HAPPY BIRTHDAY CALI!!! - A Faery Ficlet
A Very Happy Birthday to my dear friend cali_se. It's wonderful to have you as a friend. As you know, it's been a while since I wrote any fanfic, but here goes! I hope you don't mind a little Frodo/Sam ficlet. The story is based on the Yeats poem "The Stolen Child" - I know it's one of your favourites. Superstitions concerning faeries and changeling children were very common in rural communities in the past, so I thought they could arise in Hobbiton, besides I promised something spooky for Halloween. Hope you enjoy!
Title: The Changeling
Author: Igraine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: PG
Word Count: A tiny 2717
The Changeling
“And there, under the green and spreading boughs, the Moon-White horses drew the Faery train and all the Lordly folk who followed it looked back upon the world and sighed. Last of all, those children of the earth folk, gorged on cherries and wine, turned their full eyes to the moon and forgot themselves altogether.”
Sam rolled over onto his back, turning images and phrases over in his mind. His sister May was a great storyteller. Tales learned from their Ma when she was alive, that had sustained her through many long, dark winter nights, now passed to him to embroider the dark. The wind was melancholy that night, it sought out cracks and keyholes and rattled doors. Sam folded his knees up against his chest and, as always on chill and lonely nights, imagined what Mr Frodo would be doing up at Bag End. Would he too be lying in his bed listening to the wind breaking and entering and roaming up and down the warren of passages in the heart of Bag End under the hill? Would he hear the patter of branches against glass and imagine bony fingers? Would he mistake the wailing of the wind as a soul in torment, begging for admittance? The shutters on the bedchamber window didn’t fit tight and Sam knew for a fact they rattled in the wind - on a stormy night like this they would be setting up a hue and cry.
Would he be lying under the embroidered quilt, knit with stories; journeys made and journeys lost, mountains and forests and winding roads, wearing the white nightshirt which Sam washed and pressed himself and folded at the foot of his bed ready? It was fine linen, but would be cold for the time of year. The bed was large for one hobbit, would Frodo sleep in the middle and spread out his limbs, or more likely lie curled on one side, keeping his patch warm by tucking the sheets around him?
Or perhaps more likely, he would still be at his study, sitting with a blanket over his knees, mindless as it slipped to the floor, turning the pages of his book, the fire long died to ashes, and maybe he would not hear the wailing wind or feel the chill that had crept into the room. A guttering candle at his side, he would forget the time and the weariness that demanded attention at the back of his eyes. His bed would lie cold until the clock struck two and then the sheets would feel unwelcome and icy with no-one to warm them.
“The mother wakes in the morning. She looks into her cradle. Her baby lies there, its eyes wide open, as if it hasn’t slept. This was, of course, the first sign...”
Sam had never heard of a hobbit not sleeping. Sleep was as important to a hobbit as eating and drinking. And yet, Mr Frodo would often forget to eat if Sam wasn’t there to remind him with a plate of sustaining food slipped beside his elbow and a murmur of encouragement. It was true, there was something quite un-hobbit-like about Mr Frodo. That was the wonder of him, Sam thought to himself, that’s what made him special. And yet, it was that same thing that made people wonder. And people liked to wonder.
“It’s the children who wander who are most in danger.”
Sam’s Ma used to warn him not to go into the Faery Fort near Woody End, the small hillock covered in trees, which had been fenced in years ago, to keep the Faeries in and hobbits out. Sam never dared go inside, although he often skirted quite close on his way across the fields to the Cotton’s farm. He looked with a little too much interest, bordering on longing. Sam had a tendency to wander. When he was small, his Ma had to watch him closely, for he was liable to leave the familiar paths and be beside the river, or toddling out in the far meadow in an instant. This inquisitiveness was soon quashed with tales of goblins and Faeries ready to steal a wandering soul and set themselves in its place. Sam grew wary and skirted the Faery Fort with only a wistful wonder. With his Ma’s warnings, Sam was protected from harm, it was lonely children who were at greatest risk; and those who found themselves orphaned, were in mortal peril.
Everyone talked about Mr Frodo and his bad start. They spoke of him in whispers behind his back, spinning stories, talking about his tendency to wander.
He walks about the woods and fields, off the beaten paths - a solitary figure with his pack and his walking stick.
They spoke of his parent’s mysterious deaths, hinting at foul play or the intervention of sprites and nymphs; water was a dangerous mistress, never to be trusted, and the boy was left alone in his cradle for too long in the empty smial. And his hair, so dark, and his skin so pale, it ain’t natural.
