West, West Away by Arveldis

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West, West Away

Written for Tolkien Gen Week Day 7: Freeform

(An expansion of this ficlet I wrote earlier this year for the Three Sentence Ficathon on Dreamwidth.)

The morning mist lay heavy over the land as Sam began the final day of his journey. Somewhere beyond the mist, the spires of the Grey Havens stood above the hills, as he had seen yesterday when the westering sun lit them with gold. And beyond even that lay the Sea, vast and unfathomable—and certainly no place for a hobbit like himself, whose feet were meant to stand upon good, firm earth. 

And yet it was to the Sea he went to find his place on one of the last ships, if there were any still—it was rare to see Elves passing through the Shire now and glean news from them of the Grey Havens—and set sail for Valinor and Mr. Frodo, who had waited for him all these long years.

“I suppose I won’t see Mr. Bilbo there, though,” Sam said to himself as his pony plodded along the road to the havens. “He was already older than The Old Took when he left, and it’s too much to hope that he might still be alive, even if the Ring did draw out his life. Waited too long, you did, Samwise, and now you’ll never hear one of his poems again, unless Mr. Frodo’s stored some of them in his memory.” A dull ache settled in Sam’s chest, and he blinked away a few tears. 

“Well, I hope he found a nice hill to be buried under, somewhere beneath the sun, with lots of flowers over the top and a grand inscription with some of his poetry on it, or some clever phrase making fun of the S-B’s so he can have the last laugh,” he said, trying to think of something less gloomy. Bilbo certainly wouldn’t have wanted his death to be gloomy. If he had stayed in the Shire, he would have made certain to plan out pranks that gold-seeking and gossipy hobbits would find for years after and be reminded of by their neighbors for many years after that.

Sam hadn’t wanted to wait this long to sail, when Mr. Bilbo was gone and likely had been for a while, and Frodo had been without another hobbit to talk to for so long. Even though Frodo had always gotten on well with Elves—they understood each other and saw something of themselves in each other, he thought—it wasn’t the same as the company of another hobbit.

But Sam had not been able to make himself leave earlier. There was Rosie, who had waited so long and patiently for him, and then there was Elanor, who needed her dad in her life to see her grown up right, and then there were Frodo, Rose, Merry, Pippin, Goldilocks, Hamfast, Daisy, Primrose, Bilbo, Ruby, Robin, and Tolman who also needed him.

But now Rosie was gone, and their children were grown, and though some still lived with him, Bag End felt emptier than it ever had before, and it was full of shadows and memories.

And Sam had known that it was finally time.

The last banks of mist burned away with the noon sun, and the spires of the Grey Havens loomed suddenly before him. Only the cries of the distant gulls pierced the stillness.

The Grey Havens had had the same feeling of peace and quietude the last time Sam had come to them. He sensed that the havens were a place of deep peace and stillness, as all Elven realms were—but more so, for they marked the place of irrevocable decision, of bidding farewell to a home known for centuries. The havens were a place of sorrow and joy, just as the Elves were at times the most sorrowful folk Sam had ever known, and at other times the gladdest.

But the Grey Havens were now even more quiet than Sam remembered them being before. He saw no Elves on the road into the havens, and the towers and terraces of the havens were still and silent. He felt almost as he had when travelling through Lothlorien—as if he stood upon the edges of the past, where the ancient days mingled with the present.

Sam shook his head. “There you go again, Sam, having thoughts loftier than your knowledge.” He clicked his pony forward down to the quay, where several ships still stood moored, and he saw a knot of Elves gathered there upon the quay, and stores and crates were being loaded onto the ship. 

The Elves turned at his approach, and Círdan smiled and beckoned him near. “I have been awaiting you, Ringbearer.”

 

 

Sam looked up, slack-jawed, at the mast that towered above him. He had never been on a ship this large before. The Fellowship’s journey down the Anduin in the Elven boats of Lothlorien had been his first and last experience with boats, and he had been glad to keep it that way. He couldn’t fathom that something so large could stay afloat and not simply sink like a stone to the bottom of the sea.

