“Reckon I’ll turn in, if you won’t be needin’ nothing.”
Frodo grants permission yet turning you hesitate, afraid to go. He’s only been up a few days and worry is written on your face.
Struggling, torn between loyalty and exhaustion, you weigh his needs against yours. Decided, you slip furtively from your master’s gaze and my heart grieves to see fear for him in your eyes.
Hiding in the corner, you seek some bare comfort. Ensconced, you’ll wait him out.
Such selflessness speaks of devotion made not born. In that moment, I no longer see a servant but a friend.