“The baby lies there, its eyes wide open...”
And Sam knew more. He knew Mr Frodo left windows open in the middle of winter, never noticing how his papers scattered across the floor. He knew Frodo could sometimes be found lying in the orchard grass in Midsummer, his eyes closed against the sun, his fingers threaded in the grass, as if it were his own bed. He knew Frodo could sit upon the hill at midnight and watch the stars until his fingers turned to ice. He could leave a buttered muffin on a plate until it turned cold. He could forget to brush his hair for days. He could touch you with a soft brush of his hand and it would send fire racing up your veins. Blue fire, hot and cold at the same time.
“Gorged on cherries and wine...”
Was there another Frodo living somewhere out of this world? Was his hair the colour of hayfields and his cheeks fat and red as apples? Was he happy with his fellows, dancing, hand in hand - their treasure?
The following morning there was a hard frost and the winding lane up the hill was slippery underfoot. Sam had his scarlet muffler wound three times around his neck, the same muffler Daisy had knitted for him last Yule. Soon it would be that time of year again, and Daisy would be out buying new colours. Perhaps, if he asked her, she might knit something for Mr Frodo, to keep him warm at night.
The Bag End garden looked magical under the sparkling frost. Robins and hedge sparrows hopped about the hard ground, searching for bugs and worms. Sam would find them some crusts of yesterday’s bread.
It was the beginning of the turn in the year, that dangerous time when it was best to keep to your smials and wrap up warm, stoke up the fire and latch the windows at night. Hinges in the year were liable to gape, and let all sorts of creatures through.
He knocked at the kitchen door to announce his presence, not expecting any response, and then stepped inside. As he feared, the kitchen was icy chill and Sam set to at once, kindling the stove and filling the kettle from the pump. The spout was rimmed with ice and as the water splashed over his hands, his teeth clenched at the sharp cold. It had become his routine, on arrival, to make tea and set a tray for Mr Frodo’s breakfast. Although Mr Frodo had told him not to worry, that he was happy to make his own on rising, Sam had insisted, it was his pleasure. Besides, it was pleasant for him to start his morning with a mug of hot tea before venturing out into the cold morning air for an early start on the garden and the woodpile.
Slicing two generous helpings of toast, Sam held them over the licking flames on the toasting fork until they were done to a turn. He had learned not to offer Mr Frodo eggs and bacon because he was liable to let them sit and harden on the plate. Two slices of toast, a pot of butter and a pot of marmalade, tea, sugar and cream. If it was summertime, Sam would like to add a flower or two, but the season having turned and blooms being scarce, Sam conceded the adornment had to be foregone.
Carrying the tray down the long passage to Mr Frodo’s bedchamber, Sam felt a rising anticipation swelling inside him and, as he paused at the door, his knuckles trembled as they rapped twice. Awaiting the customary “Come in, Sam,” Sam waited. He waited until the silence stretched unnaturally long, so long he could hear his own breaths.
“Mr Frodo?”
Receiving no reply, Sam softly entered, being careful not to make too much clatter with the tray. But he needn’t have worried, for as he turned to the bed he was shocked to see it just as he had left it the previous day, the white sheets still turned down fresh and clean and tight, the pattered quilt carefully smoothed, the pillow flat and unmarked. Mr Frodo’s nightshirt still folded primly at the bottom of the bed.
His hands starting to tremble, Sam set down the heavy tray. He looked at the gaping shutters and wondered if they had been closed against the wind last night. He thought of Mr Frodo here, a lonely soul, in an unprotected house and his heart quailed. Running from room to room, he called him, finding each room empty and silent, each window un- shuttered.
Recalling his vision of Frodo sleeping at his fireside, Sam burst into the study only to find it in its usual disorder, books cluttering the tables, an apple and an empty mug beside the fire, a blanket crumpled against the back of a chair. Frodo was not there.
Sam felt something close to Elfshot inside his heart and he stood for a moment in panic, holding the back of the chair, wondering why he had not heeded the warning and come to check his master was safe last night as the wind wandered freely about the smial, bringing with it all manner of dangers.
Frodo was so vulnerable, so lost to the world already, it would only take a little persuasion for him to walk through the invisible curtain. The thought of losing Frodo filled Sam with horror, a cold creeping thing that seemed to pulse through his body in waves. Frodo was unique, irreplaceable, something to be protected and treasured, but never constrained, and ultimately, Sam knew he had no power to keep him safe.
