He didn't sleep again last night. There's smudges under his eyes, and his hand keeps creeping up to the place where he got stung two years gone. I'll bet the whipmarks hurt him too – they're hurting me just to think on, and I ain't got the scars. I'd ask him if he'd let me, but he don't want to be asked. Truth is, I don't want to think on that day neither. I dream of him lying there dead sometimes, and Rosie and the babe dead alongside. I dream of Shelob, of Orcs and the Ring.
No, I won't ask.