Work Text:
Sam’s toes curl deeper into the sand as the boat passes over the horizon. He stands, tears reflecting the light of the setting sun.
A wave rolls onto the shore. It’s the first one to reach him, waters rushing past his legs and scraping them with sand. He doesn’t waver, even as the tide rescinds.
A shell washed up with the wave. It’s only open on one side, the rest curled around itself. The sheen reminds him of the jewel that hangs around Frodo’s neck: gentle, yet brilliant.
Night falls. The shell is still there.
He picks it up and leaves.
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“Sam, come here,” Rosie calls. He follows her voice to his study, where she stares at one of his shelves.
“I didn’t know you had one of these,” she says, holding the shell. “Put it up to your ear.”
She hands it to him. It feels odd in his hands, an heirloom from a place he was never meant to be.
He does as she asked.
It’s quiet, but he hears it: the sound of waves crashing onto land, then receding into the sea.
And he’s there again, helplessly staring at the water in front of him, alone and shattered, just like the fragments of what were once shells in the sand he stands on.
Sam weeps.