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Sam clings to Frodo. Soft lines, hard edges. The end is coming, he can feel the heat blistering his worn skin. He remembers home. And Rosie. But, somehow, he’s glad that he’s here.
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When they started the quest Frodo was full, whole. Now, he just looks hollow. A shadow of himself. Sam watches him in the dark and wonders how long the lembas will last. Not long enough. But, that's fine. Frodo needs it more. He watches Gollum slink around in the moonlight. For once he’s glad that the creature can’t eat their food. It saves him time.
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Sam hides in the bushes, listening to royal debates and decorative language that sugar-coats the danger they’ve already faced. He sees Frodo stand. He knows he must follow too.
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He sits at the wooden bench. All he sees are hard lines, soft edges. Frodo pushes him gently. Go on, dance with her. He says in a ghost of a whisper. He would rather dance with both, but gets up. Rosie laughs like a summer breeze when he staggers over. He can feel a bubbling sensation in his stomach: Alcohol? Embarrassment? Love? He decides that it’s love because he only feels it when he sees Rosie’s falling curls, and hears Frodo’s clear ringing laughter.
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He sits silently by Frodo’s side. His face is gaunt and drawn, like dried fruit or thin parchment. Sam never lets go of his hand.
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He stumbles and falls to the ground. Hot tears drip down his face. They are out of Moria. He thinks he’ll never sleep in the dark again.
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They return to a broken home.
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He leans - melts - over the cobweb wrapped thing - friend - love. He has been sucked dry, no tears escape, only a low, high-pitched whine. He cleans Frodo and lays him down. Perhaps death will be kinder to him now that it finally caught up.
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He watches the Elves walk away. They shine in the starlight. I could leave now. He thinks. I’ve seen them. I could go. He stays
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He dips his hands into the dead earth and wills it to live again. He plants the mallorn seed and hopes that it works.
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Frodo stands over the edge, hard, soft, both at once. He cradles the Ring like a babe. Sam screams. Frodo disappears.
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He burns. Frodo is alive. He burns like the Sun. He can feel the fire of the Ring in his heart. He runs after the Orcs.
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He follows the tower, up, up, up. Singing to himself. Sam thinks it might dispel the monsters. Might.
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Frodo cups his cheek. Kisses his brow. And hands him the book. It’s red. Red like blood, like swollen eyes, like plump lips, like a heart, like love.
He watches him sail away, and knows Frodo will now be happy.
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They get married in Spring, Sam and Rosie. They live with Frodo in Bag End. And Sam is happy.
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He walks the long dirt road to the front gate. He sweeps up his children and hugs them tight.
Well, I’m back. He says.
I’m home.