Sam: Legends

“My leg is starting to cramp up,” Tom complains and shifts his weight to his other leg. The movement causes him to pop up over the top of the shrub that he, Sam and Robin are hiding behind.

“Shhh! They’ll hear you!” Sam warns and gently tugs on his friend’s sleeve, urging him back into hiding. They are crouched in the middle of the Woody End, with tall birch trees all around, a shallow embankment in front of them leading up to the road lined with shrubs.

“They got to be here first to be hearing me. They ain’t coming,” Tom says.

“Just give it more time. They’ll come.”

“We’ve given them all morning,” Robin says. He shifts next to Tom, moving from squatting to sitting tailor-style. He peeks through the shrubbery with one hand and picks the berries with his other. He plops the plump juicy berries into his mouth and munches thoughtfully. “Still, it couldn’t hurt none to wait longer. They do say as there are elves living in these woods. We’re bound to see one sooner or later.”

“Really? They say that, do they. And who are ‘they’ and how do ‘they’ know?” Tom asks, copying Robin by sitting tailor-style and leaning forward to keep low.

“They’d be Mr. Bilbo and Master Frodo, and they know because they talk to the elves at times and they’ve seen them down here afore,” Sam says.

“Maybe they only come through at night,” Robin suggests, picking more berries. He offers some to Tom and Sam.

“What do you reckon elves look like?” Tom asks, taking some berries to munch on while they wait. “Mayhap we’ve seen one but didn’t know it because we don’t know what they look like and all.”

Sam shakes his head, both to the berries and to Tom’s theory. “No, ‘tisn’t possible. By all accounts, there’s no mistaking an elf. They’re grand and fair, they are, and they’re as tall as three hobbits standing one atop the other.”

“Why would hobbits stand on each other?” Tom asks.

“To be as tall as an elf,” Robin replies.

Tom looks about the woods where they’re hiding and waiting, measuring the trees with his eyes, and frowns. “Well, if they’re as tall as all that, mayhap these trees just through here are too short for them. They’d have to bend over to walk, and I don’t reckon why anyone’d do that if they don’t got to.”

“Have to,” Sam corrects without thinking and Tom ignores him easily. He and Robin ponder Tom’s point and study the trees as if for the first time. Sam gets up and leaves their hiding spot and stands in front of a slim white birch, looking up at it and trying to measure the height of the lowest branches with his eyes. “You think they’re too short?”

“Could be,” Tom says as he and Robin join their friend.

“Well, you know how to find out for certain?” Robin says, grinning impishly. “Stand on top of each other. There’s three of us here.”

“I ain’t standing on no one’s shoulders,” Tom says with a shiver. The very thought of being even twice as tall as he should be left him dizzy and cold.

“No need for that,” Sam says, squeezing Tom’s shoulder briefly. “Look for branches that equal your height. We’ll tie them together with somewhat and then lean them up against the bole.”

Tom and Robin agree to this plan and they split up to look for branches. Before they are too far spread out, Tom turns around and calls to the other two, “Don’t get too far off now. It’s getting late and if we return home after dark again, Pa’ll put me to mucking out the stables for a month – alone.”

Sam nods and follows a slight slope down a shallow hill, searching the ground for branches as he goes, and soon he can no longer hear or see his friends anywhere. This does not concern him though. He knows that they will be there when he gets back. He continues on with silent stealth and finds several branches of various sizes. The longer ones he grabs up and stands in front of him, but none of them come higher than his torso. He searches for what seems like an hour or more, and finally finds one that is close enough to his height to take back. He frowns as he slings it across his shoulders and carries it like a yoke, thinking of how they will tie the branches together once they all return to the tree. He supposes they can use handkerchiefs to do the job, assuming that Tom or Robin have any with them.

“Shoulda brought rope,” he mutters to himself.

