Work Text:
Sam pottered about the garden, leaning upon his wooden walking stick as he peered down at the fresh sprigs of basil just poking up from the tilled soil. Trailing vines weaved a verdant arbour before him, their white flowers abloom in the gentle sunlight that fell upon Yavanna’s gardens. Sam sighed contentedly as he examined his own small allotment within the rambling spread of Palúrien’s realm; neat rows of shoots dotted up from the earth, spices, flowers and vegetables of myriad forms were slowly coaxed into life under his care. Once more he marvelled that the Great Ones had granted him this small pleasure, and the honour of a place amongst the Gardeners; those terrible spirits of earth and leaf that filled him with a sense of awe and dread as they passed by, scents of crushed petals and wet mud shimmering in their wake. His own little corner of Palúrien’s gardens he loved fiercely and tended each day, wondering at the vivacity of the life that kindled there. For surely the flowers there seemed brighter, their stems grew stronger than they had done in his beloved gardens back in the Shire.
Sam picked up a watering can, and passing from row to row sprinkled the growing shoots, shooing aside the fat bumblebees in their yellow and black jackets that buzzed past him. With a smile he watched the hummingbirds that flitted from flower to flower, and hummed along to the whir of their tiny beating wings. Deeply he breathed in the fragrant aromas of the garden, and a sensation of peace was set flowing through him, that humble joy in all things calm and strong and growing.
“I know what you did for him.”
The murmur cracked through the quiet air and instinctively Sam whirled about, his walking stick raised to fend off this would-be intruder. His eyes searched amongst the countless willows and mallorns that lined the far borders of his allotment, and a moment later he beheld an unknown silhouette leaning against the trunk of a weeping willow. Very tall the stranger seemed, and though his face was obscured by a fall of leaves Sam sensed that the elf, for an Elven voice certainly it was who had spoken, was gazing at him from beyond his concealment. Warily Sam lowered his walking stick and turned fully towards the stranger, wiping his hands free of soil against the backs of his trousers. A little uncomfortably he smoothed down the lapels of his shirt, if only to still his slight sense of unease at the elf’s seemingly unwavering stare.
“Forgive me,” the elf said absently, brushing aside the fall of willow leaves and stepping out into the sunlight. Very fair his face was, framed by a riotous tumble of copper hair that swirled to the small of his back. Ageless he seemed, and beautiful, yet a melancholy light lingered in his hazel eyes, and weariness tinged the edges of his smile.
“Forgive me,” he repeated, stepping a little closer to Sam before he seemed to hesitate, and lingered instead by the overhanging branches. “I did not mean to startle you. I had heard that one of the great Shire-folk walked abroad in Palúrien’s gardens, and I thought… I… Well, I was simply curious…”
Sam squinted up at him, rather confused by such a halting introduction. The silence stretched between them, punctuated by nothing but the soft ripple of the breeze stirring the white curls of Sam’s hair to dance. At last Sam could bear it no longer, the elf’s strange gaze resting upon him, and with an amicable gruffness he said: “I do not know you, sir. Where I come from, a fellow ought to introduce himself rightly, instead of sneaking up on the unsuspecting!”
At that the elf smiled, and the tension in the air seemed to dissipate as kindly he replied, “Ah, you must forgive me, Master Hobbit, for I am forgetting my manners. Such things seem to fade when surrounded by companions and kin for so long. I am Maedhros Fëanorion, and I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, if you would have me.”
At the name Sam frowned, the exotic syllables stirring in faint recognition within his memory. His brow crinkled as desperately he sought for where he thought that he recalled that name; something that Frodo had said, perhaps, or some mention in Lindir’s songs in the Homely House so long ago. Fëanorion… Fëanor… ? At last something in his mind seemed to click and the name sprang into clarity, a son of Fëanor it was who stood before him! Sam blinked a little in embarrassment, before bowing as hastily as he could manage, his tongue tripping over the formalities as he tried to speak them.
