faderift | [open] concerning hobbits

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[open] concerning hobbits

WHO: Samwise Gamgee and EVERYONE HE CAN FIND
WHAT: Sam's arrived at Skyhold and is exploring! Also asking questions. All the questions.
WHEN: After arriving from the Fallow Mire
WHERE: Skyhold
NOTES: Feel free to meet Sam in any part of Skyhold! He'll be all over.

He'd tried to stick close to who he'd already started privately thinking of as his new friends - the other Sam and the wizard Twisted Fate. He'd even glimpsed, once or twice, the Man who'd pulled him out of the Mire in the first place, and saved him from being drownded. But the road from the Fallow Mire had been long, and Sam had spent much of it on his own, tucked away in small corners of wagons or sitting astride horses alongside dwarves, being too short to walk and have a hope of keeping up.

And when they'd arrived at last, he'd found himself suddenly left completely to his own devices.

Skyhold. He rolls the word around in his mind, staring up, up at the battlements and the clouds beyond. It's a good enough name for the place, he supposes, being up in the mountains as it is. And there's something in it that appeals to him - it's not quite Elvish, not quite Rivendell or Lothlórien, but it's a bit more fanciful than Hobbiton or Bywater, he thinks. As for the place itself, he finds himself a bit overwhelmed - not only with the size (which is enormous in its own right, apart from everything in it being built proportionate to Big People), but with the ceaseless activity and the seemingly endless places to explore and get lost in.

He finds the kitchen first, hobbit-senses guiding him true, but after he's snacked his fill he finds himself wanting to explore more, and he steps carefully down the stairs into the yard. There are folk of all shapes and sizes everywhere (though nobody he recognizes), and he takes a deep breath before walking forward, not quite sure where he's going.

There are Elves here; he knows that much. If nothing else, perhaps the Elves will know more about what's happened and why he's come here. Perhaps they'll at least know Gandalf's name.

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Galadriel was glad to have put the Fallow Mire behind her; there was far too little she could do and, while she was willing to provide the aid they required, the time she spent in the starless, fetid marshland was exhausting. Skyhold was not Lórien, but it was a far cry better than the Mire. The ground was stable, the wind did not stink of decay and rot, and she could exchange her ill-fitted traveling garments for the gown she preferred.

Clad in white and with her hair unbound, she felt nearly unburdened by the memories of the Mire. There was, of course, much to do, even in Skyhold, but she savored the afternoon sun as it threw warm, golden light over the gardens and drew long, harmless shadows across the stone.

How delightful it was to simply linger in the sunlight.

Sam left the Herald's Rest just a bit worse for wear. Since Korrin had first introduced him to the tavern, he'd grown fond of the place and its wide array of ales and other drinks. There was always someone or something interesting to watch, too, even if he was too shy to approach most of the strange people he saw there.

Today, though, he'd gotten a bit carried away in telling stories of the Green Dragon back home, and then he'd started thinking of Hobbiton, and the Gaffer, and Mr. Frodo, and all the things and people he'd left behind, possibly never to see again. He'd drunk a bit more than was wise, trying to get his mind off things, but the ale had sunk his heart further rather than lifting it up, and when he finally staggered out into the sunlight, his head was bowed with the heavy weight of grief and fading hope. Perhaps he'd never find a way home. Perhaps he'd have to live out the rest of his days here, and never see any other hobbit ever again, nor find out what had become of Frodo and the Ring, nor even have a chance to talk to anyone from Middle-earth or see another familiar face as long as he lived.

He sniffled, wiping a stray tear away and smudging a bit of dirt across his cheek in the process (he'd been working in the garden before he'd made his way to the tavern for a bit of a break, and perhaps it would have been better if he'd just stayed where he'd started). A soft glow caught his attention as he lowered his hand, and he raised his head, searching for the source of the light.

He stopped. And stared.

And then he threw himself forward with a cry, running with such speed and recklessness in his desire to reach her before she turned a corner and disappeared from view, or perhaps simply vanished into the thin air, that he stumbled over the grass as he went and all but toppled into her. He caught himself on her dress, muddying it in the process, but he hardly noticed, so intently was he gazing up at her face.

"Lady Galadriel!" he cried, and again, rubbing his eyes as if still not quite convinced that she was real. "Lady Galadriel!"

