1 September, 3017

He was so cold. He was cold all of the time now.

And the road seemed so long...

Here was one step. And another. He counted: one, two, three...

And then had to stop for a moment. To remember where he was. Where he was going.

It was hard. Everyday, it was hard to remember...

He watched the shadows flow round him as the late afternoon sun touched the tops of the trees. There were black lines across the road, trapping his feet like fences, and once again the fear rose up from deep inside.

Alone.

Everything seemed so far away now. So far away.

There were days when waking up was hardly different from sleeping, for he hardly ever slept anymore. And when he was awake, it was so hard to think.

And always, there was pain. And unanswered questions.

And no way to get the answers he needed.

Ever.

Sometimes he wondered when he had left off saying "Mr." At least, when he said the name in his head.

No. It was only one word now: 'Frodo'.

His heart knew that word, knew the shape and feel of it, the way it tried to fit deep inside, to slip over his heart like a comfortable overcoat.

And he knew the sharp edges of it, like a blade of ice in his chest.

But then he was always cold now.

His lips moved a little but he never let the sounds come out, not even deep in the night, when darkness swallowed everything but the wretched confusion swelling in his breast, until he thought he must cry out.

But the dark held him fast. And he swallowed everything but the tears. And those left no trace.

Frodo had sent him away.

And the world felt so heavy.

But every day he went somewhere and did things that tied the minutes together until sundown told his eyes it was time to go home. And his feet took him home, up to the front door and inside, where no amount of light or warmth seemed to make any difference to the shivering in his body.

Frodo had sent him away.

And now here was his food. And there was his Dad.

So he sat down. And ate as much as his throat would swallow.

And waited for the minutes to gather up into enough time to go to his room.

For once, his Dad didn't ask questions, didn't pry with stern words into his state of mind.

Maybe he didn't have one anymore.

When the light tap sounded on the door, he watched the Gaffer get up to open it, heard the soft sound of a voice outside. Watched the Gaffer turn his way.

"Sam? Sam! Hey, my lad, come up here and don't you be slow about it!"

Sam stood and caught himself against the table as the Gaffer turned back to the door.

"He's been a bit queer lately, sir, but don't you fret about it, he's still doin' his work proper, as I hear it."

Sam stepped slowly up to the doorway and his heart stumbled.

"Yes, sir?" His mouth was dry and he thought he might heave.

Standing on the edge of the step, hands shoved deep in his pockets, stood Frodo.

"Sam." Frodo's voice was barely a whisper. "I've got some hedge that needs a word or two from you. That is, if you've got time?"

Sam felt the cold shiver up his arms.

"Sam? Of course, if you've got other things to do..."

"No." Sam touched the tips of his teeth together and sucked in a breath. "I'll be there. Tomorrow."

Frodo nodded and backed away, staring for a moment before turning to walk back up the path.

Sam shivered again. Tomorrow.

For a long time, he stood in the doorway and watched the cold, cold stars.