PICTURES ARE NOT ENOUGH

She picked up the book. Its red leather cover was soft, edges darkened from much handling, for it first belonged to Mr Bilbo and had travelled far and back again.

Rose tested the weight, surprised it was not heavier considering the import of the tales hidden within. Random selection of a page revealed Mr Frodo's painstaking rendering of a willow tree but pictures could not tell all. For the love of her children but mostly for their father she needed to know all, not just the safe bits read out to her . . . needed to understand.

"Sam, teach me letters."

END

Childhood Lost

"What are you doing?" Denethor roared.

Faramir ducked behind his older brother and Boromir's voice cracked as he offered, "Building a snowman?"

"What have I told you about shouting?"

"That Mama is sick and we must be quiet," Faramir whispered.

At that moment their mother must have spoken for Denethor turned back from the window, only calling over his shoulder, "Oh, just get out of my sight."

The boys wasted no time in complying, although Faramir was crying by now. Later, when wishing them goodnight, mother hugged them very close. It was their last memory of her.

END

Picking Up The Threads

He picked up the cloak, fingering its silky texture and watching threads shimmer faintly in the autumn sunlight. He rarely wore it here, attempting to look like other ordinary hobbit, but even two years later folk considered him "a mite touched". If they only knew how touched.

Sam stuck his head around the door. "You ready, Mr Frodo?"

"Just coming."

Frodo patted the star-glass in his pocket and swung the elven cloak about his shoulders. He would wear it openly on this last journey, no longer denying his darkest history as he set sail in hope of future light.

END