Disclaimer: No own

A/N: Would steal if I had any chance of getting away

Sides

1.

I'm not certain I can explain it. Truth be told, I'm not certain it can be explained at all. Some things can't, and even if that's itching inside you it makes no never mind. Some things can't be put in words, or if they were they'd lose what made them special, or strong, or brilliant, or just whatever they were to begin with. Words are weak little things. No matter how many you know, you never know enough. Your mind, you see, is like a painting that goes on forever. It's continual. There are no holes in it for the meaning to fall through. Not that you always know what life means, no sir. But there are no holes, just the same. Words have holes. You string together a bunch of them in a sentence, trying really hard to say something that's on your mind, and you've got a lot of holes. Maybe its like the difference between rocks and water - even if you fill up a stream bed with rocks, the water will still get past. Thoughts are like water. Maybe life too. Just look! at writing on parchment. Just look at these words right now. Holes between them, and the meaning can fall right through and be lost.

They've said I was justified, and I guess that's that. I knew it already, somewhere inside, but still it's good to hear that they think so too. Why, I don't know. Not like they make up my mind for me, even if they do think I'm kind of meek and mild. I've got my own mind - you can believe me. And my mind told me I was right. More than that. My heart told me I was right. But like I said, it's still good to hear that they agree, because I put stock in what they think, and because it helps a bit with the guilt. I'm not feeling especially guilty, but . . . well, it's hard not to feel guilty when you hurt a friend.

I still haven't explained it, though, and I guess I won't be explaining it real well even if I try. If I had to come up with a reason right now, I'd have to just say, "It had to be done." I'd have to just say that and leave it there. Because there was no question in my mind, no sir. It had to be done, no matter how hard it would be. No matter how strange it would be. And when a thing has to be done you do it. You don't sit wringing your hands and wondering what choice you should make. You don't ask for advice and take the advice you like best, which would be a sight easier, if you ask me. You do it because there's no other way.

Maybe that certainty was what made things turn out how they did. You see, I had no hope - none at all. I could have stood there all day blustering, but if I hadn't been convincing enough there'd have been no way. I needed . . . authority, I guess. Definitely authority. I needed to sound so convinced myself that I would convince everyone else.

Or at least one of them. He had to take me serious. He had to know that it was a thing that had to be done. That was the only way he'd cooperate, and I needed him to cooperate right then.

But I guess I was convinced, and so when he listened to me tell him what needed to happen, it convinced him too. He didn't like it - not one little bit. And he wasn't supposed to. That's always the point. He didn't like it, and he wanted to do anything but agree. He could have been stubborn or sulky about it; he could have dug in his heels and said no, but that isn't him. So he looked at me and swallowed kind of painful, and he blushed a little bit too because it was just so embarrassing. Just so . . . hard. He was worried and scared and I knew he wanted to run. I just kept telling him how things needed to be. I just kept telling him, and he agreed, and that was that. Honestly, I was worried and scared too, so I could sympathize.

I'm glad I didn't sympathize too much. Actually, no - I'm glad I did, because caring is a part of it. Caring is all of it. If you don't care about someone, you don't have any reason to fret over how they act. You don't have any reason to get riled when they do something reckless that could get them killed. I'm glad I cared and worried and got mad. He learned from it, he did. Maybe he won't stop doing reckless things, but I know he'll be remembering today, and so will I.

Today I, one Hobbit named Samwise Gamgee, paddled an Elf but good.

*****

It started this morning. Actually, no it didn't. It started last night, just before we stopped to camp. Strider was studying the ground all serious, and we were all just watching as we trudged along. I was so tired I really didn't want to care what Strider saw, or if he saw anything at all. I just wanted a warm fire and to get on with cooking supper. Mr. Frodo is too thin. He needs to eat. And that Ring is heavy on him. He needs to rest.

I was just about to pipe up with this when Strider finally seemed to wake up and take a look around. We were going to camp, and out in the open where we'd be able to see anything coming. There wasn't going to be much open space in our near future, so we'd stop before we hit the forest and enjoy a night of peace. Or as much peace as you can have when you're chasing over half of Middle Earth and every evil creature out there is chasing after you.

Turns out, Strider had been looking at Orc tracks. He hadn't said anything - to us Hobbits at least. But he'd been talking it over with the other big folk, the ones who would do all the fighting if any Orcs decided to show up. Not that I can't handle myself with a sword, no sir. I reckon I've gotten pretty good at swinging that thing. To think - a Shire gardener fighting with a sword. Unbelievable.

But Strider and Gandalf and the other big warriors do like to keep us sheltered a mite, and we let them. We know we're not as experienced with all this as they are. Maybe if we were on a Quest to drive tomato aphids out of Middle Earth, they'd let me lead. But we're not, and I can understand staying back. I hate Orcs, and when Orcs are near I'd just as soon be where I belong - at Mr. Frodo's side, making sure nothing will reach him. He thinks I'm overprotective and maybe I am, but I did see him get stabbed by a Nazgul when we first started on this, and I reckon after that I've got the right.

So we do what we're told. At least most of the time we do. There's really no accounting for the wild ideas Merry and Pippin get in their heads. They'll gather up overripe berries and sneak them into Boromir's pack, or they'll play hide-and-find with Gandalf's pipe. What a pair. I'd rather be with Frodo when the trouble starts, thank you.

But back to last night, because it was last night when Strider pulled Legolas off first watch, and I for one thought that was a bit strange. I mean, an Elf has better eyes and ears than any of the rest of us, and who better to watch over us as we sleep? And it was his turn, after all. A part of me was happy, because when I lie down I like to be able to look over and see him close by, stretched out with his bow right at hand. I like to watch him - and even though he must know I'm watching, he doesn't seem to mind it - while he looks up at the stars. I like to see if I can catch that exact moment when he falls asleep.

Elves sleep with their eyes open, you know, so it isn't always easy.

Anyway, I didn't have an inkling why Strider wouldn't want Legolas on watch, but I thought they seemed to be arguing just a bit. Gandalf was standing near them, and a few times leaned in and said something. It looked to me like he was taking Strider's side. I wanted to go over and take Legolas' side, no matter what that side might be, because it seems to me that two against one can't be fair.