No sooner do the words leave his mouth than a rope drops down like a vine from the tree beside him. Sam stares at it in wonder for several long minutes, blinks at it to see if it will disappear or drop fully to the ground. It continues to hang there and after a while, the rope jiggles as if someone or something is shaking it back and forth from its source in the tree.

Sam looks up into the boughs, and there to his astonishment, hiding up high in the tree, is an elf maiden. Sam’s breath catches and he stands rooted to his spot, afraid to move for scaring the elf away, afraid to blink for finding it all an illusion. He looks up into the elf maiden’s fair face, aged with wisdom, young with vigor and shining with a luminous pale light from within. Her long dark hair, crowned by golden flowers, slips from behind her back to hang loose about her face, and her grey eyes sparkle as stars in the night sky. If he were a poet, maybe he could think of words to describe her beauty and grace, but the best he can come up with is that she reminds him of a pale spring morning after a light shower, dew sprinkled upon the green and the promising smell of new things growing.

He watches entranced as the maiden raises one finger to her ruby lips, gesturing for Sam to be silent, as if Sam can even think enough to make a sound if he wanted to. Realizing this, she smiles kindly and beckons Sam forward with a wave of her slender hand. Sam steps forward, his branch fallen to the ground and forgotten. He hardly feels the ground beneath his feet and he stops when he stands beside the rope, never taking his eyes off the maiden, somehow managing not to trip over himself like the ninny he is.

The elf maiden’s smile widens and she shakes her end of the rope. Take it, the motion says. Sam glances at the rope dubiously, then casts about the forest for sign of his friends. He still cannot see or hear them anywhere, and the golden sunlight that streams down through the boughs of the trees seems frozen by enchantment, just as he is.

The rope shakes again and Sam turns to examine it: silky grey, soft and supple in his hand, yet strong, somehow he understands how strong it is. He looks up at the maiden, who gestures at the rope and grabs hold of it, twisting it around her free hand. Then she frees her hand again and gestures for Sam to do as she just demonstrated. Take it, is the unspoken request. Sam gulps and tries to measure the height of the branch she is sitting upon with his eyes. It is easily more than three hobbits, and possible even more than six. She smiles again, a smile more brilliant than the sun and moon together, and Sam nods: I’ll come.

Sam takes the rope again, still marveling at the almost liquid smooth feel of it, like softened cream running as silk over his hands. He takes a deep breath to cover the pounding of blood in his ears and the rapidness of his pulse, wraps the rope around his hands and grips the rope tightly against the shaking of his body. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath, waiting for the ground to fall away. What he feels instead is a gentle touch upon his shoulder and when he opens his eyes, he cannot help gasping again.

Though he has not moved an inch that he can tell, he finds himself no longer in the Woody End. He turns full circle, taking in with one slow glance the hill upon which he stands. The grass is greener than any he’s ever seen before, sweet grass growing wild and tall, up to his knees, and all along the westward slope to a valley below is a blanket of buttercups, golden and filling the air with the sweetest of nectars. Just behind them are the broken bones of an ancient watchtower, clovers overgrowing the remnants of the shattered foundation. Far off to the east are trees as old as the earth itself and birds of every sort fly in and about the treetops, singing merrily.

Sam smiles at it all, his eyes drinking in the glory that surrounds them, and he rests his hand upon the chalky and crumbled remains of the watchtower’s outer wall. “Where are we?” he asks the elf maiden and looks up at her fair face, seeing her clearly for the first time. From a distance, she had been luminous. Now, she is beyond description and Sam finds he wants to cry at the sight of her. Who is he, to look upon such a vision?

She smiles and gestures to their surroundings. She speaks in the language of her people, her voice silky and melodious and full of radiance. Sam shakes his head. “I don’t understand,” he says.

She considers him for a few moments, her eyes searching but not invasive. Then she smiles again and holds out her hand. Sam takes it with utmost gentleness, either from fear of holding on too fast and hurting her, or fear of besmirching her with his dirt-encrusted skin. As they head down the hill and through the buttercups, she gestures toward the valley and says, “Beleriand.”

