A/N: In case you haven't noticed in the small headings above, this is a mystery. With * simper * Haldir as the debonair detective, as you will soon find out. Enjoy!

Dragon-of-the-north: Thanks for your review, it encouraged me to no end. Keep guessing; that's part of the fun!

* * * indicates flashbacks

*- indicates a change in setting

Sam puttered about his small haversack, frantically muttering to himself.

"As my Gaffer used to say, if ever you have to pack, then by gum, make it a packing worth remembering! Now let me see… cooking utensils, water canteen…I know I must be forgetting something."

"Oh Sam," Frodo laughed, busy with his own small bundle. "Is there anything from the Shire that you didn't pack?"

"Why yes, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied seriously, quite oblivious to Frodo's jesting manner. "I discovered in Rivendell that I left my sewing kit behind. A real nuisance it was. Thanks be, the elves had one to spare."

Frodo burst out in a merry peal of laughter, engaging the curious glances of passing elves. Though surprised, Sam loyally joined in Frodo's mirth, determined to soften the oddness of a lone hobbit chuckling in the midst of a vast elven city.

"That's my Mr. Frodo," mused Sam fondly as Frodo bent once again over his pack. "Always happy, always glad. A joy to be around, he is." He stood, surveying Frodo, till the latter swung around with a tiny grin.

"Now come on, Sam my lad. The time of our departure draws near and you don't look anywhere near done." He cast an amused glance at the numerous items strewn about Sam's pack. Embarrassed to be caught idling, Sam hurriedly set about his task.

"Mr. Frodo is a good hobbit, he is. One of the best." Sam thought as he mentally ticked items of his checklist.

* * *

Supported comfortably by his elbow, Sam gazed, mesmerised, upon Frodo, who lay a short distance away. He was deep in slumber, the sound of gentle snoring resounding in the cosy hollow where the fellowship had taken respite. His eyelashes lay enticingly on his cheeks, highlighting the creamy softness of his skin. His face was a serene mask, smoothed from care and worries. Sam inhaled deeply, entranced by this beauty he had never known Frodo to possess. Placing the fingers of his right hand upon the tiny hollow at the base of his neck, he could feel his pulse quicken, pounding rapidly. Accompanying it was a queer, flurried sensation, entirely alien to the usually stolid Sam. "I could just watch him all the night…"

* * *

"What business have I, thinking of that? Now is not the time nor the place." Sam jerked back to the present with a jolt. "Unnatural emotions, that's all they are." Yet, as he struggled to focus on the task at hand, he realised that the memories of that night only caused a lovely warmth to diffuse throughout his being. Besides, there had been no accounting for his silent protestation the night before…

Frodo closed the flap of his haversack, heaving a contented sigh. A deep sense of accomplishment was his just reward. He peeked over at Sam, who seemed to be once again lost in an enchanting daydream. It was most probably about the elves. Sam's lifelong fascination with the ethereal creatures had never ceased to amaze Frodo; it was so full of innocent wonder and trusting belief. Frodo knew that, to Sam, the elves were beings far above the common ranks, seemingly incapable of faults. Such they were, yet Sam exalted them so, that should any one of the elves show himself to be any less than perfect, Sam's illusions would be shattered, all that he held in adoration crushed. Who knew then what harm it would cause, what violent reaction it would invoke?

Frodo frowned slightly. Such was the danger of holding a being, even those of the purest light, in such blind estimation. As he stood, absorbed in his pondering, low, urgent murmurs assuaged his senses. Soft footfalls, moving with an easy grace even in their speed, alerted him to the presence of others. Twisting around in a fluid, lithe motion, he watched as two elves came striding in his direction. One, Frodo recognized as an eminent healer of Lothlorien, highly respected even among those of his art. The other was a stranger to Frodo but his position was openly reflected by his garb, that of the guard. Deeply engaged in conversation, the two entirely bypassed the hobbits. Noting that they were heading in the general direction of Lady Galadriel's flet, an uneasy sensation rose within Frodo.

*-

"Lord Celeborn, the healer has arrived." A grave tone pierced the turmoil of his thoughts. Looking up hastily from his pacing, Celeborn vaguely motioned towards Galadriel.

A/N: (In reference to Sam's infatuation) I do not mind in the least reading slash, but writing it is an entirely different matter. However, it is essential to the plot of this fic. so…*throws hands up in despair* Sorry if it is terribly done. As for non-slashers, there will be the strict involvement of emotions, with no physical attraction whatsoever. [Warning] This is a very clean fic.!