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The stars glitter outside. They’re brighter than they were at home, somehow. Likely some form of elven magic.
Sam sighs. It’s just him and the night sky, keeping a vigilant watch over Mr. Frodo.
He’s getting better. There’s still an odd chill and an unnatural paleness that lingers about him, but he’s getting there, even as his hand remains cold in Sam’s.
His eyes glance at Frodo’s shoulder. It’s bandaged well. He likes to stare at it, to affirm himself that he’s received the best treatment he could’ve gotten. Far better than what Sam could’ve done, anyhow.
But he can’t help but feel like it’s not enough.
And so sits by his side and he holds his hand and he hopes with every inch of his being that he’ll be up and well soon. The more he does it, the more he realizes it’s always where he was meant to be.
When Frodo awakens, he’ll be able to do more.
But for now, he kisses his forehead and watches him rest.