Galadriel had become accustomed to the urgency of mortal beings, especially as she walked within the walls of Skyhold, but she could not recall when last someone barreled toward her with such boundless enthusiasm. The sight might have helped to jog her memory, had she caught sight of him at all before his weight came crashing against her legs, but she did not. His fell upon her and Galadriel stumbled as his hands fisted in the flowing fabric of her gown. She was nearly sent sprawling, surprised as she was, and stared down at him in shock as she caught herself.

She did not know his face, nor precisely what he was, but he was calling her name as though he were entreating the Valar above. A moment of staring blankly, confused and startled, did yield some answers, however. Across his shoulders, though muddied and worn, rested a cloak of grey and green--at his throat sat the silver-twined leaf of Lorien. Galadriel did not ask where he had acquired such things because, despite his unfamiliar face, they could have only come from her hand.

That, she realized a touch belatedly, meant he was certainly from Arda and, all at once, he had her full attention.

"Be calm!" She asked, her joy rising up out of her and into her words. Her shout became little more than a request, carried on the spread of her smile. "I am here," she assured him. "You need not pin me down, I shall not leave you."

Sam backed off, though not far, reassured by her words and her smile. He gave her an answering smile of his own, beaming up at her with shining eyes and cheeks still faintly streaked with tears.

"I thought I was all alone here," he said, words all but tumbling over one another in his excitement. "I thought I was the only one! I asked about the other hobbits, right enough, and I asked for Strider, but I never thought to ask for you. And now here you are, plain as day - though plain isn't the right word at all, of course. But there I go running my mouth again! Begging your pardon, I only - well, I was feeling a bit low, if you want the truth, when I spotted you, and I had to catch you before you vanished. I thought - I thought I'd never see anyone from home ever again."

Galadriel listened as the creature recounted, hurriedly, a litany of his woes, her eyes searching his small face and frame as he did so. So glad was he, so sincere and joyous that he'd found her, that she hadn't the heart to stop him in his rambling. She would have foregone asking after his name, if there was no need of it, but at once he was speaking of hobbits and Strider and a great number of very important questions came to her mind.

Though there were no agents of the Dark Lord here to overhear them, Galadriel was still wary to take any chance. Gently she bent until she was kneeling before his round, tear-streaked face; her smile was tinged with worry and no small note of apology as she spoke.

"And I am glad to see a friendly face so far from familiar lands. I thank you for catching me up, mellon nin; I might not have known any peoples of Middle-earth wandered in Thedas, apart from myself, and such is a sad and lonely thought."

His hands were tangled in her gown and, gently, she settled her own atop his. Clad as he was, standing before her and speaking of Aragorn, a great foreboding had taken hold of her. She could not sense the weapon of the enemy, but her skills were so muted in Thedas--would she have known it if it were right before her?

"From whence did you come, Master Hobbit, that you are clothed such? What task has Thedas drawn you from?"

He beamed at her thanks, nearly bursting with pride when she called him mellon; one of the few Elvish words he actually knew, and one he'd never dreamed any Elf would ever call him, much less a great elf lady like Galadriel.

But his smile faltered at her questions, and he gazed at her with a troubled, uncertain look.

"Why - why, I came from you, of course," he answered in surprise. "That is, we'd just left Lorien, and were a few days down the River, when I went to sleep and woke up here - or was woken up, by falling into that Mire." So great was his surprise at finding that she knew less than he about his whereabouts and his activities that he completely forgot to answer her second question, or explain who exactly he meant by we. He frowned, unable to hide his disappointment and concern. "Don't you remember?"

His face fell and, with it, dragged down by the weight of his words, went Galadriel's heart. Her smile was not easily dispelled, not when speaking to so delicate a thing as this halfling, but a stillness settled over her that was heavy with dread.

They had left Lorien by way of the river, clad in cloaks with concealment woven into every fiber of them, clasped with leaves. His own was laden with both meaning and purpose, with willpower far beyond what the Galadhrim had ever borne. Who he traveled with, he had not said, and Galadriel found herself glad for his distraction--she could only assume he walked with Aragorn, but that such a pair had found themselves in the golden wood, that they had left by the river, meant their course could only take them east.

They walked into the shadow of the dark tower and their purpose, though she could not be certain of it, was easily guessed.