The ship rocked gently in its berth as the waves slapped against its hull, and already Sam felt his stomach turning within him. He moved to stand at the railing, clutching it, as he peered down at the water of the harbor. He felt small and out of place, like forgotten luggage, in the presence of so many Elves—several of whom were great among their kind. Already he had counted Lord Elrond’s twin sons and the Elvenking of Bilbo’s tales, recognizable from the autumnal crown of berries and red leaves he wore about his brow, and from his strong resemblance to Legolas. Many other Elves besides milled about the ship or disappeared below decks.

A cry rose in the air, and Sam glanced up. The mooring line had been thrown off, and already the ship began to drift away from the dock and out into the harbor, its sail filling with the breeze. Sudden silence fell over the deck, and the Elves standing upon it stilled.

All eyes were turned toward the havens and the encircling hills, watching as they fell away behind the ship, the last memory of Middle-earth any of them would have. Sam’s heart turned strangely within his chest, and he thought of two days before, when he had bid Elanor farewell in the Tower Hills and placed the Red Book into her hands.

Elanor had smiled bravely through her tears and hugged him long and tight, pressing a kiss to each cheek. She had always been brave, his Elanor. She had been brave when she bade him and Rosie farewell when they left Minas Tirith to return to the Shire, leaving her alone in the City of Men for as year as she trained to become one of Queen Arwen’s handmaidens.

He thought, too, of Rosie, and her grave covered with wildflowers. He had visited it with Elanor one last time on his journey to the havens and told her again how much he loved her and missed her, and that he would be leaving now for the West, just as she had always said he would eventually. And Sam had promised her that their children would visit her as often as they could and tend to her grave as he had, making sure no weeds crept in among the wildflowers.

And he thought of Frodo, Rose, Merry, Pippin, Goldilocks, Hamfast, Daisy, Primrose, Bilbo, Ruby, Robin, and Tolman, all now grown and scattered across the Shire like dandelion blossoms carried away by the wind. His heart ached at the thought that he would never see any of them again, and he wondered if he would ever be able to fill the hole of their absence, and if Valinor really could heal all hurts and longings. 

And then Sam’s heart twinged as he thought of Bag End’s garden, and how he would never again work in its soil and plant new seeds in the spring, and then watch as their green heads sprouted up through the dirt and grew and grew until their bright flowers blanketed the slope of the Hill in color. He hoped Valinor had gardens he could tend to. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he couldn’t work with his hands and stretch his fingers into good, rich soil.

With a sniff, Sam dabbed at his eyes. He hadn’t thought leaving would hurt this much, until the time came and one goodbye followed on the heels of the next, until he thought he couldn’t possibly say another goodbye. 

Ever since Frodo had sailed, Sam had thought that finally going to see Frodo would lift a weight from his chest that had settled there the moment Sam had watched the White Ship sail off into the West. Instead, a new weight had filled its place.

He never had done well at not feeling torn in two.

Sam tore his gaze away from the disappearing havens and curled his hands over the railing, looking out to the sea that ran glimmering across the horizon. “I’m coming, Mr. Frodo. Just wait for me a little longer.”

He turned away from the railing, realizing he still needed to find his cabin below decks. But his gaze caught on a lone figure who still stood next to the railing, still watching the havens, even though most of the Elves had dispersed.

It was the Elvenking. He gazed at the disappearing haven and the encircling hills with a strange, sorrowful expression upon his face, as if he felt the same uncomfortable tug of uprooting that Sam did, feeling as if he had been removed from his familiar soil and planted somewhere he didn’t belong, at least not yet.

Sam watched him, feeling he was intruding on a private moment, but he couldn’t look away. It was strange to think that a king of the Elves might feel as displaced and torn as he did, but Sam felt suddenly in that moment that he understood the Elvenking, high and lordly though he was. 

Legolas had spoken at times, in the early days of the quest, of his people’s history and how they had never known any home other than Middle-earth. They did not know the country that lay over the sea that beckoned to the likes of Lady Galadriel, and the longing for it was slow to waken in their hearts.

And Sam guessed that it was for Legolas, too, that sorrow cloaked the Elvenking’s face. His son did not stand at his side on the ship, but dwelt still in Ithilien. 

