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Dear Mr. Frodo, 11 January 1433---
Hello, Mr. Frodo. It's been a while since I wrote you. Forgive me. Frodo-lad is ten now, and everytime I look at him, he reminds me of you, and it's not just name-relation either. He has your eyes. It is sort of strange, I guess. Rosie is fine, we're expecting another little one soon. Daisy, I think, if it's another girl. Rosie wants a boy, and to name him Samwise, but I was thinking sir, and if you had ever had a boy or two, maybe you had named him Samwise too, and I didn't want to get them confused, if ever you came back and the two met. Not that I think you should name any of your children after me, sir, just was thinking that's all. And you know how bad we Gamgee's are at that sort of thing. Well, me at least. So we'll end up probably naming him Bilbo, perhaps. That's a fine name. This next one will be eight. Eight children, I can hardly believe it. I have so much happiness from my children, sometimes I think I'm dreaming it all. I'm mayor now too, sir. Oh, I wish you could be here to see the people all turn out for the elections. It's overwhelming, really. I need a good old Baggins to come back and knock some sense into me. All this popularity gets into me head and I sometimes forget to go out and weed the roses and tend to the cabbages myself. Rosie insists we hire some gardeners to help out, but, by golly, I -am- a Gardener! I'm just not as free as I used to be.
We're keeping Bag End nice here, sir, and even with all the children now, there is always a room open for you, or anyone, should they come by to visit. I think, once I've decided to retire, I'll leave Bag End to Frodo-lad. It seems only fitting to let him have it, doesn't it? Maybe you could take him on as an heir someday: it would greatly please my heart to know that Frodo Baggins was again the lord of Bag End. Frodo-lad does so enjoy it here, too. He's not got my wanderlust, thankfully, but he does like the gardens, as he should. I suppose I favour him and Elanor a bit more than the others, although I shouldn't, I suppose. I wish you could have met Frodo-lad, dear.
I suppose beyond the Grey Havens is nice though, isn't it? Out there over the Sea, into the wild unknown, living with the elves. I sometimes sit here late at night, as I am now, and try to picture you and what sort of life you are living now, with the other ring-bearers, and the elves. To me, it is just this misty dusky place, with many high trees and lots of thin tall elves. I wonder how it must be for you, to be a hobbit still, after so many years with elves. And then, Old Bilbo survived right through with the elves during his long stay in Rivendell, so I tell myself you're doing fine, writing a book of your own perhaps, seeing how you left the Red one behind.
Still, sir, I sometimes wonder if you ever miss life back in the Shire. The sun on the hobbit holes, the Mid-summers Eve parties, and smoking fine weed out on the knoll. Do you ever miss this poor old Samwise? He sure does miss you, sir. I weren't kidding when I said between you and Rosie dear I was being torn in two, sir. I would have gone with you beyond the Grey Havens, if you had asked. Even if I had wanted to stay and marry Rosie then, I would have gone with you. Maybe now I'd be writing a letter back to the Shire from there, saying something similar to Rosie. I don't regret my choice Mr. Frodo, so don't go feeling guilty: I love my children, and Rosie makes me happy, but I do miss you sir. Very much so.
I suppose it seems a little folly, but we grew awful close during the trip to destroy that ring. While that ring might have alienated you from the rest of Hobbitkind, and the world, well, it brought this Gamgee right close up to you, sir. Then the same ring was what took you away from me too, in the end. Having had such a wonderful adventure tends to make the rest of life seem, well, a little mundane sir, if you know what I mean. Rosie don't like it when I get that look in my eyes and I stand up on the knoll looking East, seeing Rivendell and Weathertop and Gondor in it's beauty again. She's never even been up to Bree sir, so of course she won't understand.
Maybe that's the problem I have most, Frodo sir: Rosie.
She's a right fine lass, loveliest hobbit lady I ever set eyes on, for sure, save my flaxen haired Elanor, but Rosie don't like all the adventures and stories I tell the hobbit-children. And she don't like me talking 'bout up and leaving, taking adventures and things, even little ones. I once had a mind to take Elanor and Frodo-lad up to Bree, show them 'round the very Inn of the Pracing Pony and all, but Rosie dear wouldn't hear of it. She's a right old fashion hobbit type she is, with her toes in the dirt, planted firm. I wonder what she ever saw in a hobbit like me. I do love the dirt, truly, and I'm not to complain over the fine hole we live in and the grand gardens we tend, and maybe if I hadn't gone on that adventure, and if I hadn't died in part with you up on the slopes of Mordor I would be happy forever living here as a hobbit.
People say you left here because you couldn't be happy amoung us folk no more. I didn't understand then, sir. I was so happy to be home again, and the idea of living with you in Bag End with Rosie and Elanor, and being your gardener 'til we both grew old seemed such a fine idea, I couldn't comprehend why you wanted to break that dream. By then, though sir, I was committed. I had to stay with Rosie, although my heart longed to be with you. Days and weeks and months and years and even decades have gone by now, and I haven't had a word from you at all. Maybe thats part of the suffering I have now too, sir, the whole bout of not knowing. But, I understand a little of why you left, now.