I never claimed to be right all the time. Turns out now it was more than fair, Strider and Gandalf arguing with Legolas, because Legolas wanted to scout out a bit further, us being in the open and all, while he was on watch. He wanted to roam a little closer to the forest and see if he could figure out where the Orcs are. And Strider said no, of course. Gandalf agreed with Strider and said so. And Legolas sighed and gave in like they wanted him to, and that should have been that. I guess Strider didn't fully trust it, because he said Gimli would take first watch and Boromir second, and Legolas was going to be staying right there in camp all night. Strider's a real light sleeper, too - I guess that's from being raised with Elves - and he was going to be listening.

So when the sun came up this morning Legolas was still with us, and no more was said on that through breakfast or after we started out. I forgot about it, turning my attention to the day's travel, and once we were in the woods I started thinking about tubers and wild onions and things I could find for supper. When I stumbled onto a little plant along the trail and realized it was flat-leaf parsley, I just about whooped for joy. Parsley grows like weeds all over the Shire, but it's rarer than a hen's tooth everywhere else. Big ingredient in Shire cooking, just because it's handy, and the second I saw it I started planning a nice vegetable stew. And if somebody were to scare up a rabbit . . . well.

That's where my mind was pretty much the rest of the day. Boromir went out hunting and brought back a couple of quail, which was just fine, and I plucked them and cut them up and made a stew that smelled so good I thought Pip was going to try diving right into the pot. We ate the hot thick stew and had sweet berries after, and the fire was warm and for a little while I almost forgot where we are, what we're doing out here.

Of course, though, it's when you relax that things tend to happen. Legolas went down to a nearby stream to fill our waterskins, and while he was there he saw an Orc track. He could tell it wasn't new and that there were no Orcs close by, so he didn't feel the need to warn us about it. That was his first mistake. He had a plan, you see, and he needed to look all peaceful for Strider, or Strider would rein him in so fast his head would spin. Strider himself was taking first watch, and Legolas was supposed to take second, and I guess that fit perfect with what Legolas had in mind. Strider wasn't going to be in camp to hear him slip away, and he'd be off tracking Orcs before anyone could stop him.

What a mess. Strider must have felt something, because he came into the camp not too long after leaving and he saw that Legolas was gone. We all woke up when he woke Gandalf and Boromir and Gimli. I sat there blinking for a minute, a bit sleepy and confused, but I could see how angry they were. Legolas was all alone somewhere, and for all any of us knew he might already have been captured by Orcs. That thought sent a shiver through me, and I stoked up the fire right quick.

Well, it was Gandalf's idea to shelter us Hobbits in a nearby cave. It wasn't a big cave, especially, but it was out of the wind and that suited me fine. I wished we could have camped in it for the whole night, but Strider said they'd decided against it - the one other way out, at the back of the cave, was so small only a Hobbit would be able to fit through. Warriors don't like trapping themselves anywhere, and I can see why. But the four of us could shelter ourselves, and if anything happened we could hie out the back way. We doused the fire and broke camp and moved, and fortunately for us I found more wood right near the cave, and the fire I built inside it kept us warm.

And with that it wasn't such a bad cave. Along one side there was even a long flat rock ledge that looked almost like someone had planned it. Not that we'd be getting too much rest, I figured, but if I could convince Mr. Frodo to sleep a bit later that's where he'd lay himself down. For the time being he sat there, flanked by Merry and Pippin, and I tended the fire. Strider and the rest stood at the cave mouth, pointing out into the woods, I guess putting together a plan for the search. They were so angry I didn't even want to look in their direction. But I did hear them talking about what they were going to do to Legolas when they found him, and Strider said whoever found him first should do it. They all nodded at that, like it was a motive to search harder. I felt sorry for Legolas: he's so gentle and sweet and young - younger than Mr. Frodo or me, in fact, even if he is twice our size and has been around for thousands of years - and his intentions are always so g! ood. He just wants to help, to keep us safe, and he keeps getting himself in trouble over it.

So we waited there, as we’ve become wont to do. It isn’t just when the swords are clashing and the arrows are flying that we get shuffled out of harm’s way. When they - the big warriors - have to go scout, or search, or rescue, they tell us to stay together and sit tight. And we do it. I’ve never reckoned they think we’re cowards who can’t defend ourselves, and I know they don’t think us children. But we’re smaller than they are; we have less experience. We can’t run as fast to chase after or flee, and we know it. There in the cave we all knew it, with the dark crowding close outside and the night beasts singing their songs, and our Elf gone.

Well about an hour passed. Merry and Pippin huddled together next to the fire. They were a mite teary, not from worry over us but from worry over him. And I was worried some too, so I focussed all my restless energy on convincing Mr. Frodo to lay down awhile. But no sooner had I gotten him settled, ruffling his feathers just a bit with my fussing, that there came a noise from outside. Nothing sharp or loud, but a low rustle, like a quiet thing moving about. I froze and swivelled my eyes to the cave mouth, and beside me Mr. Frodo was also alert. Merry and Pippin looked up, wide-eyed, and I gripped the stick that I’d been using to stoke our small fire and stepped past them . . . .

And there he was. Legolas crouched down a bit so as not to hit his head on the entrance. Fortunately, the cave roof angled up inside, so he could stand straight once he was in. He smiled at us kind of hesitant-like, looking around. "Where are the others?" he asked.

"Where are the others?" I sputtered. I couldn’t help it - of all the questions! "Why, they’re all off looking for you!"

His face fell. "I supposed I’m not surprised," he admitted softly. "When I returned to our campsite and realized you gone, I assumed that you had moved due to my departure."

"Your ‘departure?’" I asked, incredulous. "If that’s what you call sneaking off in the dead of night after being told to stay put, then aye. We moved due to your departure." I couldn’t really keep the edge out of my voice right then: my heart was still pounding from thinking we were under attack by some dark beast. I was tired and cold, and suddenly I had all this worry for Strider and Boromir and Gandalf and Gimli. Now they were the ones out in the black woods. At least they weren’t alone. I started to pray they’d be alright.

"I would find them," Legolas said. He started to turn for the outside.

"Nay!" I snapped. "They wouldn’t want that!" Beside me, Merry and Pip were on their feet, and Frodo as well. We faced the Elf, adamant. "Strider would want you to stay here until they return," I explained. "The last thing they’d want is to come back and find out you WERE here and then hared off again."

Legolas smiled at me, and I swear I read a bit of fond condescension in his blue eyes. "I shall not venture far," he said. "All I need do is gain their trail, and I will easily be able to track them. Then we will all be back, and safe."