“Those children of the earth folk, turned their full eyes to the moon and lost themselves
altogether...”
May’s story of the changeling children rang through his head once more. He remembered Frodo’s stargazing, his long walks, his daydreaming, and it seemed to him that Frodo had always walked a thin line between the worlds and, like a tightrope walker, was liable to slip and fall. Suddenly he knew where to go.
Grabbing his coat and his muffler, Sam walked out into the garden and, jumping the low hedge, made for the fields. As he puffed along the path through the wide meadows, he looked into the far distance, his eyes focused only on that small rise between the wood and the fields. He didn’t notice the hare crouching in the grass, its long ears twitching, nor did he see the green woodpecker flash its red and green plumage against the stark white sky. His heart was pounding by the time he neared the fence, encased with wire and stout staves. Craning his neck, he looked up at the tall trees, creaking in the wind, their long limbs warning him away, stripped now of all their leaves, they seemed more than ever like frozen giants. Walking around the perimeter of the fence he found a place where the wire hung slightly lower, as if it had been climbed before. Stealing himself, he threw first one leg, then the other, over the high fence and tumbled in a heap on the fallen leaves that littered the ground. The rise was slippery with leaves underfoot and was difficult to climb and yet somehow, Sam managed it and was walking inside the Fort, wondering at the unearthly quiet that seemed captured there, not even a single bird sang. He wanted to call for Frodo, but that would desecrate the peace.
He wondered what he would do if he saw a Faery. If he was offered the fruit and the wine - would he be able to resist? He heard his Ma’s warnings in his head,
“Don’t you ever go in there, Sam, they’ll snatch you away and you’ll never come back. They’ll
tempt you with nice things but that will be the last thing you’ll ever taste...”
Sam wondered if Frodo had ever tasted those things, yet came back unharmed. Unharmed, but perhaps a little more eroded each time he returned, his eyes a little brighter, his skin a little paler, his mind wandering down stranger paths...
“Sam?”
Sam span on his heels, nearly slipping. He wondered how he should protect himself. With charms? With herbs?
“Sam? Is that you?”
Looking up, Sam saw a cloaked figure standing at the top of the rise beneath the spreading beeches.
Stepping back, he crossed his arms over his chest, protectively. “How do you know my name?”
The figure moved closer, its face a pale blur, solemn and strange. “Of course I know your name.”
Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten.
He felt a touch on his shoulder. Holding his breath, he counted back to one.
“Surely you don’t believe in those old stories?”
He felt his muffler raised and wrapped once more around his neck.
“Did you come to find me?”
He felt warm breath against his ear and, despite his resolve, he started to tremble, little licks of fire travelling up his veins. Perhaps he did come seeking this, perhaps he was looking for it all along?
“The frost looks so beautiful this morning.”
Sam’s mouth felt suddenly heavy and full, as if it were a ripe fruit ready to fall.
“I couldn’t sleep and miss it. Once the sun rises, it will melt quickly. Sam?”
Sam couldn’t open his eyes, he didn’t want to. He felt that if he should, the whole world would vanish away like smoke.
“Sam?”
The voice was familiar, and yet different. Quieter, more intimate, as if it were speaking to his soul.
Sam tilted back his head and clutched the body before him, feeling the soft wool of a cloak under his fingers, the tangle of hair, the hot breath. So sweet and soft and melting, like the ice under his feet as they stumbled against each other. Sweeter than any fruit the Faeries could offer, and all his own, that hungry kiss. He didn’t want it to end, the warmth enveloping him and warming his soul, licking at every nerve until it seemed he would devour the moment entirely. When at last they parted, clinging to kisses, reluctant to end it, they were both shining and breathing hard, as if some magic had transformed them.
“Shall we go back now?” Frodo said.
For a moment, Sam wondered where they were going - back to Bag End, or back to the place he came from, that world beyond, where the leaves were still green upon the trees.
“Have you lit the fire?”
Sam nodded, still unable to speak.
“Good, thank you, Sam,” Frodo smiled, slipping his hand into Sam’s and leading him out of the trees.
Frodo’s hand was chilled to the bone. Impulsively, Sam removed his red muffler and wound it around his master’s neck. “Take this, you look cold.”
