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Drabbles  by Lindelea

On the Slopes of Mount Doom

Gollum’s blow had sent Sam into dream, a warm and comforting dream wherein he was cutting flowers from the garden at Bag End, carefully selecting the blooms, to look just right, tied together. He was smiling when he arose; but his Gaffer looked grim, and old Mr. Bilbo had tears in his eyes, though his pocket-watch was in his hand, and he was muttering, ‘All’s well, lad. We’ll be in good time.’

Suddenly they were standing by the graveside, and somehow Sam knew the shrouded figure was Mr. Frodo’s.

He sat bolt upright, moving from nightmare into nightmare.

Mr. Frodo!





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