"Nay, Legolas!" Pippin blurted out. "Stay with us, so when they come back you’ll already be here." I swear, sometimes Pippin makes so much sense. Of course it wasn’t hard to argue against him going off again. That was the last thing Strider would have let him do.

"My friends, please," Legolas said. He looked to each of us and I could see that he was fretting something terrible. "Please," he said again. "I must go find them. ‘twill not take long."

I was tempted - I swear I was tempted. I wanted them all back, not just Legolas. But then I remembered the darkness in Strider’s clear grey eyes, the way his strong jaw had tensed and his fists clenched as he and the others had discussed their search plans. Tempted or no, I couldn’t take a chance now that we actually had Legolas with us. "Nay," I said. "You aren’t going." I measured the words, gave them each what I hoped was a lot of weight. I crossed my arms over my chest and stood, the original immovable object.

Legolas’ smile faded and his eyes widened a bit. I waited to see if his surprise would turn to anger, but then he shook his head. "I must go, Sam," he insisted. "I am the reason they are out there to begin with."

"I know you are," I replied evenly. "But that’s all the more reason why you aren’t going now."

"I -"

"Legolas! You listen to me now. You aren’t going anywhere, and furthermore, we’re going to be having a discussion about all this." The meaning of that must have sunk in pretty quick, at least into Hobbit minds, because I heard a gasp behind me. To be honest, I wanted to gasp myself right then. But all I could really think about was keeping him in that cave. It felt like he was on the end of a string, and no matter how I held onto the other end of it, if he tugged at the string even a bit it would break. He would be gone. Again - still - forever? I felt panicky and wanted to start yelling into the woods for the others to come back. Instead I took advantage of Legolas’ temporary silence and pushed ahead. "Do you know what Strider and them were saying before they headed out to look for you?"

When he shook his head real hesitant I found myself wanting not to tell him. But I’d really gone too far to let it drop, and if I didn’t do anything to keep him in that cave, and then something happened to him while he was off again . . . . "They were making up their minds that whoever found you first should be the one to paddle you for leaving," I said. "And if you think about it, we’re sort of like the ones who found you first."

He stared at me then, his face pale even in the fire’s yellow glow. At least he didn’t seem mad, and he wasn’t running out of the cave to hunt for our fellows. He just blinked a bit like he couldn’t quite get what it was I meant. "Nay," he said, finally.

"Legolas," I pressed, "Aye. You made a big mistake and you know it. And now’s when you’ll be learning a lesson for it." I didn’t take my eyes off him, but knelt down and foraged inside my pack. I keep a hairbrush in there, because Mr. Frodo likes to brush his hair at night. We didn’t bring much in the way of personal comforts - honestly we brought nigh unto nothing. But I brought that brush, and right then I was grateful. So I stood again, holding it, and it gleamed in the firelight and surely caught everyone’s eye. I only noticed Legolas’ eyes, though, as he stared and understood.

He shook his head, looked down at his feet, then looked up and caught my eye again. I just about melted - he was starting to blush, a little soft colour moving up his pale cheeks and into his ears. He looked so scared right then. But he wasn’t running, and that was a good sign.

So I tilted my head toward the ledge along the wall, then I took the few steps over to it and stood there. "Legolas," I said, "you know this is right." He was still looking at me, and so were three Hobbits. They don't often see me standing so tall, with my arms folded over my chest and what must have been quite a determined look on my face. So they were staring and not trying to hide it. I could see them out of the corner of my eye, and for a minute I was curious as to just how shocked they were. But I didn't look, because I was busy looking Legolas in the eye. Straight in the eye and not looking away, kind of like a staring contest. Those blue eyes were so wide I thought if I fell into them, I'd surely drown.

When I took a seat in the middle of the ledge, Legolas shook his head a couple more times, like he was clearing it. He wasn't saying no again; he just couldn't get his mind to think right. But his body knew from experience what I expected. He took three steps and was standing beside me, staring at my lap. His hands moved down to the ties on his leggings and started undoing them. He was giving in. He was giving in to a Hobbit, no less.

He was giving in . . . to me.

Well he got the ties undone and then hooked his fingers into the waist of his leggings and pushed them down. I think his hands were shaking. I’m sure mine were. Then he glanced at my lap again, and at the ledge on either side of me.

"Don’t worry," I soothed. "You can lie mostly on the ledge, and it’s right solid. You won’t fall." I patted my lap. "Come on."

Amazingly, he fit. I have to admit I was surprised. The idea of a big person like him lying over a Hobbit’s lap - it’s not something I reckon most could even imagine. But Legolas knelt on the ledge beside me and then eased himself down over my thighs. His legs stretched out to my right; his upper body stretched out to my left. He propped himself up on his elbows for a minute like he wasn’t sure what else to do, then folded his arms and buried his face in them. He must have been so humiliated right then. And I folded his long shirt up out of the way, leaving him bare as the day he was born from the small of his back to just about his knees.

Merry went to kneel by Legolas' head and gave me this look that said he was going to be staying there through everything. Pip came and hopped up on the ledge and started stroking Legolas' hair. Legolas lifted his head and laid it down in Pip’s lap. I felt kind of alone for a minute, even with Legolas’ weight over my legs and my left arm wound just a bit around his waist, but then Mr. Frodo came over and stood just a couple paces in front of me, and he caught my eye and nodded. He looked so strong, so wise, so full of kindness. He's the Ringbearer for a reason, you know. Such a heart in him and yet he's as tough as any big warrior I've ever met.

I lifted the brush and Frodo glanced up at it and motioned something. Fool of a Gamgee - I was holding it the wrong way, the way I was used to holding a brush. The only way I'd ever held one in my life. I turned it around in my fingers and then there was nothing to do but bring it down, so I did.

Now that was a sound I'll remember for the rest of my days. Not that I haven't heard the sound of a wood brush hitting a bare backside - I've heard that sound enough. But never ever had I caused that sound, and so it seemed . . . bigger, somehow. Louder and stranger. Almost cruel. 'Legolas is so young,' I was thinking, 'and he's only ever trying to keep us safe . . . .'

I think that first one shocked Legolas as much as it did me, anyway. His head came up just a bit, and I heard him gasp. It would've stung something fierce, and it was only the beginning. From experience, I know how bad it can be to realize that. You’re still getting used to being upended over a pair of strong legs, having hands holding you still. You’re still getting used to the shame of it - and believe me when I tell you there’s a lot of shame in lying over a lap with your breeches down around your knees. It tears at your pride, it does. It takes you down a notch or two. I guess it‘s supposed to.

