Faint Hope

The sun was pleasantly hot on Arwen's shoulders as she turned the earth around the irises. Hearing the whisper of bare hobbit feet on turf, she smiled; her fellow-gardener had joined her.

"Frodo’s well enough to travel at last." Joy quickened Sam's deliberate tongue. "We're going home, Lady Arwen!"

"Samwise--" She hesitated. "Frodo is not - entirely - well." Fear clouded Sam's eyes, and she hastened to explain. "His wounds are healing, but his spirit is still weak. He may never be as he once was."

"I know, my lady, but the Shire will do him good. You'll see," Sam said stoutly.

Arwen opened her mouth, but could not bring herself to smash his dear-held hopes; perhaps Sam’s love and the peace of his homeland might make even Frodo whole. "I hope you are right, and that I shall see you both happy when next I journey north."

Yet when she straightened up, Sam seemed to stand with her on the shore of a wide grey sea dividing them from those they loved, with a white ship melting into the horizon. She laid a hand on his shoulder, wishing there were comfort for either of them here in Middle-Earth.

[A double drabble for Vistula, who wanted "Sam and your favourite character interacting."]