I was young, you were younger, and yet somehow, you still knew.
Even now, the day is clear in my memory. I had spent only one night as a proper Hobbiton Baggins, and my things still mostly sat in my bags, as yet not unpacked. The Gaffer was unfailingly practical, however, and even before I had finished second breakfast, he had come to see old Bilbo about enlarging the garden to provide six meals a day for a hungry tweenager. Taking the last few bites of my poached egg and toast with me, I listened for a bit, but it soon became clear that there was little more for me to do beyond looking appreciative as the Gaffer went on about the price of seed taters and corn, and I was glad when Bilbo took pity on me and told me to go outside.
That's where I found you. You were on your hands and knees at the end of the pathway, the sleeves of your hand-me-down coat bunched so far down on your wrists that your hands seemed to have disappeared into the soil. Every bit of your attention was fixed on the flower bed at the side of the path, and I almost laughed at such concentration in someone so small. "What are you doing?"
Startled, you looked up at me, your eyes wide in that round, sunburnt face. "Just lookin' at a turtle."
"A turtle?" I crouched beside you, and sure enough, a little box turtle sat beneath the nasturtiums, limbs and head sealed up tight in its shell. It was the sort of thing that would have inspired most little hobbit lads to prod relentlessly at the poor creature with a stick to try and make it emerge - something I confess I knew rather personally - but you were just looking at it with a patience that somehow overcame freckles and a missing front tooth to make you look very old indeed.
Very gently, you pushed aside a nasturtium leaf to give me a better view, then smiled. "If we wait, he'll know we don't mean no harm and come out."
I nodded, and I don't know how long we watched that turtle before curiosity got the better of you. You looked at me, squinting as you tried to match your partner in terrapin watching to the overheard conversations of adults. "Are you That Brandybuck?"
I grinned. There was such innocence to your question that I didn't even mind the gossip behind it. "Yes. But my name is Frodo."
You stood, holding out your muddy hand as you had been taught. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Frodo. I'm Sam Gamgee."
Standing, you were just about as tall as I was kneeling, and it was everything I could do not to hurt your feelings by laughing at such formality. "How old are you, Mr. Gamgee?"
"Six and a half. But the Gaffer's Mr. Gamgee, Mr. Frodo. I'm just a Sam, 'cept when I'm in trouble. Then I'm all of a Samwise Gamgee."
"The Gaffer's your father?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo." You sat down cross-legged and propped your elbows on your knees as you resumed your watch on the turtle. "He's in there talking to Mr. Bilbo about Feeding That Brandybuck. He takes care of the garden."
"And what do you do?" I plucked two nasturtium leaves, giving one to you and popping the other, peppery-sweet, into my mouth.
You sniffed yours, licked it, then placed it in front of the turtle. "I help him." "By watching turtles?"
"No. He lets me weed. But he says when I get big, I can take care of the garden myself." You looked up at me, and for the first time, I saw that smile that would forever cheer my heart, the one that seems to come from a place of unshakable goodness that neither time nor hardship has ever managed to mar. "He says that's what Gamgees do. We take care of things."
You were right, Sam. More than thirty years ago, and already you knew. Gardens. Ponies. Ring-Bearers. Gamgees take care of things.
It's because of you that I am here now. Safe in this fortress city, washed and rested, with a fresh silken night-shirt on my back and a gaping scream in my right hand.
I've been awake now for two hours, taken food and drink, walked about a bit, but you are still sleeping, still worn from our journey. I can see the toll it has taken on you, what it cost you to get me safe and alive across the black plains of Mordor. They took good care of us this past fortnight, but the signs of our ordeal are still clear on your body. I remember that body well, Sam, the way it was supposed to be.
I remember the night of your thirty-third birthday. You were never one for giving away mathoms, Sam, and your gifts were always handed out with such bright smiles and such a loving heart that no one ever noticed how simple they were: hand-woven baskets filled will red-cheeked apples, bundles of flowers dried with the fragrance still sweet, gourds carved into the most useful and fanciful of shapes. And for me...for me the greatest gift, unfolded from beneath the layers of homespun and hand-me-downs.
