West of the Moon
A Tolkien Fanfiction Archive
Heart's Ease IV: The Love of Master Samwise
Sam follows his Frodo into the West. A Valinor fic with an unusual ending.
Author: Annwyn
Rating: R
Warnings: Character death. Angst.
It was a curious little cavalcade that wended its way along the white-paved road that led deep into the Land of Aman. It went in silence, for one - the only sounds that cut the air were the bell-like chiming of the horses' hooves as they struck the pavement and the ever-present trill of birdsong. Now and then, one of the elves would begin to sing, but the music never lasted long, for it soon acquired a dirge-like melody, and the silence would return again. For another, it held an odd assortment of races - although not so odd, one supposed, not for the last five decades or so, at least. There were several elves in the company, one of that reclusive Maiar race, and two drowsing halflings on sturdy ponies. They led another pony on a leading rein, its back piled high with well-filled panniers and neat bedrolls.
It was a beautiful spring day, and the air had a crisp bite to it. The scent of growing things was like a wine that went straight to the head, and fecund life overran the verges, bursting with color and vigorous abandon. It was a good day to be alive.
The shadows were beginning to lengthen when the old Wizard reined his horse in and stopped. Ahead, the road branched, the main thoroughfare continuing straight on, and a smaller path diverging from it. The path was white-paved too, although it had a pale shimmer to it, echoed in the silvery bark of the trees that hemmed it in. One of the halflings roused himself and walked his pony over to where the path began. He stopped at the edge of it, staring intently into the green-shadowed distance, his gnarled hand rubbing absently at his wrinkled face.
"Is this the place, Mr. Gandalf?" he asked, his voice rusty from disuse.
"No, dear one," the Maia replied. "The path continues for half a mile more before you find what you seek." He paused, his voice gentle, "Would you rather we stopped here for the night and continue on the morrow?"
The halfling, or hobbit, as they chose to call themselves, shook his head. "No. I'd rather go on, if you don't mind. And by meself, if you please, sir. There's unfinished business I've got, and things to be said that are best said alone. You and Mr. Bilbo bide here tonight and go on to meet me come the morning - if that suits you both."
The Wizard dismounted, ground-tied his horse and walked across the road to stand at the halfling's heel. Behind him, a querulous voice rose in sleepy complaint as the elves helped Bilbo off his pony. The old hobbit stamped his big feet to restore feeling to them and went to stand beside his friends and join his gaze to theirs.
"Are you all right, Sam?" he asked diffidently, reaching up to touch the hobbit's arm, a limb once banded with muscle, now spare and spotted with age.
"Aye, Mr. Bilbo. As well as can be expected, I suppose." Sam brushed at his salt-stained clothing ineffectually. "I wish I'd thought to change my weskit, but that can't be helped now. He was never the one to care overmuch about proper anyway, and it won't matter to him no more, will it?" The last was muttered under his breath, and only Gandalf heard him. The Wizard laid his hand on the pony's neck, forcing Sam to look at him.
"You mattered very much to him, my dear." he said quietly. "Leaving you was his greatest regret, and he thought of you constantly until the end. Grieve, if you must, for not all grief is evil, but do not despair. He would not have wanted that." He sighed, remembering the sadness in the gentle blue eyes and the resolute firming of the delicate jaw as Frodo gazed back at the lonely figure on the quay. I want Sam to be happy, Gandalf, he had said then. He deserves so much, and he will be whole at last when I am gone.
Now he looked into the hobbit's eyes and his heart misgave him. Golden eyes with dancing flecks of green they had been, as changeable as the seasons. He recalled the softness that shone in their hazel depths as he looked upon the one he loved above all else. Now - they were a lifeless, murky brown, their light extinguished.
"He was wrong - wrong about a lot of things, seemingly." A spark of life seemed to kindle, and Gandalf took heart. "He didn't get any better, after all - and when he needed me, I wasn't here."
"He held out as long as he could, Sam." Gandalf's voice held a world of regret. "There are some hurts that time and the elves cannot heal, and the hurt he took was one of them. Sauron was of the Maiar after all, and the strongest of us all. We tried our best, but each day became a burden to him, and he longed for rest." He lowered his wise old eyes to stare at the ground. "I am sorry. I feel that we have failed you, as well."
There didn't seem to be anything to say to that, and Sam merely nodded and turned his gaze to the white path once more. Beside him, Bilbo stirred restively.
