Into the West

If you're a stickler for inaccuracies, then beware; I wrote this story without any LOTR background reference at my disposal and there are some details I'm not sure about, but I like it the way it is and don't intend to change it. Thank you. :-)

The round, green hobbit door opened with a creak, and a small head with dark, curly hair peeped out. Crickets sang in the garden grass, and a warm, inviting light escaped from inside, falling on the walkway stones and scaring away the cold blue of night that touched them.

The little hobbit slipped out of the house and tiptoed outside, leaving the door ajar. The house was on a hill overlooking the rest of Hobbiton, and the stone wall of the garden lay parallel to the horizon. Sitting on the wall and facing away from the house sat an adult hobbit with light brown hair, looking at the horizon that lay somewhere beyond the town, and Frodo could see smoke rings drifting over his head into the big, blue night. He moved towards the wall.

The hobbit on the wall turned around, his pipe set between his lips. He had a round, healthy face and light blue eyes. Whatever expression he had before melted away and he took out his pipe and smiled. "Frodo, my lad," he said kindly. "I didn't hear you. Come and sit by me," he said. "It's a fine night for sittin'."

Gladly, Frodo climbed onto the wall and sat beside his father. Frodo looked out at the lights of Hobbiton.

There was silence for a moment. Frodo looked up at his father, and in his face he saw a strange expression, like he was far away. His eyes gazed far out beyond Hobbiton.

Frodo looked down and bit his lip, thinking for a moment. "Why do you always come here at night, Dad?" he asked.

His father sighed and exhaled the smoke from his pipe. "Just like to get some thinkin' done is all."

Frodo looked out at the horizon. He remembered the stories his father told him about what lay past Hobbiton, past the White Towers that he could see ever so faintly in the dark. "Are you thinking about Uncle Frodo and the ships?" he asked.

His father was silent for a moment, and removed his pipe. He turned to Frodo and put an arm around his shoulders. "Yes."

His father nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips, and he had the far away look in his eyes for a moment. "Yes. Very much."

"He would have loved you," said his father. "You're a mini likeness of him, almost."

His father looked into his little boy's vibrant blue eyes that looked so familiar in his memories. "Quite a lot, my boy. Quite a lot."

"Maybe, one day," said his father with a sigh, looking back at the horizon. Frodo heard him whisper something under his breath that he didn't understand. It sounded like another language.

"There you are," said another voice. Frodo turned around, startled. His mother was standing there, her sandy blonde curls falling gently on her shoulders. She had her hands on her hips but she was not angry. "I thought I put you to bed."

Frodo took her hand and hopped off the wall. Before they left, though Frodo didn't see it, his mother turned to his father and gently touched his shoulder. They exchanged glances, and his father nodded. His mother smiled at him with quiet understanding, and she and Frodo walked back into the house. On the way, Frodo yawned, and his mother stroked his dark, curly hair affectionately.

Sam watched them go, remembering the words his friend had said once, though it seemed very long ago:

"My dear Sam, you can not always be torn in two: you will have to be one and whole for many years."

He looked out at the horizon once more. Sam saw his best friend's face, smiling at him and Merry and Pippin, as he boarded the ship to the Gray Havens.

"You have so much to enjoy, and to be, and to do," Frodo had said. "Your part in this story will go on."

"Goodnight, Mr. Frodo," Sam whispered under his breath into the night. "Until next time."