Namida

-- William Butler Yeats, The Two Trees.

The leaves were swirling when he excused himself, a rustling dance of dying brown and pale gold across the shadowy rose quartz terrace. As the doors wafted shut behind him, the sounds of the party within, of clear Elvish voices raised in song fell away and Frodo Baggins let his shoulders slump for the first time that evening. His face felt naked, aching and devoid for the first time of the mask he'd worn earlier, a cheerful visage to prevent Sam from worry or Merry and Pippin from uncomfortable questions or Bilbo from guilt. ‘More guilt,’ he corrected himself, feeling his heart clench at the memory of the old Hobbit's weeping.

The waterfall that ran through the heart of Rivendell, gorged by the clear waters of the Brunien seemed turbulent, echoing the chaotic downturn of his heart. Bilbo had not meant him any harm, of that Frodo was certain but he was equally certain that had he not moved as quick as he had, his beloved Uncle would have taken the Ring this afternoon, by force if necessary. The way his face had seemed to crumple in, transformed into that terrifying visage with its sharp teeth and bulging eyes... He shuddered, reaching up to clutch the Ring, turning it 'round and 'round in his fingers to reassure himself of its presence. True, he was aware of the Ring at all times, the weight of it around his neck heavier or the itch of his fingers to try it on greater than at others but there was some thing more immediate and tangible about this. It was not enough to feel the cold burn of it against his skin, hidden beneath the mended folds of his shirt. The craving to touch, to roll the simple gold band around in his palm, perhaps to place it on his hand was becoming worse, more so now after Gimli's attempt to destroy it in the Council Hall. It called to him, imploring him to escape before these high lords of men and elves and dwarves sought to separate him from his... He shut his eyes, forcing his hand down to clutch the railing. 'I will not call it that... Never that.' He didn't need to with the malevolent sibilance of Bilbo's voice hissing the word over and over in his head. Precious. Precious. Precious.

He did not find the Ring precious; for all its fair seeming, it was loathsome and corrupt, destroying those it sought to use, all save Gollum and Bilbo yet it had changed the two of them. Gollum had been transformed into something mad and cruel, his thought bent as on the Ring with a single-minded determination that rivaled Sauron's. And Bilbo... Poor Bilbo had escaped but even he was touched by its evil, stretched to the breaking point. Allowing the Ring to stay in Rivendell was impossible even had Elrond permitted it. It would provide too much of a temptation for his Uncle and if left to its own devices, the Ring would use Bilbo, taunt and whisper as it did to Frodo until it drove him mad. He could not claim to be any stronger than Bilbo; indeed, he often felt he was less than his Uncle, neither as strong or clever but he still had the will and the youth to resist. Bilbo, after so many years of unchecked, unconscious guarding of the magical item had reached his breaking point. To stay would see his final destruction and Frodo could not allow that while he still had breath. And so he would go, forsaking the shelter and comforts of Rivendell to the fires of Mordor and the very heart of Oroduin, the Mountain of Doom, to cast the Ring into a lake of brimstone in the hopes it would be enough to destroy its evil once and for all.

At least he would not be going alone. His heart was lightened by the knowledge that Gandalf and Sam and Strider would be at his side as would Merry and Pippin. The prospect of Boromir in the Company was more daunting. He gleaned nothing but good intentions from the Lord of Gondor but buried underneath it all, there was sense of mounting desperation. His words rang sincere; in Boromir's place, he, too, would be fearful for the Eye was ever fixed on Gondor and its people, the men who had held Mordor at bay for thousands of years. It was not something the Dark Lord was likely to forget or forgive. However, if they failed in their Quest, if Sauron regained the Ring, then Minas Tirith would simply be the first to fall. He doubted very much that Boromir would agree, seeing only his people's destruction and he was not alone in that. The Council had proven that Middle Earth was divided as Men fought Elves or Elves fought Dwarves or all three fought each other at the same time. The differences between the races seemed so great that even he was uncertain how well this 'fellowship,' this group of nine walkers to be set against the Nine who ride, would work. There was already tension between Strider and Boromir and they were of the same race so how could they expect more from Gimli and Legolas given the ancient enmity between dwarves and elves?

'You borrow trouble before it has a chance to arrive,' he reproved himself. The destruction of the Ring was more important than any of the petty squabbles the other races indulged in and they knew it as well as he did. He had to trust that they would be able to put those differences aside long enough for the task at hand. Trust. Could he trust any of them where the Ring was concerned? Before this afternoon, the answer would have been an unequivocal 'yes' but now, after seeing how its influence had ravaged Bilbo, he found himself without answer.