"You have a home with me, Sam," he said quickly. "We shall do very well together, you and I, and we shall keep his memory alive. Your years will fall away from you, you know, and you can be young again, if you so choose." His voice took on an urgency - why it did, he did not know. "And the gardens, Sam! Think of the gardens you can make, the beauty you can create - here, where life began."
Sam looked down at his old Master, and smiled. "Thankee, Mr. Bilbo, sir." His westfarthing accent thickened, but his eyes remained dry. "That's a right handsome offer, and I may take you up on it. But now I must go, if I wish to arrive afore the light goes. " He looked from one anxious face to the other and added, "Don't you worry none, now. I'll be fine, really I will."
He shook the reins and clucked softly, and the pony trotted forward. The Wizard and the old hobbit stood looking after him, until he turned a bend in the path and was lost from their view. Then they turned away to where the elves were setting up a comfortable camp.
"I wish I had thought to ask him to say a word from me," Bilbo said suddenly. "If anyone can talk to Frodo now, it will be Sam."
Gandalf laid a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You may be right, Bilbo," he frowned thoughtfully. "You may just be right."
~~~~~
The sun was still high in the west when Sam came to the end of his journey. The way had been cool and lit by a green-tinged light - sunlight filtering through the interlaced branches above. Now before him was a clearing in the grove, and the path meandered into it for a few more feet before fading into the grass. Two huge silver-barked trees guarded the entry, and set to one side of the pathway was a great white stone, its surface green with moss.
Sam stopped before the opening and dismounted painfully. His chest felt tight, and he leaned against the pony for a moment, fighting to breathe. When at last his heart steadied, he lifted his rucksack to the ground and removed the tack - saddle, bridle and bit. He fashioned a crude hackamore and led the pony to where the grass grew thick, tethering it with a long rein to a convenient bush. The beast nuzzled at him affectionately and he stroked its nose for a moment before turning away.
There were words carved deep into the stone. He brushed the moss away and traced them with a trembling finger. The words read: Frodo Baggins... and below that, RingBearer. There too were elvish runes, etched into the stone and interspersed with the Westron letters. Sam peered at them and his lips moved. Iorhael, he read, and his voice cut sharply through the silence. Frodo's elvish name.
He stood staring at the stone for a moment, and then slowly, he turned to face the clearing. He had long been aware of a sweet fragrance in the air, and now he found the origins of it. The sward grew shorter here, soft as velvet between his toes, and masses of fairy roses lined the space, their pale blossoms glowing in the sunlight. The grass was starred with white flowers, and here and there he glimpsed the tiny golden elanor.
A sapling grew in the center of the glade, and he made his way over to it. From this vantage point, he saw that the ground sloped steeply down on one side, opening out into a broad vale, fairer than any place he'd ever seen before. The valley was filled with graceful trees and flowers of every conceivable hue, and his failing eyes could just make out a range of misty mountains in the distance. Sam lowered his pack to the ground, and followed it, leaning his aching back against the young tree.
"Well, Mr. Frodo," he murmured softly. "I've come back to you."
He looked out over the valley and a fond smile curved his lips. "You've got yourself a real nice view, at any rate. Real nice."
The grass was cool against his legs, and he buried his hands in its familiar comfort and sighed deeply. Then he licked his dry lips and began to speak out loud. The sound of his voice echoed through the quiet glade, and he took some strange comfort from it.
"Mr. Frodo - there's something I've got to say to you, and it don't bear thinkin' about, so I'll say it right off." His throat moved convulsively as he swallowed hard. " Do you recall that pretty blue vase that our mam gave you afore she died? Well - it's broken now. I broke it. You left me, Mr. Frodo - and I - I was so angry - it was like a canker in my chest; and in the pain of it, I swept away that vase you were so fond of, and smashed it on the floor. I was real crazed for a bit, I think, and I frightened my Rosie so. And when my sense came back to me, I tried to piece it back together, but I couldn't mend it. It wouldn't hold water no more. I'm really sorry for that, and I'm begging your pardon, I am." He paused, twisting the strands of grass between his fingers. "I knew why you did as you did - why you pushed me to take Rosie to wife. Why you left me. But it took awhile to sink into my thick head, you see.
