Namarie

- jan-u-wine
It was I
taught
Merry
to read.
 
I see him now,
as he was then,
face pained
with effort,
eyes questioning.....
 
This time,
wind quickening
in white sails,
 
ancient planks
warming
our feet,
 
he reads me.
 
They have caught me,
at the last,
as they did that other
day
a weary age ago.
 
Pip.
 
The sweet, twisting
lilt of his voice
assails me.
 
The lad who will be Thain....
 
soldier of Gondor....
friend of Kings,
bane of unwary wizards
(he who was named for the wandering falcon)....
 
the same lad I once held
in trembling arms,
crying in gladness
at his birth,
 
now holds me
and weeps in turn.
 
I will never hear
the sound
of their living voices
again.
 
Never
lift
a pint
(or a sack
burdened by pilfered
mushrooms)
with them.......
 
never ride a young heir
to Tookborough
upon my shoulders
or teach an errant
young Brandybuck       
his sums.
 
I will never know
their joys,
 
their sorrows.......
 
just as
they have only
imagined
mine.
 
I cannot see
anything
save blank,
meaningless light,
 
cannot hear
anything
save the small,
tired sound of
Pip
crying against my
shoulder,
 
cannot feel anything
save the fierce
crush of Merry's
hand holding mine.
 
Dear Merry.
 
He has always
won through
by holding
fast
to what he wants.
 
Today
Master Merry
will have his
final lesson
from me.
 
It is late.
 
Even he who was once grey
and is now white
leans upon the rail far
above my head.
 
The shimmer of the Sea
sparks
within my mind,
 
Her voice calls me,
gentling my grief.
 
I kiss Pip's still somehow
childish cheek,
 
Merry's closed eyes....
 
keep him safe for me,
Merry,
 
watch that he does not
become
too wild,
Pip.
 
I cannot -
 
will not
look back.
 
There is only one form
yet before me.
 
We are beyond tears.
 
Hope
touches my heart.
 
You
will not forget,
will you?
 
You will be and do
all that I never could....
 
you will know nights
of peace
and days of sunlight,
your hands turned from
sorrow
by the haven of your
beloved earth.
 
Your children
will make
my home
a Home
again
and fill it with laughter
and the music
of small feet
running with Life.
 
I lean my head
upon
the solid comfort
of your shoulder.
 
The arm that turns
me
is gentle but strong
with purpose.
 
I would not expect less
from you,
not even here,
not even now.
 
With great care,
you kiss my forehead,
place my hand
upon the rail
that leads upward.
 
You say my name,
once,
into the silence between us.
 
There is more grief,
more hope
in that one word,
 
than in all
that have ever passed
between us.
 
Sam.
 
I promise,
this time,
I will not go
where you cannot follow.
 
My hand touches yours.
 
I promise.
 
Namarie.