Eternity and the Language of Flowers

WARNING: Death doesn’t play chess in Middle Earth.


*****


The healer sighed and passed a shaking hand over his eyes as he quietly spoke.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

Frodo stared ahead silent and unmoving in shock. To his left he was aware of Marigold stifling an anguished sob. Sam sat to his right, head bowed, wringing his hands and trembling, a tear slipping down his pale face.

“Nothing...” Sam whispered in a broken voice. Before silence could fill up the room again, he turned to Frodo, and, clearing his throat, added, “would—could you...stay for a while, sir?”

“Oh, Sam...of-of course I’ll stay,” murmured Frodo as he looked towards Sam, reaching out to cover his restless hands with one of his own.

Sam nodded once vaguely, stood abruptly, and walked away.


After long months of ill health and a racking cough that seemed to be getting progressively worse instead of better, the Gamgees had been relieved when Bell appeared to be on the road to recovery. But just that morning, all of a sudden, she collapsed as she delighted with her husband at her new-found fitness. Even as Sam ran through Hobbiton to fetch the healer, he knew this time that it was something far worse than what Hedgeworth had called a ‘summer illness’, and thus had resolved to gain the expert help of another Healer. The elder Tomas Sandheaver was immediately available and together they dashed back up the hill to Number Three.

Their eldest daughters, May and Daisy, married and living elsewhere, knew of their mother’s ill health, and would no doubt come straight home when this most recent news was delivered to them. Hamson had also been kept up to date with the situation at home and had sent a reply, which had arrived just that morning to say he would be back as soon as he was needed. Hamfast would have new letters sent to bring them all home, knowing now that every moment was precious.

Frodo had been out walking when Mr Sandheaver and Sam charged past him in a hurry. Upon arriving at their home, he was briefly filled in about the recent change and at Hamfast’s request, stayed while they waited for Tomas’ verdict.

As they waited, Sam had paced the kitchen nervously while Frodo sat at the dining table with Marigold close by. Halfred, who was home from the North at present, stared out of the kitchen window with his father beside him. Frodo had eventually removed his hand from Marigold’s and stood, moving to lead Sam through to the warmth of the parlour where he could sit in comfort and with a little privacy.

It was then that the home, usually full of life and laughter, became unbearably tense when Mr Sandheaver emerged from Bell’s room, and they were gathered together in one room and told his diagnosis.

Bell was dying and it was beyond his power to help. The illness was so advanced she now had very little time left.

Too overwhelmed to feel anger at that moment, Hamfast quietly slipped from the room once the healer had left, to sit with his wife. Halfred, however, startled everyone when he viciously punched a cupboard door, nearly splitting the wood with the force and causing Marigold to cry out. They remained silent for a long while.


“Ham?”

Hamfast sighed and closed the door quietly behind him.

“Husband?” Bell’s cracked voice reached him across the dim candle-lit room.

“You knew,” he whispered brokenly as he moved to her bedside, falling into an armchair there.

“Oh, Ham, I’m sorry...” Bell cried weakly.

“How long?”

“Hedgeworth wouldn’t say – no, he didn’t know...But the old widow I nursed last year...she...I picked it up from her. I didn’t know what it was, I just knew somethin’ was wrong...and it jus’ got worse. Mr Sandheaver says it was probably because I was weakened from a fever I had had back then...” A fit of coughs took her, and she paused a while before adding, “I didn’t want you to—cry...or hurt...I wanted as much time as I could have to be happy, and be happy with you, for as long as possible...”

“Bell, we were all so worried when we didn’t know what was making you ill!”

“But we were still happy!” She sobbed, covering her face and coughing as she tried to draw each breath.

“Oh, Bell, my love! My dear, sweet wife!” Ham leaned over the bed and laid his head on her blanket-covered lap, weeping as he felt his heart breaking, knowing now the answer to all his worries, and now knowing that even her short spell of apparent good health had been a mere rouse played out by the disease, tricking all but Bell into believing she was going to be fit and well and alright.



Frodo stayed for hours, until the stars lit the clear, early-autumn sky, then bid the others goodnight and headed back towards Bag End with a heavy heart: heavy with memories of his own mother, and father, heavy with sorrow for the Gamgee family, and for Sam. He remembered the shawl he had given Bell last Yule – it had been his mother’s, a present from Frodo when he was four. Frodo had picked it out from his advantageous view-point in his father’s arms, reaching over the market stall to touch it, Drogo tightening his hold on the squirming boy. He had then bought it for his son to give... On Yule day, Frodo ran up to his mama and dropped the gift-wrapped garment on her lap and watched round-eyed and excited as she opened it.