"You thought you were like that vase, didn't you? Broken and useless. You didn't think that you could ever get better, and you didn't want to be a burden to me. But you know, Mr. Frodo - that vase still had pride of place on my desk, and when I looked at it, I didn't see the cracks. It could always hold a sprig of dried heather, or bright berries come the winter. And it held things down a treat. It was still beautiful, still a pleasure to look at, and to hold. Like you were, silly hobbit. Like you were."
He drifted for a moment, and caught himself listening. Listening for what, Samwise? he chided himself ruefully. T'isn't as if you'll get an answer, now - will you? He drew his legs up and laid his forehead against his knees with a deep sigh.
"I knew when you went on, you know. After all we'd gone through together, after all we'd been to each other, it was only fitting that I knew. It was high summer, as I recall, near on ten years ago, now. My Elanor found me, and thought that I'd had too much of the sun, and me a gardener too! My sweet lass. I wondered about it after - you had half of my heart in your keeping; if you let go of it, would it come winging back to me? My heart felt real sore, you see. But then, you know, I thought it was more than likely that the rest of my heart went with you - 'cause there was nothing that would give me real pleasure no more. Rosie, the children, nay, even the Shire itself - they were just a poultice on a wound that wouldn't ever heal. I longed to come to you then, but they made me mayor again, and I couldn't leave Rose and the young ones. It wouldn't be fair to them nohow."
His jaw clenched a bit on his next words, "But then, nothing is ever fair, is it? It wasn't fair that you had to lose so much to be the saving of Middle Earth - it wasn't fair to Rosie-wife that I came to her with less than half a heart. It wasn't fair to us, that we couldn't be together the way we should have been. Who knows that our love wouldn't have healed you of your hurt? Who knows anything - now?
"I'm whining now, aren't I? Bear with me, my love, for just a little bit more.
"Now I'm not sayin' that I didn't have a good life, mind. The children were such a joy, and many's the time I wished that you'd a been there to watch them grow. I'm a Granther now, did you know? No, I suppose not. Or maybe you do. I wouldn't know either way.
"Young Frodo has Bag-End now, and it's him as tends your garden too, being as how he took after me the most, you see. I've left the Book in Elanor's keeping, and she'll likely send copies of it to the King. You'd be real proud of her, Mr. Frodo. She's turned into a fair scholar, she has. They'll keep our story alive - I've seen to that."
He allowed himself a tiny grin. "Merry and Pippin send their love. I didn't let on, you see, and they don't know, I don't think. They're hale and hearty still, and on their way to Gondor as I speak. They'll be ending their days with the King, I'll warrant."
His voice caught in his throat and he coughed dryly. The leather bottle he pulled from his pack sloshed half-full and he shrugged and took a long drink.
"My Rosie died on mid-year's day, and so I was free to come to you." He sighed. "Poor Rose - the little of my heart that was left was all hers, and she never let on if it didn't content her. I like to think she understood, for she loved you too, if you recall. I think I made her happy enough, leastways." His gaze went to the pack at his side, and he touched it gently. "So I hied myself to the Havens as soon as I decently could, and Lord Círdan, in his kindness, told me what I already knew. And I came anyway, you see, 'cause I had to speak my piece somehow."
Sam stretched, his bones creaking in protest, and shifted to lay himself full length upon the grass. His cheek lay pillowed on its velvety softness and a small smile played about his lips.
"I never stopped loving you," he whispered, "all the days of my life. I saw you in every corner of the Shire, the sun shining on your soft hair, and when I looked up at the summer sky, I saw the beauty of your eyes. When I shut my eyes, I could taste the honey-sweetness of your lips, and feel the smooth silk of your skin under my hands again. I could feel your strong thighs around my waist, the heat of your body, you moving in me, and I - I glorying in you. The very thought of you quickens my blood still." A faint flush suffused his face and a wrinkled hand crept down to rub furtively at his withered groin. He laughed softly, "You can't get a rise out of me no more, but even so, there's many a quiver left in me still, I'll have you know." He paused for a long moment, his eyes dreamy and far away.
"You were always by when I sat in justice too, if you can credit it," he continued meditatively. "There's many a ruffian owes his freedom to you, you see. You taught me right, when you showed that Gollum mercy - all those years ago. You taught me well."
He took a deep breath, and let it slowly out. "And you saw clearly, my Frodo, all those years ago. I needed to grow things, whether they be little hobbit-lads and lasses or the roses in the garden at Bag End. You knew I needed that. But you were wrong too, for I would have given it all up knowingly, for the chance to be with you. A chance you never gave me - a choice I never had.