What I really couldn’t believe was the colour. It brought me up short, even as I was lifting my arm to bring the brush down again. Bright pink against white - white like fresh cream. The brush left such a mark that I didn’t want to swat Legolas again. I mean, he’s a smart soul. Wise sometimes, even. So this voice whispered in my head that the one was enough. He’d get the message, go away with a bit of a sting, and learn. Course he would.

But Strider never leaves it at one. If someone earns a trip over Strider’s knee, it doesn’t end until every inch of their backside is as red as the setting sun. And that goes for Legolas too. Strider is very wise. He’s a great leader - he knows things. So I told the little voice to hush, and I brought the brush down on the other side of Legolas’ bottom, leaving a second pink mark. And from there I could go on. I think it was like stepping through a door for me. I was real determined, but once the threshold was in front of me I wanted to stop.

Once I was over it, I knew I had to keep going. Legolas was going to learn a lesson. He was sure as anything going to learn a lesson. All I really had to do to remind myself of the reasons was to think back on our night: we’d sat there in that cave; we’d stared at the fire, and Merry and Pippin had cuddled close under their covering, and we’d looked into each other’s eyes and been afraid. Our friend - our Elf - had been out in the dark, alone. He’d been out alone and who could know what would happen? Who could know? I swatted harder at that.

So by the fourth or fifth I noticed that Legolas was starting to flinch just a bit. By the time I’d landed ten he was outright squirming, and that was strange. He could have been up off my lap easier than anything, and even if all four of us had jumped on him we wouldn’t have stood a chance of keeping him there. Elves are really, really strong. Strider told me that once, before I knew much, and since then I’ve seen it proven. It was strange, knowing that I was the one making him squirm, knowing that he really, really, really wanted to get away from . . . me.

But like I said, he didn’t. And he didn’t demand that I stop, either. He was quiet, like I was. I wasn’t talking then. Strider talks from about the second swat in, but no matter how much I might’ve rehearsed all these important lectures in my head, I just couldn’t get a word out at first. It was too unbelievable, me raising the brush up and bringing it down. It was too unbelievable, him lying over my lap and taking it.

Then it got more so. I heard this low, quiet sound, and it was familiar enough. I’d heard it before, and still I didn’t recognize it right away. He was crying. Legolas was crying, really soft and quiet-like, and I could feel him shaking just a bit against me. I was making him cry - how could I do that? What kind of friend was I?

I had to take a deep breath and remember again how it had felt with him gone, when we’d all waited and fretted ourselves nigh sick. The forest is so dark at night. There are so many frightful things hiding in the shadows. And he was out there, knowing he wasn’t allowed to be. I remembered that and I listened to him cry and the words finally made it from my heart to my mouth. Was this what Strider felt?

"Legolas," I said, "you have to listen to me about this." I felt him tense and wondered for a moment what he would do, but I figured out he was probably just surprised to hear my voice, and he was waiting to hear what I said next. He was waiting on me the same way he waits on Strider when he’s over the Ranger’s knee. Well then - I had to make it good.

"You worried all of us," I went on. "You worried Strider and Gandalf and Boromir and Gimli so much that they went out into the dark of night looking for you. You worried us Hobbits as well, but we couldn’t do anything but wait here in this cave and hope like mad that you were alright." I paused my talking but not my arm - give him a chance to think about what I’d said. He was still crying really quiet, and in with the sound of that I could hear Merry’s voice cooing to him. Pippin was stroking his hair. Frodo still had eyes only for me. I guess he knew I needed some comforting too.

"But you know," I said, "it doesn’t really matter that you worried us. At least it isn’t what matters most. What matters most is that you went haring off into a frightfully dangerous place and you could’ve been hurt. You could’ve been captured . . . or worse. Your life is important to us, but it’s also important just because, so you shouldn’t be so happy to risk throwing it away. You hear me, Legolas? You’re right valuable for all these other things, but also just because of you." Legolas was shaking more, and he was squirming like nobody’s business. I know from experience you can’t help that sometimes, when the sting is getting unbearable and there’s no end in sight, and now I also know from experience that it doesn’t actually get you anywhere. No matter how much he wriggled, he never moved himself far enough that I’d miss the part of his back! side I was aiming for at the time. I didn’t really have a great plan for how to paddle him - I guess I was just swatting at random - but I did want to make sure I covered all the ground. He’s really slight, for a big person, and I was a bit surprised at that.

I let him think on things again and concentrated on what I was doing. His backside had been that shade of white when I’d started, but it had since turned a solid red that was getting darker with each minute. Had to hurt like anything, and we weren’t finished. I had more to say; Legolas had more to hear. "You also went against Strider and Gandalf’s orders both," I scolded. "They told you flat out you weren’t going to be going after any Orcs; you were going to be staying in camp and going to sleep, and what did you do?" There was silence again, save for the sound of wood against skin and that terrible sound of an Elf crying. It occurred to me that I wanted an answer, though, so I asked a second time. "What did you do, Legolas? What was your mistake?"

He stiffened and then shook his head. Merry and Pip both looked up at me and frowned - Legolas didn’t want to talk. I was the big bad one with the brush, then. I waited a minute and had pretty much decided to leave the question hanging. What did it matter, when we all knew where he’d gone wrong?

"Answer him, Legolas," a voice ordered, and I startled. I’d nigh forgotten about Frodo. I looked at him and he nodded, so I brought the hairbrush down a touch harder and waited again.

"I . . . ." Legolas’ voice was no more than a whisper, hoarse and breathy and broken.

"You what?" I urged.

"I - I w-went any . . . ."

"You went anyway," I said. "That’s right." I meant to agree with him and to praise him at the same time. Legolas is so brave - I’d been paddling him a good long time by then and the glow coming off his bottom wasn’t being caused by the fire. But still he found words when we told him to, and managed to choke them out around his tears.

For the next minute or so I just landed the brush, hard. He was sobbing and it tore at me, and I also reckoned that Strider would’ve been stopping not too long after, so I decided to drive the lesson home and aimed all my swats lower, right above his thighs. Now, he’d been squirming up to then, but when the brush started coming down in the same couple of spots, over and over and over, he started writhing about so frantic that I figured he’d fall right off the ledge. He didn’t fall, but all of a sudden he found another way to escape. Reached back with both hands, he did, and shielded himself so that I had to stop mid-swing. His head was in Pip’s lap and he was bawling, and it was so awful that I’d driven him to that.

