Disclaimer: I'm not Tolkien. I don't own them.
Warning: Mild F/S slash.
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Frodo's hands were always so cold.
He remembered days of lives long past when he would feel those hands on him, warm and full of life. And he would look into those brilliant sapphires and see the bright, clear sky of a glorious spring day reflected there. They would lie on the grass amidst the first blossoms of the new season, smell the sweet fragrances of dew-kissed lilacs and sunny daffodils, and there would be only bliss and peace.
But now as he sat on the edge of the bed and held those hands between his own, a shiver ran down his spine. The fingers were stiff and frigid, and try as he might to rub some heat into them, they remained the way they were. He brought his lips up and pressed gentle kisses into Frodo's temple, his cheek, down along his jawbone, trying desperately to breathe warmth into him. He thought he heard a sigh, but when he glanced up Frodo was staring out the window as though he hadn't felt a thing. His gaze was fixed on some faraway point, and Sam had the feeling only he could see it. He blinked back tears.
Oh, he was losing him.
He had been for some time. It was clear when he looked in his eyes and saw not the old fire of the vibrant hobbit he had known, but a smoky mirror of the dead season beyond the glass. He had tried everything he could think of to keep him anchored here. But it seemed that Frodo had been washed away by the tide long ago.
This helplessness was an agony greater than any he had ever experienced. There was naught much left he could do. So he closed his eyes, squeezed those icy hands and prayed with all of his heart to the Lady for springtime to come again.
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