(Azaelia)
My stomach cramped with fear as I clung to the thin rope that we used to inch down the cliff face, unable to see the end of it through the mist. It was a little over 30 fathoms long, but we had no way of knowing if it was enough to reach the bottom. As, filled with dread, I figured this, Sam, who was below me, called out "Can you see the bottom?" to Frodo, who was lowest on the rope. I was amazed that it actually held all our weight combined. It was so slim, I would hardly have expected it to hold even my weight.
I risked a glance down to look at Frodo as he replied, "No!" I could only see the mist that shrouded his figure, and it sent stabs of fear through my stomach. I loathed heights. Frodo glanced up and caught me looking, and called up, "Don't look down! Just keep going!"
Swallowing hard and nodding, I shimmied down the rope a bit more, trying to find good footholds and not slip. Suddenly, as though as I had jinxed our good luck in inching down the cliff, Sam's foot slipped from the jutting out rock on which he'd been resting, and as he banged against the rock, a tiny box was shaken loose from his pack.
"Catch it! Grab it, Mr. Frodo!" He cried out, desperation ringing in his voice. The box clattered against the rock face, bouncing right into Frodo's out-stretched hand. Sam and I gave a simultaneous sigh of relief which turned quickly into a gasp of horror and fear as Frodo stumbled, his one hand unable to keep its grip on the rope, and he plummetted into the mist, crying out.
"Frodo!" I screamed as Sam cried out, "Mr. Frodo!" Then there was the crunch of something hitting rock, to which my heart lurched to a stop.
"Frodo?" I called out, anxiety making my throat raw.
"I think I've found the bottom!" Frodo's voice floated up to meet our ears, and we hurried down the rope. Absolute relief caused me to stumble more than once. Sam dropped off, myself in his wake.
"Bogs and rope, and goodness knows what," Sam grumbled. "It's not natural. None of it."
I stepped through the "unnatural" fog, and peered over Frodo's shoulder to look at the tiny box that had fallen. It was about the size of his palm, and carved with a small leaf on top.
"What's in this?" Frodo asked, turning to face Sam.
"Looks important," I commented, smiling slightly.
"Nothing," Sam said immediately. His voice was slightly defensive. "Just a bit of seasoning." A thoughtful look came over his face as he walked forward, eyes in the little box. "I thought maybe if we was having a roast chicken one night or something." He nodded as though this made perfect sense.
"Roast chicken?!" Frodo spluttered incredulously. I fought the urge to roll my eyes as a short snort of laughter burst out of me.
"You never know," Sam protested. I thought to myself, What kind of chicken would be here? In these conditions?
"Sam. My dear Sam," Frodo undid the latch of the box, peering inside to find a little storage of salt and small bits of some dried herb.
"It's very special, that," Sam added, sounding proud of himself. "It's the best salt in all the Shire."
I wondered how he had gotten ahold of it, and how long he'd been keeping it. Obviously for something very important. Suddenly Frodo became somber and almost mournful.
"It is special." He said quietly, with a tone that suggested a great deal of carefully hidden sadness. Frodo looked up, glancing at me, then at Sam. He began to walk past Sam, slipping the box into his hand. "It's a little bit of home."
I frowned. I hadn't thought about it that way. Gazing at Sam as he stared down at the little contained of spices, I swallowed as I fought back strange, sudden tears. He looked up, and as our eyes made contact, we felt a silumtaneous throb of sadness go through us. It was clear by our gaze that we both felt the same way.
