of summer afternoons, saucers of milk on the stoop, soft voices and
caresses.
The place is a ruin now, the round doorway fallen in – home to things
that scurry in the dark. She pads through the brambles of the garden,
and up to the brow of the hill. The oak is long gone, and grass struggles
on the mounds.
The darkness whispers, and her hackles rise.
They stand hand in hand, looking to the east; figures from beyond the
veil, voices below the edges of hearing. The grass does not bend
beneath their feet, and their hair, one dark as night, the other bright as
day, is quiescent in the thin breeze.
The dark rises, Sam. The war goes ill for Men.
D'you think it'll come to us, Mr. Frodo?
Not yet, love. Hobbits no longer trouble the councils of the Wise.
If you had... but what could one small Hobbit have done?
I wish...
What, my dear?
Nothing, Sam. Just... hold me...
The calico cat watches as they meld into one. Something stirs in the
bushes, and she leaps forward.
Behind her, the graves fade into the night.
~~~~~