What was more awful was that I’d been ready to end it. Only a couple more and it would’ve been done. But when he put his hands back I knew I’d have to keep going. Strider doesn’t let any of us think that we can control when a spanking ends, and I couldn’t let Legolas think it either. "Legolas!" I snapped. "You can’t do that. Get your hands out of the way. Now."

Well, I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he cried even harder. Merry and Pippin both glared at me; they were crying too. I was grateful when Merry reached over and took Legolas’ wrists and gave a gentle tug anyhow. I was more grateful when Legolas let him. Then there was nothing in the way, so I raised the brush again and brought it down as hard as I could.

Legolas shrieked and that was it for me. I could hardly even see through my own tears as I spanked him again, and again after that. He had to learn, though! He had to stop giving every Orc and Uruk-hai a chance at him! He had to stop leaving our sides to save us from one thing or another. We need him for the Quest and we need him just because. He’s our friend - he’s my friend - and we need him. Sometimes hurting someone you love is the only way to keep them safe, or at least keep them from getting killed for no good reason.

He was real rigid for a moment and then he just went limp, like all the fight was out of him, and I knew it was enough - it was more than enough. Finally. I wanted to throw the damnable brush into the fire and watch it burn, but Frodo still loves to brush his hair so I just dropped it. I sat on the ledge, then, with a nigh hysterical Elf lying over my lap, and I rubbed his back the way Strider does. Frodo came forward and laid a hand on my cheek, really gentle. After a moment he turned and knelt and kissed Legolas on the brow, and I listened to Legolas crying and in with that I could hear this beat, this fast hard thudding that I didn’t know right off was my own heart.

*************************************************************************************************************************************************

2.

The trees were gentle and sympathetic, and I found myself grateful that Aragorn permitted me - trusted me - to take second watch. The night was soft, like heavy cool velvet cloaking the land, and I crouched in the embrace of an ancient pine as it told me stories of its kin, of seedlings and saplings and strong young trees reaching for the sun. It told me of disease, of wars in which arrows have flown, piercing its flesh. It told me of Orcs and how they poison every bit of a forest, make it tainted and sad.

When I shifted on the branch and winced, the tree whispered reassurances. Who would ever have thought that a Hobbit - Sam - could hit that hard? I truly believed, in the moment when I lowered my leggings and eased myself down over his lap - and that must have been a sight to see - that my greatest pain would come from humiliation. I could feel it seething deep in me. I could feel my ears tingle as I surrendered to him, and I could feel the tingle become a burn as Sam folded up the tail of my tunic. The feeling of cool air on that part of one's anatomy is a feeling like none other, and the idea of an Elf being sp . . . being brought to task by a Hobbit - 'twould seem ludicrous. Utterly ludicrous. I was so embarrassed, and I thought that would be the worst of it. This, of course, was a Hobbit. It was gentle Sam, and he would surely not have the strength or the will to cause me, his friend, much more than slight physical discomfort. Surely not.

Afterward, as my backside connected with the branch once more, I had to concede that I have likely never been more wrong about a thing. Sam has not only surprising strength hidden in that small body, but also fortitude and a depth of will. He was more than willing to cause me pain, and a great deal of it.

He cares about me.

*****

If I had to put my finger on the precise point wherein I began to go astray, I suppose I would have to put it on last evening, when Aragorn and I were discussing the Orcs that had - no more than half a day before us - trod the very path we were following. I was most concerned about this, and of course Aragorn, Boromir, Mithrandir and stout Gimli shared such concern. However, their worry next to my own seemed as pebbles next to a great boulder, and so I began to raise the importance of my anxiety, my unease, in relation to theirs. When Aragorn shot me that look, that look which tells me I shall not overstep, I fairly buried its meaning underneath my growing desire to act.

Ah, action. It is a comfort, really, as well as an impulse. It is as a balm to a worried soul, overriding the dark crippling thoughts we sometimes entertain. It allows us to simply forget, to give ourselves into it and push aside that about which we cannot bear to think. And I have always trusted in it. When my mind conceives of a terrible threat to the Fellowship, my limbs ache to be moving. When my treacherous heart whispers that I will not be able to protect those I love, my muscles throw themselves into play and shout, "Aye! It can be done!" Indeed, action is a tempting thing.

So, as I have been both raised and trained to do, I observed the chain of command and sought Aragorn’s permission to scout while on watch. We were camping in the open and I would not venture far - merely to the black curtain of forest that we would soon enter. Merely to gain a look, discern a track, perhaps glean a sense of how much danger lay therein.

And, as seems to be his wont, Aragorn denied me leave. I resented it and argued quietly with both him and Mithrandir at the edge of camp. I almost asked him why he didn't just hobble me like Bill the pony, because surely that would keep me in my place. I almost asked, but as I opened my mouth to say it, Mithrandir fired me a withering glance. I swear at times that Wizard knows my very thoughts.

I was replaced in my duty, ordered off the watch and sent to bed like a naughty Elfling. Oh, that rankled my pride no little bit. However I had no means of redress: Aragorn purposely shifted his belongings closer to mine so that we slept fairly side by side. Briefly, after he had fallen into slumber, I entertained the notion of moving even closer to him, curling up against him as I have done on occasion. But my pride was still a bit tender from his restrictions, and so I lay awake while the moon sailed languidly overhead.

And the following day - yesterday - was uneventful. We walked, as we have done and will continue to do until our Quest is fulfilled. We hiked forest trails and were vigilant. Sam cooked a splendid evening meal that both fortified and relaxed us, and we sat together as comrades under the stars.

Of course, into the midst of such unplanned peace came my disquieting discovery. I had, at some point during the long day, surrendered my resentment, and I looked upon Aragorn with renewed affection. I suppose that was what compelled me to take our waterskins to the nearby stream - I wished, in some domestic way, to convey my lack of anger. And Aragorn smiled at me as I fetched his waterskin. I returned the smile, certain that naught would occur to change my feelings that night.

But at the stream I had not even the chance to kneel before catching the scent of them. Orcs. Orcs had been there. Tracks, broad and grubby, led from the far bank off into the woods, and although my senses told me surely that our immediate area was safe, I longed to be off after these beasts. They were too fresh, the tracks. The Orcs that had made them were too near my fellows!

