Nothing of Note
by Primula
Epilogue
"Sam!" came Rosie's voice from the kitchen. "Aren't you ready to go
yet? Merry's party is day after tomorrow and we'll never get there in
time if you keep dawdling."
"Almost," he called back. He opened the wardrobe for the third time
that morning and looked at its contents with dissatisfaction. His
shirts all hung in a neat row, if a bit mashed to the side by
Rosie's blouses and petticoats. Below them a stack of clean breeches in
various colours lay, all of them appearing far too mundane to his
critical eye.
He considered the outfit that Rosie had laid out across the bed, ready
to pack. His newest breeches, a clean shirt and the cheery
blue-and-peach suspenders that his sister had made for him. It was
nice, but wanted for something. Something more like a birthday party
ought to have. He folded them and pushed them into his satchel.
"Sam, the cart's ready! Are you coming?" He heard the rustle of
Rosie moving her blankets and baskets from the kitchen to the entryway.
"Just a moment," Sam called over his shoulder. "I just remembered something."
Turning away from the wardrobe, he went instead to a small chest that
was almost hidden in the corner of the room, half-buried under an extra
winter blanket, folded away in the warmer days. Kneeling, he
lifted the blanket aside and gently lifted the lid.
A closely woven cloak, neither green nor grey met his eyes. He stroked
it with his hand in apology for disturbing its sleep and lifted it up.
A rustling of tissue sounded beneath it. He lifted out the
tissue-wrapped package and opened it. The sliver of morning sun
that shone in the window slipped across the fabric, shining up at him
in burgundy, green, and blue. He gazed at it for a long moment,
then unfolded it, to check the fit.
A bit of paper fell from the folds and slipped neatly under the trunk.
With a gasp, he dropped the brocade waistcoat back into its wrappings
and scrambled after it, feeling along the edge until his fingers could
just pull it out.
He unfolded it, the sight of his Master's handwriting bringing tears
unbidden to his eyes. He squinted and blinked rapidly to clear them,
then read:
My dear Sam,
I know that this may not quite fit you, dearest Sam, but as it is such
a fine cloth it seems just as new as the day Bilbo gave it to me, when
I first came to live at Bag End. I would be blessed to think that one
day you may wear it, or you may give it to one of your sons. May it see
many a merry day here on the Hill yet to come.
It has ever seemed to me that you were so much part of Bag End, the
Hill would not be complete without you. I hope you may find some
joy in this small token's use. I am simply giving you what is
already yours, entrusting it into your safekeeping even as I have so
often entrusted myself.
Yours, always. - Frodo
He didn't know how long he had knelt there on the floor until Rosie
entered the room a bit impatiently. "Sam, whatever are you doing in
here that's taking so long? We need to leave."
He cleared his throat and wiped his eyes. "Sorry," he said, "I had to find my weskit."
Weskits and Waistcoats by jan-u-wine (thank you, jan, for sharing your poem)
