Disclaimer: I do not, have not, and never will claim ownership, part or parcel, of any and all Lord of the Rings properties. I do claim a deep love for Middle-Earth and all the fair folk who dwelt there. As for writing about them, I just can't help myself.
Prelude
"Dad, I think somethin's the matter with Bill."
Sam Gardner dropped his pen with a start, chair-legs protesting against the flagstone floor. He hurriedly followed Frodo out into the hall of Bag End and through the kitchen, grabbing his jacket and scarf before exiting by the garden door. Father and son never spoke as they hurried down the lane toward Bagshot Row and the fields and barns beyond, their breaths cloud-white in a hard January freeze.
The barn, a little lop-sided from age, was still snug and warm with the body heat of sundry livestock, and a homely smell of the animals and last summer's hay harvest mingled in the dim light of the structure.
Sam and Frodo moved past the cow stalls toward the center of the building, where various owners had stabled their ponies for the winter. As they approached Bill's stall, the absence of the old pony's welcoming nicker sent warnings up the back of Sam's neck, and he braced himself.
There on the soft hay – as if asleep – Bill the Pony lay, his eyes closed, his body still. Sam knelt beside him and pulled the animal's head into his lap, stroking Bill's mane and neck, searching for a sign of life.
He looked up into Frodo's face, tears pooling in his brown eyes, his voice hitching in grief.
"He's still warm."
ooOOoo
Chapter 1 will follow soon, this I pledge.
NOTE: It has been years since I've written anything – I mean anything. Got it into my head that I might write a novel (snort). Made notes, drew up the characters, even drew up a story outline. But life got in the way, continues to get in the way. Getting older; realizing that some dreams just don't come true. Frodo comes to mind, and the loss of his beloved Shire. But I am trying, once again, to write about something I know and love – a world created by someone who did realize a dream – or at least part of it - and to whom I shall be eternally grateful. . . W-