The places, people and main events of this story do not belong to me but to the mighty pen of JRR Tolkien. I am only exploring, in my fumbling way, a small corner of his richly conceived world and I hope he will forgive me for the presumption.

MOVING ON.

Frodo closed his book and set a piece of ribbon as marker, before letting it fall to his lap, with a sigh. He had been reading this history of the Stewards for several days and finding it quite interesting, but the ancient text was difficult to decipher and he couldn't seem to find the required energy to pick his way through the scrawling letters this morning.

He considered getting up for a walk in the fresh air but it was the chill wind outside earlier that had driven him to his seat in the window. He seemed to feel the cold more nowadays. Leaning further into the soft cushion behind him he let his gaze drop to the courtyard. The view made him feel a little dizzy, which was odd because heights didn't seem to bother him as much as they had, before he left the Shire. The high stairways and deep chasms of Moria had made him face that particular fear early in his journey.

Far below, Pippin and Gandalf were strolling together, obviously deep in conversation. The wizards face was hidden to Frodo, from this angle, by the wide brim of the Istaris' hat but Pippin was clearly visible, his head bobbing arms gesticulating wildly to emphasise some point in his narrative. The younger hobbits' own journey of the past year had brought him a new measure of maturity but his bright spirit was indomitable and Frodo found himself smiling as the two below threw back their heads, in unison, laughing at some humorous comment one or the other had made. He watched them follow Merry and Sam, out through the archway and down the road to the city gates, or rather, what was left of the city gates.

Frodo closed his eyes, basking in the heat of the sun through the glass, and rubbed the back of his neck absently. He must have slept with his head at an odd angle last night, for he could feel soreness in the muscles there. The beds and pillows were too big and he missed his cosy little room at Bag End. Gimli was supervising the repair of some section of city wall and Legolas had stopped by only briefly to see off the little party below. It was good to know no-one would be looking over his shoulder, for the next few days at least. Frodo had found it impossible to sift through the emotions and events of the past months when he was always under someone's watchful eye.

A light, confident, tap at the door brought his attention back to the room. He sighed. Each time he thought he had gained some time to himself someone turned up. He tried to hide the frustration in his voice. "Come in." Swinging around in his seat he let his feet dangle over the edge, almost to the floor, once more wishing for some hobbit sized furniture.

Frodo was pleasantly surprised to see Legolas step lightly into the sun-drenched chamber. He had grown to appreciate the elf's company more over the past few weeks. The Prince had not been as overly protective as the rest of the companions. His first question was never about the hobbits health and Frodo did not feel that he was constantly under scrutiny. Like many elves, he did not seem much interested in the affairs of mortals, although during their long journey from Rivendell to Amon Hen he had grown a little more forthcoming. (It was difficult to do otherwise with a hobbit as curious as Pippin around.)

Since their reunion, in Ithilien, Frodo had come to enjoy his quiet company and the pair had taken to meeting in one or other of the small gardens in the city and strolling together. They did not talk much, simply enjoying the sharing of trees and fountains; the elf demanded nothing of him and allowing Frodo to set the pace of their relationship and their walk. Experiences of the past months had left Frodo bruised in mind and soul and Legolas seemed happy to tolerate his long silences.

"Good morning, Frodo. I thought I would find you here."

Frodo smiled ruefully, guessing that Sam had managed to get a message to him before he left. "Good morning, Legolas. It was too cold to sit in the garden and I wanted to finish my book." He nodded at the large, blue bound, tome on the seat at his side.

"I see you are still ruled by your pride, then?" The elf smiled, his eyes sparkling and dimples appearing briefly. It had become a joke between them. On more than one occasion he had helped Frodo with the translation of a particularly difficult passage in the ancient volume and had even once suggested that he try a different version from the towers' huge library. The stubborn Frodo had looked up, in mock horror, and declared that its translation had become a matter of pride; that he would not let the text defeat him. It was, nowadays, a rare flash of humour from the little hobbit and Legolas used every opportunity to play on it. Frodo's laughter was bright and honest.

"I will finish this book, if it is the last thing I do."

Legolas' dimples returned. "But not this morning, Frodo. The sun is shining. You should be out in the fresh air."

Glancing over his shoulder to the window Frodo could see banners on the tall spires of the city snapping in the breeze. "The wind is too cold today. I think I'll stay indoors."

"If you put on a warm cloak you will not feel it as much," the Prince of Mirkwood persisted. A little furrow was forming between his eyebrows as he studied his friend. Frodo knew, from the brief glance he had taken in his looking glass this morning that he looked paler than usual and his eyes were dull. Legolas, like all the Fellowship, could not fail to know that the Ringbearer often suffered from nightmares and Frodo squirmed a little under his frank gaze.

Frodo sighed inwardly. He was so tired of people constantly enquiring after his health but it was obvious that the Prince was not going to take, "No" for an answer. He resolved to put a good face on it and hopped down from his seat. "Very well. I could do with a break. The passage I'm reading is particularly di . . ." He grasped the edge of the window seat as a slight ripple of dizziness caught him.

Legolas slipped, concernedly to his side. "Frodo?"

Blue eyes blinked and the vertigo faded, as quickly as it had come. "I'm alright," Frodo replied, letting go of the seat and tugging at his waistcoat. "I just stood up too quickly. I'll fetch my coat."

He could feel the elf's eyes on his back as he crossed to the bed and retrieved his jacket. Slipping his arms in, he began to fasten the buttons, careful to keep his back to Legolas. With only three fingers on his right hand, buttons were still a challenge but at least these were bigger than the ones on his shirt. After several moments of fumbling he managed to fasten them and turned, jamming his right hand into his pocket. "Shall we go?"

Legolas returned his smile and started to follow him to the door, then stayed him with a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "You have forgotten your cloak."

He had not worn his cloak for days. The elven clasp was beautifully made but his clumsy right hand just could not make it to work. The first time he had tried to wear it since Ithilien, Sam had to fasten it for him and he had avoided it ever since; trying to recover some measure of independence, the last thing he needed was for people to be hovering around, helping him dress. (He could see Sam's fingers twitching every time he watched his master trying to fasten the small horn buttons on his shirt.)

He tried to shrug off Legolas' grip and was thankful that he had his back to the elf as he winced at sore neck muscles. A Prince of elves is not easily shrugged off, however. Picking up the cloak from where Sam had left it, draped over the back of a chair, Legolas drew it around the hobbits shoulders, wordlessly bending down to fastening the clasp.

So he had guessed, thought Frodo resignedly. At least he had spared him the indignity of asking if he needed help. The elf made to leave the room and Frodo followed, a little sheepishly.