Frodo made to protest, but Sam would have none of it. “I won’t have you catching a chill.”
“Sam, you are a treasure,” Frodo smiled. “It was all my own foolishness.”
As they walked home the sun was just beginning to rise, bathing the Faery Fort in golden light, as if it were on fire.
The End.
Title: The Changeling
Author: Igraine
Pairing: F/S
Rating: PG
Word Count: A tiny 2717
The Changeling
“And there, under the green and spreading boughs, the Moon-White horses drew the Faery train and all the Lordly folk who followed it looked back upon the world and sighed. Last of all, those children of the earth folk, gorged on cherries and wine, turned their full eyes to the moon and forgot themselves altogether.”
Sam rolled over onto his back, turning images and phrases over in his mind. His sister May was a great storyteller. Tales learned from their Ma when she was alive, that had sustained her through many long, dark winter nights, now passed to him to embroider the dark. The wind was melancholy that night, it sought out cracks and keyholes and rattled doors. Sam folded his knees up against his chest and, as always on chill and lonely nights, imagined what Mr Frodo would be doing up at Bag End. Would he too be lying in his bed listening to the wind breaking and entering and roaming up and down the warren of passages in the heart of Bag End under the hill? Would he hear the patter of branches against glass and imagine bony fingers? Would he mistake the wailing of the wind as a soul in torment, begging for admittance? The shutters on the bedchamber window didn’t fit tight and Sam knew for a fact they rattled in the wind - on a stormy night like this they would be setting up a hue and cry.
Would he be lying under the embroidered quilt, knit with stories; journeys made and journeys lost, mountains and forests and winding roads, wearing the white nightshirt which Sam washed and pressed himself and folded at the foot of his bed ready? It was fine linen, but would be cold for the time of year. The bed was large for one hobbit, would Frodo sleep in the middle and spread out his limbs, or more likely lie curled on one side, keeping his patch warm by tucking the sheets around him?
Or perhaps more likely, he would still be at his study, sitting with a blanket over his knees, mindless as it slipped to the floor, turning the pages of his book, the fire long died to ashes, and maybe he would not hear the wailing wind or feel the chill that had crept into the room. A guttering candle at his side, he would forget the time and the weariness that demanded attention at the back of his eyes. His bed would lie cold until the clock struck two and then the sheets would feel unwelcome and icy with no-one to warm them.
“The mother wakes in the morning. She looks into her cradle. Her baby lies there, its eyes wide open, as if it hasn’t slept. This was, of course, the first sign...”
Sam had never heard of a hobbit not sleeping. Sleep was as important to a hobbit as eating and drinking. And yet, Mr Frodo would often forget to eat if Sam wasn’t there to remind him with a plate of sustaining food slipped beside his elbow and a murmur of encouragement. It was true, there was something quite un-hobbit-like about Mr Frodo. That was the wonder of him, Sam thought to himself, that’s what made him special. And yet, it was that same thing that made people wonder. And people liked to wonder.
“It’s the children who wander who are most in danger.”
Sam’s Ma used to warn him not to go into the Faery Fort near Woody End, the small hillock covered in trees, which had been fenced in years ago, to keep the Faeries in and hobbits out. Sam never dared go inside, although he often skirted quite close on his way across the fields to the Cotton’s farm. He looked with a little too much interest, bordering on longing. Sam had a tendency to wander. When he was small, his Ma had to watch him closely, for he was liable to leave the familiar paths and be beside the river, or toddling out in the far meadow in an instant. This inquisitiveness was soon quashed with tales of goblins and Faeries ready to steal a wandering soul and set themselves in its place. Sam grew wary and skirted the Faery Fort with only a wistful wonder. With his Ma’s warnings, Sam was protected from harm, it was lonely children who were at greatest risk; and those who found themselves orphaned, were in mortal peril.
Everyone talked about Mr Frodo and his bad start. They spoke of him in whispers behind his back, spinning stories, talking about his tendency to wander.
He walks about the woods and fields, off the beaten paths - a solitary figure with his pack and his walking stick.
They spoke of his parent’s mysterious deaths, hinting at foul play or the intervention of sprites and nymphs; water was a dangerous mistress, never to be trusted, and the boy was left alone in his cradle for too long in the empty smial. And his hair, so dark, and his skin so pale, it ain’t natural.
“The baby lies there, its eyes wide open...”
