"Mmm... I'm never moving again. I want my story to end right at this moment, so I don't have to get up." Frodo stretched out, catlike on the bed, then curled against Sam's back once more.

"Seems a shame to end it when everything's going to well," Rosie murmured, scooting in closer to inhale the old-paper smell of Frodo's hair. He didn't answer, matching Sam's sleeping breath rhythm, but Rosie could tell he was still awake.

"It is going well, isn't it? You're getting stronger, for the most part."

"Sam and I once talked of stories, and we decided it's better for everyone involved if they don't know how their own story ends."

"I'll agree to that." Rosie slipped her arm around Frodo's waist, still too thin for her liking but rounder than it had been. "There's no fun in the telling if you know the finish."

"Have you ever noticed that you can sometimes guess at the ending, when you're nearly there? You might not know the details but you can see the shape of it." Frodo curved into her touch, tipping his head back and to the side so her chin brushed his shoulder. She looped one leg over his and pressed in against the line of his back, feeling the spine shift under the skin.

"Don't go counting chickens, or I'll make you crow at dawn every morning," Rosie teased. "Nobody knows how the story really ends, not yet. There's still so much left of it. Blank pages stretching off to forever."

"Those pages might not be for me, though. It's almost September."

"And what of that?" Rosie propped herself up on one elbow and stared down at Frodo. "Yes, it's almost September. And then it'll be October. And come Yule we'll make the whole Shire look beautiful, because it'll be Elly's first. Don't make milestones for no good reason, you'll just put worry in Sam's heart."

"What about you, are you worried?"

"I'm too angry at you to be worried. Why can't you ever let things be easy? Why can't you sit down by the tavern on market day and show off your scars and argue about grain prices, and come home and bounce Elanor on your knee? Why aren't Sam and I enough to make you happy?"

"It's not that simple." Frodo shook his head, rolling over to face her and raising one hand to stroke a lock of hair away from her cheek. It was the damaged hand, Rosie thought he'd probably chosen it deliberately to remind her of the wound. Well, she was used to that game. Her brother Jolly had lost two toes to a sickle one year, and it had never stopped him doing anything, though he'd complain like anything about his sore foot when it was his turn to do chores.

"If you think I'm going to sit by and watch you shut yourself up in the dark, you're mistaken. You're my kin, Frodo, by heart if not by blood."

"I love you, Rose." Frodo's fingertips trailed across her lips. Rosie bit at them playfully.

"Of course you do. And when I'm old and vague you'll make sure I've got a scarf on before we go out walking."

Even in the dark, she could tell his smile was sad. Rosie sighed, and reached over to shake Sam awake.

"Hm, what's wrong?" he sat up abruptly.

"Nothing, Sam, nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice."

"And you've the cheek to say I'm the mad one," Sam mumbled, turning over. "Go to sleep, you two. Leave the fighting until the morning."

"We weren't fighting," Frodo replied, but Sam just waved him off and buried his head in the pillow.

"If you want to make it a fight, go ahead." Rosie kissed Frodo on the shoulder. "I reckon I could beat you in a wrestle, and if that's what it takes to make you start living again, I will."

~

Pretty Good Year | email Mary