The silent shape sits still, as if made of stone, and it would be hard for any traveller to make it out in the shadows of the rolling hills.
A barely audible moan breaks his train of silent thought, and he stir slightly. Beside him, another shape is huddled, a small one who is sleeping on his guard. There is next to no probability that that was where the sound had come from.
He knows what, or who, had made the sound, and he slowly creep off in its direction. There is another shape, not still and quiet like the others, but tossing restlessly and murmuring words that no one but he himself understood.
A rough hand reaches out to caress a cold shoulder. "Frodo," he whisper softly, willing the small shivering shadow to come back to them, to him, out of the shadowy existence to their shadowy and shape-filled lands.
The shivering stop momentarily, soft lashes flutter against damp cheeks. "So cold… so cold…" Feverish words penetrate pained lips.
"Frodo…" He murmur again, cursing the rains that make a warming fire an impossibility.
"Sam…" The big shape cocks his head slightly. "Sam, put another log on the fire, please… Sam…" The smaller shape creeps further under the blankets, almost disappearing into a shadowy bunch.
The bigger shape take a hand, an icy cold hand, between his own, to comfort and to put his own warmth, what little he has, into it.
Strong arms reach around the small bundle, cradle it in his arms and bear it over to his own resting place. There he sits, for a long time, rocking the bundle murmuring words of comfort until finally the mindless confusion is replaced by a comforting recognition.
Another shiver, harsher this time, but yet more hopeful than the soft, small ones had been.
"S-S-Strider?" Frodo press his body against the man's, searching comfort, warmth, reassurance.
Strider runs his fingers through the hobbit's damp locks. "Shhh… it's all right. You'll be all right."
"Water?" It is hard to speak, and his mind race to form thoughts into words.
"You're thirsty?" Frodo nod and the big hand leave his head to search for a bottle. Finding it, Strider steadies the hobbits frail frame with one hand, whilst holding the bottle to hungry lips with the other.
When Frodo is satisfied, Strider put aside the bottle and continues cradling the hobbit. Frodo is slowly starting to feel warmer, the pain is less heavy on him, and the shadows around him are not so dark. He sighs and buries his head in the man's neck, softly drifting off into easier dreams where the shadows are, for the moment, kept at bay.
THE END
A barely audible moan breaks his train of silent thought, and he stir slightly. Beside him, another shape is huddled, a small one who is sleeping on his guard. There is next to no probability that that was where the sound had come from.
He knows what, or who, had made the sound, and he slowly creep off in its direction. There is another shape, not still and quiet like the others, but tossing restlessly and murmuring words that no one but he himself understood.
A rough hand reaches out to caress a cold shoulder. "Frodo," he whisper softly, willing the small shivering shadow to come back to them, to him, out of the shadowy existence to their shadowy and shape-filled lands.
The shivering stop momentarily, soft lashes flutter against damp cheeks. "So cold… so cold…" Feverish words penetrate pained lips.
"Frodo…" He murmur again, cursing the rains that make a warming fire an impossibility.
"Sam…" The big shape cocks his head slightly. "Sam, put another log on the fire, please… Sam…" The smaller shape creeps further under the blankets, almost disappearing into a shadowy bunch.
The bigger shape take a hand, an icy cold hand, between his own, to comfort and to put his own warmth, what little he has, into it.
Strong arms reach around the small bundle, cradle it in his arms and bear it over to his own resting place. There he sits, for a long time, rocking the bundle murmuring words of comfort until finally the mindless confusion is replaced by a comforting recognition.
Another shiver, harsher this time, but yet more hopeful than the soft, small ones had been.
"S-S-Strider?" Frodo press his body against the man's, searching comfort, warmth, reassurance.
Strider runs his fingers through the hobbit's damp locks. "Shhh… it's all right. You'll be all right."
"Water?" It is hard to speak, and his mind race to form thoughts into words.
"You're thirsty?" Frodo nod and the big hand leave his head to search for a bottle. Finding it, Strider steadies the hobbits frail frame with one hand, whilst holding the bottle to hungry lips with the other.
When Frodo is satisfied, Strider put aside the bottle and continues cradling the hobbit. Frodo is slowly starting to feel warmer, the pain is less heavy on him, and the shadows around him are not so dark. He sighs and buries his head in the man's neck, softly drifting off into easier dreams where the shadows are, for the moment, kept at bay.
THE END