At first, everything was
blurry. No, not blurry, but somehow shifted, as if everything he
could see were two inches to the right of itself. The light was muted and
mournful, and the air seemed to dance madly around him, whispering drily.
He clutched the wall as he struggled to stand. He could
go on, he only needed to get his bearings. The air had a taste of metal.
Finally up on his feet, he squinted into the grey gloomy distance.
Life was something he had always taken for granted.
There'd been winter, but that was a part of things. It had its place,
sometimes more severe, sometimes less. Things died, but this... this was
not winter. Here was not sleep but death itself. Here the earth itself had
died, no, had been murdered, and the knowing of it smote his
gardener's heart. How black a soul could do this thing?
Would that you had the power to right this.
The deep, gentle voice came out of nowhere, a soft warm pressure upon his
heart. Take away this terrible darkness, and heal the land. He
choked a little at those words, tears starting in his eyes. The voice
sounded kind, and he was tired. Tired of filth and dread and hopelessness.
Tired of grief. Come down to the valley, and you will see what to do.
And he could. Just like that, he saw himself
striding across the ashy miles, all the way to the center of the dark,
thirsting land, a golden light streaming from his hand. He felt the sharp
ground as he knelt, and in one hard thrust, he drove his hands down into
the gritty earth.
It was like nothing he could have imagined. Power
leapt like the shout of a thousand throats, down through his arms into the
earth. In great thundering waves, the dry tortured dust roiled up into
rich mounds of loam, spreading outwards like the ripples of water in a
pond, over mile after mile. Light leaped upwards as well, and in less time
than it takes to tell, the wind was blowing the dark away.
And the sound when he drew his sword (his master's
sword), the sound of a thousand swords unsheathing with his! A grand army
marched transformed, now strong and fair, to follow him and overthrow the
Dark Throne. Horns blew, banners of green fluttered, and in the footsteps
of the soldiers sprang up roses and wheat.
The glory will be swift and sure,
murmured the golden voice. All will flock to your side. For who would
choose death if he could have life? The land burgeoned. In the space
of seconds up sprang fields of herbs, clambering thickets of roses,
streambeds lined with violets and willows, great orchards of fruit trees,
and enough apples, 'taters and barley to feed the world.
"Yes," he thought, weeping a little. Yes, the
voice agreed. So the land will come to be healed, and this shall be
your memorial. He thought of a dell near a mossy stream, and a stone
with writing carved in it. He thought of the world happy, well-fed and at
peace. A fitting grave. If he could give him that, then perhaps he
see his job done, and rest.
His hand was barely an inch from the chain around
his neck when another voiced sliced into his hearing, this one seeming to
come from far away on a puff of cold air. One word only it spoke, sharply
and with fright,
Sam!
He started, his hand dropping to his sword, and
looked quickly around him. The rocks were grey in the whispering wind, and
Mordor as endless and barren a wasteland as it had always been. Sam bowed
his head in pain. It had all been a cheat and a lie, as well his heart
would have told him, had he asked. How could he make such wonders, after
all? He was only a hobbit, unlearned at that, and the world was not his to
re-order. There would be no land reborn, no miracle of life abundant at
his hands. Only this dreary road, where he had set his feet after Frodo's
all those months ago.
Sam turned away from the bluff, and took up the job
his master had lain down. He might win through. But even should he be
spared, no one would know. If there was a grave, it would be shallow and
full of dust.