“Beleriand?” Sam repeats in wonder. “But that was all destroyed. Where in Beleriand are we?”

The maiden does not attempt to understand or answer this. He follows closely at her side, running to keep pace as she glides along the knoll. As they reach the bottom of the hill, the valley stretches out before them, enfolded between two tall hills that block out the sun so that nothing grows there. The hillsides are littered with rocks and boulders, the ground nothing more than grey sand and loose rock chips. The valley is long and after a time, Sam can no longer even see the entrance between the hillsides, the grassy knoll they came down is nothing more than a distant orange glow on the horizon. Sam glances up at the elf maiden, wondering if perhaps he should attempt to ask where they are going and when they will get there, but he cannot begin to think of a way to make himself understood. He knows only a small scattering of Sindarin, none of which will help him here.

The valley floor begins to climb, so gradually that Sam doesn’t even notice the incline until he is huffing for breath and rest. The maiden slows her pace, just as a soft buzz begins to fill Sam’s ears. The buzzing comes from up ahead, at the top of the incline toward which they are heading. Sam glances up at his guide uncertainly, but she does not look down and continues forward without concern, slowing only for his comfort. Sam looks behind them, down the slope to the lower valley, then turns face forward as they reach the upper level and the source of the buzzing comes into view. Sam stops, not even able to gasp this time, his breath is stolen right from him at the sight that greets him there.

The buzzing stops and the multitude gathered in the upper valley turn as one to regard him. Sam steps back and the maiden tightens her grip on his hand, gentle but strong. She looks down at him and motions towards the others. “Mellon,” she says and Sam finds himself corrected – one word at least has come in useful. Friends.

Sam looks back at the elves, men and women gathered there, too many to count. For several minutes he simply stands there, taking in the long, endless stretch of the upper valley, packed with noble and formidable figures out of legends and myths, come to life from all those stories he had listened to as a lad while sitting upon the parlor floor at Mr. Bilbo’s feet.

The men and women are shorter than the elves and rougher about the edges, their stature and manner more brute and hardy but no less noble or imposing. There are simple folk and peasants, as well as warriors and nobles. Most of the elves wear headdresses in their long and flowing hair, their raiment simple and elegant, free-flowing yet heavy enough to keep out all weather. The men and women wear more rustic and worn material, and their faces show their years and worries openly.

“Who are they?” Sam asks. His guide is regarding the crowd with a wistful longing, a single tear sitting unshed in her eyes as she searches the crowd. She squeezes his hand and now it is Sam who offers the support, reaching up with his free hand to pat her arm. He knows not why she is sad, but it breaks his heart to see her so. “There, there,” he says, though he knows she cannot understand him. “No need for tears. These are your folk here, or some of them are? They’re right glad to see you, I’m sure. At any rate, I’m right glad you’re here, keeping me on my feet. I’d likely collapse otherwise. This is somewhat that I’ve always dreamt of seeing one day. It’s overwhelming coming all at once, and unlooked for.”

A smile graces her lips and to his relief, her grief lifts a bit and she takes him forward into the crowd. She leads him slowly through the multitude, and Sam looks up in amazement at all the stern and hardened faces looking back at him with what can only be described as respect. As they pass through the crowd, the men and women bow and curtsy, and the elves nod their heads low. Most of them go by unnamed, but occasionally the maiden will stop before someone and introduce them. Some of the names he knows, some he does not, but all of them he understands to be great warriors or leaders, men and elves of unquenchable valor and strength, and they each bow before him as though he is the one worthy of praise and not themselves. Turin, Tuor, Gil-Galad, Fingolfin, Finarfin, Finrod, Gwindor, Angrod.