"Your thoughts must be dark indeed, Frodo Baggins, if you can scowl on such a perfect night as this, with all of Rivendell laid at your feet."

He straightened, a nervous tremor running through him as he pivoted in the direction of that disembodied voice, trying to tell himself that he was in Rivendell, that he was safe; no servant of Sauron he'd run across yet would speak so plainly. It would take nothing to raise his voice and bring Sam, Strider, and quite possibly every creature in the place down. The knowledge was reassuring but it was not enough dispel his unease.

Still garbed in his robes from the Council, the rich umber shimmering in the torchlight as it pooled around him, the Prince of Mirkwood -- Legolas, Frodo remembered, was regarding him with some amusement from one of the house's many trellised alcoves. "Am I disturbing you?"

'Yes,' Frodo wanted to say but bit his tongue. He had nothing against the Elf; indeed, he was quite grateful for his offered assistance earlier today but right now, it was solitude that he wished for and was not likely to have again once Rivendell lay behind him. It would not do, however, to be rude, not to one who was soon to be his companion, to one who had willing laid his life down to protecting the Ring and him. So he shook his head and waited, taking a step back as if to invite the other to join him.

Legolas tilted his head, blond hair given a reddened patina under the firelight. "Are you not enjoying the feast?"

"Oh no," Frodo rushed to assure him. "The feast is quite wonderful, Your Highness. Lord Elrond has truly outdone himself but..."

He trailed off, searching for the words to explain that he was not used to such lavishness, that the presence of so many important people made him feel uneasy, uncertain of his place. All of which, he was quite sure, would sound ridiculous to the Elf.

"I was feeling confined," he replied, wincing at his lame excuse. "I thought a breath of air might help, Your Highness."

"Legolas."

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Legolas. Not 'Your Highness' or 'Sir'. You must call me Legolas, Frodo, if we are to be companions," The other chided in gentle remonstrance. Blue-gray eyes appraised him, those deep winter pools flowing over him with keen interest, bordering on open curiosity.

"Of--of course," Frodo stumbled over the words, suddenly flustered by the Elven prince's attention.

The garment rippled like lazy waves as Legolas approached, accentuating rather than hiding the lithe lines of the Elf's body. His tread was light, seeming to ghost across the ground, be it marble floors or earthen fields with no sound or disturbance. He stopped a few paces away, clasping the railing as he leaned forward, face upturned into the night air with eyes closed and a hint of a smile.

Frodo was struck once again by the size discrepancy, by how small he felt standing next to the Elf. He was still unused to finding himself in the company of people so much larger than he. Back in the Shire, Gandalf had been the odd one, singled out by his imposing stature and manner. As a rule, Elves and men, the "Big People" as his kind called them, passed through the Shire on the rarest of occasions, oblivious to their existence outside of tales. Why this was, he was uncertain, although most Hobbits tended to prefer things as such, content to worry about their crops and holes instead of events eddying around them in the outside world. Had he and Bilbo been so odd with their concern? Perhaps, if he had spent less time daydreaming of adventuring with his uncle, he might have grown that 'Hobbit common sense' that Sam had in spades and that he was accused (and rightly so) of lacking. Perhaps if he'd spent less time daydreaming, he would not be caught in events beyond his depth and ken now.

Perhaps, should, would... What difference did it make? He was committed to his road and naught could change it.

"I never tire of this place, no matter how many times or ways I see it," Legolas spoke at last, his voice thoughtful. "Even in dark times as these, Rivendell still shines. I would that things were as well with my own kingdom. The dark things that were driven out in the year of the Dragon's fall have returned in greater numbers and Mirkwood is again an evil place, save where our realm is maintained."

Frodo had guessed as much from the Council meeting and Legolas' impassioned recitation of his father's message to Elrond and Gandalf, but to hear the words spoken so plainly threw a chill down him, worming deep within. "Has Mirkwood truly become so dark?"

"Dark enough for my father to withdraw his people within the borders of the kingdom." The reply was sobering to say the least, Legolas' face darkening as he spoke.

He turned his gaze outward, fixing on the courtyard below, on the ethereal statues casting shadows with each flicker of the torches. "I used to dream of visiting Mirkwood with Bilbo," he confessed. "Of seeing Laketown and the halls of your father. I suppose I never will now."

