Everything was in as much order as it could be. Sting was at his side, belt secured. The cold of mithril pressed against his chest, light and airy, supple nearly as the finest cloth in the Shire. He had what supplies he had come with, which, he had to admit to himself, were not nearly enough to last very long. He had not expected to travel when they bed down that night, and was not nearly so prepared as he ought to be; maybe a day or two's worth of food at best, and that was if he followed Aragorn's ways. He doubted Merry and Pippin would have either, but suspected that had Aragorn and Sam been caught the same way, would have gotten off better. Rangers, it seemed, slept in what they could travel and survive with at all times. He could not remember a time when he had seen the Man relax in this regard, save for Rivendell. And Sam himself was a Gamgee; in other words, utterly practical and often prepared.
Frodo's hand nearly drifted up to touch at his neck, but stopped. He could feel the weight that lay hidden under his clothes anyway. The Ring was still there. It had been, of course; he had checked the moment he had arrived and no one to observe him, but chain or no chain, he reasoned, there was no harm in checking. Just to be certain. The thing had a way of slipping off if given the chance. Satisfied for now, Frodo turned, having finally shaken off the momentary unwillingness to leave the spot.
The voice that called his name drew him short. One of the Fair Folk stood by, having just arrived, the fairest one he had seen before and ever would see, save Lady Arwen. The surprise that took the hobbit was immediate and strong, the relief that took him (he was not alone) was small and guilty; how could anyone bring her here? But there was no imitating the voice or the look in her eyes, how old and vast she seemed, like a pool whose depths were fathomless. Nor would he ever forget how she had seemed to look through him. What she had asked of him silently, the thing that he would not share with the others, not even Merry. She was one of the last people he would have expected to encounter in this place.
The hobbit took a step forward towards her, then belatedly bowed low, feeling extraordinarily clumsy in her presence.
no subject
Frodo's hand nearly drifted up to touch at his neck, but stopped. He could feel the weight that lay hidden under his clothes anyway. The Ring was still there. It had been, of course; he had checked the moment he had arrived and no one to observe him, but chain or no chain, he reasoned, there was no harm in checking. Just to be certain. The thing had a way of slipping off if given the chance. Satisfied for now, Frodo turned, having finally shaken off the momentary unwillingness to leave the spot.
The voice that called his name drew him short. One of the Fair Folk stood by, having just arrived, the fairest one he had seen before and ever would see, save Lady Arwen. The surprise that took the hobbit was immediate and strong, the relief that took him (he was not alone) was small and guilty; how could anyone bring her here? But there was no imitating the voice or the look in her eyes, how old and vast she seemed, like a pool whose depths were fathomless. Nor would he ever forget how she had seemed to look through him. What she had asked of him silently, the thing that he would not share with the others, not even Merry. She was one of the last people he would have expected to encounter in this place.
The hobbit took a step forward towards her, then belatedly bowed low, feeling extraordinarily clumsy in her presence.
"Lady Galadriel."