Love Endures by Anne Marie Gazzolo
This is a work of fiction. No infringement on the right of the Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema is intended. The copyright at the end protects only the original thoughts here. I wanted to explore various spiritual questions that Man and in this case, Hobbits, have grappled with for many an age. If God is all good, all loving why does He allow evil to exist? Why does He allow bad things to happen to good people? How can we forgive ourselves after falling? It is a love story of Frodo and Sam and also between Frodo, Ilúvatar, Merry and Pippin. There is nothing romantic and/or sexual implied in the love shared by the hobbits.
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My favorite scene in The Two Towers movie is when Frodo draws Sting on Sam, simply because of the awesome power of the moment - the malevolent influence of the Ring coming between two people who share the same heart and soul and that even with a sword at his throat held by one of two people he loves most in the world, Sam just keeps loving and loving and loving without skipping a beat. But what if the sword hadn’t stopped at the throat...
Chapter 1: A Terrible Loss
Sam gave a small gasp as Sting pierced his throat. He looked into his master’s and dearest friend’s crazed eyes and wished more than anything that he could reach him, but his heart broke to realize there was nothing to reach. It grieved him even more that if Frodo came to his senses, he would find only a corpse and never know that his Sam had forgiven him and never stopped loving him. The gardener closed his eyes as his lifeblood spilled out onto the stones. His last breath came as a sigh and his body relaxed. A bright light opened before him and he felt enveloped by love. Still he fought as he felt himself moving toward that light. Please, please, don’t make me leave him.
Sanity returned for a moment in Frodo’s eyes a few heartbeats later, then a worse madness as he looked down at the sword in his hand, dripping with Sam’s blood. His guardian’s eyes were closed. The Ring-bearer gave an inarticulate howl of grief, flung Sting away and frantically shook his friend’s body. There was no response.
"My Sam! No! Sam! SAM! NO!!"
His gaze was drawn to the Ring around his neck and viciously his hand grasped it, determined to throw it far from him, but he could not. He howled again, this time in rage, at himself for being so weak, at the Ring. With blood-covered hands, he groped for Sting again, aiming it this time toward his heart.
NO! DON’T! came a voice so loud and commanding that Frodo obeyed without question, without thought. Sting dropped from his nerveless fingers. The voice had sounded like Sam, but he knew that couldn’t be. He had just murdered his Sam.
He stood and looked up to the sky and in the distance, almost too faint to see, was the shrinking figure of the Nazgûl on his fell beast. Frodo screamed out for him to return. He reached for the Ring, to put it on, to expose himself and be relieved of his burden and die beside his brother.
NO!! came the voice again, but even stronger, and this time it sounded like Sam and Gandalf. But both were dead. Because of him.
He fell to his knees, gathered Sam’s body close to him and wailed out his grief. He rocked his friend and sobbed as he hadn’t since his parents had died. "I’m so sorry, Sam, so sorry, come back, oh please, come back," he cried over and over and over, knowing how completely useless those words were to express what poured out of his shattered heart and soul.
Faramir heard in the halfling’s wails an echo of what his own heart had made when his mother had died. He looked now down at the little one’s grief with compassion and pity. Had he not been near this same small size when his mum had died? Had he not held her and begged her not to go, to come back as Frodo was now doing? Had he not laid his head against her and soaked the front of her gown with his tears and known no consolation for having his heart ripped in two as her arms around him fell away and her soft voice could no longer comfort him or sing to him as it had so many times before? Yes, he knew that pain well that now lashed at him from the little one before him and from the little boy inside him. It seemed far too much for such a small being to able to bear without breaking apart utterly.
He listened to the halfling’s agonized sobs as long as he could bear them, then knelt down and gently placed his hand on Frodo’s shoulder. How had he and Sam endeared themselves to him in so short a time?
Frodo paid him no attention. He curled himself tighter around his Sam, rocking, crooning, sobbing, begging for forgiveness and for death. He wished to die more fervently than he had since his parents died. He had so longed to be buried with them in their joint grave.
It was not then your time to die, nor is it your time now, came the second voice and this time it was gentle and sounded only like Gandalf.
