Disclaimer: Hobbits are my inspiration, not my property. The characters and themes discussed in this work were created by the esteemed Prof. Tolkien and are being used with the deepest respect and love.

Dedication: To all of the great hobbit writers who have inspired this work, though they did not know they were doing so and to Shirebound in particular, I told you your encouragement was deeply appreciated;-).

A/N: The song included in this story is taken directly from the text.

Above All Shadows

‘It’s a real dead end, Samwise Gamgee.’ The thought mocked him as he sat on a step, high up in that awful tower. ‘You’ve gone and truly lost him, this time. There’s nothin’ for it.’ Sam felt as if he should be crying now that all his hopes had been dashed, his master was gone and all he could see before him was the long, lonely road to the Mountain of Fire. Yet, the tears would not fall. He felt, suddenly, as if his head were too heavy to hold up straight and so he let it drop wearily into his stained and dirty hands.

Unbidden, fearsome images rose before him. He could see in his mind’s eye his dear master being tormented by cruel orcs and even crueler creatures of which he had no ken; he saw once again the desolation of the Shire which had been shown to him in the Mirror of Galadriel and he felt with certainty that his worst visions and nightmares would now come to pass. Above all, and woven throughout the threads of his waking nightmares, he saw himself, small and alone, stumbling across the black land of Mordor, the unbearable weight of the Ring around his neck and only the hope of death in his heart.

“Oh you fool.” Sam whispered in despair, the sound of unshed tears thick in his voice.

He could feel the minutes toll by as he sat there, incapable of movement. His good hobbit-sense was telling him to get up, to move on, that the journey would be long and it would be best to get started quickly, before any orcs returned. Yet, whether from some deep-buried hope or the bone-tired weariness that racked his mind and body, he could not move and so there he remained, a bowed, lonely figure frozen on a step in the Tower of Cirith Ungol.

Then, as if by some gift of the Lady, his visions scattered away, and in their place he could hear soft music and see the bright gardens he had left behind. He could see his mother as she had looked when he was very small and he could hear the lullaby she always sang to him for comfort when he came running to her with his childhood fears. Without meaning to, he found himself quietly echoing the words, his own voice accompanying the memory of comfort and peace. Brokenly he sang on as his memories moved on from childhood songs to walking songs he had learned sitting in the cozy parlor at Bag End, or songs of home that he and his Gaffer would hum back and forth to each other as they worked kneeling in the gardens they made blossom.

With every whispered note his voice grew stronger, with every memory his mind cleared and a new strength came into him, until he was standing in place of sitting. He could feel something growing inside of him, something that he had only glimpsed at before but now swelled up, freeing his voice and his mind from the Shadow that threatened to overcome him. And so, he sang.

In western lands beneath the Sun
the flowers may rise in Spring,
the trees may bud, the waters run,
the merry finches sing.
Or there maybe ‘tis cloudless night
and swaying beeches bear
the Elven-stars as jewels white
amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey’s end I lie
in darkness buried deep,
beyond all towers strong and high,
beyond all mountains steep,
above all shadows rides the Sun
and Stars for ever dwell;
I will not say the Day is done,
nor bid the Stars farewell.

Never before in his life had Sam heard those words or sung that tune, and yet they came to him now as if he had always known them. This song was his heart’s own response to the Shadow before him and the Shadow that had almost pulled him under. He felt his blood begin to run hot and his determination harden as he sang those words as a challenge, and a promise, to all that lay around him. He gathered his breath and sang on past the ending, his heart full and his courage renewed. Suddenly he stopped as a new joy and hope sprang into his heart. His throat stopping and tears came unbidden to his eyes.

Sam turned and crouched low as footsteps thundered through the stairway, yet his determination was steady and his hope did not wane. He had heard the dim answer to his song, he had heard Mister Frodo, and his Sam would come for him yet.

“His voice sounded thin and quavering in the cold dark tower: the voice of a forlorn and weary hobbit that no listening orc could possibly mistake for the clear song of an Elven-lord. He murmured old childish tunes out of the Shire, and snatches of Mr. Bilbo’s rhymes that came into his mind like fleeting glimpses of the country of his home. And then suddenly new strength rose in him, and his voice rang out, while words of his own came unbidden to fit the simple tune.” The Tower of Cirith Ungol, The Lord of the Rings pp. 887-888