The room was small and poorly lit. It had only one window, which was blocked by a shutter and which let in a few late morning rays. When he entered, Samwise had expected to find several Hobbits posted around the prisoner, but there was only one and somewhat idle guard who did not seem to pay much attention to the cell in front of which he was sitting lazily.

Olo Bunce, the Shiriff of Hobbiton, closed the door behind Sam.

'We found him this morning near Bywater', he told Sam. 'We think he's an orc or something. But he's not like the ones we usually come across around here. Otherwise our archers would have taken care of him.'

'And you need me for?' asked the Hobbit as he approached with measured steps the bars behind which a shape was cowering.

'To tell us what it is, for a start. And then to advise us what to do with it, if you will.'

Ever since he had returned from his adventure and cleaned up the Shire from Saruman and his henchmen, Samwise Gamgee was constantly called for by the townsfolk for business that had to do with the "big world," as they put it. Sam was quite tired of it. He would have preferred that Merry or Pippin had taken care of such matters: they had seen great battles, and they had been the ones who had got rid of the invaders when they had returned. But they lived far away, had their own responsibilities, and it would have been unfair to ask them for more.

Besides, Sam was the master of Bag End now. It was an honour he had first stubbornly refused. When he had finally agreed to move there, he had taken no joy or pride in it. He lived at Bag End out of duty, to manage the affairs of the Bagginses. This responsibility was a burden he had taken on, and was still taking on every day, since he had returned from Mordor without the real master of the place, Frodo Baggins.
The wound was still there, gaping, three years after he had walked through Shelob's lair. Three years after he had seen his master fall and be taken away by the orcs. Three years after the frantic race that had led him to the top of Frodo's desperately empty tower. He didn't want to think about it now.

Samwise looked at the creature that was crammed into the small, dimly lit cell. It had long, dirty hair that fell to his shoulders in a curtain of dark strands and wore torn and disgusting rags. From where he was, Sam could make out a thin, white-skinned form, a creature that reeked of disease.

'Did he say anything?' he asked the Hobbit guarding the cell.

'Nothing intelligible, no. One of the guys thinks it's a beast like that Gollum Mr. Bilbo used to talk about. But it can't be, can it?'

Sam shuddered at that name. It was impossible. He had seen Gollum die with his very eyes: he had taken the Ring, just as Sam was about to cast it into the Crack of Doom. A miserable death it was, no more than he deserved after leading Sam and his master into the deadly tunnel. The traitor had seized his precious and immediately slipped and fallen into the flames.

'It can't be him. And as far as I know, there's no other like him.'

'Then what is it?'

'To answer that, I'd have to get closer. Has he been aggressive to you?'

'No, not really. He was half unconscious when we found him. And when we brought him in, he put up a bit of a struggle, but we subdued him easily.'

Sam considered what the guard had just told him. This poor creature deserved their pity, not their distrust.

'Try and feed him,' he said. 'I'm going to get the healer and some plants that can help him get back on his feet. If he's not threatening, we just need to help him recover and get him out of the Shire.'

At these words, there was a groan from the cell. Sam looked inside but could not tell if the creature had understood what he had just said or if it was a mere coincidence.

'I'll be back in the afternoon to help treat him. Also, get a pail of water; if we can clean him up a bit we won't be sorry for it.'

Without another word, Sam turned around and left the Shiriff's station. Outside, the fresh air made him feel better. He realised he was shaking and tried to relieve the tension in his back. Something about that creature made him sick. It reminded him of his adventures and of how he was still mourning for his master. But strangely enough, he felt responsible for the fate of that poor thing. He made a quick stop in Bag End to gather athelas, went to the Green Dragon to eat a soup before running off to find the healer. Violet Grubbs was a distant cousin of the former healer, still very young and recently arrived in Hobbiton to take over the widow's business. She was well liked by all and Sam knew he could count on her to treat even the most repulsive of visitors. He explained the situation to her in a few words and the young Hobbit-lass grabbed her heavy satchel and followed Sam to the Shirrif's house. Ever since he had returned, the Hobbits of Hobbiton had started addressing Sam as an important person, with a mixture of awe and admiration. It had become unusual that he was simply offered a pint or a meal to share in friendly company. Everyone seemed to be looking for an excuse to talk to him, as if his time could no longer be spent in idle business. He knew that he was far less cheerful nowadays than he had been in the past, but he was still saddened by this state of things.
Violet, who hadn't known him before her adventure, seemed to fit in perfectly with this more taciturn version of Sam. Not very talkative herself, she didn't bother to make excuses to initiate conversation with him and didn't seem afraid to bother him when she needed to ask something of him. Sam was glad to work with her on the case of that strange visitor.

As the healer and Sam were leaving the path leading to the market to go to the Sheriff's office, they ran into Rosie Cotton. The young Hobbit-lass was on her way to her parents' farm, carrying a basket full of plums. She smiled when she saw Sam and frowned very slightly when she noticed that he was walking with Violet.