Aragorn would have investigated and surely denied me leave once more, had I asked for it, so I took the only other course open to me: I did not ask. Indeed, I hid my sudden anxiety from them all, returning to our camp with the water and a careful smile. I laid myself down and gazed into the black bowers, and I waited as Aragorn paced off to guard our perimeter, his path taking him not near enough the stream for his sharp eyes to find those tracks. Keen Ranger that he was, yet he had no chance of hearing me leave once he was out of camp. I rose and crept away, and in my belly I think there sparked a bit of guilt. Needless to say, ‘twas a thing I ignored.

So I regained the spoor, followed it, my nose filling with the echoes of their scent. Aye, Orcs leave a shadow over all of Middle Earth. Even though their feet press only but a moment in the soil, where they tread holds a little less life, and the green there fails to thrive. Where they lay their foul bodies down to rest, naught will grow again, to be sure. And in the air hangs their breath, the whiff of them. I followed, though my stomach would have rebelled at their stench and my heart would have kept me close to the Fellowship. I followed, for ‘tis the deepest urge within me to drive such beings from the land. ‘tis fundamental.

And I concluded, after barely an hour’s travel, that the Orcs were marching ever further from us. The tracks were yet of the same age, though I followed them with haste; the path they took did not waver. Aye, those beasts were leaving, and with no delay. Relief flooded through me as I turned for home.

But the camp was there no longer. My relief turned cold - I had indeed been missed. For a moment I felt a weakness in my limbs, and my heart fluttered. They would be so angry. Aragorn would be so angry!

I soothed myself with the certainty that they were alright, that there had been no signs of battle at the dead campsite. No signs of aught but the efficient packing of gear and an organized move from that place. To what purpose, I did not know, although ‘twas obvious that my leaving had spawned it. I tracked them hurriedly, my senses cast forward. And when I reached the cave wherein the Hobbits waited, I ducked in without preamble.

Oh, ’twas good to see the faces of my fellows! Even our short separation had itched at me. I looked first from dear Frodo to Sam, then to Merry and Pippin, who huddled by a poor fire. Alone, they were!

"Where are the others?" I asked, and was a touch surprised when Sam fairly wheeled on me to inform me that the rest of the Fellowship was out executing a search for its archer. I had known that, really. Oh, Aragorn would be angry.

But ’twould be better the sooner they were returned to safety, I knew. Out in the dark wood on my account . . . I could not abide that. I made my intentions known, and was again surprised by the ferocity of Sam’s response. They were all on their feet by then, eyes wide. Of course they would not wish to be left alone further. I felt my earlier guilt flare within me, at once burning and cold, and tried to reassure the four anxious Hobbits that all would be well once I located our fellows.

When I noticed that Sam’s tone held not only fear but also determination, I cannot say. I can say he was standing tall, his eyes sharp on me. I can say, in retrospect, that he did look angry. Perhaps ‘tis simply that I could not fathom such an intent in him, nor the will to carry out such an act. Perhaps I was guilty of arrogance, along with my other crime. Nay - not a crime. A mistake, Sam called it. A mistake, ‘twas, and I shall endeavour not to make it again.

I did resist, in any case. I said nay; I stood fast and stared at my feet. Naught swayed him, though! He was just so . . . determined. Authoritative. I have never seen Sam exude such command. He nigh took my breath away. And I realized in that moment that it is never about stature; it is never about the ability to wrestle another into submission. I recall a tale I heard of a farmer, a simple man with a diminutive pony stallion. When once his neighbour paid a call, leading a newly acquired stallion of considerable size, the pony leaped into action. ’twas his territory indeed, and his message to the interloper was clear: ‘You are a guest within my borders, and an unwelcome one. Begone!’ I would have liked to see such temerity, the pony confronting a beast twice his size, and yet I have heard that the confrontation ended quickly. The newcomer surrendered, planting feet and refusing to venture further onto this tiny resident’s land, and ! the neighbour had to wave to his friend from a distance before turning for home. Horses, I believe, are wise to that which eludes many men.

Aye, I have always known inside that Aragorn is no match for me, physically. Nor is Boromir, nor Gimli. Mithrandir has the strength of the Istari, but none of the rest could literally force me over their knees. I submit, each and every time. I yield. So tonight, standing just inside that cave, I faced one angry Samwise Gamgee, listened to him tell me that I had a paddling coming . . . and I yielded. Again.

Ai, but that was hard. I watched him move to stand before the rock ledge, and what had until that moment been mere incredible possibility became real. Sam had decided not only that it would be done, but also how, and in his stance and his eye his determination shone. He was going to carry through with it.

I walked to his side and stared. He has such a small lap! Aragorn, Boromir, Gandalf are tall. Even dear Gimli, who has taken me in hand on occasion, is larger. Broader of thigh, and seemingly carrying more weight of authority. But a Hobbit? Sam the keeper of Shire gardens? His face was framed with unruly curls, and even then so serious he appeared to me as a youth. I wanted to tousle his hair, as I have done. I wanted to shield him from the dark things. I have done that, as well. But there in the cave, another dark place with walls that seemed to dance in the firelight, Sam was telling me most plainly that I was the youth. ‘You must not make the error of assuming these Halflings children,’ Gandalf had told us once, before the Quest, before we had seen so much. The Peredhil were unknown to my race, yet surely we had conceived of those among them being adults, being parents and grandparents, of their people growing old and dying. ‘twas not un! til I saw them - these charming little folk with bouncing curls and mischievous natures - that I fell into the notion of their eternal childhood. And Sam, ‘twas clear, intended to thoroughly disabuse me of the notion.

He reassured me, then. Perhaps I looked afeard, for he spoke soothingly, as one would calm a small child. He declared the ledge solid and his lap safe. My fingers had already attended to my leggings, with me hardly aware of it. There was naught left but to obey. I knelt on the ledge first, then leaned forward and planted my hands on the other side of him.

As I lowered myself a part of me was reeling under it, under the enormity of it. I had, in that moment, less authority than a simple Hobbit half my size. I, the Prince of Mirkwood, and yet a youth to be chastened at the discretion of one Samwise Gamgee. Ai, but it made no sense; it made no sense . . . .

Yet it was happening. I folded my arms and hid my face. I could feel the heat of a blush suffusing itself over my cheeks, across my brow, up to the tips of my ears. When Merry and Pippin came to tend me, I did not immediately lift my head lest they see. But their voices were so soft; their hands were so soft on me, so I laid my head in dear Pippin’s lap and he stroked my hair. They are not children, you know. Never let their innocent natures fool you, for they are at once light-hearted and immensely wise. They understood the enormity of what was about to be done; they understood the need for it, and they simply vowed to remain with me. No arguments on my behalf, from any of them.