Maybe if I knew you were happy now with a Sam-lad and a Strider-lad and maybe a Pippin or Merry of your own with a right hobbit lass, I'd feel more at ease. Something tells me though, there aren't no hobbits out there beside you, and I don't fancy you settling with an elf, like or no. So it's my place to worry about you, Frodo sir. And it's me wondering who is holding you to their breast when you feel sad or lonely. Did someone over there take my place at your side? Or do you do your weeping alone, sir? I get a tingle of jealousy when I think of being replaced sir, but it don't match the ache in my heart to think you're crying alone wherever you are.
Nights like these, sir, I have half a mind to up and pack up, take my things and head off to the Grey Havens myself. I see Pippin and Merry on occasion, and we always talk of you when we meet. They miss you, right they do, but neither misses you as I do. To them, I think you're already a legendary figure they've since forgotten. To them, in a sence, you're dead. And, to me in a sense you're dead too. And I wish I could be dead with you sir.
Now that it comes to it, I decided to write, sir, because, well, I'm just not happy anymore. Not like I used to be, cutting your hedges in the early morning, and waking up to to make breakfast for we two. I can't explain it sir. It's like I felt with Rosie, for the first few years. Everyday was a surprise and so long as she was there, it was wonderful. That's how it always was with you sir, even in Mordor so long as you was by my side I felt I could keep going. But, Rosie tires me now, sir. And, well, now maybe I shouldn't right say this, but I will: sometimes I pretend she's you. I knew you ever so much better than I did Rosie. I turned to her, because she was pretty, popular and her father had a keen eye on me marrying her. It seemed the proper thing to do.
Peoples says theres is three kinds of love, sir. The kind you have for your dearest of friends, the kind you have for your children and family, and the sort you have for your wife. Sir, don't think me foul for these thoughts, but the love I have for Rosie now is the love I should have for you. And when I say should, its because I think the love as was supposed to go to Rosie, got all spent up loving you sir. It's nothing I'm ashamed of sir, to admit that to you. I'm only sad I can't feel the same way for Rosie dear. She deserves a hobbits full love and attention, and I don't give it to her right. It isn't fair for me to pretend she's you when we cuddle up at night to sleep.
And, all these children, sir. They're yours and mine by my reckoning. Rosie maybe had them, and they right as rain do some resemble her, but you're the one I'm with when it comes to it. Maybe thats why I value Elanor and Frodo- lad more so than the others. Elanor you named, sir, and you were with me when she came about, and everything seemed just right. Frodo-lad came after you left sir, but not so far that all hope had gone from my heart at meeting you again. He bears your name, and in that way a part of you is still here in the Shire with him, and I can smile when I see him. I suppose he might not look anymore like you than Rose or Pippin or Merry or any of my others, but I think I try to make connections between you two when there are none.
I guess this is all strange, sir. I'm just writing in the dark.
I want you to know, that I'd come right over to be with you, if you gave the word for me. If you sent for me, I'd come. I'll be alright here alone, though. I'll keep Frodo-lad by my side and I'll be a fine mayor for the town, but I won't stop thinking about you, and if you never call me, well someday when my time is come, I'll travel down the path to the Grey Havens and over the sea myself. Then, if nothing else, I'll get to see you again. I'll wait for that, even if I'm one-hundred and eleven by the time it comes, I'll find my way back to your side. Because, sir, I love you.
Your humble servant and friend,
Samwise Gamgee
Sam looked at the paper under his hands, then set his quill down in it's ink well and lightly blew on the paper to make sure the ink was fulled dried. The house was quiet and dark about, except for the fireplace where he sat, writing by its light. He folded the paper as the ink finished setting, and then he slipped the sheet into a small envelope to address. He paused a moment, looking at the fire blazing in the hearth, then stood up to retrieve his sealing wax, and a candle.
On the envelope he wrote: "To Mr. Frodo Baggins" and beneath that he wrote: "The Grey Havens -- Over the Sea". He flipped the letter over and after melting some wax down with his candle he dripped it over the flap and sealed it with his mayors embossing stamp. Sam let it dry, then looked at the letter in his hands, weighing it gently as though it were heavy. True enough, it was laden heavy with words, and his very heart bared at the end. Sam rose, setting the letter on the tabletop he wrote it on and moved to get his pipe off the mantel where it rested over the fireplace. He methodically filled it with weed and lit it with the candle. He leaned against the mantel, looking at the letter on the desk as he took a pull off the pipe, letting his smoke waft away, shapeless into the air.
He straightened, moved to retrieve the letter, took it in his hand and turned back to face the fire. "I hope this letter finds you in good health, Frodo my love." He moved gently and with a small lift of his wrist, the letter fell from his fingers into the fire. Sam pursed his lips tightly shut as he watched the letter crumble into ash, and the ash into smoke. All of it rose up and out the little chimney, born away on the winds, out over the Westmaroth mountains to the Grey Havens and out over the Sea.
When at last the letter was gone from the fire, Sam sat down again in his plush chair across from the place, his pipe in between his lips, eyes focused on the flickering flames. He took a long pull off his pipe and leaned back, heavy of heart and mind, lonely of soul and body and said: "Well, sir, that's that."
.the end.