The world and characters used in these pieces belong to JRR Tolkien. I'm only exploring and hope he would not be too upset.
Frodo finally looked into their small camp fire. Since Mordor he had hidden his dislike of it from others. Even in the safety of Rivendell he avoided the Hall Of Fire.
Flames writhed, wrapping about the wood they had collected, flickering gold, orange and red. Devouring even as the eye had tried to devour his mind; it trapped him in memory with the stench of sulphur and skin blistering heat.
Sam’s strong hand reached across his vision, rolling sausages in his new frying pan. And suddenly the fire was just a fire; a place of good food, warmth and companionship.
I AM STILL HERE
“Still here, Mr Frodo? Thought you were abed.”
“Yes Sam. I am still here,” he replied wistfully, laying down his pen.
Most of him was here at least. But it felt as though he had left a trail of bits across all Middle earth and the largest part on Mount Doom. What was left felt poorly strung together.
“I’m getting warm milk for Rosie. She can’t sleep with the baby so close. Would you like some?”
“Yes please.” He tried a smile. Milk would not help but it would please Sam.
He took up the quill.
“Hamfast Gamgee, yer off yer noddle!” Bell declaimed roundly.
“ Tis only a hobby. There’s a contest down The Green Dragon,” her husband replied.
“Hobbies is for folks with nothin’ better to do.”
“Mr Bilbo has his writin’.”
“That’s my point!” Bell retorted.
“We could always eat the pumpkin after,” Hamfast suggested weakly.
“Have you ever tasted one of them giant pumpkins? They don’t taste of nothin’. I aint cookin’ with one. Tis a waste of my good piecrust.” Bell stomped back in the smail.
Hamfast sighed and went back to planting the peas.
A last gull wheeled about the ships mast before winging back to land and he whispered, “Namaarie.”
Strange that long ago the first elvish word Bilbo had taught him meant, goodbye.
He was sick of goodbyes. He had goodbye’d and namaarie’d kings and commoners, elves, dwarves, family and friends. Then he had farewell’d Bag End and all the Shire’s familiar woods and rivers.
Kissing Sam’s forehead had been the hardest, yet sweetest.
The Ringbearer inhaled deeply of moist salt air and turned about. No more namaarie. Now was the time for hello.
He smiled, bowing to the setting sun. “Vedui.”
RUN and RUN and RUN
Not for the first time Bilbo questioned his decision to join this quest.
I nice walking party he could enjoy but ever since he had run out of the door to join these dwarves he had not paused to even blow his nose. They seemed to flee wildly from one disaster to the next.
Now they were dashing, willy-nilly about a wet moorland; one obviously dotty wizard leading whilst another, even dottier, unsuccessfully tried to draw off their relentless pursuers.
“Gentlehobbits do not run,” an aunt had once told him. Unless they want to get killed, he thought.
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