Moonlight reflected from snow awakens Frodo, and he rises, walks out. No lock to door here. He is taut as the string to any violin, alert to all that moves. A fork in the path, and pristine snow lies on the sheet of ice covering a decorative lake. Icicles glimmer like crystal, pendant from the rope binding small boat to miniature wharf. With a stick he painstakingly draws each letter of his name in Tengwar upon the virgin white.
“The moon is the north wind’s cookie,” he sings as he forms a number of snowballs, each the size of a large peach. Upon a garden chair he sculpts a monkey of snow, adding even the tail. By it he sculpts a bottle and a loaf to represent drink and bread.
He scoops a hole in the whiteness--forms another ball.
Sam comes forth to seek him.
Thwack!
On the money!