Grown-up Frodo smiled and blinked tears away, remembering that sweet morning from almost thirty years ago. Primula loved the shawl. Wore it as oft she could without wearing it thin, and Frodo delighted in seeing her wear it of a cool summer evening as they sat outside picnicking. And even before he passed it on to Sam’s mother, Frodo could still close his eyes as he held it, and imagine she was there in the room beside him...


“Sam, would you help me to prepare supper?” Marigold asked quietly, appearing in the doorway to the parlour. Sam looked up then crossed over in her direction; her face was damp with tears and her eyes were red and puffy. He held his arms open and she went to him, holding on to him tightly. “I don’t want Mama to-to...”

“Shh, Mari-dear. I know...I know. Come on; let’s get that supper ready. Mr Frodo has kindly sent some things for us. I think there may even be some chicken.”

The two of them prepared a quick and simple meal for the family in relative silence, then after they had finished eating, cleared the dishes, washed and dried them. As Marigold put the last of the crockery away, their father appeared in the kitchen.

“Your Mam’s asleep right now.” He said softly and sat at the dining table. “Mari-lamb, go light the fire in the parlour for your old Gaffer.” As Marigold scampered off to carry out her task, Sam placed supper in front of his father then sat opposite him.

“I could hear her coughin’ real bad earlier Da...” Sam murmured. “It in’t goin’ t’be long now, in’t it?”

Sam had only known one case of consumption before. When he was a child, he knew a pretty hobbit-lass who lived nearby, and they were friends. Iris, her name was. Her father had died in a rare farm accident when she was three, leaving her mother had to look after four children. Then, one winter that was particularly bad, Iris took ill. The healers who came had said it was a severe cold, and she should be well in a couple of weeks. But weeks stretched into long months, and she only became more ill. Sam was kept away from the house, in fear that he would take ill of the same wasting disease that was now claiming Iris. Then, one bright morning in early March, her eldest brother Alfram came by Bag End, where Sam helped his Gaffer, learning his trade, tearfully breaking the news that Iris had died in the night, slipping away quietly in her mother’s comforting arms, eleven years old. Sam, only six then (but mere weeks from his seventh birthday), was sent home by his father and cried for long time in his mother’s lap.

Hamfast looked at his youngest son thoughtfully, remembering his behaviour when Iris was dying. Though he hadn’t seen her getting weaker and weaker day by day, coughing up dark blood, unable to eat or even to sit up, Sam became distant and forgetful, and more quiet than usual. It had taken a while after Iris died before Sam returned to normal again, and Frodo’s arrival in Hobbiton that summer helped greatly, though Frodo knew nothing of the young girl or Sam’s fading grief.

Now Ham wondered if Sam would be able to go through the same thing again, watching it happen his mother, of all people.

“Sam lad, I want to send you and Marigold away for a while. Although what your mother has is infectious, Sandheaver said the most dangerous stage should have passed, and if no one’s showin’ symptoms by now, then we should be alright. But I don’t want you here while—”

“But I’m twenty-two, Da!” He protested. “Mari is nineteen, and-and we don’t need to go...” The Gaffer shot him an imposing look, one that despite his sadness, would still brook no argument. Eyes tearing, Sam quietly asked, “How far? How long? Will you call us back if...she...”

“I don’t want you here and gettin’ upset. She’s yer mam and...” Hamfast shook his head slowly. “I don’t mean to upset you, lad. I know yer probably old enough to cope, but... Look boy, I mean only to send you to a neighbour, or perhaps the Cottons, for a couple o’ weeks. Hal’s gone out to ask round. But...you’ll be away from tonight so maybe you should pack a few things for yourself and your sister. Send her through and I’ll tell her, too.”


It was an hour later when Halfred returned. As he hung up his coat, he caught sight of Sam and Marigold sitting in the parlour looking miserable, their two little packs sitting by them on the floor. The gaffer rose from his armchair. “Well son...are they sorted for the time being?” He asked Halfred.