But I want to die! Frodo told the voice. Please let me. Please...
If you die now, all Middle-earth will die with you.
I don’t care! I don’t want to live anymore! I can’t. I killed Sam!
The Ring killed him, my dear child, not you.
It was my hand.
But it was not your heart, not your will.
What does that matter?! came the savage retort. He’s still dead! I still killed him! I tried to throw the Ring away and even now I can’t do it. I’m a murderer now because of it and I still can’t bear to part with it!
The voice had no answer for that, or at least, none that Frodo could hear over his wrenching sobs.
Leave me alone, he told it. If you can’t help me die, then leave me alone.
You are not alone, Frodo, you are never alone. Sam is with you still, even now. His spirit is forever enmeshed with yours. That’s why he was created, to love you enough so you could complete what you were created to do. He is at peace now. He rests in the arms of his Creator, as I do.
Can I rest there, too?
The plaintiveness of that plea broke the heart behind the voice. My dear hobbit, you already do. Let yourself feel that. Sam’s arms aren’t the only ones that are holding you. Rest in both arms tonight and then in morning rise and move on. Sam will stay by your side and so will the One Who loves you even more than he.
What love can he still have? came the bitter response. I killed him. I killed that love.
No, you cannot kill his love. That is a thing eternal. As is the love of the One Who made you.
Then I don’t deserve it anymore.
But you are still going to receive it. You cannot carry this burden alone.
I don’t want to carry it at all.
Who else would you appoint then? You were chosen for this, only you. There is no one else. Would you truly want someone else to carry it?
There was a long pause, then a very soft, No.
Faramir waited patiently, his hand still gently on Frodo’s shoulder. The Ring-bearer gradually became more and more aware of it and raised a tear- and blood-streaked face to the man whose own face had tears tracking down it. The captain’s heart broke anew for all he saw in the ageless, elven eyes that stared back at him. They seemed to contain the torment of the ages and the man wondered again how it could possibly be borne by such a small, fragile, mortal being. But even as he thought it, his answer came. He could still perceive faintly the light that emanated from those eyes and that little being as a whole.
"I’m sorry," the Ranger said softly, knowing how completely inadequate those words were, but hoping the sentiment behind them would reach Frodo.
The hobbit nodded numbly. He looked back at Sting, longing just to have it over with, to join his Sam in death. What else could he do? He didn’t want to do anything else.
"I’ll help you get to the Fire," Faramir said, convinced as never before the evil power of the Ring had to be destroyed. If it could destroy his strong brother, if it could tear apart two people as dear to each other as these two halflings were, he didn’t even want to imagine what it would do if unleashed on an entire city.
"I’m already there," Frodo murmured. "Already burning."
"Then I will help you get the Ring there."
"Yes," came the soft, distant reply. "Yes, before I kill anyone else."
Faramir watched as the Ring-bearer held his friend even closer and abandoned himself to exhaustion. He didn’t stir again until morning, though his tears continued to flow even in his sleep.
When the captain of the Rangers came to him in the morning and found him still sleeping and holding onto Sam, the man didn’t want to disturb him, but then Frodo roused on his own. For a moment he looked disoriented and shook Sam gently as to wake him, then he saw the wound and began to sob anew. When he was spent, he looked into Faramir’s sorrowful eyes.
"I must bury him before we go. Do you have any gardens here?"
Faramir shook his head. "Most of them have been destroyed."
Something hardened in Frodo then. "Then we must destroy the one who caused that. They must grow again."
He stood shakily, then stooped and gathered his Sam into his arms. "Where can I bury him then?"
Faramir looked at the little one, amazed at the strength within him. He knew only one place that hadn’t been entirely spoiled. "This way."
Frodo stumbled along with his burden and came to a small patch of dirt where a partially ruined gazebo stood. "This was my mother’s favorite place in better days," the Ranger said. "It was where she used to have her garden."
"Thank you, Captain," the hobbit said and gently laid down his burden.
Faramir watched as Frodo knelt down and began to dig at the ground with his bare hands. The man knelt down beside him and began to do the same. Two other Rangers came back with some tools to make it easier and the four of them worked in silence.
