Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, etc. I am only borrowing his characters for this fanfiction and am making absolutely no profit whatsoever from it.

Frodo

Frodo lay like a dead thing in the shallow pit they had fallen into after escaping the company of orcs.

“Catch your breath a bit, Mr Frodo. We might as well rest here until they've passed us,” whispered Sam.

The Ringbearer had no energy to reply. He was cold, tired, hungry and aching all over from a multitude of injuries and lashes. No amount of rest would comfort him.

Nothing could comfort him now.

Except …

Traitor fingers rose absently, automatically, to clasp at the circle nestled beneath his shirt when a warm hand stilled their progress.

Nothing except his Sam.

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