With a pang, Sam thought again of his own children, and with a sudden flush of bravery, he moved to stand at the Elvenking’s side before his resolve fled him. He peered up at the Elvenking’s fair, mournful face and said, “Begging your pardon, sir, but you look a bit down in the mouth, as we say in the Shire, and, well, I thought I might come and share a few words with you, if you’ll not take them amiss.” A blush flooded his face as he realized that he was rambling, and he crumpled the band of his hat in his hands as the Elvenking turned and looked at him with curiosity. 

You’ve gone and put your foot in it now, Sam, he thought. His Gaffer always had said that his words ran on before his thoughts, and once he got going, his thoughts had trouble catching up.

He twisted his face, trying to word his thoughts better. “What I mean to say is, I understand this sailing West not being what you expected or imagined, and how hard it is to leave behind everything you love for something you’ve never clapped eyes on, sir,” he finished, crushing his hat harder between his hands. He had made a worse hash of it than he had thought possible.

Inexplicably, a trace of a smile curved the corners of the Elvenking’s mouth. “You are the Ringbearer.” His voice sounded like autumn winds whispering through the tree-tops, and Sam’s mind conjured up all the images of Mirkwood that he had once envisioned while listening to Bilbo’s stories. He had always imagined the forest as a dark, dreadful place, but now, standing before the Elvenking, he was reminded that it had once been the Greenwood, vast and deep and powerful.

“Not the Ringbearer,” Sam hurried to say. “That’s Mr. Frodo, mind you, who’s already gone West. But I bore it for a short time, when he wasn’t able to, and became a Ringbearer of sorts.”

The Elvenking studied him with eyes as ancient as the deep forests. “My son told me of you when he returned home after the war. He said you were the Ringbearer’s servant and followed him into Orodruin itself and witnessed the breaking of the Ring. It takes great loyalty and courage to follow another down dark roads with little hope waiting at the end.”

“I was Mr. Frodo’s gardener,” Sam said proudly. “And I wouldn't have let Mr. Frodo travel all the way to Mordor alone, not for anything. He would have had to tie me up if he didn’t want me to follow him, and even then I would have tried to follow him, hobbled and all.”

The Elvenking continued to watch him, a curious mixture of awe and amusement warring upon his face. “Legolas spoke very fondly of you and the Ringbearer,” he said at last, “and of the time you passed together in Minas Tirith after the war. He told me that you helped him plan the restoration of Minas Tirith’s gardens, and that with your advice and care, the gardens grew fuller and more beautiful than they had even before the city was besieged. You must be great indeed among the Shire’s gardeners.”

Sam flushed from his head to his toes. “Yes, sir, I did give him my help, although he doesn’t give himself enough credit, if he said all that.”

The Elvenking’s gaze turned distant, focusing again on the havens, which stood small in the distance, barely distinguishable from the hills, to Sam’s eyes.

“He’ll come west,” Sam said, wanting to bring the Elvenking comfort, but uncertain how to do it. “He’s heard the call of the Sea. He was awful torn in two about it, saying lots of things about never feeling at peace beneath the trees again, but he knew he’d have to leave eventually. He said so. The call of the Sea is too strong.”

“There are few ships left to bear him over the Sea,” the king said.

“He will come,” Sam said firmly. He was sure of it, with a certainty that ran deep in his bones. “He’s loyal, too, sir—the most loyal Elf I’ve ever known.” He hadn’t known many Elves at all, but he thought that was best left unsaid.

He glanced up at the Elvenking, whose face was again full of sorrow. “I left my children, too. It was the hardest decision I’ve ever made—harder even than when I left the Shire for the first time with Mr. Frodo. Then, at least, I thought that I would be coming back, you see. But this time I knew that I was leaving to never come back.” He tightened his grip on his hat. Already the Shire seemed so very far away. “I left them and everything I’ve ever known—the only home I’ve ever known—never to see any of it again.”

“Every home I have ever known has been ruined,” the Elvenking said softly, looking still toward the east. The havens and hills were now no more than a smudge on the horizon to Sam’s eyes. 

“Doriath, the home of my youth, fell to treachery and then kinstrife and became a forsaken place, abandoned to decay and its people dispersed.” The Elvenking’s voice was quiet, barely audible over the creaking of the ship’s timbers and the whisper of the waves. “And then the waters of the rising sea flooded it, drowning the encircling woods and flooding the deep halls and caves of Menegroth, until its glory and might was no more. It lies now beneath the sea, and perhaps even now we sail over it, its caverns hidden in the deeps, where lay the bones of my people beneath the weight of the waves, and fish flick through its empty halls.”