“My… my lord! Samwise Gamgee of the Shire, at your service! P-please forgive my former brusqueness, my lord, I did not realize, you see…”
“There is nothing to forgive, Master Gamgee,” Maedhros laughed. “It is I who have appeared discourteous.” Then something flickered in the elf’s smile, and his voice dropped as he continued, “But please, just call me Maedhros, if you would. All other titles I renounced long ago.”
“As you wish, my… erm… Maedhros,” Sam nodded, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar syllables. “What would bring you to my humble garden, if I might ask?”
“Indeed you may, and I must profess perhaps a selfish motive in disturbing your morning so rudely. I have heard many tales of your bravery, Master Gamgee. Your companion Frodo scarcely ceases to speak of you, in the highest of terms and to all that will listen, to the delight of my people. And yet, when I asked, scant few seemed to have met you. Frodo spoke so movingly of your friendship, of your loyalty…”
Maedhros trailed off as a melancholy air seemed to move him, and falteringly he shifted, his left hand grasped tightly about his right wrist as if in the memory of some ancient hurt. Sam looked on in puzzlement, until sharply Maedhros inhaled, continuing: “That is to say, I… I know what burden you shouldered to help your master, to help your friend with his task. Loath I am to bring up the phantoms of the past, and I have more cause than perhaps you know, but given the circumstances I just… I just thought that I should tell you, nay, I must tell you the counsels of my heart.
"For though Frodo bore the burden, your deeds mean just as much as his, and more than I fear that the songs can ever tell. For you have done what even my people dared not, you have faced the Shadow at which the mightiest of Men would quail, and you endured it, sworn not by oath nor bond, but for the love of your friend.
“A friend showed me mercy once. He showed me mercy when I did not deserve it, when by my actions, my inactions he should have left me to die. But he did not, and I thought that never again would I see such selflessness. Through all of the Ages of this world I have endured, and never have I seen or heard the like, and never had I hoped to again, for valiant deeds seem to fade from this world as it wanes. But from the failing light sprang the courage of hobbits, the most unlikely of folk. And among them one who swore no bonds but for the love of his friend, and the desire to look after him through all the perils of this world…”
Maedhros sighed, and he looked down at Sam, and his eyes were filled with a distant, mellowed light.
“Truly you give me hope, Samwise Gamgee.”
Sam stood as one struck dumb, his mouth nearly agape at such lordly compliments, and given freely by a prince of the Eldar no less. He shuffled awkwardly, a faint blush creeping to his cheeks.
“Now see here, Maedhros, it wasn’t all that,” Sam began rather abashedly. “I made a promise, you see, a promise to Mister Gandalf that I wouldn’t leave Frodo, that I wouldn’t let him stray. ‘Don’t you leave him, Samwise Gamgee’, Gandalf said to me in that stern voice of his. ‘And I don’t mean to,’ I replied. And I kept my word, you see. I had to. I made a promise. And what good would be a hobbit who broke his promises now, eh?”
The ghost of a smile touched Maedhros’ lips, and delicately he stepped forward before sinking to one knee before Sam, bowing his head to look him levelly in the eyes. Gently he took Sam’s wrinkled hands within his own, his slender fingers wrapped around Sam’s half-curled palms, and for a moment Sam could have sworn that Maedhros’ fingers were shaking.
“Sometimes,” Maedhros said slowly, and in his voice some nameless emotion bled, “sometimes the saviours mean so much more than the saved.”
“As you would never have us forget, Russandol!”
A merry voice sounded from amid the trees behind them, and a second later a lithe elf swung down from the boughs of a nearby mallorn. He landed lightly before bounding forward, a bright smile fixed across his handsome features. Maedhros arose, turning to face the newcomer who came to an abrupt halt before them, and turning to Sam bowed deeply.
“I am Fingon Nolofinwion, Master Hobbit. Anar síla lúmenn’ omentielvo,” he intoned rather formally, before grinning at Sam. “And I must have the pleasure of meeting the great Samwise Gamgee, of whom I have heard so much told in the new-spun lays of my people!”
“Lays?” spluttered Sam, rather taken aback by the sudden influx of such prestigious company. “Well, I… I don’t know much about those, my lord. They are too grand for a lowly hobbit.”
