Watching
by Janette Le Fay (happyhobbits@hotmail.com)
Rosie was a light sleeper. Not restless, nor fitful, for her dreams were rarely troubled by anything darker than a grey uncertainty, but motherhood had taught her to wake at the slightest sound or movement. Usually she would listen for a second or two to ensure that nobody was crying before attributing the disturbance to an owl, or something, and then she would go back to sleep. She never had any difficulty in doing so.
Sometimes, however, if the light had begun to grow again, she would catch sight of something that would engage her interest. Frodo's face, perhaps, half-turned into the pillow beside her, dark curls tumbling unheeded over the elegant moulding of his features, untroubled and beautiful in sleep. Or, maybe, Sam's brown arm flung possessively over Frodo's slight body; the way the muscles lay just beneath the freckled skin; the contrast between his tanned sturdiness and Frodo's white, fragile frame.
Some mornings it would be Elanor she saw, partly obscured by the crib, but lying at such an angle that Rosie could see quite clearly all the tiny, perfect features of her face caught in a shaft of silvered dawn-light. If she was in a contemplative mood, Rosie might ponder how strange and miraculous a thing it was that aspects of both she and Sam should be so easy to detect, mingled effortlessly in the face of their daughter. If she was still hazy and stupid with sleep she would be content merely to look.
Sometimes she would lie there admiring her beautiful little family until somebody awoke and demanded her attention. More often that not it was Elanor, and Rosie would joke to herself that motherhood's sixth sense had simply been too eager. Elanor would usually quieten soon enough with a bit of singing and perhaps a story if it wasn't too early for that; after all, she was Rosie's daughter.
Sometimes it would be Sam who awoke to find her eyes on him, and he would smile at her and reach up to kiss her good morning.
"What are you doing up, Rosie-heart?"
"Just watching you, Sam."
He would laugh softly at that, and catch her hand, and mutter something under his breath. Sometimes they'd lie there gazing at Frodo together, as motionless in contemplation as if they had never woken.
If it was Frodo who awoke, more often than not he'd be fretting over some nasty dream, and she'd reach over to stroke his brow and smile.
"Bad dream, Frodo?"
He would smile back wanly and kiss her hand, unless it had been one of his worse dreams, and say, "Not bad, Rosie-lass. Just grey. It doesn't matter now."
Sometimes she would go to sleep again before anybody chanced to see her watching them. If she were tired, she would shift closer to the warm body beside her and mould herself to the gentle curve of a spine or muted muscle of a chest and stomach, breathing with the rise and fall of the other's ribcage.
And sometimes it was Elanor who awoke first to see them all three tangled together, her parents, and she would open her mouth to fill the silence with her cries, because a night was a long time to go without the sound of a familiar voice.
*END*
~
Pretty Good Year