“I feel all muddled up, Mr. Frodo,” Sam admitted, glumly contemplating the floor of the boat. “The Lady said she was no diviner of the future, but it was so real. Trees falling. That Ted Sandyman, fingers under his braces, strutting ‘round like he owned the Shire. Why, it’s almost more than I can bear to think on. I do feel this boat is taking me the wrong way.”

“You don’t have to stay with us.” The sadness in Frodo’s eyes near broke Sam’s heart.

“No, I promised myself I’d stay the whole way. I’ll not bewail my fate now.”

A speed drabble using the words:

bewailed
diviner
muddles
struts