“Nonsense!” Fingon declared. “The tales of your deeds shall be sung from now until the End of Days, and be accounted amongst the greatest stories of Arda. ‘For who could forget the story of the Ringbearer, the one who triumphed over the Shadow,’ the wise shall say. ‘And what of his companion?’ I will demand. Tell me more of Samwise the Brave, son of the Shire, Gardener and lover of all things that grow. I want to hear more about Sam.”
Sam blinked up at the elves, the tips of his ears turning pink as he blushed.
“And hear more from its source no less!” Fingon announced, before peering intently at Sam. “Is it true, Master Hobbit, that you brought with you an entire kitchen set into the very stronghold of the Enemy?”
“W… well, I… um…” poor Sam stammered, utterly disconcerted by such a question so eagerly posed.
But swiftly Maedhros came to his rescue, tutting at Fingon with mock admonishment: “As if you can speak on the merits of questing apparatus, oh great Master of the Harp!”
Fingon pulled a rather childish face and Maedhros rolled his eyes at him before turning back to Sam, still standing rather bemusedly before the two elves.
“Master Gamgee, what my dear cousin is trying to say, if indeed he can contain his enthusiasm, is would you do us the great honour of accompanying us on our ride? We would have journey through the woods of Oromë, and then the fields beyond, and we would be most enamoured of your company. And we might beg a further tale or two from you, if we should be so presumptuous, and should you indulge us.”
“O-of course, friends,” Sam began, at once excited and filled with awe that two of the royal house should find his company of such high quality. He thought hard for a moment, before continuing: “Or should I say… meldar? Your High-Elven conjugations are so foreign to us simple folk.”
Both Elves exclaimed in delight, and with great vigour Fingon patted Sam upon the shoulder, commending him most highly on his pronunciation.
“You are full of surprises, Master Gamgee!” Fingon beamed, taking Sam’s hand and carefully leading him over to the borders of the trees, his walking stick set delicately against a wooden frame covered in trailing stems of pale clematis. Maedhros strode slightly ahead, and leaning towards the trees he whistled two dulcet notes. A few moments later two horses appeared from beneath the shade, a dark bay stallion and a plump dapple-grey mare munching contentedly upon a clump of grass.
“Oh!” Sam started, “I have no pony…”
But before he could continue, Fingon interposed, “Master Samwise, if you would honour me so, it would please me greatly if we should ride together.”
Sam acquiesced, a little flustered at such a formal appeal, but he allowed Fingon to lift him to the mare’s back, who whickered as if in welcome as he seated himself behind her withers. He gripped nervously to the soft strands of her mane, until a moment later he felt Fingon mount behind him, securing his seat more firmly upon the mare’s unsaddled back. Maedhros in turn vaulted upon his horse, pausing a moment to appraise his cousin and their noble guest. The ends of Sam’s curly white hair tickled Fingon’s chin as the hobbit raised his head, sitting astride the mare like a proud lord of old, a broad, youthful smile curved across his wrinkled face.
“What am I to do?” Maedhros mused, playfulness curling in his voice. “Here I sit so utterly outranked. For before me ride the Brave and the Valiant, whose deeds shall be matters of legend until the utmost days of Arda, in friendship and love unmatched. Forth the bold, forth the true!”
At that Sam laughed delightedly before clicking to the mare, who sprang forward in a lively trot, winding away beneath the willows.
Maedhros paused a moment longer, marvelling at the elderly hobbit set before his cousin; his courage, his sacrifice, his loyalty, and all of those other things that he knew he could never fully articulate. But deep in his heart he knew that they were there, and he knew that they were pure. They were so much more than what he was capable of.
Spurring his horse forward in pursuit of his cousin’s retreating back, Maedhros smiled once more, spying Sam’s tiny toes just level with Fingon’s knees, and at the last he murmured, “May your days be blessed.”
Rather different from my usual fare, I shall admit, but when the need for some fluff arises, it manifests in the most unusual forms! Anyway, Sam is the best, and he deserves every happy ending ever conceivable, and so here we are.
Hope you enjoyed it! x
And here is a link to some art drawn by the exquisite givenclarity on Tumblr <3