I’m tired, he would tell himself, early, early in the mornings.  He would lie in bed, wait for the sun to rise and think of opening the curtains to see if his star was still there.  But he never did.  The thought of his eyes meeting only darkness was too daunting, too much like the memories.  Memories…he had gone farther than any of the Fellowship.

Sometimes, as he waited for the dawn, Sam could see it all, feel it all again.   Frodo had been lucky in the end; he had forgotten almost everything past parting with Faramir.  Of course, Frodo had been with him in body, but Sam knew the truth—he had been alone in Mordor.  Alone and afraid, terribly, terribly afraid.  He remembered watching his master changing, seeing his cheeks hollowing and his eyes burning in the tower…and in the mountain.  All that was in Frodo’s book, of course.  And, Sam supposed, in the tales told in Gondor and Rohan and everywhere else by now.  

But…he had lived so much more.  More than he told the remnants of the Fellowship, more than was written in the book, more, more, more.  That was why he couldn’t sleep, why he froze in place, the skin on his arms and legs going cold with sweat whenever a cloud passed over the sun, why he could barely hear over the sea roaring in his ears whenever the leaves began to change.  No one, not even his dear Rosie, and certainly not Merry or Pippin, suspected he went to the Havens again and again to hear the sea. 

They didn’t know and Sam would never tell.  Frodo’s book would never hold the worst details—Sam choking on grit and ash till he vomited blood and bile; the spider’s black ichor soaking his cut hands and making them sting so badly he could barely move them without crying out; watching Frodo nibble on lembas and forcing himself to turn away, memories of Gollum’s slavering filling his head.  The ring’s voice, huge and mocking, laughing when he stumbled, or worse, mimicking Strider, Gandalf, and even Frodo, and cursing him till he wept with self-hatred and misery. 

But sometimes, in those mornings he lay in his soft bed and waited for the sun to rise, Sam remembered the worst thing of all.  Frodo’s voice, cracked and almost unrecognizable, whispering in the tent that first waking night in Ithilien,

“Sam, I wish…”

He knew what his master wanted.  It was his own desire, the one no one must suspect.  The longing that everything had ended there, on the fiery slope of that cursed place, that they had not been rescued and they had died together.  After all, the quest had been finished, why not?  Why not peace at last? 

Tears trickled from Sam’s tightly closed eyelids.  He was tired; why could he not rest?  He wished the sun would rise.  He could always pretend during the day and in the evenings, in front of his beloved children and Rosie.  Pretend he didn’t hear the waves strike the shore or the gulls cry.  The sea called, but he could not answer.  Not yet. 

“I cannot leave them,” he whispered.  And far away, the ghost-voice of the sea rose and fell, calling endlessly, as it would for over sixty years. 

He never admitted it.  Never gave anyone a reason to suspect that he heard it, had, in fact, heard it since before he was in his tweens.  Sam had noticed the voice of the ring the first time when he was just a lad of ten years.  A younger Bilbo and Frodo would call him into the cool, dim passages of BagEnd on hot summer days and tell him stories that had pleasant endings and always involved elves.  It was on one of those days, some of the best in his life, that the ring somehow slipped its chain.  He would never forget it, lying beneath the table, just right for a young hobbit to spot.  A young, inquisitive hobbit like himself.  Sam remembered slithering out of his chair and kneeling on the chilly stone tiles, considering the bright gold ring.  Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Sam had become uneasily aware of how silent BagEnd was.  Frodo and Bilbo had been bustling about in the kitchen moments before…yet, now he could hear nothing but the rapid beating of his own heart.  Sam bit his lip; he wished he hadn’t seen it.  A silly wish, he thought, after all, it was only a harmless ring.  And, later, long after the quest had been over, Sam wondered if the ring had wanted him to handle it.  Perhaps it had glimpsed its fate, and desired to have a hold on him.

However, even as only a lad and entirely unaware of evil, he hadn’t wanted to touch it, thinking vaguely that he ought to call for Mr. Bilbo or Frodo, or, better yet, leave it lying there.  In fact, he might have done one of those things, and escaped none the wiser, if the cursed thing had not called his name. 

“Samwise…Samwise…Sam”

Little Sam had gasped and jerked back his hand, which had been hovering over the ring of its own accord.  He looked fearfully from the betraying appendage, back to the innocently gleaming gold band.  His first, childish thoughts were of ghosts, and Sam had whipped his head around, trying to look in all directions at once.  His eyes were wide, but they widened still further as the voice came again, somehow both commanding and supplicating at the same time,

“Samwise…Sam…”

He had stared at it, the rich, yellow gold filling his vision and stirring his blood.  Sam had whimpered then, fear rushing up his body, as he recoiled instinctively.  For a single, horrifying moment the ring seemed to charge towards him and Sam stifled a scream.  Backpedaling fiercely, he finally got the courage to turn his back on it at the doorway, and he had run out into the bright sun of the garden, gasping and shaking.  He had smiled (a trifle shakily) at the alarmed Gaffer and said he had only wanted to come help him.   

            Sam remembered it so clearly, now, standing at the highest wall in Minas Tirith, looking east, over the miles and years that separated the hobbit he was from the hobbit he had become.  It had been over forty years ago when he’d first saw the ring.  He’d never told anyone that he had heard it then…or that he could still hear it right now.  Sometimes he wondered it that was one of the reasons Frodo had left.  If he had heard the ring whispering in the dead of night, its voice cold and cruel, telling him he would fail, and all his loved ones would die.  He had heard it often enough during the quest.  

            Sam gripped the hard, rough stone of the ledge with his hands.  Closing his eyes against the wind, he swallowed hard; Lady, why could he still hear it? 

            “Sam?”

            Sam jumped, eyes flying open as he whirled to face the voice, slamming his back painfully against the stone.  It was only Rosie, but his heart was racing.  She stood a sensible fifteen feet from the barrier, the natural hobbit fear of heights keeping her away.  She looked nervously at him until Sam realized his hand was clenching Sting’s handle so tightly his knuckles shone white.

            “Are you all right, Sam?”

            He looked away, focusing on the long green of Pelennor until he felt he could look at Rosie and lie to her. 

            “I’m fine, m’dear.” Sam smiled and gestured towards the open expanse directly in front of him, “Come and see?” all the while knowing she wouldn’t. 

            Just as he had thought, Rosie took a quick step backwards, her hands coming up to cup her elbows.

            “How can you stand so near, Sam?  Aren’t you afraid?”

            In her voice he heard over a thousand years of hobbit sense.  Funny, he couldn’t claim it any longer.  His had slipped from him, had been chased, starved and bled away. 

            “Sam?  Are you coming?  King Elessar sent me to see if you were ready to see it yet.”

            He flinched and turned to look back at Pelennor.  They had made a mural in his honor, or he supposed it was in his honor, showing his heroic battle with Shelob.  Sam smiled to himself.  He hadn’t felt heroic. 

            “I’ll be there in a moment, Rosie.” He stood still, refusing to turn, until he heard the soft sound of her feet moving away. 

            “I never wanted this.” He muttered.  It came to me, he thought and laughed bitterly.  Yes, the ring and the burden had come to Frodo, but he was the one left to deal with it. 

            Sam turned his head slowly to the east, the chill wind blowing back his curly hair as though to better see the long, jagged scar across his brow.  He whistled softly, and waited.  It wasn’t a very long; the ring was a jealous master and he was closer than he had been in years.

            “Samwise…Sam, come to me…”

            He gazed across the land, still grey, but not empty.  It wasn’t so far any longer.  The roads were repaired; the men of the West had done well.  It was time to finish it.  Sam sighed. 

“All right, then.”