The names go on and on, until Sam becomes so overwhelmed his head begins to whirl. At length they come to a tall elf of silver hair and grand stature. Here, Sam feels the elf maiden’s hand shake in his and he looks up to see her eyes brimming with tears that do not fall, and he looks at the elf king and sees that only by great will does he remain silent and still, though the grief flows from him as water down a mountain – unstoppable. Sam’s heart weeps for them both and he wonders why they do not embrace to comfort each other. The maiden gestures toward the king as she has all the others, and with a voice strained to its limits, she says in a whisper, “Elu Thingol.”

Sam searches his memories, desperate to recall the name but he cannot remember ever hearing it before. The king does not bow or nod as the others, and instead places his right hand upon Sam’s brow. He speaks some words that Sam cannot understand but that fill his heart with a heavy peace all the same. Then the king looks upon the maiden and he reaches out as if to touch her cheek, his hand stopping just shy of contact. He withdraws with great reluctance and the maiden curtsies low, kneeling upon the ground, her head bowed. Now Sam can see her at eye-level, and her face is lined with grief unbearable. He reaches out and touches her cheek as the king had not, and her breath hitches slightly, the only sign she makes of the wretchedness that fills her heart. The king steps back, pauses, then turns and walks away, and when Sam looks up, the valley is empty but for a gate at the far end, and a line of guards that stand before it.

“They’re gone,” Sam says and the maiden looks up. She composes herself with one great breath and in an instant she is standing again and smiling down at Sam as though nothing sad had ever befallen her. Sam smiles back, but the heaviness in his heart does not go away. He knows what he saw, and he knows also that he will be in her place one day.

She leads him forward toward the gate. The gate is set between a great wall of iron and is encrusted with gold and silver lining, and bejeweled with glittering gemstones of sapphire, ruby and emerald. The guards stand as still as stone, swords at their sides, and quivers of arrows and bows at their backs. They are imposing to look upon and Sam finds himself slowing as they come closer to them. His guide senses his hesitation and slows her pace until they stand a good twenty yards from the gate. From behind the guards, movement can be seen and a man comes forth.

The man is surpassing beautiful, if such a word can be used for a man, and his face shines with a soft glow. He is hardy and robust, thick muscles sitting upon a tall and wiry frame, and in his eyes is an old wisdom and the conviction of integrity. Upon his brow is a bright golden jewel and sitting on his left shoulder is a great white bird. Again, the elf maiden curtsies, a look of the uttermost respect and love in her bright face and the man bows to her with equal regard. The maiden stands and gestures toward the man, a proud smile glowing upon her fair face. “Eärendil,” she says.

Sam’s jaw drops and he stares up at Eärendil Halfelven, the Mariner, with awe and amazement. “Eärendil?” he manages to croak. “As in, the Star of Eärendil?” He reaches out with his free hand and, in a bold move, takes the man’s hand, shaking it heartily as a smile spreads wide across his face. “It’s a mighty grand honor to meet you, sir. It’s beyond aught I could of hoped for. I always figured as I’d have to grow wings and fly before I’d have a chance of meeting you, and here you are. Folk back home aren’t going to believe this for naught. Why, I’m standing right here and I don’t even think I believe it.”

The Mariner laughs, the most carefree sound that has ever met Sam’s ears. He crouches down to look Sam in the eye, and with great effort and concentration, he says in jilted Westron, “The honor… is mine… Master Samwise.”

“Yours?” Sam says, so bewildered he does not even stop to wonder how this noble warrior knows his name. “But I ain’t never done naught.”

Eärendil searches the gardener’s honest face and softly touches his brow. A warmth spreads through Sam and he closes his eyes against it, feeling it as it travels down his neck and back and stretches out to his fingers and toes. When Sam opens his eyes again, the crowd of elves and men are back, milling behind him some many yards away, and before him still stands the gate, the door now open and the guards standing aside. Sam blinks several times and shakes his head, for his vision has changed and he can see further now, more clearly, and every small speck jumps and dances before him. Eärendil stands and steps aside, waving his hand once toward the gathering behind them and once toward the open gate.

“You must choose, Samwise. Remain or follow,” the Mariner says.

