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“It’s not a stone,” said Frodo. “It just looks like one.”
“It’s not?” Sam turned the funny pebble over in his hand. When Frodo had said come into the library, I want to show you something he’d expected something in a book.
“It’s wood,” said Frodo. “Wood that’s so old it’s hard as stone. Interesting, isn’t it? Bilbo showed it to me once. He told me one of his dwarf friends gave it to him.”
“Wood?” Sam echoed. It felt smooth, and hard, and cold. There was nothing to show it had once been alive.
“I found it in his writing desk.” Frodo sipped his tea and said, “I think you should have it.”
“Me?” said Sam. “I don’t know if I ought to – if Mr Bilbo left it for you.”
“He left me all sorts of things,” said Frodo. “I think he would have liked for you to have it. It suits you.”
“Does it?” said Sam.
“Matches your eyes,” said Frodo over his tea cup.
Sam looked at the pebble, the ancient wood. It was a deep, dark brown, shot through with lines of yellow-brown that shone like gold. Strange and beautiful, like something not of this world. “It doesn’t,” he protested.
“Doesn’t it?” said Frodo.
“Now Mr Frodo, my eyes aren’t near so pretty,” said Sam.
“Hm,” said Frodo. “Give it here?” He took the wood back and held it up beside Sam’s face, level with his eyes. “Hm,” he said, bringing it closer, touching it to Sam’s temple. It was cool against his skin. “I think it’s an excellent match.”
He had a sly sort of tilt to his mouth and Sam knew he was being teased – but teased in the kindest of ways. He liked it.
His face heated and he ducked back, hands covering his mouth. “I don’t know about that,” he said, voice muffled.
“Take it.” Frodo took Sam’s hand and pressed the wood into his palm, curling his fingers around it. Holding Sam’s hand in both of his he said, “it’s yours, now.”