"Your child was the whole of Middle Earth, and you birthed her in suffering and pain. Mayhap she took all you had to give. Mayhap there was nothing left for me. I wish I could say I didn't mind, but I do... I do..."
He fell silent then, and the quaver of tears was in his voice when he spoke again. "I love you, me dear, and I - I miss you so."
He lay there quietly as the sun fell toward the horizon. The evening air had a crystalline clarity to it, and the muted glimmer of fireflies danced over the grass. At length, he stirred and sat up.
"There're a few little things I've yet to do, Mr. Frodo," He dug around in the pack and fished out a small parchment-wrapped packet. He opened it, and a sliver of wood dropped onto his palm. It was pale-grained, as long as the first joint of his finger, and stained dark along its length. He stuck it into the ground and tamped it down well.
"Here," he said, and smiled reminiscently. "You may as well have it back. I tried my very best, but you're past protecting now, and nothing can hurt you anymore. It'll be safe here."
He opened his other hand, and a vial lay there, its contents shadowed dark. "And there's this," he murmured. "I'll be using it now, I expect. I don't know how long it'll take to work, and I don't want Mr. Gandalf using his arts on me. It'll probably hurt like the very blazes, but there's no gain without pain, as the Gaffer used to say."
He rubbed his chest absently and lifted his face to the fragrant breeze, looking up over the darkening vale. The stars were beginning to emerge, and the vault of the sky was fair encrusted with them. They shed a soft silver light, and he nodded approvingly. There wouldn't ever be true night in this land, he thought. There wouldn't ever be complete darkness. He lay back on the soft grass, and pillowed his head on the life he'd left behind. The stopper twisted off easily, and he lifted the vial to his lips.
I'm coming to you, Mr. Frodo. Wait for me, me dear.
~~~~~
The wall of wind that roared across the glade stripped the roses of their petals and struck him like a hammer blow. It picked him up and tumbled him over and over, until his head swam and the gorge rose in his throat. He fetched up against the tree and clung to it, his eyes tight-shut and his heart pounding; his ears filled with a buzzing that stabbed through his brain. The wind swirled around him, buffeting him with the soft patter of blossoms, until finally, it died down. Then he opened his eyes cautiously, and looked around. The vial glinted a few feet away, its contents draining into the grass, and he gasped and flung himself toward it with a cry.
"No," he whispered. There wasn't enough left in the glass to do the job, and he sagged in despair. "Oh Eru, no." The buzzing in his ears rose to a painful crescendo, and he clapped his hands to them and squeezed his eyes shut. In the darkness behind his eyelids, the buzzing seemed to take on a chittering quality, and he frowned, puzzled. He'd thought he'd heard his name. He flattened his hands to his ears and listened harder. Yes, there it was again. Nosamnosamnosam. It sounded for all the world like an agitated squirrel, and there was something familiar about the sound of it. Then a blessed silence fell, and he opened his eyes to the night again.
A spark of blue-white light hung in the still air before him, pulsing and jittering. Then a voice sounded in his head, and his eyes widened. Confound it, my Lady! I can't... it won't... Sam shuddered. He knew that voice. Once, it had meant love, and happiness and life to him. He heard it still - albeit in waking dreams. Then it came again, Oh... I'm sorry... I haven't done this before, you know... I forgot... I need the light... There was a distinctly sheepish note to the disembodied voice, and despite his confusion and fear, Sam's lips twitched upward. That's better, it said, and the blood drained from his face.
Motes of soft light began to drift, from all about the glade, and from the stars above. They streamed toward the spark, and merged with it, and as he gaped, a luminous form took shape within its brightness. It wavered a bit, then steadied and solidified, and he found his breath in a harsh sob.
Sam...
"Frodo?" he whispered shakily. "Is it really you?" A glowing hand came up toward his face, and he flinched in spite of his resolve. But he couldn't feel anything at all - just a slight coolness that could have been the touch of the evening breeze.
Yes Sam, it's me. Did I hurt you? The voice was gentle in his head at first, and then it sharpened. I'm sorry if I did, but you scared me so, you know. I wasn't expecting that, you see, and the insubstantial eyes dropped to the vial in his fist.
