It was an unfamiliar sound that drew Arwen from the secluded rose bower, her book of poetry forgotten. She listened, discerning the whispered words of a one-sided conversation and frowned.
“Sleep they says…” A grumble. “How’m I ‘spose to sleep with Mister Frodo still so sick…?”
She saw him there, gouging frantically at a bare patch of earth, his eyes angry. “How!”
Kneeling before him in silence, she smiled, capturing his eyes along with the nervous hands. “Please don’t.”
“Oh!” Glancing up into the face of love, for a moment Sam was able to forget the reasons for his ire.