Sam steps forward, once, twice, his hand slipping free from the maiden’s. He peers through the gate to the darkness that lies beyond, then back at the valley full of all those brave and shining heroes from Mr. Bilbo’s stories, and he hesitates. How can he make this choice, to stay among the legends, the greatest and mightiest Arda, where he knows he does not belong; or to follow… what? What will he be following? He looks back at the Mariner and his guide and says, “I can stay as long as I want?”

Eärendil shakes his head. “Stay, or follow.”

“Follow what? Who? To where?” Sam asks, but no answers are forthcoming. Then he understands: his choice is between a known existence that is not his to live, or an unknown path that he may not survive.

They do not rush him, for his is a difficult decision and is not to be made lightly. Sam lingers between want and fear, wanting to stay and hear all the tales these folk have to tell and wanting to go forward to the next adventure, fearing what might lay ahead and fearing that if he stays, he will never be able to return to his friends and family, to see his Shire and its flowers and gardens again.

He sits upon the ground and looks at the elves and men in the valley. They all too had hard decisions to make and they always choose the more difficult path, once push came to shove. Sam figures as that’s what makes them brave and strong, two things that he is not and will never be. He also recalls that by choosing the harder road, they all perished and he had always wondered why they never just stayed home with their families and loved ones, and just like that the choice is made for him. Leave the brave deeds and songs of great praise to the mighty warriors; Sam will go home and help his sisters make dinner for their father, and in the morning, he’ll go out to the Cotton farm and help his cousins mend the barnyard fence and in the afternoon, if there is time, they’ll go to Bywater Pool and paddle in the water.

He stands up and bows to his guide and host. He knows without asking or being told that the elf maiden will not accompany him out of the valley. “Thank you kindly,” he says. “It means more than I could ever say to have met you all.”

“Until next we meet,” Eärendil says and bows.

Sam turns and walks with hesitant yet determined steps toward the gate. The improved vision he had been gifted is now gone, a brief spell quickly faded, and all he sees beyond the gate door is black upon black, no more half-seen shadows as he saw before. He reaches the gate and looks up at the archway towering over his head, and puts a foot through the threshold before he realizes something and stops, turns around, runs back to his host and the elf maiden, who stand watching him. He puffs slightly from the run and looks up at the maiden’s face with guilt and shame.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I never asked your name.”

The Mariner whispers a translation to the maiden, who answers in her melodious voice. Eärendil translates for her. “You will know it when you hear it.”

Sam nods, accepting the riddle. He bows again and says to her, “Until next we meet.”

She shakes her head, and Eärendil says, “You will not meet her again. Go now, Master Perhael, to your journey’s end.”

Sam turns and this time he walks right to the gate and through it without faltering. The gate close to behind him and Sam journeys through the darkness of the black valley until he reaches its end, not more than ten yards away. The hills fall away quickly on either side and a mouth opens to vast plains beyond. The sun shines brightly still and the sky is of the purest blue. Grasslands stretch out before him as far as his eye can see, wildflowers dotting the ground here and there, the occasional tree offering shade from the sun when desired. Sam looks around him but sees nothing familiar. He covers the sun with his thumb and waits for the sun to move, to poke out on the left side; he is facing north, but this does not help him for he knows not where he is to begin with. All he knows is that he does not want to go south again, so he continues north, hoping for the best.

He tracks the time by the position of the sun and after two hours of walking, he stops by a tree and leans against the bole for a bit of rest. He has no food or water, nothing but the clothes on his back. He knows he could walk himself to death before he might find anything that he can eat or a sign of where he is, yet he won’t get anywhere just standing here either. He rests only for a few moments, then continues on his way. Dusk gathers and he comes to a small river. He steps into it gratefully, and both bathes himself and drinks his fill.

