The Very Dead of Winter

Sam cracked one eye open and groaned. A lace of frost lay on the blankets piled over him and Frodo, and traced the bleached grass blade next to his nose. "And mountain climbing today, I don't doubt," he muttered. "What the Gaffer’d say! It don't bear thinking about."

He stuck one leg out, wincing as frozen air slipped under the covers, and kicked the closest woolen lump. "Merry! Pippin! Strider says ‘tis time to stir yourselves." The two younger hobbits tumbled out, grubby and cross.

Legolas was the only one of the company who didn't seem chilled, Sam noted irritably. Gandalf and Aragorn huddled inside their cloaks, swathed in mufflers; all that could be seen of the wizard under the hat brim pulled down over his face was the great billhook of his nose. Boromir had folded the fur side of his mantle over his mouth to warm his breath.

Sam stood up, and needles of cold wind instantly drove through his clothes. A milky film of cloud turned the sun to a dull pearl but didn’t soften the bulk of Caradhras looming in the eastern sky.

"Master Frodo?" He bent and gently nudged Frodo's shoulder. "We must be off."

* * *

[For Azalais, one of the first and dearest friends I made through Tolkien fandom. A double drabble because she wanted the Fellowship, and I couldn't make all of them fit in less than 200 words. Plus: bonus Eliot title! (which is actually someone else's obsession, but I know Azalais will still appreciate it.)]