“Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
He stands before me, hands wringing nervously. His wounded Master sleeps and somehow he’s found the courage to make his approach.
“Ai, Master Gamgee.”
He trembles in fear – or perhaps excitement – I cannot tell which, but presses on. “I’ve a question, if I’d not be too bold?”
“‘Tis ‘bout your name. I remember hearing Mister Bilbo tell of an elf warrior by that name. One who died. Fighting a…um…”
“Balrog. Were you named for him, sir?”
I laugh gently and embarrassment takes him. “Come…since Frodo sleeps, I will tell you my story.”