“Widow Longleaf is so deaf she didn’t even know what I was askin’ her, so I tried the Goodbody’s. But no one answered. I think they may have left for the winter now – you know how they visit Mrs Goodbody’s cousins in the south farthing at this time of year.... And the Chubb family don’t want to take neither o’ them in case they give any o’ their kids the sickness. I told ‘em Sam and Mari are fine, but they ain’t taking none of that. The Cotton’s said they could only take one – they’ve got relatives staying right now.”

Sam looked at his father and spoke hesitantly. “I...I could stay here Da...I want to. I could help...Please?”
Hamfast put an old weary hand on his son’s shoulder and nodded. And so Sam remained at home while Marigold was taken to the Cottons.

***

The lovely cool, dry and colourful October morning was lost on Sam as he trudged slowly and silently up to Bag End, fidgeting with a loose button on his coat. He knocked on the door and waited for Frodo to appear. Shortly, he heard the door being unlocked and then pulled open. Frodo peered around the door, blinking in the sunlight and still in his nightclothes, with a warm, thick robe over, and pulled close.

“Sam...come in,” he said softly, voice still heavy with sleep, then closed the door after him. “Did you leave your key at home?”

Sam shook his head, then frowned slightly. “Key?”

Leading him to the parlour, Frodo replied warily, “You have a spare key to Bag End - Bilbo gave it to your Gaffer when he worked for us. You’ve been using it yourself since your father retired...Have you lost it? Did you forget it this morning?”

“No....I...” Sam shrugged Frodo’s hand off his forearm abruptly, and fumbled around in his deep coat pockets before he held up a large brass key. “It’s here, sir.”

It was Frodo’s turn to frown, but in concern, at the sudden return of formality and standoffish-ness Sam addressed him with. Like he was being given the third degree from the Master of Buckland again. “You’re much earlier than usual – it’s not even a half-hour past dawn,” he said carefully. “You know you don’t have to knock and wait for me to answer the door...and ...Sam? Are you listening? Are you alright?”

Startled, Sam tugged on the loose button of his coat, pulling it until it came away in his hands. “I-I...Yes, Mr Frodo. I’ll just get started with m’duties now, sir.” He hurriedly stuffed the button and key into a pocket before heading through to the kitchen, placing his coat on a wooden bench, and starting to prepare Frodo’s breakfast, leaving Frodo standing in the parlour looking after him worriedly, before he headed back to his room to quickly wash and dress.

When Frodo emerged again, Sam was nowhere inside. Breakfast was laid out on the kitchen table, and a warm fire kindled brightly. Sighing, Frodo padded over to the round kitchen window and peered out. He watched the yellowing leaves as they fell slowly and mournfully from tired branches and limbs, covering the ground with colourful tears. Petals hung limp and withered on fading flowers and bushes, and the garden seemed cold as a graveyard, save for the autumn colours which were beginning to bloom, blood-red berries ripe and ready for what little creatures depended on their sustenance during hard, cold months.

And there in the garden, Sam knelt amongst the fading plants, trimming them back carefully with his shears, his whole posture tense. Frodo chewed his lower lip as he watched his dear gardener fumble with a difficult little shrub several times, before crying out and throwing his tools aside in frustration. The young hobbit crumpled, shoulders shaking as he wept amongst the dead and dying of Bag End. Frodo pulled open the side-door in the kitchen and hurried outside.

“Sam, here now, shh...come on, come back in. Leave the garden right now...alright, come on...” Frodo murmured as he gently helped Sam to his feet, steadied him, and guided him back to the warmth of the kitchen. When Sam had settled at the table, sitting close to the fire, Frodo made a hasty pot of tea, and narrowly avoided scalding himself with the water as he continually glanced over his shoulder at Sam.

“I don’t think you should be at work right now, Sam,” Frodo said gently, handing him a cup of strong, sweet tea and sitting next to him. “You’re worried about your mother and are not your usual self. Do you want to go home?”

Sam shook his head earnestly, paused, then took a hesitant sip of tea. “No, it’s too horrible at home. Da won’t leave her, Mari is staying with the Cotton’s...Hal is staying home ‘stead of going back up north, Hamson is coming home today...and...and May an’ Daisy, too. They’ll all be here soon. It sounds awful...and no-one can help her...I thought I’d be better coming to work, to take my mind off ev’rything...” his bottom lip quivered again, and he took a deep, shuddering breath followed by a gulp of tea. “But I can’t concentrate on anything,” he continued. “I feel like...like I’m not proper awake, and—I can’t...” his voice trailed off as he slumped in the chair, looking utterly wretched.