And Sam knew more. He knew Mr Frodo left windows open in the middle of winter, never noticing how his papers scattered across the floor. He knew Frodo could sometimes be found lying in the orchard grass in Midsummer, his eyes closed against the sun, his fingers threaded in the grass, as if it were his own bed. He knew Frodo could sit upon the hill at midnight and watch the stars until his fingers turned to ice. He could leave a buttered muffin on a plate until it turned cold. He could forget to brush his hair for days. He could touch you with a soft brush of his hand and it would send fire racing up your veins. Blue fire, hot and cold at the same time.
“Gorged on cherries and wine...”
Was there another Frodo living somewhere out of this world? Was his hair the colour of hayfields and his cheeks fat and red as apples? Was he happy with his fellows, dancing, hand in hand - their treasure?
The following morning there was a hard frost and the winding lane up the hill was slippery underfoot. Sam had his scarlet muffler wound three times around his neck, the same muffler Daisy had knitted for him last Yule. Soon it would be that time of year again, and Daisy would be out buying new colours. Perhaps, if he asked her, she might knit something for Mr Frodo, to keep him warm at night.
The Bag End garden looked magical under the sparkling frost. Robins and hedge sparrows hopped about the hard ground, searching for bugs and worms. Sam would find them some crusts of yesterday’s bread.
It was the beginning of the turn in the year, that dangerous time when it was best to keep to your smials and wrap up warm, stoke up the fire and latch the windows at night. Hinges in the year were liable to gape, and let all sorts of creatures through.
He knocked at the kitchen door to announce his presence, not expecting any response, and then stepped inside. As he feared, the kitchen was icy chill and Sam set to at once, kindling the stove and filling the kettle from the pump. The spout was rimmed with ice and as the water splashed over his hands, his teeth clenched at the sharp cold. It had become his routine, on arrival, to make tea and set a tray for Mr Frodo’s breakfast. Although Mr Frodo had told him not to worry, that he was happy to make his own on rising, Sam had insisted, it was his pleasure. Besides, it was pleasant for him to start his morning with a mug of hot tea before venturing out into the cold morning air for an early start on the garden and the woodpile.
Slicing two generous helpings of toast, Sam held them over the licking flames on the toasting fork until they were done to a turn. He had learned not to offer Mr Frodo eggs and bacon because he was liable to let them sit and harden on the plate. Two slices of toast, a pot of butter and a pot of marmalade, tea, sugar and cream. If it was summertime, Sam would like to add a flower or two, but the season having turned and blooms being scarce, Sam conceded the adornment had to be foregone.
Carrying the tray down the long passage to Mr Frodo’s bedchamber, Sam felt a rising anticipation swelling inside him and, as he paused at the door, his knuckles trembled as they rapped twice. Awaiting the customary “Come in, Sam,” Sam waited. He waited until the silence stretched unnaturally long, so long he could hear his own breaths.
“Mr Frodo?”
Receiving no reply, Sam softly entered, being careful not to make too much clatter with the tray. But he needn’t have worried, for as he turned to the bed he was shocked to see it just as he had left it the previous day, the white sheets still turned down fresh and clean and tight, the pattered quilt carefully smoothed, the pillow flat and unmarked. Mr Frodo’s nightshirt still folded primly at the bottom of the bed.
His hands starting to tremble, Sam set down the heavy tray. He looked at the gaping shutters and wondered if they had been closed against the wind last night. He thought of Mr Frodo here, a lonely soul, in an unprotected house and his heart quailed. Running from room to room, he called him, finding each room empty and silent, each window un- shuttered.
Recalling his vision of Frodo sleeping at his fireside, Sam burst into the study only to find it in its usual disorder, books cluttering the tables, an apple and an empty mug beside the fire, a blanket crumpled against the back of a chair. Frodo was not there.
Sam felt something close to Elfshot inside his heart and he stood for a moment in panic, holding the back of the chair, wondering why he had not heeded the warning and come to check his master was safe last night as the wind wandered freely about the smial, bringing with it all manner of dangers.
Frodo was so vulnerable, so lost to the world already, it would only take a little persuasion for him to walk through the invisible curtain. The thought of losing Frodo filled Sam with horror, a cold creeping thing that seemed to pulse through his body in waves. Frodo was unique, irreplaceable, something to be protected and treasured, but never constrained, and ultimately, Sam knew he had no power to keep him safe.
“Those children of the earth folk, turned their full eyes to the moon and lost themselves
altogether...”
