A/N- Set between the time the Fellowship leaves Rivendell and the time they enter Moria. If it's incomprehensible, blame my philosophic, deep-thinking, symbolism-loving muse, who has decided to go out for a run and drag me along.
Disclaimer- I own nothing. And please don't sue- I like my teddy bear and cardboard box.
They are not laughing, or joking, or even talking. But then, they really have no need to. The night is cool, but the small fire that blazes near the center of their camp keeps them warm, and keeps the bugs away, for the most part.
Aragorn and Boromir are sitting side by side, and it's truly astonishing how similar they look at the moment, eyes dark and serious, alert for any sign of anything out of the ordinary, because even in the midst of this quiet peacefulness, they cannot quite relax. Warriors both, tall and proud, holding the sorrows of past battles and comrades lost locked away in their hearts. Frodo thinks that it's a pity that they can't see that similarity themselves.
But then, some friendships, and some people, are doomed from the beginning.
Gandalf is next in the circle, quietly smoking his pipe and staring into the fire, face inscrutable. It's odd, but Frodo realizes that it is times like this that he is most reminded how different the old wizard is, how strange and foreign- yet at the same time, how painfully familiar he seems, like an old portrait that has always been hanging on the wall, but shows a picture of something that is simply beyond comprehension or understanding.
But then, every picture has been painted by someone, and nothing can stay hanging on a wall forever.
Merry and Pippin sit to Gandalf's left, seemingly inseparable, and Frodo muses how even though they sit in the shadows, the laughter in their eyes is clearly visible. In a way Frodo envies their innocence, that same ethereal feeling that he lost the moment the Ring touched his hand.
But innocence can be lost, and life can come between even the closest of brothers.
Gimli and Legolas sit side by side, yet each keeps as far away from the other as possible. Frodo nearly laughs at their childishness, but he also realizes that there is nothing young about that ancient rivalry between their peoples, which goes back for thousands of years and seems likely to continue on for at least an equal span of time.
But change is inevitable, and sometimes the greatest friendships are born out of the bitterest of rivalries.
And last of all there is Sam, sitting faithfully by the side of his Mr. Frodo. And Frodo himself thinks fondly that in a way Sam is defined by his unwavering, unfailing loyalty. It gladdens him to think that someday, Sam will be defined by more than the company he keeps, but by the deeds he has done and the life he has lived.
But sometime definitions are harder and more painful to change than people like to imagine.
And Frodo sits, feeling more a part of the ragtag circle than he has ever been part of anything in his life. Conversely, though, he feels far more separated from them, and the world, than he ever has before.
Dooms and creations and innocence and changes and definitions, and really, they're what makes up this whole world, this entire wonderful, terrible place, Frodo thinks. But then he smiles.
But if you look past all those other ideas and complexities, we really are just brothers, in all the ways that matter.
And that, he decides, is true beyond dispute.