Chapter 3: Comfort

That evening Sam returned to Frodo's room and sat on the bed for a long while, thinking of all the joys and sorrows they had shared. He thought of the day they had first met, when Frodo had arrived at Bag End with a terrible cold, of how they had laughed and talked, of how Frodo had shone with vivacity and happiness, his cold forgotten. The gardener thought of all the adventures they had had in childhood: long walks and camping trips with just Frodo and himself, and sometimes Merry and Pippin or even Bilbo.

He thought of the time after Bilbo had left that he had accompanied Frodo on one of his many wanderings, and the elder hobbit had fallen from a tree and broken his ankle. Sam had carried him home, amid much protesting. A healer could not be found as it was the time of the Free Fair, and Sam had had to set the ankle. Frodo had put his fist in his mouth to stifle the cries that he knew were inevitable as Sam set and splinted the broken bones, terrified that he might do something wrong and make it worse. But in the end it had been done, and then Sam had hugged his friend and cried. He couldn’t bear to see Frodo in pain, but to be the cause of it was too much. Frodo had held him and told him bravely that it hadn’t hurt so badly, that it was all right, and for the next six weeks Sam had made Bag End his home, doing whatever needed to be done so that Frodo need not stir.

Sam sighed heavily and rose to his feet, feeling as if he were made of lead. He drew a sleeve across his red, swollen, aching eyes. He felt as if he had done nothing but weep all day. With an effort he checked his tears and made for the kitchen. He needed to do something, find some task that would take his mind off the grief. He found Rose busily washing the supper dishes.

“May I, love?” he asked softly, laying a hand on his wife’s shoulder.

She turned to him with one of her beautiful smiles and handed him the dish cloth. “You wash and rinse, I’ll wipe and put them away.”

For a long while they worked side by side in companionable silence, listening to Elanor’s soft, drowsy cooing from her blanket on the floor near them. Then Rosie began to hum an old Shire love song, and presently Sam joined in, singing the words:

“If I could climb the sky so blue,

My lassie, my lassie,

I’d fetch the sun to give to you,

My lass, my dearest darling.”

Rose replied,

“What need have we for sun so bright,

My laddie, my laddie,

When our love outshines its light,

My lad, my dearest darling?”

Then Sam sang again:

“If I could swim the deepest sea,

My lassie, my lassie,

I’d fetch a dozen pearls for thee,

My lass, my dearest darling.”

Rose replied, a smile growing on her face:

“What need have we for wealth of gems,

My laddie, my laddie,

When love surpasses all of them,

My lad, my dearest darling?”

Sam was smiling as well by now, and looked lovingly at his wife as he replied:

“Then what gift shall I offer you,

My lassie, my lassie?

Not sun or gems from depths of blue,

My lass, my dearest darling?”

“Neither’d be so sweet to me,” Rose replied,

“My laddie, my laddie,

As your love will ever be,

My lad, my dearest darling.”

The song ended, and acting on a sudden impulse, Sam turned and kissed Rosie’s cheek. In that moment he was happy, and he knew that he could go on.

When the dishes were done, Rose collected Elanor, and the little family retired to the parlour. Rose settled Elanor and herself into the rocking chair, and Sam sat across from her. But his eyes kept straying to the empty, overstuffed armchair beside him. Frodo had always sat there in the evenings and read aloud to them all. The book he had been reading on that last night still lay on the table, and the blanket which he had wrapped about himself was still draped over the back of the chair. At last Sam could bear it no longer. He rose and began to pace, saying in a tone akin to despair, “Oh, it’s haunting, it is!”

Rose, with Elanor in one arm, went to him and put her arm about his shoulders. “Come, dearest. You sit here and rock Ellie. I’ve one more thing to do in the kitchen.”

Sam willingly obliged, and Rose bustled off, humming to herself. She stoked the fire and put the kettle on. When the water began to boil she steeped the last of the chamomile tea, making a mental note to buy more when she was next at market.

 Sam’s voice drifted to her ears, and she caught the words he sang:

“Sleep now

And know that I love you

Let aside your cares

I will protect you…”

Tears came unbidden to Rose’s eyes. That had been Mr. Frodo’s favourite lullaby. How often had she listened from a distance while Sam sang it over and over during those long nights? She had even sung it herself sometimes, when Sam was away and Mr. Frodo’s nightmares were worse than usual. Get a hold of yourself, Rosie! she told herself sternly. He needs you to be strong now. You might be sad, but you haven’t lost half what he has; you know that! So stop your crying and pour that tea.

Sam sang until Elanor’s eyes closed and she lay quiet and still in his arms. He let his voice drop to a low hum and finally fall silent as he gazed down at her, simply watching her sleep and rejoicing in her. She was so innocent, so pure, so beautiful-unmarred by care and sorrow…and she was his, his sweet Star-flower, as Frodo had often called her. He did not notice that Rose stood before him with a cup of tea until she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Sam, drink this,” she said, offering the steaming tea.

