“Spring shall come early this year,” Frodo announced excitedly, his eyes wandering around the field of his homeland Shire. He was right; it was mid-winter, but young leaves were beginning to sprout on every single plant visible. A bird gave a loud chirp. Spring was moving in unnaturally early.
Sam Gamgee’s eyes gleamed. “Are you sure, Mister Frodo? Then I’ll just plant the camellia seeds in a tad bit sooner; they grow fast when it’s warm.”
“Go ahead, it doesn’t matter,” said Frodo kindly, understanding what breeding a new specie of flower meant to Sam. Young he was and full of fun; sitting here watching a plant grow didn’t suit his character. Nor did he enjoy adventurous events at that time. “Better get some water ready, Bilbo might want some tea when he returns.”
Sam gave a muffled `oh’ as an answer. Then, quite abruptly, he gave an exclaim of pure joy and began chattering like a songbird. Frodo didn’t need thinking twice, the answer flashed into his mind faster than lightning. “It’s Rosie,” he thought, grinning in a strange sort of I-know-it way. He turned… and saw Rosie.
“Do I turn up at the wrong time?” he asked them cheerily. “It’s such a sweet day.
Sam blushed redder than the sun. Rosie’s cheeks turned rosy.
“No…. it’s just Lucy wants to invite you to tea.”
It was Frodo’s turn to blush scarlet.
In a while the three were trotting on the curving dirt path, speaking nonstop as they went. The path was quiet; the breezes still carried a taste of winter. Primroses lay at the border of the path, declaring the coming of spring. Suddenly, the thudding of hoofs, accompanied by a soft ringing of bells, broke the silence. Interested, Frodo, Sam and Rosie looked ahead, waiting for the rider to come.
A flash of blinding white met their eyes. There she was, a single white rider, riding a pure white handsome horse. The rider’s beauty seemed to transfix them; she seemed to radiate light herself.
Frodo stared hard at the mysterious foreigner, forgetting that staring at a lady was impolite. The girl, noticing this, felt insulted; “What are you staring at!” she cried, and Frodo felt a whip brought down to his head. He felt pain and anger pumping in his veins, dizzied by the spinning stars before his eyes.
“What are you hitting me for!” he growled. The girl grinned. A stunning, sardonic grin. “No one lives after glaring at me,” she said coldly, and towering over Frodo she kicked him on his side. The effect was horrifying. Frodo was thrown backwards and rolled down a steep slope, screaming uncontrollably. Amid his two friend’s terrified shriek, Frodo fell quickly out of sight.
Sam, unable to accept the incident happening before him, noticed somehow that the girl was screaming too.
“Why are you screaming!” he spat in a voice higher than usual. “You killed him! Now what are you going to do!”
“I……I didn’t intend to kill him,” said the lady, trembling all over. “I just…”
“Oh yes you do,” cried Rosie madly on the verge of tears. “Because he looked at you, you murdered him!” She peered down the slope, her nerve nearly getting the better of her. “He’s not moving!” her voice was shrill and sharp; she turned murderously to the white lady. “He’s dead! You murdered him! I’ll kill you!”
Sam ran over to the edge of the slope and looked down. Lying amid grass and dirt was Frodo, his dear master Frodo. He lay in a strange position, his arm bent into an impossible angle. Sam blanched. Frodo looked very pale. “Ah, pale as death.” Said a voice in his head.
“No……………..” he cried