Aragorn would say, if I were to ask him, that they acted on my behalf in accepting Sam’s decision. And I suppose now I would have to agree.

So Sam carried out the sentence. From the first it seemed to hurt more than it typically does. Of course the pain is always important, and there comes a point every time when the pain is paramount, encompassing. But I do believe that I felt this sting more deeply because of the one causing it. Dear Sam - dear mild Sam whose generosity and kindness and gentle wisdom fairly shine. When my beloved friend Aragorn is angry with me I am sorrowed and angry at myself. When noble Boromir, who I have come to care about deeply, is angry with me I am shamed. When treasured Mithrandir is angry with me I am a chastened student once more, and when my stalwart Gimli is angry with me I am but a naughty Elfling again. Lying over Sam’s knees, I felt the weight of his disapproval, his disappointment, and it was a physical hurt that seemed to heighten every swat of the brush.

By the time two dozen or so had landed I was squirming. I tried to be still as he is so small and the ledge narrow, but I could not help shifting about. Sam was not speaking, and without his voice upon which to focus, my ears filled with the sound of the wood against me. Each crack of it was startling, and each crack was followed by a flash of pain. The burning spread out over me and I wanted so to twist away, leap up from his lap and just have a moment free of it. I swear, I thought for a time that he was literally holding a torch to my rear!

But I did not run. I wept, my head in Pippin’s lap, straining to hear when soft voices started cooing at me. I kept my hands still and clutching each at the other, lest one of those traitors rush back to shield me from my due punishment. What shame ‘twould be to lose control so in front of Sam! It has happened once or twice with Aragorn, once or twice with Mithrandir. As I squirmed and cried and tried to wrap my mind around the pain, I vowed that it would not happen with Sam.

He began to speak - his first words rang out over my head and startled me. He spoke of worry, of small souls clinging helplessly to one another and waiting through endless fear. He spoke of dark imaginings and terrible ideas and the way a heart feels when it is missing a friend. He spoke of love, and I struggled to listen.

When silence flowed back, save the sharp meetings of that wicked brush and my flaming skin, I imagined them - the Hobbits - as they had been when I’d first gained the cave. As they must have been before, due only to my leaving. Frodo, wan and weary in the flickering light, the sparkle gone from his eyes. Merry and Pippin holding each other for comfort, their sunny spirits clouded over and the lilt gone from their voices. And Sam, stoic Sam fussing over Frodo, sparing the other two a kindly glance before he returned to his tending of the fire. Dutiful Sam, taking care of others.

Taking care of me.

He was speaking again then, and he spoke of my value. My value? I have value as an archer, as a warrior on the Quest. I have value as a sentry, a keen set of eyes and ears. Indeed, I do have value as their friend. But Sam’s voice carried on and the value seemed to grow. Value for my life, for its sake alone. Value for the blue of my eyes and the softness of my voice. Value for the way I tell a story and smile and laugh. Sam spoke and I listened, and it seemed in his words that all these things had value whether he mentioned them or not. He said I am valuable just because, and though I have never lacked self-respect the words still hurt. I suppose my life has been such that I see the uses in me first, the benefits I can bring to others, and forget the just because.

I was at once trying to reflect on that and wondering how much longer he could possibly continue. Surely Aragorn never punished me so severely, never took me to a point where I was frantic and the panic was rising in me and I was ready to scream and bolt . . . surely he never did! Nay, he lit a fire in my backside and guaranteed that I would sleep on my belly for a night or two, but he never . . . .

Aye, of course he did, and does. Of course, though I think I usually forget the intensity of it afterward. Perhaps that is the way of a sound paddling. No matter one’s ability to endure pain, no matter one’s maturity or grit, a paddling seems able to skirt around the best of defenses, to reach right inside and touch the long-buried child. Aye, Aragorn always takes me to that place, and once there I wriggle and cry, helpless. He told me once I’d actually squealed at a particularly bad swat. I could not conceive of it, for I’ve endured wounds from blade and arrow with nary a sound. How could one Man’s palm against my bottom unravel me so? How could one Hobbit with a hairbrush do the same?

Sam was scolding me over orders defied, and then he asked a question. He asked it again, or was it only the once? Regardless, I did not want to answer. Words were too far away, and reaching out for them would hurt. I was small and tired and wanted to be quiet under the pain. But nay, I was told to answer. Who told me . . . ah, Frodo. His voice seemed distant, harder than it is. The brush landed harder, I think. When one is over a knee, one should never ignore a question.

"I went anyway," I said, hoping my voice was steady. And Sam was pleased, for he praised me. I could hear his approval and it was beauteous, like the sun shining into my dark place. So I clung to it while he continued; I listened vaguely to the sound of the swats as they echoed ‘round our cave. Ai, it hurt.

Then it got worse, incredibly. Sam has obviously learned from Aragorn and the others that there is a certain amount of technique involved in paddling a rear. His lack of experience seemed not to matter when he began aiming lower with the brush. I flinched and shuddered as a spank landed down near the top of one of my thighs, and I was not overly surprised when the next spank landed just above my other thigh. But I did not expect that he was going to be directing all his attentions there! Ai, Valar - that was bad! It took me perhaps half a dozen of those wicked blows to realize, and when I did my panic surged. I had to get away. I could not get away; I could not leap up and run from him, but I had to escape. And even while my mind was telling me to bolt Sam was continuing; he was taking what had already burned and making it an inferno. Again and again and again the brush landed. I could hear naught but the sound of it and that voice screeching at me to run. Withou! t thinking, I thrust my hands back.

Well, it stopped, and I could breathe for a blessed moment. I just wanted a chance to draw air into my tired lungs, to give my raw throat a rest. Just a moment. Was that too much to ask? Sam was angry, his voice sharp, but I would not listen. Nay, he was not going to lay down one more swat in that area. Let him drift a bit higher up if he wasn’t finished - let him wander a bit. But no more in that spot, or I would surely go mad!

When hands gripped my wrists and tugged, I cried even more desperately. It wasn’t finished; it wasn’t over. Such despair I have rarely felt in my life, that I felt in that moment. I was so tired and I wanted to be held. I wanted not to be small and naughty any more, not to be trapped under another’s anger. But ultimately I suppose I was also too exhausted to resist much, so I let those hands pull mine forward again, out of the way.

