The way grows darker and dimmer.  The trees drip damply on us and I shiver.  Frodo asks,

“Are you cold?”

I shake my head fiercely – no!

I am – cold, damp and scared of these trees that breath malice – but no colder than he.  I am not here to be looked after – to be the baby.

“Scared?”

I force a smile.  “Of this overgrown firewood?”

It has taken every threat and promise I could command to convince Merry that I should come.  Always I have trailed him, trying to catch up and I will be as old as them, I swear