. Sam started at this thought. “Bless me, what am I thinkin’, Rosie? But ye’r gone now. Ah, Mr. Frodo was right, all them years back. Aye, he told me that I’d be whole, with Rosie, and little Eleanor, and Frodo-lad and Rosie-lass and the others, but hinted that a day would come when I’d feel this. And perhaps they can heal me, and I may see Her Ladyship just once more and thank her for her gift, before I go.”
Sam was now 102, a ripe age for a hobbit, but creaking in every joint, and he felt the time was coming near. Rose had passed away in the spring, and her funeral was a sad and merry thing. The children, and the first grandchildren, and wee great-grandchildren, and the Colmans, and his good friends the Thane and the Master of Buckland and their families stood by him. All of Hobbiton, Michel Delving, and three leagues beyond had come. And then messages came for him from King Eomer, and Lord Gimli, and even Strider – King Elessar, he reminded himself – who had invited him to Fornost for Mid-Summer. Queen Arwen looked lovely, and her daughters, but Prince Eldarion remained in Gondor, governing in his father’s stead, a fine man now. But I feel the turning in the year, the bright leaves fall like coins, and the waters trickle down to still pools. I tire easily, and in the evenings and nights I hear echoes, and the faintest hint of that whisper in me ear. That was a bad row we had, Merry and Strider and me, about the cold garden, just a’ter Rosie passed. Made me think about … no, I won’t say. ‘Tis time, aye.
“Bill, my lad,” he continued aloud, “’tis naught that I’d tell the children, but left a note in the Great Book. All the past winter, when Rosie took ill, the dreams came back, An’ someone whisperin’ to me, that I could fix my mistake an’ save Rosie with my Great Garden, An’ it sang something silly that went awful …”
Oh, Westman’s weed and Elanor seed,
Will surely whet the whistle
Then add some strands of fever-weed
And mix with bogland thistle!
Brew it now for Rosie,
A posset done with posies!
Dust now and ashes,
You let her fall down!
Sam shivered, recalling the evil hiss of the last nightmare. “An’ I didn’t want the first time it offered, no more garden or land that I can work meself, or with me lads. ‘Tisn’t right to take more than ye can hold easy. Jes’ what we have, an’ some good ponies to help.” He ruffled Bill’s mane slightly, and sighed. “I recall what the Stinker said to ol’ Gollum, back them years, jes’ the same kind of sweet words, an’ look how ended. I hope they may at least make the Whisperer be quiet so I can rest.”
He’d said his farewells to the children, and entrusted the Great Book to them, along with the office of Mayor and his other duties, telling them to read the tales to their children and use the other volume for their own stories. “An’ always have another ready, for a day will come when children will ask, ‘Why do we do this, Grampa? Who are those Men we see only when come with ye’ to the borders, and what strange songs come then?’ You can then read them the tales, and of how we hobbits came from our quiet corner to help the Wise to fight off the Enemy, and why we watch our borders for the return of his servants and shadows.” So ended a family dinner, on September 22nd of all days. Sam drank one last mug of ale, toasting the memories of Bilbo and Frodo on their Birthday. And after a flurry of hugs and final, teary kisses, more songs for the road, and much waving of hands and handkerchiefs, he and his trusty pony Bill set off.
Sam shared his apples with Bill as they walked up the hills, sun at his back and following the Road westward. “Apples for walking, and a pipe for sitting. But we have a bit to go yet.” Bill twitched his ears and nuzzled in, begging for another piece. “Aye, and ye’d eat all of them now, and then where’d we be?” Sam laughed.
The Road goes ever on; once was I shod
In trembling fear and nightmare, to East trod
Wonder and horrors saw, tempted at heart,
But my duty was done, I served my part,
Returned to my place and my true heart;
To West I rode, for the great journey shod.
Great hawks and perhaps an eagle hung in the sky, spiraling up the morning airs, as they walked. Another two miles, and Sam mounted up with a creak and grumble. “Mr. Frodo jested once that I might become a warrior, or even a wizard. Bein’ Mayor of the whole Shire was enough work in itself! And bein’ Master of Bag End, an’ having to do with famousest and important folk like the Thane and Master, an’ kings, an’ them bringing me in as their partner in doings! Let’s go, me lad. We stay at the children’s smial on the edge of the Downs in two nights, a’ter a last stop at Michel Delving, then The Ironstone another eve I hope, and then on to … tomorrow.”
The Ironstone was an old inn on a hill, with a large yard and high wall about it, which served mostly Dwarves, although a few rooms and one chamber were kept for Men who had business at the cities of the Blue Mountains. In some ways it was a survival of days long ago, for it one looked carefully, the north wing’s foundation, much cracked and rebuilt, had its lowest courses from before the Great Breaking, when Beleriand was drowned in the Sea. It was near but not too close to the River Lune, and the ancient north track and the Great East Road crossed nearby. The Stonehammer family had run the inn for years out of count, for none wanted to ask when in the Second Age it had been rebuilt by the family. Like all dwarven buildings above ground, it was made of massive stone, with small but protected windows and some skylights. The high wall had arrow-slits and places for defensive engines, for the Dwarves had long and iron-bound memories concerning strangers.
