FIRE IN LOTHLORIEN
The fire's warming my toes, I've had a hot bath, my belly's finally satisfied... and now I can't sleep. Doesn't matter that all the elves of Lothlorien and that glorious Lady herself are watching over us. Everyone's kipped out save me. Even you. And your face would make the Lady herself weep.
She promised you sleep without dreams, and rest. But I'm not so sure she's delivering. Sure, most of the time your face is smooth as a child's. But every now and then, your brows'll quirk and your chin will twitch and you'll stop breathing so that I fear you'll not start again.
So here I sit by the fire, making sure that you keep breathing.
At least tonight's the first night you haven't slept with your fingers wrapped about that cursed bit of gold what started all this madness. No, tonight there's another burden swallowing you whole...
Its not of your doing, can't you see that? No, you've not said a word, yet I know you. It's plain a pikestaff, written on your face. Even when you're asleep.
As for making the decision to even go through Moria-well, you were asked. No one else wanted to make it that call; no one else *would* make it, would they? Ask me, 'twasn't something they should have asked of you in the first place. After all, we've never been there, have we?
It's *not* your fault. You didn't get him killed, can't you see that? Fool's question-of course you can't see it. Instead you'll tie yourself up in knots so tight that they'll never unravel and then, when you just can't bear it anymore, you'll choke on it and lock it down. It'll go into some little dark place in your heart and never hopefully see the light of day again. But all the same you'll die a little inside. And then we'll go on 'cause none of us, you and me least of all, know what else to do.
This journey's to be hard enough to get through without you sinking under the weight of your own thoughts. And I don't know what to do when you get like this; makes me feel about as helpless as I've ever been. You've got to stop thinking too much. Let it all wash through you, 'stead of letting it flow over you. You take things too much to heart.
It'll rot your mind in the end, worse that that damn' Ring.
Gandalf is... gone. I still can't believe it, myself. I know how much you loved him, none better; I know how much we all did. But he's gone and you blaming yourself won't change it. You blaming yourself can't change it.
Just sleep, Frodo. For once, just sleep. I'll watch over you, even if the Lady doesn't give you the rest she promised. None of this is your doing. Yet it's dragging you along, will-you won't-you, and if you're not careful it'll drag you under.
That's not something I mean to let happen.
The fire's warming my toes, I've had a hot bath, my belly's finally satisfied... and now I can't sleep. Doesn't matter that all the elves of Lothlorien and that glorious Lady herself are watching over us. Everyone's kipped out save me. Even you. And your face would make the Lady herself weep.
She promised you sleep without dreams, and rest. But I'm not so sure she's delivering. Sure, most of the time your face is smooth as a child's. But every now and then, your brows'll quirk and your chin will twitch and you'll stop breathing so that I fear you'll not start again.
So here I sit by the fire, making sure that you keep breathing.
At least tonight's the first night you haven't slept with your fingers wrapped about that cursed bit of gold what started all this madness. No, tonight there's another burden swallowing you whole...
Its not of your doing, can't you see that? No, you've not said a word, yet I know you. It's plain a pikestaff, written on your face. Even when you're asleep.
As for making the decision to even go through Moria-well, you were asked. No one else wanted to make it that call; no one else *would* make it, would they? Ask me, 'twasn't something they should have asked of you in the first place. After all, we've never been there, have we?
It's *not* your fault. You didn't get him killed, can't you see that? Fool's question-of course you can't see it. Instead you'll tie yourself up in knots so tight that they'll never unravel and then, when you just can't bear it anymore, you'll choke on it and lock it down. It'll go into some little dark place in your heart and never hopefully see the light of day again. But all the same you'll die a little inside. And then we'll go on 'cause none of us, you and me least of all, know what else to do.
This journey's to be hard enough to get through without you sinking under the weight of your own thoughts. And I don't know what to do when you get like this; makes me feel about as helpless as I've ever been. You've got to stop thinking too much. Let it all wash through you, 'stead of letting it flow over you. You take things too much to heart.
It'll rot your mind in the end, worse that that damn' Ring.
Gandalf is... gone. I still can't believe it, myself. I know how much you loved him, none better; I know how much we all did. But he's gone and you blaming yourself won't change it. You blaming yourself can't change it.
Just sleep, Frodo. For once, just sleep. I'll watch over you, even if the Lady doesn't give you the rest she promised. None of this is your doing. Yet it's dragging you along, will-you won't-you, and if you're not careful it'll drag you under.
That's not something I mean to let happen.