By the time they were done, Frodo was exhausted and the ground wet with his tears. He wiped his muddy, bleeding hands on his cloak and then brought Sam into his arms one last time. He held him very tightly for a long time and told him how sorry he was and how much he loved him, then kissed the cold forehead and brushed at the curls. He then laid his dearest friend and his own heart in the grave. He lingered there for a very long time, on his knees. He was stiff when he at last rose and would have fallen over had not Faramir reached out a hand to steady him. He shivered. He knew he would always be cold now without Sam’s heart to warm him.
Chapter 2: Help From Above
He did not look back when he left the city. His doom was before him and in him. He concentrated solely on keeping one foot in front of the other. He would do this for Sam, so no one else would have to endure what he was. Faramir and a dozen of his men followed him. Frodo refused to eat except a little at night and only drank when he was so dizzy from dehydration he could no longer walk. He stumbled more as day grew on and would have fallen more than once had not invisible hands reached to steady him.
I love you, came the voice that sounded so much like Sam’s. Frodo gasped in new pain and fresh tears flooded down his cheeks. The wind or what seemed to be the wind dried his cheeks in a gentle caress.
So they walked many miles until each night Frodo collapsed from exhaustion. The Rangers were amazed at his endurance. He didn’t speak to any of them, except to give soft thanks for the bowl of food Faramir gave him each night. Sometimes the men heard him murmuring in his sleep, usually to Sam. Each night, they watched new tears track down the little one’s cheeks, but also each night they watched him sleep as though curled around an invisible guardian. It was the only time his features looked a little less strained, a little more peaceful. He seemed to glow softly as though lit by moonlight, but there was no moon, no sun, only a pale, grey light. Each morning, Frodo was the first to wake at dawn, anxious to continue on.
He had not tried to kill himself again beyond the one time Faramir had woken from a sound sleep and seen Frodo staring fixedly at one of the Ranger’s own swords that the little one held across his lap, stroking the blade slowly. The man had started to sit up and open his mouth to stop the halfling, but then Frodo stopped on his own, as though he had come to a decision within himself. He laid the sword aside and lay down on his side and fell asleep. Faramir watched him for long time, retrieved the blade, then fell back to sleep again himself. He made sure after that Frodo had no access to any of the weapons he or his men had and a guard was placed around him, but the Ring-bearer did nothing more than sleep.
Torment continued to burn in Frodo’s eyes and soul, but there was steely determination there also. It was most obvious in the struggles the Ring-bearer fought with his burden. It was there that the little one showed his strength best, strength the Rangers knew they would be hard pressed to match, if they could at all. Faramir didn’t know what would happen when they reached the Fire, but he had no doubt that they would.
The captain spent long hours on their march watching Frodo, admiring and respecting him ever more, even beginning to love him, as he hadn’t loved anyone but his brother. He surprised himself by discovering he had found a new hero to emulate. They exchanged few words, but they recognized shared pain and determination in each other’s eyes and shared much with just a glance.
"Sam was my best friend," Frodo said one night as they watched the stars on a rare night the heavy clouds parted for a moment. "He was my heart."
Faramir looked at the Ring-bearer, startled, as those were the most words Frodo had spoken since they had left Osgiliath, but then he wondered whether his friend was even aware that he had spoken out loud. Pain still poured in a great gout from that little one, more than it would seem possible from such a small being, but there was fondness and love in those words too. Frodo wrapped his arms around himself. "He is my best friend," he amended softly, then lay down to sleep, wrapped in more than just his cloak.
Faramir and his men saw other instances in which it seemed the Ring-bearer had more aid than what could be seen with their eyes. The most dramatic was witnessed by the whole camp when one night the gangly creature Faramir had hoped never to see again suddenly reappeared and had been very stealthily moving toward the sleeping halfling whose hand was wrapped around the Ring. Faramir, sleeping near Frodo, had woken just as that other creature had reached out to touch that hand. He pointed his sword at Gollum’s throat. "I would stay away if I were you," the man said very quietly.
