story bit
Below follows a little piece that I wrote quite a while back, and as it's still showing no signs of developing into a longer story, I've finally decided to post it as it is. (If it ever does become part of a longer story, it's sure to transform beyond recognition anyway.) This is probably the least fragmentary of my collected snippets and fragments, so hopefully it will make some sense on its own. Of course it's about Frodo and Sam (G-rated), but I really can't think of a useful summary...
A Question of Sound
Rivendell, October 1419
When Frodo entered, a single lamp burned by the door. On the far side of the room, Sam and Pippin had made themselves comfortable on a low settle, close to the arch that opened onto the terrace. Dusk was sliding forward and bathed them in a twilight that still carried memories of sunset. Threads of pale gold edged Sam’s hair and the side of his throat, and tickled Pippin’s shoulder. They were at ease, engaged in conversation that flowed as lively and surely as the brooks that joined the Bruinen deep in the valley. Frodo had come in so quietly, they didn’t notice him at once.
During that unwatched moment, Frodo felt a stop between his breaths, as though something had opened, only to fill up quickly with pleasure and a soft stirring of pride. Sam was listening to Pippin with intent curiosity, the kind that stilled every expression on his face and seemed to bare all the clear, lovely lines as if to a distant light. And Pippin - while he talked, gestured, glanced about - smiled at Sam, as if he couldn’t have wished for a better audience.
Well, he truly couldn’t have, Frodo thought, picking up a smile like a flying spark of the mood. He had witnessed other moments, too, when Pippin listened to Sam with the same full attention that Sam now gave to his story, leaning back on his elbows, his eyes half closed.
“Mr. Frodo.” Sam’s voice eased into a short pause.
He walked over to them at that, his answer a passing touch to Sam’s shoulder that slipped out as easily as his smile, but instead of joining them on the settle, Frodo took a seat on the threshold separating room from terrace, his legs lightly crossed. The evening breeze touched the back of his neck, and a scent of late-blooming roses mingled with the ceaseless rush of water tumbling down the valley.
Night would come soon, lucid as they were here, and open on every side to the sheen of stars. He felt Sam’s eyes on him and smiled again in response.
Sam in turn glanced back to Pippin, finding the next question. “What did they sound like? Their voices during the Entmoot, is what I mean. You heard them for days, you and Mr. Merry.”
“And we were very anxious to understand what was going on!” Pippin pulled up one leg and laced his fingers around his knee. “Like a storm in a forest they sounded at times, or perhaps more like a wind getting caught in their midst - chased here and there among them till they released it again in a mighty rush! That gave you an idea of how angry they could get. But there were quieter, slower words too... like ancient firs creaking under weights of snow, shifting them back and forth as slowly and carefully as their thoughts move.”
At the soft sound that Sam made, Frodo glanced up quickly, from the cover of hooded lids, to catch a glimpse of the imagination that slipped across Sam’s face.
“If it could’ve been,” Sam said, “I would’ve wished to hear them sing.”
“Oh, indeed!” Pippin shook his head slowly. “There is no other sound like that... it murmurs and rolls and moves in long, long ripples, from whispers and hums to the most beautiful, loudest roar you can imagine.”
And Sam could, Frodo knew.
“Like the wind in tall pines on the hills, perhaps.”
Frodo closed his eyes and went still with a memory he had carried out of Lórien, away from Amon Hen, out of dreams and into waking, rarely touched but always safe from forgetting.
Like the Sea.
* * *
A Question of Sound
Rivendell, October 1419
When Frodo entered, a single lamp burned by the door. On the far side of the room, Sam and Pippin had made themselves comfortable on a low settle, close to the arch that opened onto the terrace. Dusk was sliding forward and bathed them in a twilight that still carried memories of sunset. Threads of pale gold edged Sam’s hair and the side of his throat, and tickled Pippin’s shoulder. They were at ease, engaged in conversation that flowed as lively and surely as the brooks that joined the Bruinen deep in the valley. Frodo had come in so quietly, they didn’t notice him at once.
During that unwatched moment, Frodo felt a stop between his breaths, as though something had opened, only to fill up quickly with pleasure and a soft stirring of pride. Sam was listening to Pippin with intent curiosity, the kind that stilled every expression on his face and seemed to bare all the clear, lovely lines as if to a distant light. And Pippin - while he talked, gestured, glanced about - smiled at Sam, as if he couldn’t have wished for a better audience.
Well, he truly couldn’t have, Frodo thought, picking up a smile like a flying spark of the mood. He had witnessed other moments, too, when Pippin listened to Sam with the same full attention that Sam now gave to his story, leaning back on his elbows, his eyes half closed.
“Mr. Frodo.” Sam’s voice eased into a short pause.
He walked over to them at that, his answer a passing touch to Sam’s shoulder that slipped out as easily as his smile, but instead of joining them on the settle, Frodo took a seat on the threshold separating room from terrace, his legs lightly crossed. The evening breeze touched the back of his neck, and a scent of late-blooming roses mingled with the ceaseless rush of water tumbling down the valley.
Night would come soon, lucid as they were here, and open on every side to the sheen of stars. He felt Sam’s eyes on him and smiled again in response.
Sam in turn glanced back to Pippin, finding the next question. “What did they sound like? Their voices during the Entmoot, is what I mean. You heard them for days, you and Mr. Merry.”
“And we were very anxious to understand what was going on!” Pippin pulled up one leg and laced his fingers around his knee. “Like a storm in a forest they sounded at times, or perhaps more like a wind getting caught in their midst - chased here and there among them till they released it again in a mighty rush! That gave you an idea of how angry they could get. But there were quieter, slower words too... like ancient firs creaking under weights of snow, shifting them back and forth as slowly and carefully as their thoughts move.”
At the soft sound that Sam made, Frodo glanced up quickly, from the cover of hooded lids, to catch a glimpse of the imagination that slipped across Sam’s face.
“If it could’ve been,” Sam said, “I would’ve wished to hear them sing.”
“Oh, indeed!” Pippin shook his head slowly. “There is no other sound like that... it murmurs and rolls and moves in long, long ripples, from whispers and hums to the most beautiful, loudest roar you can imagine.”
And Sam could, Frodo knew.
“Like the wind in tall pines on the hills, perhaps.”
Frodo closed his eyes and went still with a memory he had carried out of Lórien, away from Amon Hen, out of dreams and into waking, rarely touched but always safe from forgetting.
Like the Sea.
* * *