"I am sorry," Galadriel told him, as honestly and gently as she could manage to make it. She wished to dive into his heart, to press him and see what evil he carried, but her oath to Adelaide and her fear stayed her hand. As much as she wished to know, she wished she knew less; in the meager truths he had told her, already she could hear the coming of her doom. She had no desire to hasten it.

"I can see we have met, I would know my own crafts no matter who wore them, and they are so fine that I must have been fond of you, Master Hobbit," Galadriel assured him and lifted a hand to brush it across his cheek. The dirt that still marred his face was easily wiped away. "But I cannot recall our meeting; I fear it has not happened yet, not by my count."

Her words were so kind, he found he could not even continue to be too disappointed that she did not know him. Sam blushed, self-consciously trying to straighten his cloak and brush off the worst of the dirt without her noticing (a futile attempt).

"It's a very fine gift indeed, my lady," he assured her, standing a little straighter. "Cool in the sun and warm at night: just as promised. But how do you mean, not happened yet? Time moves strange in Lorien, true enough, but you were there. I saw you with my own two eyes, more than once, though not as often as I would've liked, maybe - begging your pardon." He blushed again, suddenly aware that he may have been letting his tongue wag too freely, and without as much respect as he should have given.

It was a true test of will, lingering in dark thoughts while standing face to face with such a creature. Hobbits were truly remarkable, if this hobbit was any indication, and his assurances, eager and enthusiastic as they were, did much to calm the raging of her mind. The stillness that had taken her ebbed, somewhat, and a softness found its way into her smile.

"Time moves strangely in all places," Galadriel said and, with a gentle hand on his shoulder, she drew herself up as much as she was able. "It is a tide that pulls at everything and not always in the same direction."

Her hand lingered for a moment longer and then Galadriel stood again.

"I apologize if I was not hospitable enough during your stay in Lorien, Master Hobbit, I shall endeavor to correct that slight in Thedas, if I can."

Sam looked up at her cheerfully as she spoke, full of hope and oblivious to the turmoil in her mind. She hid it well, and even if she had not, he was too overjoyed at the unexpected meeting to have noticed in any case.

He looked alarmed at her apology, quickly shaking his head. "Oh no, no - I didn't mean to say anything of the sort," he insisted, aghast at the very idea of insulting the hospitality of the Elves, and especially of the Lady Galadriel. "The Golden Wood is one of the best places I've ever been, and that's a fact. As peaceful as Rivendell, but - older, somehow, as if it had always been there. And yet everything all fresh and new: it felt like no one and nothing that lived there could ever grow tired, or grow old. I would have liked to stay longer; but we had to get on, you know." At this last his expression grew sober and withdrawn, his thoughts turning as they often did to Frodo and the others, wondering where they were now and what might be happening to them - if they were anywhere at all.

"I do indeed," Galadriel agreed, though she pointedly refrained from acknowledging what task he had left the wood to undertake, both aloud and in her own mind, for too great was the breadth of possibility that thought carried with it.

"Though now I see why I clad you in such grand gifts, Master Hobbit," Galadriel added, her own tone rising lightly as the halfling before her was pulled down by the weight of his burden, by the sorrow it had doubtless caused him. "You speak of Lorien as kindly as I've ever heard, as though it were your home, and it is only right that you be clad in the garb of those who protect it."

She drew her hands back and settled them before her, arranged them so that the flowing fabric of her sleeves draped over them and covered the front of her gown. It was not so perfect a covering that the muddy imprint of the hobbit was not still visible on the white silk, but it hid much of it.

Edited 2016-01-03 09:22 (UTC)

Sam blushed, ducking his head at the Elf's praise. He tugged at his cloak again, stroking his fingers a bit more thoughtfully along the fabric.

"It's a fine gift indeed, my lady," he assured her. "And I've still got a bit of elven rope with me, having taken a length of it from the boat for safekeeping, begging your pardon. And this of course."

He reached into his pocket, and slowly drew out a small grey box. Though his hands and face were grubby and his clothes a bit threadbare and ragged after his long journey, the box was still in perfect condition, and he handled it with a special care and reverence as he held it out for her to see.

Galadriel watched as he withdrew the box from his pocket, her curiosity piqued in the strangest way. He had been given these things, all of them wrought by her hand, borne of Lorien, and seeing each of them revealed without memory of giving them? It was not unlike staring into the Mirror, watching the threads of fate as they drew upon the unfamiliar. She knew what she saw was a reflection of herself, but she did not recognize it.