"Never visit Mirkwood or never visit there with Bilbo?"

"Either. Both. After all, there's no guarantee that Bilbo will be... If we make it back from Mordor, I mean." It was hard; trying to voice all the fears whispering in his ears, heightened by the ever-present weight of the Ring, heavier now than it was a few moments ago. He tried not to think of his confrontation with Bilbo earlier, tried and failed. He bowed his head, pretending to lean farther out for a better look at the courtyard, concentrating on keeping his breathing normal, on steadying the tight wrench of his chest before it became too difficult to breathe at all.

A hand rested on his shoulder, the grip surprisingly gentle for all the strength he felt in those fingers. Using his free hand, the Elf tipped his chin upward, forcing him to meet Legolas' smoky, concerned gaze. "You've gone pale," he frowned, brushing his cheek with a casual stroke of his fingers. "Cold, too. Frodo... How long have you been out here?"

He bit his lip, trying not to gasp aloud at the unexpected jolt that solicitous touch triggered in him. His body seemed to light up in response, tendrils of warmth branching through him as he struggled to make sense of his companion's words. He shivered, almost leaning towards the Elf before stopping himself, confused by his actions, by sensations he'd never felt before. He felt ... odd, his heart picking up and his legs suddenly unsure of themselves.

Legolas' frown deepened, and he caught Frodo under an arm, leading to one of the benches and pushing him down onto one before he could react or protest. Then he knelt so that they were eye to eye, "Does your shoulder pain you? Shall I fetch Elrond?"

"No," he managed, edging back a bit and rubbing his forearms as if to ward off a chill. "I'm fine. Just...just cold like you said."

It wasn't exactly an untruth but it was enough to cause the Elven prince's eyes to narrow in contemplation. A tiny line appeared in the other's forehead and Frodo wanted to groan at the sight. Not even a foot outside of Rivendell and he was already resorting to subterfuge. What was wrong with him? It wasn't as if he wanted to lie to him; the words came easy, slipping off the tongue far easier than the truth did. And the truth was... Well, truth was no longer something he understood anymore. How could one know the truth when you weren't even sure you knew yourself anymore? When the people around you were changing only you realized that they weren't, that it was you who was changing, seeing the reality behind the comfortable masks worn your entire life? Well, what then? He had lived his entire life within the Shire, within its borders and little streams, safe from the tempests that rocked the outside world. It was only now he understood just what a foolish illusion that was. Everything he counted as certain or facts were passing away, scattered by the wind from Mordor, leaving him tired and afraid.

"I think far more than the cold troubles you this evening, Frodo," Legolas expression was shrewd. "Will you not allow me to help?"

"There is nothing that can be done."

"Will you not let me try?"

"Can you undo what the Ring has wrought in Bilbo? Can you promise me that Gandalf or Sam or Merry and Pippin will make it through this journey unscathed? Can you promise me that I'm not leading us all into destruction?" The words tumbled out, bitter and sad to the dregs and he swallowed, wishing for a draught that would wash away the hollow ache in his chest. "I am sorry, Legolas. I did not mean--"

His words were stayed as the Elf put a hand atop his clenched fists. "There is nothing wrong in being afraid, Frodo. We all are. I think..." He paused. "That this goes deeper than fear though. What has happened to upset you so?"

Frodo studied the elf without reply, the glacial beauty of his features, fair and perfect as the early morning. The way his ears clipped into points at the ends, not as pronounced or sharp as some of Elves he'd seen but softer, slightly rounded around the tips. Flaxen tresses spilled over his shoulders, elaborate braids crowning his temples in a simple weave of hair that he found more becoming than any coronet. For a moment, his vision faded as it had back in the forest and his wound burned anew with an echo of ghostly pain as light seemed to suffuse and halo the Elf much as it had Lady Arwen, so bright that he was almost blinded. The rest of the world was gray, wreathed in fog and ice but Legolas *was* shining, piercing the haze with the mindless determination of a newborn sun. 'Was it some glimpse of his soul?' Frodo wondered. His aura was an unquenchable flame, a mighty corona flaring outward towards him, almost crackling between them. The image flickered then wavered away and Legolas was himself again, a slender elf clad in an elegant robe, his beauty tempered, less awesome and terrible in aspect. His shoulder throbbed, hard enough to rob him of breath then it too dulled, still there but no longer as immediate.

