By: Dana
Summary: Rose reflects near the end of her life.
Characters: Rose, Sam
Pairings: Sam/Rose
Rating: G
Warnings: Angst
Author's Notes: Inspired by listening to both La Tempete (Tara MacLean) and The Ocean (Dar Williams) over... and over... and over... and over... (I think you get the point.)
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

Rose Gamgee is older now than she once was; she's a sister, a wife, a mother, a grandmother; Elanor's little son isn't little anymore and he'll be married come the Autumn. It won't be any time now and then she'll be a great-grandmother, too. Rose has lived a long and full life; she hasn't any regrets.

Her hair is running grey now but she's still as active and alive as she was the day or the week or even the month before. Sshe dreams now more before she wakes, than she can remember having dreamt at any other time in her life. And she hums and the knife rises and falls with a chop-chop as she works. No, no, she can't think of any regrets.

And the knife rises and falls again and Rose knows that its all a lie.

Her eldest is fifty-nine and her youngest is thirty-eight - Rose had been thirty-seven when Elanor first came into the world. Little Elfstan - no, no, he's not a little lad anymore. He's twenty-six; he'll soon be married.

Bag End feels empty and cold; even the light that streams in through the kitchen window is somehow too chill for such an early Summer day. It shouldn't be so empty here, Rose knows; Frodo-lad and his Firiel are like a light in these dark times.

Rose looks up and frowns. She's not aware of the tears until she feels the taste of salt upon her own lips. "Oh, drat it all," she mumbles, wiping at her cheek, the knife discarded upon the chopping board. "Losing myself like I'm nothing more than a tween."

She wipes her hands off on a cloth and then wipes again at her eyes. The tears simply won't stop. Oh, and she does have regrets, ones that have plagued her through the span of her life. It won't be long now, she knows, and then the lights will all go out.

With a sob that boils up from her belly she leans against the counter, closing her eyes and trying simply to forget. But then is as clear now as it was all of those years ago. Rose simply can't let go.

She loves her children; she loves her husband; she loves her home and she loves the one who lived here, once, who's long since gone away. And when she wakes and dreams, still, sometimes she wonders what it would be like to go to him, again. Would he remember? Would he even care? They tried so hard to give him something to believe in, to love, to live for. But in the end, all was dark and dead. And she might not be the one to see him again, but she knows her Sam will see him through to the end.

When Sam finds her, Rose is sitting on the floor, resting against the counter and barely breathing. Beside her is a broken bowl, sliced potatoes scattered amidst the shards. Sam gathers her up in his arms, concern flooding from his weathered lips. Rose smiles faintly, leaning her head against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist as he leads her to the kitchen table.

"I tried, Sam, I tried. There was nothing I could do. There was nothing any of us could do." It takes him a long moment to piece together what it is she speaks about, and he presses a kiss gently to her cheek, that it's not some broken bowl, but it's a long lived broken heart instead.

"I know, Rose-love, I know. But sometimes, no matter what, there are things that get so broken, that they just can't get fixed. And it's not that they don't want the fixing. There are pieces missing and the ones that are still there just don't fit together anymore."

He kisses her cheek again and makes her tea, then cleans the mess and says he'll see to the supper. Rose smiles and looks to the window again; the light is a little clearer now and when she closes her eyes, she can hear the whispering rush of sea foam as it crashes against a distant rocky shore.

She's always felt that the song of the sea is the mournful rise and fall of a funeral dirge; right now, she can hear it calling her home.