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A/N: This story was an experiment that I wrote when I was 20 (in 2010!) for a creative writing class. I wrote the story entirely using the third person objective perspective. I usually write from the third person subjective and I wanted to see if I could write a short story where you can only see what an outsider would see.
The room was light and airy built of white stone. The tall candles on the small table cast long shadows on the ceiling beams, causing the carvings upon them to dance and flicker. The roaring fire and thick burgundy drapes kept the cold outside at bay, but it did little to warm the icy cloud that seemed to hover around the small figure, swathed in blankets, in the bed at the center of the room.
In form, the figure appeared to belong to a child, but, looking at his face framed by dark curls, one could tell by the mature lines of his eyes and jaw that he was an adult. He slept fitfully, if sleep is what it was. Cold sweat dewed upon his tight brow, and he murmured unintelligibly. He lay boneless, unmoving except for his right hand which was firmly clenched in a tight fist.
Hunched over the bed, in a straight-backed wooden chair, sat an elderly man in gray mantle. The deep lines in his face were etched with worry, his brows furrowed. Now and then he mumbled something while tenderly running a damp cloth over the forehead of the person in the bed. The door opened and in strode a tall man clad in a green tunic, his long boots clicking upon the wooden floor with every step. His gray eyes shone bright against his dark hair and beard.
“I sent Sam to get some sleep short while ago." Said the old man, glancing at his new companion.
"Sam is not the only one needs rest," the man said pointedly.
"No, indeed." The old man raised an eyebrow.
“I have come to relieve you.” At the old man's silence, he continued.
"You have not left Frodo’s side since we arrived here. Wizard you may be, but I have been your friend for many long years, and I know you are not untiring. There is supper waiting for you in the kitchens.” The man stated firmly yet kind.
The old man sighed and stood. The tall man took his place in the chair, crossing one leg over the other. The old man lingered at the foot of the bed, hands smoothing the wrinkled blankets. The man in the chair crossed his arms and nodded toward the door.
“Do not worry, Gandalf. I shall remain here until you return."
“See that you do." The man replied.
The old man had his face turned toward the door so he did not see the man in the chair shake his head and set his eyes toward the heavens at his comment. Settling more comfortably into the chair, the man cast his eyes furtively around the room. Seeming pleased with his findings, he withdrew a long stemmed pipe from his cloak and, using a stick from the fire, proceeded to light it.
Many minutes and several smoke rings later the person on the bed uttered a low moan and shuttered. The man in the chair started, his hand instinctively reaching for his left hip. Then, with a great release of breath the figure on the bed opened his right hand. The world slowed; the man, with wide eyes, watched a small golden ring tumble from the hand to the floor.
Strangely, the golden ring did not fall on its side but landed, impossibly, on its thin edge. Then, inexplicably–for the floor was even, and without slope–it rolled gradually until it hit the boot of the man in the chair. The man froze. He did not move or even breathe for several long moments.
With a sudden jolt, the man exclaimed “I will not listen to you, liar in the dark!”
Rising, he strode to the fireplace and retrieved the black wrought iron tongs from their stand. With them he then firmly grasped the golden ring and carefully deposited it back into the sleeping figure’s hand, which reflexively resume its former death grip upon the ring.
Breathing heavily, as though he had exerted himself, the man sat back into the chair. Retrieving the wet cloth from the side table, he mopped the little person’s face, eyes unfathomable.
“I fear your journey is not yet over Frodo Baggins. Indeed it is a heavy burden you carry”
Sighing, he leaned forward over the bed, eying the tight fist warily. Speaking softly, as though to himself, he murmured to the small hand.
“Blind I may be, Power of the Enemy,but I am not yet so blind that I can not see the dark.”
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