Rating: G
Characters: Rosie, Sam, Frodo
Warnings: none.
Disclaimer: I do not own these hobbits.
Feedback: Please. It makes me happy.
Summary: Rosie ponders the significance of an old childhood rhyme.
Rosie
admires all the colors of life. Colors were one of the first things she knew.
"Roses are red, violets are blue, the sky is too," her mother used to
sing to her. "Grass is green, clouds are white, night is dark and day is
light." Dark and light, day and night. What was once a childhood
comparison haunts her now. Dark and light...
"Roses are red..."
Her father had named her Rose after his favorite flower. "A red one, of
course," he'd responded with when Rosie asked which color rose she was.
"A rose as red as berries". Red as berries, red as rubies. Red as
blood dripping from a finger pricked on a thorn. Red: the color of passion and
rage and love. Yes, Rosie was definitely red.
"Violets are blue..."
Rosie has always seen blue as an unhappy color; blue, the colors of violets,
tears, and Frodo's eyes. Beautiful and loved, to be sure, but always too deep
and melancholy. And cold, so cold. A little red mixed in would warm blue right
up, Rosie believes. But sometimes, blue resists, oblivious to red's warmth in
its desolation. Blue is sadness, and sadness is Frodo.
"...night is dark and day is light."
Sam is Rosie's day, shining light and warmth upon her. She, his rose, needs
that light to grow and to become more beautiful. She basks in that loving glow,
to which she responds with her own crimson brightness. She is a byproduct of
Sam's love. But if Sam is Rosie's day, then Frodo is surely her night; cold,
dark, mysterious. She's often been frightened of the chilly depths that night
holds; it reminds her of death, and of loss. So, in an attempt to save him, she
tries to coax night into joining day. She constantly thrusts the beauties of
day into his face: work, laughter, movement, roses. And of course, Sam just
shines and shines, desperately trying to fill the night with his warmth.
Rosie's surprised that he hasn't run out of light by now, the way he just
radiates so selflessly. But it seems that Frodo is stubbornly clinging to the
morbid allure of the night... or perhaps he's too submersed in shadows to
notice roses and sunlight. It makes Sam's face dim, and Rosie's spirit wilt.
She is not quite as vivid a red as she once was.
Rosie remembers an old tune of her mother's, but the words are slightly
different to her now.
"Roses are red,
Frodo is blue-
Sam is, too."