“Would you like me to stay with you for a while? Or-or would you like to rest? You look as if you haven’t closed your eyes all night.”

“I didn’t. I couldn’t. Mam had a real bad time. It’s getting so much worse, the coughing and crying and gasping. I just lay in bed staring at the ceiling.”

“Come with me, Sam,” Frodo said as he stood up and moved away from the table. Sam set the mug on the table and followed slowly and obediently.

He was led through the winding smial to the nearest guestroom and guided to the soft bed. “Lie down and rest.”

When Sam was settled, Frodo tucked the blankets around him carefully and sat on the edge of the mattress beside him. “Close your eyes,” Frodo whispered, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sam’s doleful eyes. Gently, soothingly, he began stroking Sam’s forehead, humming a soft tune. A simple melody: a lullaby from the East Farthing, near Buckland where he grew up. Too weary to be troubled by any impropriety at present, Sam sighed faintly as the tension slowly lessened and he gradually fell asleep.


Sam awoke several hours later, to find that Frodo had left to prepare dinner and he was quite alone in a strange room. From where he sat in the bed, he looked curiously about, before leaving the room to wander down the long tunnel leading to the kitchen, yawning and stretching, where he was greeted by his friend.

“Did you sleep well?” Frodo asked as he looked up from the pot of soup he stirred. “Yes, you’ve sleep most of the day away, but you looked very peaceful, so I didn’t want to wake you until dinner was ready.” Glancing at the soup he smiled apologetically. “Will soup be enough? I’ve buttered some bread as well, put together a salad, and then some odds and ends...but as you know, I am not known for my exotic culinary skills...” He spoke softly and Sam found even his voice soothing.

“Soup’ll do fine...I’m not really hungry...” Sam crossed over to him and shuffled nervously. “Thank you,” he murmured and blushed slightly.

Frodo smiled, and hugged him close, still holding the soup spoon in his right hand. “Anytime, Sam. I’m always here.” He turned his attention back to the pot. “Soup’s ready,” he observed and removed the pot from the heat. Sam moved toward the crockery shelves.

“I’ll set the table.”

After their dinner, they piled the dishes in the sink – Frodo insisting that they be left – and went through to the living room, where they curled up in front of the fire. After chatting softly for a while, Frodo picked up the book that sat on the floor beside them and opened it at a random page. “This book contains many tales of elves, Sam. One Bilbo was given years and years ago. Apparently he needed several pages rewritten after I took a penchant for...snacking on paper.” He quirked an eyebrow and smiled briefly. “Do you want to hear something from it?”

Sam sat in thought, and then shook his head. “No, not tonight. I have to be home soon anyway. But I’d very much like just to sit here until I have to leave, if I may?”

Frodo nodded, feeling sober once more. “For as long as you wish, Sam.”

They sat together in silence until the fire died down on the hearth, when Sam arose, put more logs onto the fire to keep it going for Frodo, and then got ready to leave.

“Give my love to Bell, and the rest of your family,” said Frodo, as he bade Sam goodnight.

***

The next two days brought a sudden chill in the air, causing the fragile plants to diminish with the shock, and Bell becoming increasingly frail. Just as disturbing as her sudden, quick decline was her weakness, as Hamfast discovered when trying to encourage her to eat, but she could no longer find the strength. He helped her to sip at a mug of warm milk and honey or thin soup occasionally, then left her to sleep. It was only in those recent days that Hamfast had reluctantly removed her necklace, for her comfort and well-being, despite her weak, feeble protesting that left them both red-eyed and holding each other closely.

Marigold had returned from the Cottons, having stayed much longer than intended – and looking only slightly better than those of her family that had stayed at home. Dark circles under her eyes marred her pretty face, and she shuffled her feet as she walked. Coming from her mother’s room one evening, she tearfully asked her father, “How much longer?”

Hamfast shook his head and looked at the ground, saying nothing, but wondered the same himself, then took his youngest child into a gentle embrace. Worse than knowing his Bell was dying was the knowledge that she was suffering greatly, too.

Early in the next morning, desperate coughing which came from the bedchamber opposite his caused Sam to pull his blankets over his head, trying to block out the noise. Moments later he could hear the now-familiar sound of his father comforting his mother, knowing that he would calm her as best he could and hold her carefully until the fit passed, rocking her until she slept again. Sam moaned quietly then got out of bed. He wouldn’t be able to fall asleep now, so he decided to get ready for work.