Gollum hissed and leapt first away, then rushed at an angle at the Ranger and managed to put his hands around the startled man’s throat. Faramir fought to release himself but the grip was too tight. Frodo startled awake when Gollum suddenly cried out in alarm and terror and roused the whole camp. They all saw the creature trying to choke the Ranger captain, then watched as against the twisted thing’s will, his fingers began to release the choke-hold as though being pried apart by an invisible but irresistible force.
Gollum howled, then they all watched the amazing spectable continue as the miserable wretch wrestled with his unseen opponent and then was finally thrown down by it. One of the Rangers got close enough to bind the creature’s arms and legs. Frodo lay back down and fell asleep again. There was a slight smile on his face.
The days smeared into each other, a hazy memory of exhaustion at best for all of them and for Frodo, a bright shaft of pain at his center, growing no better as the weight of the Ring grew more and more. There were times he could not even lift his head, but continued to stumble along at the punishing pace he had set for himself, a pace that would have tested the strength of any well-bodied man, let alone a hobbit whose feet were so blistered they left trails of blood behind. Frodo ignored that pain as well as that in the tortured muscles of his legs. It was barely noticeable in the agony that burned when his heart had been and in the torment as the Ring burrowed deep into his mind. He fed on the strength he was given moment by moment, not just by Sam but from a Source he could not even name. More than once he collapsed in the dirt and lay trembling, face down in the ash, then before Faramir or any of the men could reach him, he extended his hand as if expecting the help of another and continued on his way.
Gollum seemed the most unnerved by this and tried more than once to get away, but more than the rope around his waist, held him bound to the Ring-bearer’s side. Most times he tried to stay as far away as he could from Frodo himself. At other times, he was pulled to his side, drawn and repulsed at the same time. Frodo saw that and wondered whether his former guide was somehow aware of the Other he was only vaguely aware of himself. That awareness, though, seemed to have the opposite effect on the ruined hobbit as it did on him. But aren’t we both ruined? Frodo thought.
It was near the end of March when they at last reached the Fire. Frodo stopped a moment to behold the red storm that had been consuming him already for months, the fiercest part of it still burning as it had been for days and days. He only looked at it a short while, then continued on his way toward it. The Rangers paused longer and marveled anew at the courage and resilience of the halfling they protected, wondering where he was getting his strength. Not even the terror in the tunnel had been able to stop him, though it and the orcs they had encountered in the tower had cost them half their complement. Frodo apologized to Faramir for those deaths. The Ranger captain had argued in vain that it was not Frodo’s fault. He could only watch helplessly as the halfling who was now so dear to him added the weight of those losses to the already heavy burden he carried.
Frodo knew, though, where his strength came from. He had spoken truly when he had told Faramir that he was already burning, but along the way he had become slowly aware that the nature of the flames was changing. As much as he felt that the fire of his desolation and loss would never go out, he also knew the fire of Sam’s love and that of Another he couldn’t name would never be extinguished either. He would be able to complete the Quest.
Chapter 3: Worth Fighting For
Frodo held the Ring over the chasm. He could feel Sam’s presence near him, but more he felt great waves of darkness beating against him. He had no strength or will to fight them. He pulled the Ring close to him and put it on. He heard a scream of "No!" in the vast chamber and at first thought it was Sam, then he was attacked by Gollum and he heard the scream again.
The assault roused his failing strength more than anything else could have. He had already lost his Sam, must he also lose the one other thing he could not bear to? No, it could not be. It would not be. Faramir and his men watched as the two crazed Ring-bearers’ fought each other, one visible and mounted in mid-air, one invisible and they both seemed to be fighting also another invisible person. The captain could barely believe his eyes. He stepped forward to try to rescue Frodo, who became visible again, screaming in horrible agony and holding a heavily bleeding hand that was now missing part of a finger. Gollum dropped the finger that he had bitten off and held up the Ring. It was more than Frodo could bear. With murder in his eyes, he stalked the thief of his precious. He threw off Sam’s restraining grip and grappled with his enemy again. Faramir took a few more steps toward the struggling pair, but before he could reach either, both went over the edge.
Frodo grabbed onto a ledge. He didn’t know why he had. He felt he had been almost pushed there, as though a firm hand at his back held him there.