He sleeps by the river, drying during the night, which is warm and balmy. The next day, he follows the river west, gathering the edible wildflowers as he goes. It’s not much, but it’s something other than water and he needs the nutrients they provide. At noon he reaches a shallow point in the river and sees salmon swimming by. Carefully and slowly, he steps into the river, crouches, rests his hand on the riverbed, his fingers curled up, ready to grab at the right moment. This can take five seconds or five hours depending on your luck, but Sam only has to wait a minute and-a-half before a salmon swims over his open hand. He grabs it and in one swift motion he tosses it to the riverbank. He catches five more fish in this manner, and at the next tree, he digs a fire pit with his hands and stacks branches for a fire. He searches the riverbed and the bank for a firestone but finds none. He searches his pockets, knowing he will find nothing there. He attempts to start the fire by rubbing two sticks against each other, but he cannot get enough friction to make smoke, much less a spark. He goes back to the river and finds some flint stone. He clacks them together until he breaks off a piece sharp enough to use for a knife. He guts the fish and eats them raw.

At noon the following day, he comes to a bend in the river that will take him south again. So now he has another choice: follow the river, or cross it and continue west. He growls in frustration and runs his hands through his hair, pulling at it tightly. What to do? How to choose? The plains continue on in all directions and for all he knows, he should be going east. But east does not sound good to him, for whatever reasons, yet if he continues west or north, there will be no way of knowing when he will come to the next river. The food doesn’t concern him as much as the water. The days are beginning to heat up and he won’t last long without water, and he has no means of taking any with him if he leaves the river behind.

He sits upon the ground, as good as stuck, and weeps. I should have stayed with the Elves. I was silly to think that I could go on alone. Now I’ll likely die out here, in the middle of nowhere, and no one will ever know. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I can go back. But you can’t go back. You made your choice. Stay or follow and you choose to follow.

Then Sam smacks himself on the forehead and laughs. “Follow, you ninnyhammer. Follow the river.”

But I am following it the right way? Should I have gone east instead?

“There’s no way to be answering that one. Best to go on as I have been and hope for the best.”

The next day, his journey south brings him back to the bare and rocky hills, and the river turns sharply again, running west once more along the feet of the hills. Sam remains on the hilly side of the river, and there he finds the firestones he had been looking for earlier. He clacks them together for good measure and delights at the long-living spark that flies from them to the ground. The spark lives for a few seconds before dying in the dirt, nothing for it to catch hold of and feed upon. He stones a rabbit at mid-morning and crosses the river to a tree in the distance. He makes a fire easily this time, and uses his flint blades to prepare the rabbit for roasting, with some herbs gathered from the fields for seasoning.

After he eats, he buries the fire pit and returns to the river to bathe. Once he’s clean, he cups water into his mouth until his thirst is quenched. That evening, he finds a shallow cave in the hillside and camps there. 

He awakes to a loud, high-pitched screech. He bolts upright and looks about, momentarily disoriented. The screech sounds again, nearby outside. Sam listens to it closely, determines it is some sort of bird, probably going after the remains of the fish he had eaten last night before turning in. He stands, stretches, scratches his chest and yawns. He steps outside and blinks into the morning light, lifting his hand to block the rays from his eyes. He goes to the river, drinks some water as the bird screeches again.

“Sam?” he hears a familiar voice from behind him, high up on the hill.

Sam whirls around, looks up and freezes. A giant eagle sits crouched upon the hilltop, its head twisted to one side so that the bird can look at him with one great amber eye. Sam stares at it, wondering if perhaps he’s gone mad. Did that bird just talk to him?

As if in answer, the bird’s head twists skyward and the eye blinks. The beak clacks open and closed a couple of times, screeching in confusion, then says again, “Sam?”

“M— Master Frodo?” Sam says in disbelief. “You’re… you’re a bird!”

“A great eagle, like you wanted,” Frodo says proudly and puffs out his neck feathers a bit.

“How did you manage it, sir?” Sam asks, too dazed to stop and think about the impossibility of it all.