His two brothers Halfred and Hamson – who arrived at suppertime the night before – were already sitting in the kitchen, talking in hushed voices and picking at a simple breakfast. Despite his older brothers leaving home when he was still a child, Sam was remarkably close to them. Hamson – older than Sam by 15 years – had left home at the age of 20 to work for his Uncle Andwise and Halfred moved to North Farthing when Sam was 10. Many other hobbits would have missed the brotherly companionship at that young age, but Sam had been working since he was seven, and hadn’t played so much that he missed them when they went.

“Mornin’ Sam.”

“Can’t sleep either?” Sam asked. The other two nodded.

“For a while, only lightly.” Halfred said softly. “But I’m furthest away from Mam’s room. What about you Sam? Have you had any sleep recently?”

Sam looked at him, remembering all the times when they did play, and on occasion fought like cat and dog. And how they would cause all sorts of bother and blame each other. ‘Like the time when Hal ate the cake mix for Daisy’s birthday...’ Sam thought, and his mouth twitched in amusement. Then he sighed and sat at the table. “No, I ain’t had much sleep at all. I don’t think any of us have.”

“Da’s not been eating proper neither. Skipped half his meals yesterday. Only had a cup of tea for breakfast...” Halfred added, though they all knew this already, and lifted his own cup to drain the last out of it. “Right then. I’m heading off to do those odd-jobs in the town. Da said ain’t much point us being idle right now, not until...--Well, reckoned I’d just get an early start. I doubt it’ll take too long, and I should be home for lunch.” He ran a hand carelessly through his dark brown curls, a gesture he had picked from their father years ago, when they played copycat. It was a habit that stuck, however, and when he was agitated, it showed through the action.

With that, Sam stood again in agreement to starting early and headed out the door. “Hoy! You ain’t had breakfast, Samwise!” Hamson called after him.

Sam ignored the shout and made his way to Bag End.

The biting cold had not lessened any, and now a chill north wind moved the air and cut through thick layers of woollen clothes. The heavy clouds were greyer still than the day before, but the sky did not appear to wish to let them go just yet, and the blandness seemed to make the autumn scenery appear dismal. It all depressed Sam further, and he felt the pressure on his shoulders increase as he trudged forward.


Frodo had also been unable to sleep that same night, his rest being plagued by visions of his dead parents and others of Sam’s mother. He had awoken before dawn, in a sweat and breathing hard, with a heavy feeling of dread in his stomach. Frodo was hardly surprised when Sam arrived at Bag End half an hour later as he was stirring a pot of tea and forcing a piece of toasted bread down.

“Oh, hello, Mr Frodo. You look just as I feel right now. Is there something I can do for you?” Sam asked as he pulled his coat off and draped it over an unoccupied chair.

“Dear Sam, I couldn’t sleep for worrying about your mother. And you.” Frodo’s brow creased deeply as he took in Sam’s dishevelled appearance, and he paused before replacing the lid on the teapot. “Have you been missing meals as well as sleep, Samwise? After you telling me yesterday how worried you were about your father...you’re so pale and tired...Oh, Sam...” Frodo stood and pushed Sam into a seat.

“I ate supper last night...”

“That’s because I made it for you. You took a half slice of toast and let your tea go stone cold.”

“...I had dinner.”

“I made that, too. And you picked at it for half an hour before eating a potato and three mushrooms.”

“I...didn’t really want breakfast.”

“You will now. Here, I’ll make us both something,” said Frodo, and stood, making his way to the pantry.

“No, I’ll make it...”

“No, let me—alright, we both shall.” Frodo handed Sam the eggs. “Here. Work your magic with these.” Sam smiled crookedly and set about scrambling them. “Did May and Daisy arrive at your house safely? When did they arrive...the day before yesterday? Last time I heard news of them from you, they were travelling from Whitfurrows and Frogmorton to be here...”

“Aye, they’ve been here a couple of days now. Daisy’s expecting her first baby very soon now. Left her husband, Hugo, and his mam at their home.” Sam paused a moment in thought. “Baby won’t ever know their Gran’ma now...”

Frodo shuffled slightly then pushed the conversation on. “How is Hugo’s mother? Is she keeping well?”



“Hamson, fetch the healer, quickly!” Hamfast’s voice cried out. “May, Marigold, fetch Sam and Halfred...Oh, Bell...hold on...”


