9. April 6th, 1420

It is the first real day of Spring, warm and sunny, the early flowers bright and blooming, the birds busy and cheerful. As I sit at my writing desk, Sam comes to me-his Mallorn has bloomed in the Party Field. "Look, Master Frodo! It's flowered at last!"

I lay down my quill and he tips a fall of golden blossoms into my cupped hands. "An't they lovely, sir?" Sam says in awe. "And the smell of them! That's 'Lorien all over. I thought you might want them here on your desk. Doesn't it lift your heart somehow, sir?"

Sam, your dear face is so hopeful, so filled with sorrow and love. I cannot tell you how the chill of winter lingers within me. I am hollow as an old reed, I feel as if the wind could blow me away, and I think now that all your longing, all your kindness, cannot heal me and make me whole.

"They're beautiful," I say, and how it gladdens me to see you smile at my pretense of delight. I lift the sweet petals to breathe in their scent: Clean and sharp, like the smell of salt or tears, like the sea.

(tbc...)

 Originally written for Marigold's 16th (!) Story Challenge at her website, where the challenge this time was to write a story with a weather-related starter sentence provided by Marigold. The first line here was my starter, and this double-drabble was the bit of angst it inspired.