Let me go, he pleaded.
No. I want you to live.
Can’t I be with you?
I will always be with you, my dear, but you have more time to spend here, more things and people to live for.
For who and what? I’ve lost you and now I’ve lost the Ring. I don’t want to...I can’t....live without either.
Live for the goodness that is now safe in the world because you came here and the Ring is gone. Live for Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin and Strider who’s going to be King! They are all right because the Ring is gone, because you found them all worth fighting for and you won. And Mr. Gandalf - he’s alive! Oh, my dear, don’t die now.
Faramir came to the edge and looked straight into Frodo’s ravaged soul. He dropped to his stomach and reached down his hand.
"Reach!"
It was a command and an impassioned plea coming from both outside him and inside. Frodo obeyed both.
Chapter 4: Home
Frodo fought against living even as Aragorn sought to rescue him, even against the voices of Merry and Pippin that begged him to come back. He had many arguments with Sam in the shadowlands, and lost all of them. "Stubborn Gamgee," he was heard to murmur often in his sleep, sounding very annoyed but at times also affectionate.
Gandalf spoke to him as well, inside his mind and heart, and the wizard was heard to murmur more than once, "Stubborn Baggins," with just as much annoyance and affection. Aragorn and Legolas smiled despite their concerns which confused the fretful Merry and Pippin, leaving them wondering whether they were the only sane ones left in the entire Fellowship with everyone else either talking to themselves or people who weren't there or smiling like they had some sort of secret understanding they weren't able to share.
Of those who waited anxiously at his bedside, the wizard was the only one who knew exactly what demons his dear friend was fighting in that induced sleep, what caused the tears to stream down his cheeks. Aragorn wondered as did the rest of the Fellowship, but Gandalf was silent, having no desire to speak of what was tearing apart Frodo’s soul. That would be the Ring-bearer’s decision.
The others didn’t know any of it until Frodo woke from a nightmare, screaming, "I killed him! I killed him!"
Merry and Pippin startled awake at their cousin’s side and tried in vain to calm the racking sobs that shook the too-frail body of the Ring-bearer.
"I killed him!"
The two hobbits held their beloved, murmured what comforts they could, but Frodo did not hear or heed any of them. He squirmed out of their arms. Aragorn and Gandalf rushed in as soon as they heard the screams, but nothing the healer could do helped. The wizard tried to reach Frodo’s mind and heart.
"Let me go! Let me go!" Frodo cried out and neither Merry nor Pippin knew who he was talking to for no one was holding him at that moment.
Gandalf knew. Tears that were rarely seen rolled silently down his weathered cheeks. He sensed Sam very nearby, holding the shards of Frodo’s heart and his own in his hands, trying to meld them back together.
"Please let me go," the Ring-bearer murmured.
Frodo wept until he was hoarse, then collapsed back into sleep from sheer exhaustion. It was only then that the two hobbits and the one who would soon be their king cried. The hobbits couldn’t believe anything could have possibly driven their cousin to murder someone as dear to him as Sam, or murder anyone for that matter.
"What happened to him?" Merry asked.
"The Ring did all this," Gandalf said softly.
"Then how can we undo it?" Pippin asked as he watched the tears continue to fall down his cousin’s cheeks even in sleep.
"The damage is done, Pip," Merry said before anyone could answer. His voice was far older and more haunted that any of their race had ever been. "It can’t be undone. All we can do is just love him as we have always done and hope that will heal him and us."
"Love will be the only remedy for this," Gandalf agreed softly.
The hobbits sank back down beside him, snuggled close and put their arms across his chest and tried to rest again themselves. Frodo remained in his induced sleep for the next three days, barely stirring, but to call to Sam once in a while.
Aragorn distinctly heard him say, "I can’t," the night before he woke. He tossed restlessly, protested some more, then sighed heavily. "All right, all right, you stubborn hobbit. I’ll do it."
The uncrowned healer-king smiled.
The next morning, Frodo led the rest of the Fellowship to Sam’s grave. He hadn’t spoken further of it and Gandalf and Aragorn wondered whether he even remembered that he had screamed and wept out his pain.
