The Grip


Tasting blood on his lip, he more than half-expected it to be running down his neck. The ground beneath his palms was cold enough to burn; he perceived white, then nothing, then Sam.

Or, at least, the younger hobbit's hands, wide and capable, spread across his side and shoulder.

"Don't try an' talk, Mister Frodo," the admonishment came from somewhere far away- tinny and unreal. Am I trying to? Frodo wondered, warm suddenly and hearing the copper flow into his mouth. Hearing?

But Sam was speaking again; saying something- important. Something white- No- something- important- And Frodo lost the grip.