He recognized the smell of it instantly, took the cup with a murmured “thank you, dear” and a ghost of a smile and sipped at its contents. Rose smiled at him, and then took Elanor from his arms and carried her away to tuck her into bed.

A short time later Sam and Rosie retired. Sam felt drained, just as he had every night since Frodo’s departure. He remembered feeling just so after his mum’s death. The feeling had eventually gone away, but now he wondered if it ever would. But he said nothing of this to Rosie and soon fell asleep, listening to her breathing and trying to hold onto the feeling of peace he had known earlier that evening.

Rosie lay awake for a long while that night, watching over Sam as he slept, now and again smoothing his brow when it furrowed in some discomfort at which she could only guess. Oh, dearest, she thought, you’ve gone through so much. I wish I knew how to spare you this. It makes my heart ache to see yours so broken. I’d like to say I understand, but I don’t really. I can only suppose you feel as I would if Jolly died…like you’ve lost part of your soul; and I know that’s how it is. I see it in your eyes. I miss him too, Sam, and I wish with all my heart he hadn’t gone. Bag End seems so empty without him. But keep up your heart, love. You’ve still got Ellie and me, and we’re not going nowhere.

She remembered one of the last nights Frodo had spent in the Shire. Her husband had sat bolt upright in bed, wrapped in some terrible dream...

“Frodo!” Sam called out. “Frodo, watch out!”

Rose startled awake to see her husband scramble out of bed and run down the hall, still crying out. “Frodo! Frodo!”

Frodo sat up abruptly in his bed as Sam rushed into his room. “The Riders, Frodo, the Riders!”

Still sleep-mazed, Frodo looked at his dearest friend and fear gripped him. He looked around, drawn into Sam’s dream, afraid he would see wraiths reaching out for him. His shoulder ached in sympathy and he had to concentrate hard on remembering that he was in his own bed and the Riders were gone.

He reached out for Sam and took him into his arms. The gardener clutched at him, looking at him blindly. Frodo winced to see the terror he saw by the moonlight shining through the window. “I’ve got to get you out of here!” the younger hobbit cried. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

Frodo held onto his beloved guardian tighter and resisted Sam’s pull to get him out of bed. “No, my Sam,” he said softly. “You are having a dream, just a bad dream. The Riders are gone. Listen to my voice, dearest. It’s all right now. It’s all right. We’re safe. We’re home. You got me there.”

Rose watched from the threshold as Frodo continued to murmur comforts and reassurances, as he stroked Sam’s curls and rocked him gently while holding him tight. It took a long time for Sam to calm and each moment it did broke Rose’s heart a little more that her husband was still not recovered himself from all the traumas he and Mr. Frodo had endured. Tears streaked down her cheeks barely noticed as she watched Sam finally wake, then fall back asleep in Frodo’s arms.

The elder hobbit raised his eyes to her and Rose nearly gasped at the haunted, sorrowful look there. She wondered anew what had happened to her love and her friend. She had imagined many terrible things, but she knew that she would never have enough imagination to come close to the reality that her Sam and his Mr. Frodo had endured. She didn’t ask anymore what had happened. She knew they would not tell her, but she saw enough in their eyes.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” Frodo said quietly. He looked down at Sam. “He shouldn’t still be burdened with these trials. He shouldn’t have been burdened at all.”

“He wouldn’t have been parted from you, Mr. Frodo,” Rose said just as softly.

Frodo placed a grateful kiss on his beloved guardian’s head. “I know, and Middle-earth will always be grateful for that, and so will I, but I will grieve also. We had no idea what was to come, Rose, no idea.”

Rose held her breath. Frodo had spoken in such a haunted voice. She wondered if she would hear something of their terrible journey. It frightened her, but she also very much wanted to hear, to help share the burden.

“It became so dark,” the Ring-bearer continued, almost to himself, as he continued to look down at Sam, “so very dark. He was my light in those places but I couldn’t be his. He had to be his own and mine. Even now he has to be. I had no idea then how much that took from him, how much it’s still taking. We kept waiting for the dawn, but it was so long in coming. For me, it never came. But now, I think I am beginning to see it, on the horizon, rising in the West, beyond the Sea.”

He kissed his Sam’s head again softly and held him tighter. Rose didn’t think he was even aware of her anymore. “Forgive me,” he murmured into those dear curls, then he closed his eyes and tried to sleep once more.

Rose remembered leaving the room that night in tears. It was a long time before she had slept again. But in the morning, Sam was his normal cheerful self, though his eyes were a little more haunted and at the same time more tender as he watched his brother. Frodo had watched him as well with a fond smile. To Rose, it had seemed as though the master of Bag End was looking at his friend to store each beloved feature into his memory, but she tried to tell herself that was only her imagination. Then Frodo had looked at her and nodded and she had nodded back in silent understanding and then she knew with sickening certainty her worst fears were coming true. She had barely been able to keep back her tears as she set the breakfast table with Frodo’s help, but even as her heart had broke for her friend and even more for her Sam, she knew some peace and happiness also that maybe her dear friend would be healed. That hope had given them both the strength to smile for Sam and enjoy the breakfast together, one of the last they’d share.

