I en’t never really had much for writing, if you get me, as I en’t never had much for speaking. Though it don’t much matter in Mr. Frodo’s opinion eitherways…I do try and learn myself a thing or two. Or sometime just listen while he reads those stories and try to remember the prettiest of the words to say them back, but I’ll soon forget.
The prettiest thing though, more grand than most to me, is his eyes all lit up like watery lanters, and his fair, high cheeks pinched with red. “And the dwarves cried ‘Kill the men, Kill the elves, take the treasure for ourselves… !’ And Smog lit up the sky…’The Dragon’s eye’r more fierce than fire, beneath his feet, beneath the moon…’ “
I can feel my heard hammering like the miller’s grind at those tales- all of war and small bright lights in the dark- but your eyes are looking far off somewhere, and I wish I could go there with you. Tell me some more o’ those stories.
I wonder what you write, in there, alone. Your hands are always blue with it, and your eyes get red some. I take you tea, but you put your hand over the yellowy page, like you hafta guard it. From me, sir?
My hands are where they like to be; your begonia beds need waterin’, and so do I. Sun’s high, and my back aches red. I can hear you scribbling through the cold round window, and even though I can’t see the words I can hear ’em. You wish you were somewhere else. You write about somewhere else, and always visit there in your head. I wish it didn’t trouble you so.
Tell me some more o’ those stories.
I’ll go there, I swear. If you ask, I’ll go with you to wars and small bright lights in the gloom. As long as your eyes are those small bright lights, I en’t got nothing to fear. At least, less’n Smog shows… And you know how that ends up anyway.