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This was written a long time ago. Like a lot of what I post, it was part of something bigger that never panned out. I've no title for it yet.

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It’s been five days, and Frodo is nearly mad. The constant voices, whispering or arguing or bullying him about. Never a moment’s peace in which he might pick up his pen and continue his writing. He stands at the window looking out on the sunlit fields, trying not to dwell on the work that must be put away for now. “It won’t be long,” he tells himself, and “the past will always be there,” while his fingers ache with the words trapped in them, and the desire to let them out.

Late that night, he comes upon Sam in the hall. They smile at each other, and Frodo sees that his friend is tired. "Well, Sam," he says quietly, "you've turned another corner."

"Aye, so it seems." His hand resting on the knob of his door, Sam asks, "How are you faring, Master?"

Waving a hand and shaking his head, Frodo answers, "Oh, I'm alright. I'm alright." The gesture is poignant to Sam. If Frodo only knew, he'd be startled at how much he resembled Bilbo just then.

Sam smiles. "Then I'll say goodnight, sir." He grips the knob, and then as though plunging into water, he blurts out, "Thank you, sir, for all you've done for us. For Rosie and me."

Frodo is puzzled, and then replies "No, Sam," and shakes his head. "It is only my thanks to you. Were it ten times more, it would not be enough. You know not what a comfort it is to me to see you so."

"Now you sound like Strider, beggin' your pardon," Sam chuckles. "Sleep well then, Master," the new father says as he opens the door.

"Good night, Sam," Frodo answers, and when the hall is dark, he stands still, listening to the silence.

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