He held out the grey box, pristine and cared for, and Galadriel's smile fell away in shock.

On the lid it still bore the mithril rune for her name.

"I gave you this?" Galadriel asked distantly and reached forward. Her fingers lighted on the box delicately and, without thought for propriety nor asking for his permission, she lifted it from his hand and drew it closer.

The box was old, by any measure it was a relic, but it had little power beyond that which had crept into it over thousands of years. It was a sentimental thing; the container of a far more precious gift, and Galadriel's attention was consumed by it as she opened the lid.

What she found, she did not expect.

She stared a moment, caught in silence and confusion, and the nature of her gift, of what she held, gradually became apparent. This gift was not so great in magnitude as she had expected; it was a practical thing, something fond and, daresay, optimistic. Why she had chosen to give him this, in this container, was baffling but she did not question it. She had not gifted him the Elessar but, looking upon the contents of the box, she found them far more precious than even the clear green light of that brooch.

"It is from my garden," she said, her voice quiet and distant with thought. Her fingers grazed the soil and, without her leave, a great, longing sorrow welled up within her. By the grace of the Valar, or perhaps the gods of Thedas, her composure was steady as she closed the lid again. She did not weep, but the tears that found their way down her pale cheeks were not thin.

Sam waited patiently, not minding in the least when Galadriel picked up the box for a closer look. It wasn't quite fair to her, after all, that she'd given it to him and couldn't remember doing so; he could hardly blame her for wanting to see just what it was.

"Yes, m'lady," he answered her, but she didn't answer, and he fell silent, watching curiously as she gazed upon the small box, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Curiosity was lost to concern as she continued to stare almost obsessively at it, and Sam was just about to ask if she was feeling quite herself when she closed the lid again.

He looked up at her face, and was struck with horror at what he saw. Tears tracked wide paths down her cheeks, marring her otherwise perfect features, and Sam's heart sank right down to his toes as he inwardly cursed himself for a fool.

"D-don't cry, my lady!" he cried, guiltridden and panicked; he would have done anything in that moment to stop her tears, to see her smile again. He thrust the box towards her in offering, and if he'd been a bit taller he might have forced it into her hands. "You can have it back. I don't need it; not like you do, now that you're so far from home. There's plenty of garden for me here anyhow. Please, please don't be sad!"

As such request often were, the hobbit's cry was counter-productive at best. He was so obvious in his dismay that Galadriel could nearly feel it radiating off his heart. Another tear tracked down her cheek and she regarded him sadly, even as he held the box aloft and all but jumped to press it back into her hands.

"Be calm, Master Hobbit," Galadriel said, though this time her voice was not nearly so startled or loud as it had been when he first crashed into her.

He offered to return it, this piece of home wrapped safely in sentiment and nostalgia. She longed for it, in as much as she could long for so simple a thing, but she did not need it...not as he would. Hope was such a small thing, fleeting and delicate, and she could think of no other reason she'd have given him such a gift. It was worthless for his travels--more than that, it was a burden to be dragged into the dark lands. He needed hope more than she, at least, if his travels were what she feared they were.

It was simply a fragment of Arda; for her, it was something tangible and little else, something to linger over and mourn.

"I am simply homesick, you needn't worry," Galadriel told him and, once she'd brushed her fingers across her cheeks, her tears were but a memory.

"That gift was given to you. I would not reclaim it, nor any of the others, for that is not their fate. They are yours and were not given lightly." She could not muster a smile, but she did not look so sad as she lowered her hands and hid them between her sleeves again. "But I would ask something of you, Master Hobbit, if you would grant it.

"Tell me, for time has stolen our introductions, what is your name?"

He couldn't help her, not even in this small way. Sam looked crestfallen, but he took the box back, carefully tucking it away again. His expression was full of anxious worry as he looked up at her, and his heart sank a little lower when she regarded him still without smiling.

Her question surprised him at first, before he realized that of course she wouldn't know his name if she hadn't met him yet. "Samwise Gamgee, my lady," he answered, and bowed low. He might have said something more, but words failed him; everything he'd said to her so far certainly didn't seem to have done much good.

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[open] concerning hobbits

Arrives half an Age late with Starbucks.

YEAAAAH

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