>From that point forth I remember little. Pippin told me I screamed at the next blow. He has no reason to lie, and the statement alone seemed to pain him. What I know is that it went on, and then it ended, and then I gradually came aware again. I was utterly spent and sore - from just below my waist to the top of both thighs, all I could feel was burning. I had surely sat in fire, been stung by ten thousand wasps, been paddled by everyone in the Fellowship. Sitting was not going to be an option for me, ever. I would spend the rest of my life standing - ’twas fact.

I remember someone divested me of my leggings, though I was too drained to express my gratitude. I remember they helped me up and I cried more at the movement. I remember they helped me lie down, and I could feel the warmth of the fire. Even the soft blanket they laid upon me hurt by backside, but a voice said I needed not to catch chill. And I remember that soft kisses landed on my damp brow, and soft hands petted my hair, and I felt cocooned and sleepy and amazingly at home.

A part of me wishes I had been awake when the others returned. Pip said they arrived perhaps half an hour after I slipped into healing reverie, and that Frodo met them just outside the cave to explain events without disturbing me. Oh, the surprise that must have taken their features, to hear that I had been given my agreed-upon chastisement by a Hobbit! I can imagine Gimli’s reaction, at least, his bushy eyebrows shooting upward until it might have seemed they would divorce themselves from his brow and take wing. I imagine there might also have been some disappointment from them at being robbed the satisfaction of witnessing my punishment - I hope there wasn’t. They do love me, I know.

So they did not disturb my rest, nor after Frodo’s recount of the evening did they condemn Sam for his actions. I am grateful of that. From what Pip tells me, they set up their rest just outside the cave, built another fire, smoked their pipes and then settled to gain a bit of sleep. First watch was about over, so Aragorn remained wakeful and waited for me. And when I awoke he was there, his grey eyes soft in the firelight.

"How are you feeling, Mellon nin?" he murmured, his hand resting ever so lightly on my brow, the way a parent checks its youngling for fever.

"I . . . sore," I replied drowsily. It occurred to me that his watch was past done, and I came fully awake. "Let me take the watch," I asked quietly. "Go seek your rest."

Aragorn shook his head. "Nay, Legolas. You are tired."

"Not as tired as you," I countered, managing to draw my knees up under me with only a grimace. "Please, Aragorn. I am awake now, and I will not be sleeping again this night. I can move, as you have seen. Please trust me to do my duty."

"I do trust you, my friend," Aragorn said, and seemed for a moment to be working up further argument. But then he sighed and smiled. "Very well. If you feel that you are up to it, I shall allow you the few hours left until dawn. I could use the sleep, admittedly." He grasped my hand and helped me rise, then suddenly wrapped his strong arms around me and kissed my brow. "You remain close at all times," he cautioned. "And if you become too weary, fetch me at once. Understood?"

I nodded. "’twill be alright, Aragorn. Please go rest." We stepped out of the cave together, leaving the Hobbits slumbering near their dying fire, and as Aragorn moved to settle by his things, I moved toward the black curtain of trees. They whispered to me; they would embrace me as my dear friends embrace me despite my flaws and my mistakes. I gained a low branch, close to the camp where I could see any threat, and as the tree told me its stories I gazed upon the warriors who had struck out into night’s blackness to find me, their fellow and their friend.

And through the next day - today - they cast their glances, kept the pace a bit slower in deference to me. ‘The Elf needs not to travel so roughly this day,’ rumbled Gimli to Mithrandir, standing distant enough he probably thought I would not hear. ‘True,’ agreed Mithrandir, and gained nods from Aragorn and Boromir both. Often I caught Frodo gazing at me, and he would smile so sweetly that I would feel myself start to blush again. Merry and Pippin seemed also to hover, directing their steps with a deliberately casual manner. Aye, they know of Elven pride, and that I would not want to be the subject of such fuss. Yet at the same time they know that their attentions could never be unwanted, that each gentle hint of their concern warms me somewhere deep inside. I am not explaining it well. Perhaps I never will.

But as seven pair of eyes alit on me during our travels, as smiles were sent my way, I did wonder about the eighth. Was he angry still? Could he be angry still, perhaps not for what I did but for what I forced him to do? I looked to him frequently; his eyes were inevitably focussed ahead, and I worried. Had I destroyed our friendship? Frodo met my gaze and shook his head, and smiled again, and we walked.

I did not, after the quiet evening meal, volunteer to fetch water. I was tired and wanted rest; I was sore and wanted not to move. But more than that, he had gone down to a nearby river to wash our plates. Kneeling by my pack, I stared at the leafy ground until a shadow flitted over me. "What?" I said.

Frodo crouched in front of me and took my hands. "Go talk to him," he said. "You’ll see that everything is fine." Without another word he rose and turned away, moving to join Merry and Pippin. They were telling a tale about a farmer they had met near Bree, a man with a pony so small that Bill seemed large in comparison. I rose to the sound of their laughter and slipped out of camp.

Down by the river he was, where Middle Earth let herself grow rocky and the trees did not grow at all. His head was bowed to a dish; his hands were skilful and thorough over its curves. He would not give it a simple swipe and let that be, but would focus on it until ‘twas cleansed. Dear Sam, keeper of gardens and mender of mistakes. I stood for a moment and watched him work, marvelling.

*****

But I will not delay further, standing here reflecting on so much, for there are things I need to say and one thing I need to know. I approach him and kneel. "Thank you," I murmur as he meets my eye, and I wonder if he will understand all that lies behind such inadequate words. Thank you for worrying. Thank you for getting angry. Thank you for not letting it go, even though it must have been as wrenching for you as it was for me. Thank you for hardening yourself to my tears so that I could truly learn. I meet his gaze and wonder.

When he lifts a hand to stroke my hair, I do know, and I rise. My heart is light as I turn back toward camp, leaving him to his quiet tasks.

***********************************************************************************************************************************************

I still don't have enough words as I watch him walk away. Not away, but back into the safety of our Fellowship. He won't take watch tonight because it's Gandalf's turn, and after that Gimli. He'll be settling down with his bow at hand, looking up at the stars. As his backside meets the ground he’ll still remember my anger. And I'll be lying where I do, by Mr. Frodo, but I'll watch him.

Maybe tonight I'll catch that moment when he falls asleep.

*****

Finis