Tomas Sandheaver ran from his workroom, with Hamson by his side. They barged their way out of the last crowd of hobbits gathered for market, and just behind them ran May with Halfred, who had been dragged away from leaf-sweeping someone’s front garden without an explanation from his sister.

“Sam! SAM! SAM!!” Marigold cried and thumped her fists on the green door of Bag End.

Frodo looked up from scrubbing the breakfast dishes. “Is that...?”

“Mari!” Sam dropped the plate he was drying, barely registering the crash as it smashed on the stone tiles, raced through the hole and wrenched open the front door. “Mari!”

“Sam, it’s Mama! Da says you got to come now!” Marigold tugged on his sleeve. Without looking back at Frodo, Sam and Marigold ran down the road back to their home.

They arrived back at Number 3 minutes before the others, and charged into the parlour where Daisy paced nervously.

“You’re back!” She called, and awkwardly hugged them both.

“Oh, sweet Daisy, sit down! Rest yourself!” cried Marigold, though she herself was hardly able to sit.

Sandheaver burst through the door with Hamson, closely followed by Daisy and Halfred. The doctor rushed through the tiny smial into the bedchamber he had become accustomed to seeing in the grim and sad circumstances that had befallen the Gamgee home.

Marigold sat clutching May and Daisy’s hands as they sat together on the parlour sofa. Halfred was resting his elbows on the mantle above the fireplace, head bowed and staring into the fire, while Hamson sat on the arm of the sofa beside his sisters, one hand gently placed on May’s back. Sam was crouched by the doorway to the kitchen, eyes closed, concentrating on breathing evenly and biting his thumbs, while trying to control the fear, panic, and nausea that he felt pressing too tightly upon him. It was an unbearably long time before both Hamfast and the healer came out from the bedroom, and everyone looked up at them expectantly. Sam bit hard into his lip.

“Your mother wants to see you...all of you. Halfred...Hamson...she’d like to see you first.”

***

Marigold and Samwise now stood at the foot of their mother’s bed. They had rarely seen her in the past week, and had been unable to hide their shock when they looked at her. Thin, wan, breath coming in short wisps, her eyes barely open. Marigold looked at her father, who stood on the other side of the room in the shadow.

“Mari...come to me, baby...” Bell whispered, lifting her hand slightly.

“What about...?” Marigold started, looking at her father as she moved forward and sat on the edge of the bed, clasping her mother’s cold hands and kissing the finger tips carefully.

“Your father and I have had our time together...” She paused for a moment. “Ah, my baby girl...how I love you. You are growing int’the...the beautiful hobbit-lass I...knew you would. I know you’ll marry well and do your father proud. Don’t you ever...ever change, M-Marigold....” She paused again to try and control her breath that was fast leaving her. Marigold tightened the grip on her hand, as if by doing so she could bring her mother back to them. Her tears slipped soundlessly down her pale face. “No...don’t cry, love...I am not leaving you, just resting....somewhere else, s-s-somewhere better. I’ll always be...with you. I love you, remember that, a’right? I-I love you... Where...where is my Samwise?” She looked blindly to the foot of her bed when he still stood silently, though she could barely see him through the light, grey mist that had clouded her vision.

Marigold kissed her mother’s forehead, then stood back to let Sam sit beside her.

Pulling Sam close with an unusual strength, Bell spoke her last words to her youngest son. “Samwise Gamgee....the greatest gardener o’ the Shire—my own Sam! And a hero! Don’t you forget about the glorious being that shines at you from the Hill...d-don’t leave him, look out for him—he-he’ll need you...If not now...soon....” Another fit of violent, choking coughs seized her, and she held onto Sam’s hand with more strength than she seemed capable, while facing away and holding her free hand to her mouth. Sam’s eyes widened in utter horror when he saw the blood on the pillow and on his mother’s hand.

As she lay wheezing, her lips still parted slightly, Hamfast moved forward to carefully dab his wife’s mouth with his handkerchief, and they looked at each other with silent, tender gazes, lingering, saying their last ‘I love you’ and ‘goodbye’ with their eyes. Ham reached out and lightly stroked her forehead, before withdrawing from the side of the bed. Bell’s eyes closed as she turned her head back slowly to face Sam. “Mari...Sam...love you...” she wheezed in a voice so quiet they barely heard. Then she smiled and expelled the last of her breath with whispered words, “all is well...”

Her hand slipped from Sam’s gentle grasp and her struggle ended.


~ End, part 10 ~