Chapter 2: The Departure of Mistress Rose
Sam woke the next morning, not to the singing of birds, nor to a soft breeze spilling from the open window, but to a feeling of sinking dread, and a terrible chill that ran the length of his spine.
"Must've been having a nightmare…" he muttered to himself, but somehow, unconvinced. He slowly raised himself from the bed, drew back the curtains a bit, but was met only by an ominous grey sky staring back gloomily at him. Something didn't seem right.
"Don't be a fool, Sam Gamgee. Getting all worked up about a bunch of storm clouds. You've seen worse things than cloudy skies in your day."
He tiptoed out of the room, rummaged around in the cupboards, and prepared a rather humble breakfast for Rose and himself. But somehow, he didn't have any appetite for food at the moment.
"What's gotten into you?" he thought to himself, reproachfully. "Since when have you ever woken up without a mind for something to eat. Something's funny here, and I don't like it very much."
He walked back into the bedroom to wake his wife. "Rosie, dear, I've made a bit of breakfast. Come and get it while it's still hot." No response.
"Come on, Rose, up you get!" he said more insistently.
Silence.
"Rosie, wake up, dear. Rosie? Rose? What's the matter? Wake up!" he persisted. He went to shake her from her sleep, but quickly withdrew his hand, aghast. She was chilled to the bone. Cold as… "No…" Sam fell to his knees, staring helplessly at his wife's face.
"No, Rose, please, wake up… Please, no… Rosie… don't leave me here, not now. Rose…" but in his heart he knew that it was too late.
He bowed his head, grief weighing down on him like a horrible burden. Grief so tangible, so maliciously real, the weight of it made him stoop so that he was bent over double, thick tear droplets cascading down his face and falling dully to the floor, all commingling into a tiny pool of anguish.
And he knelt there, wholly immersed in sorrow, clasping his wife's cold lifeless hand.
Sam woke the next morning, not to the singing of birds, nor to a soft breeze spilling from the open window, but to a feeling of sinking dread, and a terrible chill that ran the length of his spine.
"Must've been having a nightmare…" he muttered to himself, but somehow, unconvinced. He slowly raised himself from the bed, drew back the curtains a bit, but was met only by an ominous grey sky staring back gloomily at him. Something didn't seem right.
"Don't be a fool, Sam Gamgee. Getting all worked up about a bunch of storm clouds. You've seen worse things than cloudy skies in your day."
He tiptoed out of the room, rummaged around in the cupboards, and prepared a rather humble breakfast for Rose and himself. But somehow, he didn't have any appetite for food at the moment.
"What's gotten into you?" he thought to himself, reproachfully. "Since when have you ever woken up without a mind for something to eat. Something's funny here, and I don't like it very much."
He walked back into the bedroom to wake his wife. "Rosie, dear, I've made a bit of breakfast. Come and get it while it's still hot." No response.
"Come on, Rose, up you get!" he said more insistently.
Silence.
"Rosie, wake up, dear. Rosie? Rose? What's the matter? Wake up!" he persisted. He went to shake her from her sleep, but quickly withdrew his hand, aghast. She was chilled to the bone. Cold as… "No…" Sam fell to his knees, staring helplessly at his wife's face.
"No, Rose, please, wake up… Please, no… Rosie… don't leave me here, not now. Rose…" but in his heart he knew that it was too late.
He bowed his head, grief weighing down on him like a horrible burden. Grief so tangible, so maliciously real, the weight of it made him stoop so that he was bent over double, thick tear droplets cascading down his face and falling dully to the floor, all commingling into a tiny pool of anguish.
And he knelt there, wholly immersed in sorrow, clasping his wife's cold lifeless hand.