I. Lily Beds

The missing finger rarely bothers Frodo, except when he tries to pull the twisted weeds from around his day-lilies. Sam helped plant in the spring, now Frodo undertakes weeding alone. Yet four fingers do not grip so tight as five.

When he was a lad, Bilbo taught him of Maedhros the Fair. He imagines himself a tall Elven prince, as fierce with his left hand as with his right.

But no—he is just an old hobbit pulling weeds from a flowerbed. He yanks harder, and the vine comes free.

Maedhros would not have had to try so hard, thinks Frodo.

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II. Shadows

Frodo wakes in the night. The room is the pale gray of starlight filtered through clouds. Sweat slides down his clammy forehead, tickles his chilly nose.

The nightmare is gone, but his mind still suffers: pierced by a ghost’s phantom-blade. He will sleep no more tonight. Silent, Frodo slips from his bed and peers out the window across the front garden. The night is sweet and still.

The north star gleams in the ink-dark sky. Below, the moon peers through the hedge down the lane. The shadows it casts are long, and the dreams will not stop. Frodo’s shoulder aches.

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III. Make-believe

Sometimes Frodo helps little Elanor take her bath. She has a toy boat from Dale, painted silver. She sets it adrift, each night a new adventure: a merchant-ship beset by pirates in the southern seas; tall Wildmen sailing down the Anduin; a party of hobbits crossing the Water to picnic.

Frodo laughs at her soapy yellow curls. Her baby-voice fills him with joy as little else can. He reaches to scrub her head, but his nine fingers tremble.

Now she peers at him with wise-owl eyes: “And here’s you, Frodo, going West.” The toy boat sets sail across quiet waters.