Sam put out a trembling hand and watched numbly as it went through the figure as if it wasn't there. "I scared you?" he quavered. "How could you feel fear? You're not real - I can't touch you... I wanted you so much and now I'm seeing you, but you're not real, are you?" He drew a ragged breath and shut his eyes as tears rose in his throat. His chest hurt, and he clutched at it, the pain merely a part of a greater whole.
Sam... my Sam... A warmth enveloped him, and he looked up, his eyes blinded by the tears he'd denied for so long. He was enfolded in light, embraced by it. He breathed it in, the smell of musty books, of roses and new-mown hay, and the scents of love and lust. It tingled throughout his body, and the walls of his despair crumbled before its onslaught. Memories cascaded through his mind; he heard again the happy laughter of friendship, the deep tones of wise counsel. He saw the night sky over the hill of Bag End, and a white tree crowned by stars. And he remembered too, the stink of the mire, and the sulfurous fumes of a pitiless land; a golden ring, an eagle's scream, the pain of a maimed hand, and a long goodbye.
And through all the remembering, a thread - woven of love, binding them together, making them bearable. Sharing them at last.
Frodo stepped back, his hand trailing a faint warmth down Sam's cheek. I have been waiting for you, Sam. I always knew you'd come. He smiled, and around the glade, the trees began to glow with a soft green light.
"Mr. Frodo? What - what is this place, sir?"
You stand in Yavanna's grove, and now you have what you desired. A chance at another life, and a choice to make.
Beside the figure of his master, a light began to grow - shining so bright that Sam could scarcely bear it. The ageless voice in his head was gentle and it touched his senses with the cool green of young leaves. A choice, Samwise Gamgee - to stay, to live and create beauty to delight the hearts of all who see it - or to forsake this life and meet in the Halls of Mandos he whom you love. Chose wisely, for there is still so much you can learn, so much you yet can do. Which is it to be?
Tantalizing visions invaded his mind. He saw a most beautiful garden, and himself - young again, beloved and renowned. He saw himself creating new plants out of old, and giving strength and virtue to familiar strains. The elves of Valinor itself hung upon his words and honored him, and he was counted among the great and the wise of the land.
He blinked, and blushed deeply. "Thank 'ee, My Lady," his voice was clear and unwavering, "and I'm very grateful, I'm sure. But I was never one for being famous and all, you see. I just got on with the job I had to do, and whatever I did, I didn't do for me." He stole a look at the smaller, dimmer glow. The light had turned opaque, and he couldn't see anything within it. He swallowed hard, and went on. "But love, now - love's different. It can make up for a great many things you lack, and if it isn't there, why - nothing you have will ever be enough to go on with.
"I've had a good, long life and a full one too. I made my choice a long time ago - I came here to be with Mr. Frodo, and If he were here, it'd be another thing entirely, but he can't be, and that's that. I choose him, my Lady, and I am content with my choice."
A question blossomed in his mind, and he gave his assent. It seemed as if cool fingers riffled through his head, carding through the memories, infusing them with healing and with light. You are truly at peace, the melodious voice said, and he seemed to hear a smile in it. You have served long and well, Samwise Gamgee. It is fitting, and most deserved. A last caress, a seeming benediction, and the awesome presence was gone.
He frowned in puzzlement, and looked at the light that held his Frodo in its embrace. As he watched, color tinted the glowing cheeks, and the beautiful eyes, blue as forget-me-nots in the sun. Strands of dark russet tossed in the breeze, curling over the collar of a much-loved shirt and the light about him was as nothing compared to the shining smile that lit his face.
"Mr. Frodo..." he breathed.
Oh, Sam, Frodo chided, his voice laughing and joyful. Is it Mr. Frodo still, after all these years?
Sam grinned, and his heart felt full unto bursting. "Well, M - Frodo, as far back as I can remember, when I called you Mister Frodo, it was My Frodo I always heard, and My Frodo I always meant, if you follow me. Leave it be, me dear - I'm too old to change now, and that's a fact."
A question niggled in his mind and wouldn't let go. "Frodo? What did the Lady mean? She said it was fitting - I don't understand..."
His love smiled. You asked how I could feel fear, Sam, and this is how.
Frodo brought both his hands up to cup Sam's face, and he turned white as snow. "I can feel you!" he stuttered. "You're warm! I - I - " He covered Frodo's hands with his, and fresh tears welled in his eyes.
