The best description Sam can come up with is fire suits him - the red glow from the fireplace warming flawless skin, the fire that heats cool, changeable eyes as Frodo and Merry argue with each other, standing on the hearthrug with only inches between them and voices just a shade this side of shouting.

He wonders if they've forgotten that he's there. They're that angry, the kind of angry where nothing exists in the world but the fire and the wall you're butting your head against.

Sam watches the air spark between them, and maybe it's time he went home.