Sam shivered and looked anxiously over the railing of the ship, images of dark underwater caverns full of ghosts flashing through his mind. He didn’t like thinking of how deep the sea was, nor of what lay beneath the surface of it.

“I could not save Eryn Lsgalen from the fires of Dol Guldur,” the Elvenking continued, “fierce and long though I and my people fought in its defense, and it burned until it stood blackened and bare, a forest of broken skeletons and stumps—a bitter, twisted memory of Greenwood the Great of old. My people lay charred among its ashes, fallen like so many autumn leaves.” 

Sam thought of the wreckage of the Shire that he had returned to: the felled trees all along Bywater Road, the river fouled by the new mill, the chestnuts of the Hill torn up and the banks and hedgerows broken and crumbled, Bagshot Row dug up and turned into a sand and gravel quarry, and the Party Tree lying lopped and dead in the field. He thought of how fiercely his heart had hurt and burned with anger at the sight, anger as bright as when he had realized that Frodo had survived Shelob and been taken alive to the tower.

“When we returned to the Shire, Saruman had all but destroyed it, all for his own ugly games,” Sam said, feeling the old hurt and anger well up again in his chest. “His ruffians had felled all of the trees and torn up the beautiful gardens and built new, ugly homes over the hobbit holes. They fouled the river and ripped up the grass, and everywhere was the stench and smoke of machinery. I could hardly recognize it, and I wasn’t sure the Shire would ever look like it once did. Saruman’s scars went deep. 

“But in time, we got it patched up and set to rights. We planted new trees and replanted gardens. We tore down the ugly houses, the mill, and the quarry, and we dug new hobbit holes. You can’t see any hint of Saruman’s mischief now.” He looked up at the Elvenking. “Maybe the Greenwood will be the same, in time. Maybe new trees will grow from the ashes of the old, and creatures will find their way back into the forest, even if you’re not there to see it. That’s the way of things in nature, I reckon. They keep on regrowing and returning, whether we’re there to see it or not.”

Sam smiled to himself. “Why, the mallorn I planted in the Shire where the Party Tree once stood will keep growing long after I’m gone, and my grandchildren will tell their children about how much taller it has gotten since they were young, and on and on, just as the old tales continue on in their way, I daresay.” He stopped, realizing he had again been rambling—and talking rather freely to a king. His Gaffer would have had a thing or two to say to him about unasked-for advice and talking above your station to your betters , if he could have seen him .

But the Elvenking didn’t seem to mind—or at least didn’t voice any offense, which was good enough for Sam. Instead, he looked as if he were deep in thought.

“Did any of your people stay?” Sam found himself asking, despite himself.

“Some,” the Elvenking said. “They have known no home but Middle-earth and had no desire to leave it for a land they have never seen. They will fade, in time, until their spirits wander the forest houseless and forgotten. But it is for them a better fate than leaving the only home they have ever known. I could not ask them to follow me West, when their hearts are bound to Middle-earth and would grieve greatly the sundering from it.” His gaze turned distant, and Sam wondered what it must feel like to be the king of a sundered people.

“And your heart?” Sam asked, and then felt at once that he had now, surely, overstepped his place. Half-wise, indeed!

The Elvenking smiled faintly, and it was like the sun shining through the branches of trees on a warm spring day. “My heart is bound to my family—to my wife, who dwells already in the West, and to my son, who will follow. It is bound to Middle-earth, too, but it shall find a home anew, just as it has before, for I have borne already the loss of one home, and I shall bear the loss of another, though the grief will remain for many long years. But the pain of parting will be lessened by the joy of reuniting.”

Sorrow and joy, Sam thought. All Elves were bound up in it, it seemed, and himself, too.

He looked to the West, where the sun sank into the sea in a flash of gold, where Frodo had somehow found a home anew, far from anything he knew. And Sam thought that with time maybe he could, too.

Chapter End Notes

Realistically, I think it's more likely that if Thranduil did sail, it would have been later in the Fourth Age, after Sam had already left. But I had so much fun playing with this idea earlier this year that I couldn't resist revisiting it and expanding on it.

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