Lord of the Rings Ficlet Title: Dove Rating: PG Disclaimer: All characters belong to JRR Tolkien and his estate. --------------------- Moonlight shines through the round window, spilling into the room and across the two hobbits in the bed. One, his golden hair washed to a silver-gilt, sits up to run fingers through the dark curls on the linen pillow next to him. Sam runs a hand down Frodo's back, ever so gently, choking anew at the still-visible bones of his spine and ribs. Sam himself was filling out again properly as was befitting a hobbit, but Frodo has to be enticed to eat at every meal and the flesh is almost as spare on his bones as it had been when they had returned from Mordor. Dark bruises bloom at every major joint, where the skin was pressed too close to the bone and the slightest pressure was painful. He cups Frodo's prominent shoulder blades, jutting out from his back like wings. He reminds Sam of a broken-winged dove he had found as a lad, sprawled beneath the blooming cherry tree. The way the bird had fluttered helplessly in his hands is much the same as the frantic pulse of Frodo's heartbeat against his palms. Frodo is still beautiful enough to break Sam's heart, but it breaks for a different reason now. Now his is the painful beauty of the stars, cold and remote and farther away the harder you reached for them. It is a beauty that pierces the soul for what had been. He kisses Frodo's eyelids, first the right, than the left. The eyes beneath them are still: no dreams or nightmares tonight. Just stillness with only a light pulse to betray the life in the body beside him. The dove had been still at last, when he had assured it he meant it no harm. Sam wonders how long he can go on like this, hurting and hoping and dreading the day with its pain-filled eyes. He wants Frodo to get better and to see him laugh again at his cousins' antics and pranks. He wants to heal Frodo, wants to see him fly. As a lad he had woken up before the sun had risen to care for the dove, to feel that fragile life and to help it grow strong. He curls around the white body next to him, drawing Frodo to him, back to front. Frodo's breathing is shallow, quick, and rasping. The dove had died.