Sam tied his pony at the rail outside, and pushed in the hangings of the doorway. The space was low but well lit, with lamps of dwarf-crystal making the room mostly bright as day. The innkeeper, Kori Stonehammer, looked down over the bar with a question in his eyes, but no welcome. “If you please, Master Innkeeper,” Sam began. “I wish a room for the evening and stabling for my pony.” “And who might you be, and what business do you have? Some adventure that you tottered out upon?” Stonehammer questioned, for hobbits were rare and unusual guests in these lands. “Samwise Gamgee, if ye please, once Mayor of the Shire over yonder. A friend of Gimli, Lord of Aglaron.”
Stonehammer looked with astonishment, almost visibly counting on his fingers, and asked gently of the old hobbit, “Is your business in Belegost, or do you journey – farther?” “Farther, aye. To the Havens; my time is come. Lord Gimli was of our Fellowship, an’ I shall miss him.” Stonehammer’s eyes opened wider in amazement; this old hobbit, slightly stooped before him, was one of whom the songs told, a quiet but doughty Hero who broke Barad-Dur. But from his demeanor and lack of airs … he bowed deeply and replied, “We have two rooms suitable for Halflings, master. We will set a fire, and serve your supper there, if ye wish. And then if you are not too weary, may I ask of Lord Gimli and his family?”
On the next morning, Sam quietly broke his fast with rashers of bacon and eggs fried with fine cave-mushrooms to a delicate tenderness; these last were a gift of the innkeeper, in thanks for his tales of Lord Gimli. Stonehammer himself saw Sam off with a pint of spice-beer, waving in farewell as he mounted Bill and trotted slowly to the Great Road. Their way was wide and easy, for they came down from the last hills and past the Great Tower, crossing the West Bridge. Although damp from the night’s rains, the way was smooth for the pony’s hooves, and soon they approached the walls and gate of the Grey Havens.
This was no mere harbor and quay; for the siting and structure was that a great and smooth wall extended for a mile inland of Hither Shore, and made a great arc a league from tower to tower and bastion on the shores, with great breakwaters and massive chains to seaward. A full hundred feet in height the wall spanned, contrived as a ship’s hull looming over the water, and thirty fathoms in width. The Grey Havens in the Forlond was constructed at the dawn of the Second Age. Fair Beleriand was broken by shock and fire, and drowned under waves; those Noldori who were unwilling as yet to return, or who were born on Hither Shore, recalled with bitter tears that not all servants of the Great Enemy were yet found and vanquished. They built a secure harbor and fortress within this leager, from where they could depart West, one resistant to the shadows and storms which would bar their way. Celebrimor and his people, subtle in stone and metal work, wisheda secure place here while they went to settle in Eregion, near unto the House of Durin and their great wealth from under the Misty Mountains. The Dwarves of Belegost and Angaband, leaving mostly the ruin of their great cities, were persuaded to labor with the Noldor in constructing the great stoneworks, and were paid generously in jewels and great pearls. For they sought refuge in the east with the House of Durin, in Khazan-dum, and the pearls and sea-gems were much valued in those halls.
And such was the skill of their work that none could find a seam, line, or crack in the great walls. Even the Onodrim could find but little to seize upon. Great armories and guardrooms were let in the walls of the citadel, and all manner of stores. Within the walls was no city, but great groves, farms and dairies; for the wisdom of the Noldo was that they should withstand siege, able to raise their own sustenance within the walls. At the heart of the works, on Hither Shore itself, were the great quays and inner walls, and the Citadel of Cìrdan looming over the shipyard. Adjoining to the south of the river was the Harlond, an even greater but now disused harbor and anchorage. For it was to these harbors that Elendil had sailed with four great ships from downfallen Numenor, and the great fleet of Gondor filled to overflow in the succor of Arthedain, at the wreck of the Northern Kingdom. Those days were now long passed, and the Elves waited, building ships for the journey west, and preserving song and memory. The chief of those poems and songs were engraved in the top courses of stone and about the great gate by marvelous art; Maglor himself had tarried there, in pain, sorrow and flights of fancy, singing strength and longing into the walls, inscribing with his runes the words for Ages to come. Among the Noldo, it was whispered that he had drawn the runes with that hand, and perhaps some fragment of virtue from the Drowned Silmaril bound spell and stone.
So in the afternoon the guards beheld a small, dusty rider trotting toward their gates. He answered their challenge with “Samwise Gamgee, if ye please, masters. It is … my journey, now, an’ I dread to tarry longer.” Word went to the Citadel, and he was promptly admitted. Cìrdan the Shipwright himself waited at the gate, to welcome Sam again. “Come, young one; all is prepared. I have a courier bound for Lorien, who will conduct your friend with honor back to the Shire.” Sam dismounted, and with tears in his eyes hugged Bill one last time. Bill nuzzled him, and begged the last apple from his pockets. Cìrdan conducted Sam to the grey ship, and Sam boarded with a final bow of thanks. “Perhaps one day I shall see thee, Young One, or at the least see thy memories.” The ship turned its prow to the setting sun, and set off.
And on one morning of song, the mists turned to elven-cloth and furled away, and a far, green country was revealed under a swift sunrise. Thus the grey ship entered into the harbor of Alaquöndë, but not alone. Along the quay was a white ship, moored bow and stern. Sam stared at this sight, flummoxed and speechless, as signals and calls were exchanged. The captain trimmed sails as they slowed and crept to the next mooring beyond the white ship. “Young Master,” said the captain with a bow, “… Varda be praised, the Great Ones themselves will explain. For I see two Halflings on the quay with Mithrandir, … and Eönwë, the Herald of the Valar.”
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To Be Continued…