So much of what he felt these days was like that, a quality of unreality invading his waking hours bit by bit until he felt more like a ghost haunting these radiant halls, a body moving beside Sam and the others while his spirit felt unmoored, tied only by the thinnest cords to his flesh. The Ring was real to him, all too real for his liking but its endless droning was like a void, a darkness in his soul, curling and raking a thousand tiny claws over his mind. Its voice was louder these days, almost enough to ring in his ears even in his sleep. That ringing had become a mocking scream when Gimli's axe had attempted to shatter it, the discomfort it had fed him very near enough to throw him from his seat. It was only Gandalf's presence that had stayed him, his strength allowing Frodo to lay the Ring aside and not rush to 'save' it. Not even Gandalf had been enough to prevent him from taking the part Fate had offered. There would be no green rolling hills of the Shire to greet him soon, save in his dreams. Those hills and streams seemed so far away now, brighter in memory than the increasingly dim world that greeted him day by day. Elrond had healed him but he was beginning to fear that it would not be enough. The world was veiled and whether it was due to the influence of the Ring or the sting of the Morgul blade remained to be seen.

It was odd then that when Legolas had touched him a heartbeat and forever ago, he *had* felt something, something concrete and clean, beyond pain, the first such sense he had been blessed with since Amon Sul. His response had been immediate, leaning towards that sensation although why that should be so, he could not say. It was beyond anything he had ever experienced before and even now, he found his skin tingling, scorching away the chill that had been with him for so long now.

"Frodo?" Dark eyes called to him, threatening to drown him where the One Eye had promised nothing but flames. The hands atop his tightened, as if to draw him back and he stirred, blinking away the daze that sought to muddle him.

"It's Bilbo," The words slipped out so easily, prodded by the persistent note of command in the Elf's voice, the way those eyes fixed on him and only him. "And the Ring. And all of this."

He sucked in a breath, letting it rattle through his chest. "I am not hero, Legolas. I'm not a warrior or wizard... I don't know how to fight, not properly anyway. If Strider hadn't been with us at Weathertop..."

"You faced down the Nazgul, Frodo," Legolas interrupted. "The Nine. And you lived. Do you know how many people can boast of such a feat?"

"I put everyone I'm with in danger," He shouted, then lowered his voice, trying to curb his frustration. "I nearly got Sam, Pippin, and Merry killed. And there was nothing I could do! Nothing at all. If Strider hadn't been there, they would have taken the Ring."

"But they didn't. The Nazgul aren't invincible, Frodo. Nor is Sauron. If that were the case, then he'd have no need for the Ring and there would be no hope. Don't you understand? That's what you've given us, Frodo Baggins. Hope. The hope that this long nightmare may soon end, that the Ring may at last be destroyed and Sauron banished from Middle Earth forever. Without you or Bilbo, none of this would be possible. All the free people of Middle Earth owe you a debt greater than can be repaid."

Frodo felt his cheeks grow hot. "You make too much of my part, Legolas. It is Bilbo we owe the debt to, for keeping the Ring safe as long as he did.

His tone became reflective as he found himself confessing, "I'm worried about him. Gan-Gandalf told me about Gollum...About how he thinks he might have been a Hobbit at one time. I didn't believe him at the time but..."

'But now I think I do,' he wanted to say. It was amazing how quickly his self-righteous convictions had crumpled in the face of the Ring's power, in the hunger he'd seen for it -- both in Bilbo and the Nazgul. Such a simple gold band, so innocent it seemed even as it floated from life to life, destroying everything in its path. Isildur had been a king, of the line of Westernesse, and he had fallen pray to its machinations, even Gandalf feared its power... What good could he possibly do?

"He'll be safe here, you know," The almost question caused him to lift his head, meeting soft eyes warm with compassion. He could get lost in those eyes if he let himself and for a moment, he was tempted to.

"Is he?" The words were wistful, reaching for a hope that he found wavering. If Legolas could sound so certain about things, perhaps he could cling to that hope a little longer.

"Rivendell is secure and even the Nazgul hesitate before the power of Elrond. Besides, it is not Bilbo that Sauron and his minions will be after once we leave here."

"And for that I am grateful," he replied then paused. "Legolas, do you think that once the Ring's destroyed, the damage it has done will be repaired?"

