The way grows darker and dimmer. The trees drip damply on us and I shiver. Frodo asks,
“Are you cold?”
I shake my head fiercely – no!
I am – cold, damp and scared of these trees that breath malice – but no colder than he. I am not here to be looked after – to be the baby.
“Scared?”
I force a smile. “Of this overgrown firewood?”
It has taken every threat and promise I could command to convince Merry that I should come. Always I have trailed him, trying to catch up and I will be as old as them, I swear