Faramir stood with them as well as the Ring-bearer sank to the ground where he had buried his heart. He still didn’t speak to anyone of them, just softly to Sam as he carefully pulled away some weeds and pushed away some dirt that was covering the simple, unadorned grave. His tears fell on it as he listened as Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf all murmured prayers for the dead. It helped Frodo some to hear the prayers offered in several different languages, especially in Sindarin. Merry and Pippin bowed their heads. Faramir spoke in the silence of his heart.
Gandalf knelt down and touched Frodo’s shoulder and Aragorn did the same on the hobbit’s other side. The two other hobbits laid their heads against their cousin’s chest and back and wrapped their arms around him.
"It was not your fault," the wizard said.
"Then whose was it?" came Frodo’s dull voice, devoid of life and light.
"Sauron’s," Aragorn answered.
"Morgoth’s," Legolas said, his hand lightly resting on the hobbit’s curls.
"It was still my hand that did it."
"But you did not will it to happen," Gandalf said. "The Ring did, Sauron did."
Frodo turned silent again. His eyes had not left the gravestone. He hadn’t responded to any of the touches his friends made, the only warm spots on a body and soul gone cold. He heard but didn’t offer any consolation for his cousins’ tears. What could he offer, since he had caused them? What could be offered to him, that he could accept for the inferno of grief that still burned so hot within him? Why hadn’t he just let go?
Because there is goodness still left in you, my dear, and that is worth fighting for.
What goodness? There’s nothing left inside me but a dark, empty shell. My heart is buried in the ground, my soul in the fire.
Frodo could hear Sam sigh, or at least imagined it. You may feel empty now, but it is only because the Shire awaits to fill you again. Live for all that means to you, the fields and streams and woods, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, sunny days, apple picking, strawberries and cream, mushroom pies...
Yes, Sam. It shall all be there. But you won’t be. How can I go on knowing that? How can I possibly face your Gaffer or Rose or anyone?
I won’t ever leave you, my dear. We’ll face them together. I love you, my Frodo. I love you so much.
Frodo sighed. I love you, too.
"He should be buried in the Shire, in his garden," he said out loud, wishing that could be.
"You could make a garden here, Frodo," Faramir said.
"And I could carve you a worthy headstone," Gimli said.
"I would like that," Frodo said.
So Frodo spent his days and weeks. His maimed hand was still healing and Aragorn had warned him that infection could set in if it wasn’t kept clean and properly bandaged. At first Frodo hadn’t cared whether it was clean or not. Perhaps if infection did set in, he could die and join Sam. He started taking better care of it when he saw a gardening glove held out in mid-air for him to wear over the hand. He took the glove and the hint and slowly a fine garden, full of Sam’s favorite plants and flowers began to take root. Merry, Pippin, Faramir and the others visited often and would always find the hobbit on his hands and knees, planting or watering something, pulling up weeds. He spoke softly as he worked, sometimes directly to Sam, as though a normal two-way conversation was going on, though the only person ever heard was Frodo himself. The other two hobbits had trouble understanding that, but Gandalf, Aragorn and Legolas smiled. Merry and Pippin felt more comfortable when their cousin confined his words to the plants because they all knew from Sam that was what you needed to do. Frodo’s tears did most of the watering, and theirs did too, but there was also a sense of accomplishment to be seen in the hobbit’s eyes, a tender love that would sometimes shine out from behind the pain. There were even the very rare smiles that were like the sun coming out from dark storm clouds.
The grave marker was elegantly carved in Westron and the Sindarin that Sam had loved. Legolas had helped Gimli with the right wording for that after Frodo had told him what words he wanted there. The Ring-bearer had smiled it, then cried.
Samwise Gamgee
Gardener
Friend
Hero
Brother
"Those were my mother’s favorites, too," Faramir said one day when Frodo stood from all his planting, all mud-splattered on face, hands and breeches. Grief still ravaged his features, but a tendril of peace was making them more fair again.
"Bag End was full of them."
"That was where you lived?"
"I did. But not anymore."
"Where is your home now?"
Frodo looked down at the grave and touched it briefly. "Where it has been since I moved to Bag End. Wherever Sam is."