He wasn't aware of how much he wanted an answer to that until his question was met by thoughtful silence, an abstract, almost uncomfortable expression crossing the prince's face. It was the sort of expression people wore when they had news you didn't want to hear, truths that were upsetting. He'd seen that face many times in his life, although it had never haunted him as much as that first time, when His Grandfather Brandybuck had taken him aside and explained that there had been a boating accident and his parents had been lost. He'd been fortunate enough then to have Bilbo, the elder Baggins arriving the next day, bringing with him the promise of a new family.

And now so many years later, he found himself at the same crossroads. At least when Bilbo had left before, it had been of his own violation; the divide separating them now was not of their making, and was gaining in distance with each passing moment. The Ring was pulling him away, each step of his road leading to the place he least wanted to go, to Mordor, to the heart of Sauron's domain. He feared the journey, feared even more the possibility of failure, but it was something he was willing to risk. He just wished he could be assured that some good would come out of this.

"I know not," Legolas replied at last. His eyes were distant, as if seeing some destiny that had not yet spun out for the rest of them. "As Lord Elrond mentioned earlier, it is possible that the power of the Three Rings may be enough to heal this world, to restore the balance that has been disturbed."

"But you do not agree?"

"The world is changing, Frodo. The time of my people is passing away and all our love will not keep us in this land. There will come a day when my people are but a memory to those who remain behind. This world will be in the hands of men and dwarves and yes, even hobbits." Melancholy darkened Legolas' voice, his eyes raking over the landscape around him, as if seeking to imprint it on his memory. "I fear the end of this tale will see the failing of much that is fair and pure in the world but we are left with little choice. The Ring must be destroyed or all will perish."

"Yes," he agreed, feeling ashamed in the face of the Elf's quiet determination. His fears seemed so childish, so silly in comparison. At least he could hold to some hope of returning home when this was all said and done, if they survived. What had Elrond, and Legolas and the other Elves to look forward to except the knowledge of their impending exile from their homes? The thought made him cold, bereft of anything save a tight fist of anguish choking him. The Elves had been a part of his life in one way or another since his childhood, sometimes only as figures in beautiful songs Bilbo sang or later still, when his Uncle had allowed him to accompany him on his excursions, as friends. What would happen to this land once their light passed away to the West? Better to pass away than to be blotted out forever, he supposed but he still grieved for what would be lost.

"Thank you."

The words fell, surprising the both of them with their presence, Legolas' gaze now quizzical. "Thank you," Frodo rolled the words around, feeling them with his entire body.

"For?"

"For agreeing to stand with me. For listening to me when I'm sure you have more important matters to attend."

"Little one," the Prince of Mirkwood's smile was brilliant, his dark mood seeming to evaporate as he touched Frodo's cheek with the lightest skim of his fingers. "At this moment, I can think of no matter more important."

There it was again, that strange sense of being drawn out of himself, towards the archer. His awareness seemed to narrow to the graze of fingertips against his flesh, well worn with calluses and hiding a strength that was belied by their slender length. They were so close he could feel the heat of the other's body through the gossamer thin cloth adorning him. He wanted nothing more than to lean forward, to take what warmth and security he could from the Elf. He was so cold, from his wound, from uncertainty and grief.... Would it wrong to ask such a thing? And why did he desire it so from one he had just met? Why not Sam or Gandalf? What was it about Legolas that made him feel so at ease, as if for the first time, he could be himself without the restraints of what was expected of him? He was so many things to so many people -- a 'Master' to Sam, cousin to Merry and Pippin, a 'son' to Bilbo and Gandalf, the Ring-bearer to everyone here. So many titles to lose himself in until there was nothing left but the titles themselves. What did he have of himself that hadn't been given or assigned by someone else? Was there nothing of himself that he could call his own? Even the people of the Shire had made assumptions about him, labeling him as strange because his mind saw farther than the turn of the seasons and the pungent smell of freshly tilled earth. They had made allowances, as if to excuse his behavior because he was 'Mad' Baggin's nephew--and heir to the largest fortune in the Shire. If they knew the truth of why he'd left the Shire so suddenly, they would probably all shake their heads, tongues clucking in feigned sympathy as if to say, "Well, what did you expect? He's a Baggins, after all."