“Oh, well, that would be Gandalf’s doing,” Frodo answers. “I was worried about you. You’ve been gone so long. So Gandalf made me into a bird so that I could look for you, and I remembered what you said about getting shot down by a hunter, so I had him make me into one of the great eagles.”

“You… you came to look for me?” Sam asks. He walks up and down the riverbank, looking at Frodo from all angles, the massive talons crunching the two-ton boulders to dust, the wings tucked into his sides, brown feathers specked with black and white, the beak sharp and the tail feathers kicking up dust as Frodo adjusts his position upon the hill.

“Of course I did,” Frodo says. “I was afraid I would have to look for quite a while, you’ve been gone that long, but it’s only been a day. I’ve been scanning the rivers and streams for you since I left. I figured you’d stay near any water sources if you found them.”

“We’re only a day out of the Shire?” Sam says, his heart filling with delight and cheer. “That’s good news.”

“Well, a day as a giant eagle flies,” Frodo answers. “It’s probably a good four or five day journey as a hobbit walks.”

“That long?” Sam says, but this news doesn’t abate his joy. He’ll be home soon, no matter how long it takes. “Will you stay with me and keep me company? It’s awful lonely out here.”

“I’ll do better than that,” Frodo says and stretches out one huge wing. Its span is long enough to reach down the hill to the ground where Sam stands. “Hop on. I’ll have us home in no time, since I won’t be spending so much time looking for you.”

“Hop on?” Sam says, doubt trickling down his back, raising goose pimples on his arms. “I don’t know, Master Frodo.”

“Why not?” Frodo asks.

“Well, flying, sir… I’m not much for heights,” Sam says. “What if I pass out and fall?”

“I won’t let you fall,” Frodo says, his voice sounding slightly hurt that Sam would think such a thing. “Just keep your eyes closed tight, and I’ll fly as smooth as I can. You won’t even know you’re moving.”

“But… is this really proper, sir?” Sam asks next. “I should be carrying you, not the other way about.”

“Why ever not?” Frodo asks. “If you can carry me, then I carry you. I’m not a weakling.”

“I know you’re not! I’d never say as you were!” Sam says. He shuffles his feet in the dirt and twirls his shirt buttons absently. He is being silly and he knows it. This is the fastest way back to the Shire and he knows that no matter what happens, no matter how scary it is, Frodo will never let any harm come to him. He screws up his nerve and lets out a steadying breath. “All right sir. I’ll… hop.”

Frodo screeches with delight and stretches the wing a bit further. Sam reaches up, grabs a feather in his hands and holds on as Frodo draws his wing back in, bringing Sam to his broad, feathered back. Sam scrabbles up to the eagle’s neckline and grabs the feathers there, trying to ignore how high off the ground he is and remember that this is his Frodo carrying him. “I’m not holding on too tight?” he asks.

“Not at all,” Frodo says and spreads out both wings. “Now, close your eyes and hold on as tight as you need. I’ll have us home before you know it.”

“Yes sir,” Sam says and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the lift off.

“Sam!” Tom shouts into his ear and waves a hand before his eyes. “What are you doing? We’ve been a calling you for near an hour.”

Sam shakes his head and steps back. He blinks at Tom and Robin, both of whom are looking at him as if he’s lost all hobbit sense. “Sorry,” he says, looking around for any sign of elves, half-elves, men or eagles. “Must of dozed off.”

“On your feet?” Robin says. “That’s a neat trick. You’ll have to learn us that sometime.”

“Come on. We got to get going. We’ll measure the trees next time out,” Tom says. “If we're late and I get stuck with mucking duty, you're both coming over on Highdays to help.”

“Why both of us?” Robin asks. “Sam’s the one as got lost and nodded off.”

Tom claps Sam on the shoulder and guides his friend out of the woods and towards home. Robin offers him more berries and this time he accepts them. As they leave the forest behind, Sam glances back, trying to see any sign of movement in the trees, but the boughs are still and the woods are silent and dim in the failing light.
 
 
 

GF 4/8/06