Rose fell asleep again with one arm around her husband, her head buried in his chest to listen to his heart.

Sam was remembering Frodo also, but his dreams were not the same. He stood in the study doorway, gazing in at the untidy room. Papers and books lay everywhere. Then his eyes fell upon the desk. To his great surprise, Frodo sat there. But how could that be? Frodo had gone West with Mr. Bilbo and the Elves. Was it a dream? Oh well, if it was, he didn't want it to end. Then he noticed what Frodo was doing.

The stationery box was open, and Frodo was writing furiously on one of the beautiful papers. His face was pale save for the spots of colour in his cheeks. At last he stopped writing and held the pen in mid air, breathing hard. His other hand rested on the desk, and a drop of ink dripped onto it. He began drawing the pen over his wrist again and again, letting the ink cover his hand. His lips moved, but no words came out.

Sam stepped forward and laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder. “Oh, my dear, please don't,” he said softly. “Here, give me your wrist.” He took out a handkerchief and tried to wipe away the ink that stained Frodo's fair flesh.

But the quill came down again, and as it touched Frodo's wrist, it changed shape and to Sam’s horror, became a small, but sharp, knife. It cut deep, and the black of the ink changed to red.

“Mr. Frodo, no!” the gardener shouted. “Stop! Please stop! You can't do this to yourself!”

“It’s too late, Sam. I can't go on.” Frodo's voice was strained and seemed to come from far away.

“Yes, you can, dear. Please, please stop!” Sam begged. “I'll help you. I'll love you always. Only please don't do this! Please stop, pleeease!”

Frodo suddenly sat as still as a stone. Then his face turned an alarming grey, and he first trembled and then slumped forward. Everything began to fade, as if Sam was being carried slowly away on the breath of a wind. “I’m sorry, my Sam. Good-bye," came Frodo's clear but sorrowful voice. And then he and the study were gone.

“No, no, no! Mr. Frodo, no! Please come back!” Sam sobbed. “Please don’t go!”

And then arms were around him and he heard a gentle voice from far away:“Sam, Sam dearest, wake up. Wake up, darling. It’s only a bad dream. It’s all right. Wake up, love.”

It was Rosie’s voice. He felt himself held to her shoulder and being gently rocked. He suddenly threw his arms around her, still sobbing and unable to stop, try as he might. “Oh, Rosie,” he managed to say through his tears. “Oh, Rosie…it was so…horrible!”

“Shhhh, Shhhh, there, me dear. It’s all right now. It’s all right.” She held him more tightly, rocking him and humming softly until the sobs quieted and the room was still. “Would you like to tell me about it, my Sam?” she whispered presently. “It may help.”

Frodo had never told; he had kept the darkness locked away inside him, had tried to hide it from all eyes. And that was what had eventually driven him from Middle-earth. It had sought to claim him, and in the end had taken him from those who loved him best. Sam would not make that same mistake. “Yes,” he said at length. “I must.”

Then he told her everything-all about the letters, Frodo’s darkness, self-loathing, and shame, the ink stains on his wrist, and finally the dream. “And then everything faded out and I woke up,” he said in conclusion. “Oh, Rosie! The look in his eyes…he looked…wild…mad…like…”

He began to sob again, and Rose held him, murmuring reassurances. “Oh, Sam, that was horrible. But it was just a dream. It didn’t happen and it won’t happen. Why, Mr. Frodo’s with the Elves now, and Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Gandalf and all. And if he could see you now, I’ll warrant he’d tell you he’s all right and you mustn’t fret so. That would be like him, wouldn’t it?”

But Sam could not reply, for he suddenly felt as if his heart’s brother could see him. And again he heard that beloved voice: Oh, my Sam, I’m so sorry. Don’t weep so. It was but a terrible dream. I’m all right. I am beginning to heal. Listen to Rosie, and don’t be frightened any more.

Rose saw the change in her husband’s face and waited quietly until the distant look passed. Sam gave a deep, shuddering sigh and nodded. “Yes, Rosie-lass, that is just like our Mr. Frodo.”

Rose smiled bravely at him and lay down, pulling him close to her so that his head rested over her heart. “There,” she said. “Are you comfortable?”

“Couldn’t be more so,” he murmured, feeling suddenly exhausted.

“Sleep then, dear.”

He returned her embrace, and she began softly stroking his curls and singing the lullaby he had sung to Elanor that evening:

“Sleep now

And know that I love you…”

Sam closed his eyes and let Rosie’s sweet voice and the gentle words of the song soothe his fears. The melody flowed over and under and around him like a vast ocean of love, carrying him slowly and sweetly into blissful, dreamless sleep.

Rosie gradually stopped singing and gazed tenderly into Sam’s sleeping face, still tear-streaked but peaceful. She kissed away the mark of a tear on his cheek and brushed his curls one last time before her hand came to rest, burying itself in them. “Sleep well, dear heart,” she whispered.