As much as he loved the Shire, he often felt he had no real place in it. His heart loved its hills and fields but often yearned for something more, a restless slither in the back of his mind that urged in quiet whispers every spring, growing stronger as the years passed. As if his mind knew that there was somewhere out there he should be, something he was seeking that couldn't be found in the confines of Bag End. There had always been some small voice in the back of his head, urging him to wait, that his time had not yet come. Over time, that voice had quieted, settling as he had into life as the Master of Bag End, life running at a steady if not sometimes monotonous pace. Safe, uneventful, and on occasion dull but there had been a sense of comfort in that. Gandalf's abrupt return and their consequent flight had brought that feeling back with a vengeance, and despite the fear and danger each step brought him closer to, he couldn't deny how some part of him welcomed it. This was the adventure he had always craved and dreamed of and in spite of the danger, he felt himself coming to life, seeing mountains and the wrecks of ancient towers, striding amongst the lords of Men, Elves, and Dwarves as if he had a right to. The world was wider than he'd guessed and filled with such visions, dark and terrible with islands of beauty like Rivendell.

Legolas was like those mountains, solid and possessing a perilous beauty that alternately intimidated and haunted him. All Elves whether light or dark were fair but there was something luminous about his companion, something that comforted even as it made him nervous. Not even Elrond with all his wisdom or Lady Arwen's unearthly radiance had made as great an impression on him. Perhaps it stemmed from the archer prince's sworn oath to protect him, to help him achieve his quest but Frodo thought it more than that. What it was, he could not say but something about Legolas called to him, called him with the same intensity that the mountains and the road called to him, beckoning him into some mystery he not yet knew the name of.

There would be time enough to figure it out, he supposed. Their road together would be a long one, allowing him more of an opportunity to observe his companion. The prospect excited him, more than it should have and he frowned, wondering if perhaps the poison from his wound hadn't affected his brain.

"Master Frodo?"

He nearly yelped at the sound of Sam's concerned voice, so close to his ear, irritated that for a second time this evening, he had been snuck up on. Legolas stiffened beside him, revealing that in spite his famed elven senses, he, too, had been caught unawares. He bit his lip, trying to not laugh at the slight discomfort on the Elf's face as he came to the same conclusion.

His smile faded just a bit at the sight of Sam's honest face scrunched up in worry. Sam was a dear to him as a brother, more so now than ever, but he couldn't help but resent the surge of guilt he felt around him. Ever since Gandalf had seen fit to appoint Sam as his manservant for this journey, the other Hobbit had been taking his duties very seriously, keeping him in sight at all times if he could manage it. And as much as he enjoyed Sam's presence, there were times when he longed to just be away from his anxious presence, time to think and be alone with his thoughts and not have to be brave for the others. Legolas had seemed to understand that but Frodo very much doubted Sam would and he would not for the world hurt the other's feelings.

"I'm fine, Sam." His voice was gentle, answering the question in Sam's eyes before it could reach his lips. "I wanted some air."

"You should have told me," his friend's voice was almost reproachful but whether that reproach was directed at himself or Sam, he could not say.

"And let you miss observing the Elves, Samwise Gamgee? Never in a million years. Besides, Legolas has been watching out for me."

Sam fidgeted, half bowing in Legolas' direction as if he were uncertain of how he should treat him. The Elf raised his hand, "Please, Samwise, I have already had to instruct your master in using my proper name. It is not fit that you should bow to me if we are to be companions and equals."

"Um, yes, sir. I--" Sam seemed even more flustered than before and Frodo took pity on him, leaving Legolas' side and clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Come along, Sam. The night's young and we still have to be there for Bilbo's recitation," he glanced at the archer. "Will you come with us?"

Legolas' face was grave, turning back towards the sky. "I think I will stay here for now. Rivendell is too lovely to keep me indoors on a night like this."

He nodded, letting Sam lead him away, pausing at the door for one last look at his newfound friend. From this angle, with his face caught in the wonder of some music that only he could hear, his body a study of grace in repose, he seemed little more than a young man, beautiful but no longer terrible. Almost dreamy in expression as those sloe eyes caressed the landscape. Frodo shuddered in silence, wondering for the flickering of an instant what it would be like to feel those eyes touch him in that way. The thought fled as quickly as it had appeared but the feelings it stirred... He shook his head as if to clear it, following Sam inside even as that image seemed to burn itself in his mind.

He wasn't sure he understood, wasn't sure how or why but he felt something inside him moving, changing, leaning towards the Elf as a young tree does the light. Common sense told him that he ought not to entertain such ideas, that he ought to stay out of the affairs of the 'Big People' and mind his place.

But what did common sense know anyway?

***End