Disclaimer: I don't own this. I wish I did though...
"Is something wrong, Sam?" Frodo enquired, wear in his voice. The other didn't respond. It hadn't been long since they had set off on the Quest, on the journey of helping Frodo deliver the Ring to Mount Doom, thirty minutes at the most, not even an hour. Sam's attention was far from the simple gold band around his master's neck, it was fixed on his master.
Frodo was looking horrible, paler than milk, duller than storm clouds, slower than slugs. There was a shadow beneath his blue eyes, bright as the heavens above, but Sam had a feeling that by the end of this journey, if they survived, they wouldn't be any glow of innocence and happiness left to find left in those huge orbs of forget-me-not.
They faltered at mid-day for a spot of lunch, or a bit of a meal on the peak of a shallow mountain sheltered with grass. Legolas Greenleaf, the Prince of Mirkwood stood himself on a piece of rock, making use of his sharp elven eyesight in case orcs chose to appear. Sam set out his cooking pot and raw potatoes on some fire to roast, ignoring the fact that he was not supposed to light even the smallest of fires, while Frodo sat down beside Gimli the Dwarf, knees drawn up to his chest, watching Aragorn teach Merry and Pippin swordplay until Sam's consequences caught up with the rest of them.
"What is that?" Boromir said suddenly, pointing at a mass of fluttering dark waves right in front of a patch of cloud.
"Quick! Hide!" shouted Legolas.
Aragorn diminished the fire and Sam packed up all his cooking gear, seized Frodo's wrist and dove into nearest bush.
"Sam," said Frodo, when the fit had passed, brushing twigs out of his hair as he stood, "who knew having a bit of lunch could be so dangerous?"