I too had a choice, Sam - to rest in the Halls of Mandos and find complete healing and peace; or to tarry long years in wait for you. The blue eyes glazed over with remembrance. A choice - to leave my worn body behind; to be on the Earth but not of it - to slowly heal and still feel loneliness, pain and fear... and this...
And he lowered his head and closed Sam's gaping mouth for him. White fire burned Sam's veins, rushing in fiery waves toward the warm lips that covered his face with kisses. They traced the hollows of his eyes, and loved the wrinkles of his skin. Then Frodo sought his lips again, and the painful years faded as melting snow beneath the honeyed heat of his tongue. His blood rose as sap in the willow trees come spring, and he felt young again, and so alive.
We can go wherever we wish, Frodo's voice whispered in his mind, but here, in the centre of her power, we can be one. Oh, Sam - there is so much I want to say to you, so much I need to beg your pardon for. Will you come with me, Sam?
"Oh, yes, Frodo, please." Sam grinned, remembering a well-loved voice. "I do believe that I am whole at last - and - I think I am ready... for another adventure."
Frodo clasped him close and kissed his brow, an echo of an earlier goodbye. A spear of pain shot up his arm and washed his chest, and then the pain faded...
...and there was nothing left in the star-lit glade but moans of pleasure on the wind.
~~~~~
It was the middle of a sunny summer afternoon, many years later, when two travelers dismounted at the entrance to the glade.
They stopped at the stone, and knelt to brush the detritus of leaf and moss away. Some of the carven words were blurred, the edges worn by time, while others still glinted sharp and new. A slender finger traced them, and a soft voice read, "Frodo Baggins... Samwise Gamgee... of the Shire. Ringbearers." A gruff sniff answered him, and a sleeve swiped a reddening nose. The finger continued on its course, brushing over the elven runes, and the liquid tones of Quenya filled the clearing. The other raised an inquiring brow, and the runes were translated for him.
Two trees stood in the centre of the space, their branches touching, and the travelers stood beneath their shade, savoring the peace and beauty of the dell. A keen eye spotted a pack, half buried in the grass, and they bent to peer at it. The leather was cracked and half-rotted, and its contents spilled out through gaping rents to lie scattered on the sward. There was an oval of wood, carved around with roses on the frame, moss-grown and weathered. Flakes of paint still clung to it, but if there had been an image once, it was gone now.
"Roses, Legolas," said Gimli. "That must have belonged to Sam."
"Aye, my friend," the elf replaced the plaque and rose to his feet. "They are truly together now, as they should have been, and my heart rejoices for them. But come, let us do what we came here to do."
He unfastened a flask from his belt, and poured a measure out to splash on the green grass. They both watched the thin amber stream gleam golden in the sunlight, and he spoke into the still air, "It is merely the miruvor of Imladris, and not the excellent brew of your homeland, but as I recall, you liked it well."
They took a swallow apiece from the flask, and then Gimli hefted a pouch and loosened the strings of it. "Longbottom leaf, of 1420," he said gruffly. "Enjoy it, my friends." And he shook out a generous handful and tossed it into the air.
A breeze came out of nowhere and caught the tawny shreds, swirling them through the air in a graceful dance. It lifted Gimli's braids and blew them across his face, and tossed the golden strands of Legolas' hair into tangles. Then it whirled back to caress their faces with warm fingers, and Gimli fancied he could hear sighs of happiness on the wind. Their eyes widened, and they looked at each other, and smiled.
"Rascally hobbits," Gimli muttered with a grin. "Haven't changed at all, have you." And the clearing brightened with silent laughter.
They rested under the shade of the trees, enjoying the playful breeze and the beauty of the glade. The dwarf peered at the star-spangled grass and grunted, "Do you remember, master elf, the white flower that grew on the barrows of Meduseld?"
"Yes, Gimli," Legolas nodded and stroked a soft white petal. Simbelmynë, they are called, in the land of men. The Evermind. But here, we do not plant them on graves, for we do not forget. They are here on their own, perhaps to do homage to our friends." He smiled gently. "It is fitting that the land remembers them, is it not?"
They stayed a while, and as they left, it seemed as if the rustling of the leaves called goodbye and youthful laughter chased through the boles of the silvery trees with the breeze.
A beam of sunlight gilded the white stone and glanced off the chiseled edges of the elven runes. And they picked up the light and blazed forth briefly...
The wind knows their names...
The End
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