The sun had burnished your face, your forearms, the back of your neck, but when you removed your shirt, the rest of your skin shone as pale as sweet cream, and I remember feathering gentle kisses over that unspoiled flesh, reveling in the strength beneath the softness. I treasured you. Sometimes, I think you're the only one who doesn't see how lovely you are, Sam. Your gingery curls, your sparkling eyes, your plump body, your well-formed feet...you're everything a hobbit should be, and everything I could ever have desired.
That outward beauty has faded now, worn thin by relentless sacrifice. Thirst cracked smiling lips and made pink cheeks fall sallow. Exhaustion drew dark circles beneath laughing eyes. The burdens you carried swelled the muscles of your arms and shoulders, even as hunger stripped away the flesh that had once surrounded and softened their graceless bulges. I should have seen this, but the Ring rendered me blind to it all, and only now can I mourn what you did for me. I must mourn, for I know that you never would. If anything, you would apologize for not having done more. More! They say that when they found us, your feet were bleeding from the sharp rocks of Mt. Doom. What more could you give me than your beauty and your blood?
I know what you gave me, Sam, and not merely in the record writ so harsh on your body, but in my own broken recollections . . . don't think that I was oblivious to every time you went hungry so that I might eat. I remember that, and I remember the stink of your black Orc-cloak under my cheek as you carried me. How far and where, I don't remember, but I remember feeling your muscles shudder with the burden.
My own sufferings on that journey are as fragments of memories, and I don't suppose I shall ever want to recover those dark weeks fully. What I can recall is like the shards of a nightmare, images mostly, and sensations. Thirst that shriveled my mouth and split the corners to sting with the salt of dried sweat. A dull, aching hunger that lembas could never sate, gnawing dark in my belly and weak in my limbs. The Ring.
The Ring still bedevils me. Phantom pain, I heard a healer whisper. She was speaking of my hand, of the strange itching I feel in the empty space, but it is not that phantom which haunts me. I still dream that I can feel the gentle brushing of the chain on the back of my neck, the pressure of the Ring against my chest lovingly choking away my breath, the taste of its desire filling my mouth as sweet and bitter as blood. Twice now, I have reached for it, tried to close it in my hand, feel the perfect smoothness of it, the living warmth of the gold. Twice my hand has closed on nothing but my own bare flesh.
The Ring is gone now, burnt with that pitiful Gollum-creature in the fires that forged it. Gone with my finger. Yet both still pain me. Phantom pain.
I wonder if it will ever fade. I doubt it. You are fortunate, Sam. You will heal. We will go back to the Shire, and come Autumn, you will be puttering around the gardens outside Bag End, as round and rosy-cheeked and beautiful as if you had never set foot outside Hobbiton.
Your soul will sleep easy. Your Master is safe. The Ring is destroyed. You are home again. There is nothing to trouble you. Nothing of you has been taken. Nothing of your body. Nothing of your spirit. How I envy you that. How I envy you, and how I hate you.
Because while you till your earth and smoke your pipe, I will suffer, Sam. I will suffer every long day of my life, every time that empty space on my hand cries out to the empty space in my soul. Every time the phantom pain throbs.
You cared for me, Sam, because that's what Gamgees do, but did you ever think, even for a moment, that sometimes the dearest act of caring could have nothing at all to do with food or water or shelter? I have seen you cut away the spent blooms of flowers, pull up the weakest seedlings to make room for the strongest to grow. You know that death has its place.
Would it have been so difficult to just let me go, Sam? Just let me lie there one night and neglect to awaken me for those few drops of bitter water? I could have slipped away peacefully, never knowing what had happened, and you could have taken the Ring those last few miles. It wouldn't have burdened you so badly, Sam. You hadn't carried it for months upon years. It hadn't slipped its hot fingers into the secret corners of your mind.
If you had wanted to care for me truly, you could have spared me this. Spared me seeing you this way. Spared me the grief of losing that vicious little bauble. Spared me the phantom pain. But I can't tell you that, Sam.
Your heart was so kind, even in its error, that I can't bear to tell you these things, can't bear to take away what innocence this dark world has left you.
I never told you the turtle was dead, Sam, and I'll never tell you that I am.
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