'Sam!' she greeted him with an enthusiasm that seemed exaggerated. 'Where are you going in such a hurry?'

She nodded to the other Hobbit-lass with her satchel.

'There's someone to be treated at the Shirrif's,' replied Sam, a little embarrassed by his fiancée's lack of politeness towards the healer.

'I won't slow you down then,' said Rosie with another smile. 'See you later!'

And, dropping a kiss on Sam's cheek, she went on her way.

Sam was amazed at how relieved he felt when she walked away. Just as it had taken him over a year to agree to move into Bag End after his return, Sam had done everything he could to delay his engagement to the young Hobbit-lass. When he had been unable to postpone it anymore, he had found excuses for not setting a wedding date. He felt too empty, too weary, but his family and Rosie's (and probably half of Hobbiton) had been so pressing that he had not had the heart to refuse. Poor Rosie had been waiting a year to know when she would marry the village hero. But Sam always had a good reason for not being ready for the wedding. His new responsibilities were a good excuse and a shelter: when he worked, he was at peace, no one asked him to pretend to be proud, to be a hero, to be happy. Marrying Rosie seemed a good idea, the simplest and most natural thing. But he feared that it would never be enough to fill the crack that had formed in his soul ever since that day of March when his master had fallen before his eyes and been taken away from him.

When they entered the room where the prisoner's cell was, Sam was again struck by the smell that came from the creature. More than disgust, it filled him with dread. How could anyone live like that?

'We're going into the cell, Violet and I,' Sam said in a loud voice so that the creature could hear. 'My name is Sam, and I mean you no harm. We're going to heal you.'

The creature began to sob and Violet gave Sam a look of pity. She nodded and squared her shoulders: she was ready to enter.

The guard turned a key in the lock and Sam gently pushed the metal door open. It creaked on its hinges. Violet followed him inside and they moved slowly, each to one side of the cell. Olo had turned on some extra lights and Sam could see the shape of the creature better as it pressed against the wall. He was close enough to touch it.

'We're going to heal you,' he repeated in a softer voice. 'Do you understand what I'm saying?'

The creature hid his face in his hands and shook his head vigorously.

'It hasn't eaten anything,' Violet remarked as she walked by the food plate lying on the floor.

'Don't come any closer yet, Miss Violet,' Sam ordered in a quiet voice. 'We mustn't frighten him.'

The Hobbit-lass stood still and waited.

Sam squatted down and stepped a little closer. He reached out his hand to put it on the creature's shoulder, but he trembled violently and shirked from Sam's touch.

'It's okay, I'm not touching you,' Sam said softly.

As he spoke, he noticed that the creature's movement had exposed a great part of his left shoulder. It was pale and scrawny, and several wound marks marred the skin. But one mark, deeper than the others, caught his attention. At the junction of the chest and shoulder, disappearing almost entirely under the rags, Sam recognised what must have been a scar from a blade wound. A doubt filled his mind. Then, a certainty. A cold sweat ran through his entire body. He looked at the hands pressed against the creature's face, long, thin, with dirty, bitten nails. He searched through the strands of dirty hair and felt his heart leap in his throat when he discovered the tip of a pointed ear. For the first time he observed the bare feet, thin and covered with sparse hair.

Leaping to his feet, he turned to Violet and said in a weak voice:

'Get out of here.'

'But, Sam...'

'Get out of here, all of you!' he repeated in a loud voice.

No one dared question his order and the guard, Olo and Violet left the room. Sam came out of the cell and made sure the door to the small room was locked. He turned to the bars behind which the creature was still curled up. He wanted to take a few steps in its direction but, overwhelmed by the emotions rising inside of him, he fell to his knees in front of the metal door. He barely grabbed a bucket that had been placed in front of the cell before he threw up his lunch.

With his stomach empty and his cheeks dripping with tears, Sam struggled to get up. He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and stood up.

'I'm going inside the cell,' he said in a quivering voice. 'I'm going to...'

He interrupted himself and looked around the room. He saw a blanket lying on a small bench near the door and grabbed it.

'I'm going to get you out of here. And I'm going to fix you. And then, maybe one day you'll forgive me. But that doesn't matter. First, you have to be cured. I'm going in.'

In the cell, the shape on the floor tried to shrink on itself even more. Taking resolute steps in spite of his shaky hands, Sam approached and squatted down. He wrapped the blanket around the shivering body, whispering words of appeasement, like he was trying to reassure a child or a frightened animal. Very gently, he moved his hands away from his face and pushed the strands of dirty hair back. The other let him, frozen. Sam recognised him for good, as he should have recognised him immediately, as the others should have recognised him when they had found him.

His features, distorted by fear, suffering, and years of deprivation, were still the same. A long, straight nose, a delicate chin, and, most of all, eyes so piercingly blue that they hurt to look at. His skinny-state had pushed them into their sockets, but Sam let out a sob of relief and despair when finally, after so many years, he met the gaze of Frodo Baggins.

- - - - -

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