May’s story of the changeling children rang through his head once more. He remembered Frodo’s stargazing, his long walks, his daydreaming, and it seemed to him that Frodo had always walked a thin line between the worlds and, like a tightrope walker, was liable to slip and fall. Suddenly he knew where to go.
Grabbing his coat and his muffler, Sam walked out into the garden and, jumping the low hedge, made for the fields. As he puffed along the path through the wide meadows, he looked into the far distance, his eyes focused only on that small rise between the wood and the fields. He didn’t notice the hare crouching in the grass, its long ears twitching, nor did he see the green woodpecker flash its red and green plumage against the stark white sky. His heart was pounding by the time he neared the fence, encased with wire and stout staves. Craning his neck, he looked up at the tall trees, creaking in the wind, their long limbs warning him away, stripped now of all their leaves, they seemed more than ever like frozen giants. Walking around the perimeter of the fence he found a place where the wire hung slightly lower, as if it had been climbed before. Stealing himself, he threw first one leg, then the other, over the high fence and tumbled in a heap on the fallen leaves that littered the ground. The rise was slippery with leaves underfoot and was difficult to climb and yet somehow, Sam managed it and was walking inside the Fort, wondering at the unearthly quiet that seemed captured there, not even a single bird sang. He wanted to call for Frodo, but that would desecrate the peace.
He wondered what he would do if he saw a Faery. If he was offered the fruit and the wine - would he be able to resist? He heard his Ma’s warnings in his head,
“Don’t you ever go in there, Sam, they’ll snatch you away and you’ll never come back. They’ll
tempt you with nice things but that will be the last thing you’ll ever taste...”
Sam wondered if Frodo had ever tasted those things, yet came back unharmed. Unharmed, but perhaps a little more eroded each time he returned, his eyes a little brighter, his skin a little paler, his mind wandering down stranger paths...
“Sam?”
Sam span on his heels, nearly slipping. He wondered how he should protect himself. With charms? With herbs?
“Sam? Is that you?”
Looking up, Sam saw a cloaked figure standing at the top of the rise beneath the spreading beeches.
Stepping back, he crossed his arms over his chest, protectively. “How do you know my name?”
The figure moved closer, its face a pale blur, solemn and strange. “Of course I know your name.”
Sam closed his eyes and counted to ten.
He felt a touch on his shoulder. Holding his breath, he counted back to one.
“Surely you don’t believe in those old stories?”
He felt his muffler raised and wrapped once more around his neck.
“Did you come to find me?”
He felt warm breath against his ear and, despite his resolve, he started to tremble, little licks of fire travelling up his veins. Perhaps he did come seeking this, perhaps he was looking for it all along?
“The frost looks so beautiful this morning.”
Sam’s mouth felt suddenly heavy and full, as if it were a ripe fruit ready to fall.
“I couldn’t sleep and miss it. Once the sun rises, it will melt quickly. Sam?”
Sam couldn’t open his eyes, he didn’t want to. He felt that if he should, the whole world would vanish away like smoke.
“Sam?”
The voice was familiar, and yet different. Quieter, more intimate, as if it were speaking to his soul.
Sam tilted back his head and clutched the body before him, feeling the soft wool of a cloak under his fingers, the tangle of hair, the hot breath. So sweet and soft and melting, like the ice under his feet as they stumbled against each other. Sweeter than any fruit the Faeries could offer, and all his own, that hungry kiss. He didn’t want it to end, the warmth enveloping him and warming his soul, licking at every nerve until it seemed he would devour the moment entirely. When at last they parted, clinging to kisses, reluctant to end it, they were both shining and breathing hard, as if some magic had transformed them.
“Shall we go back now?” Frodo said.
For a moment, Sam wondered where they were going - back to Bag End, or back to the place he came from, that world beyond, where the leaves were still green upon the trees.
“Have you lit the fire?”
Sam nodded, still unable to speak.
“Good, thank you, Sam,” Frodo smiled, slipping his hand into Sam’s and leading him out of the trees.
Frodo’s hand was chilled to the bone. Impulsively, Sam removed his red muffler and wound it around his master’s neck. “Take this, you look cold.”
Frodo made to protest, but Sam would have none of it. “I won’t have you catching a chill.”
“Sam, you are a treasure,” Frodo smiled. “It was all my own foolishness.”
As they walked home the sun was just beginning to rise, bathing the Faery Fort in golden light, as if it were on fire.
The End.