Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing.

Written for Archives of Excellence challenge "Different Strokes." One of the requirements was to include the line "Don't ask me, I'm just a _____."

But to the wizard's eye there was a faint change, just a hint as it were of transparency, about him, and especially about the left hand that lay outside upon the coverlet.

'Still that must be expected,' said Gandalf to himself. 'He is not half through yet, and to what he will come in the end not even Elrond can foretell. Not to evil, I think. He may come like a glass filled with a clear light for eyes to see that can.'

Frodo stared absently across the Shire from the stoop of Bag End, past Bagshot Row where some children played silly games, toward the sinking sun in the West. He fingered the white jewel at his throat and pondered the gift offered to him. It was July. He'd need to decide soon. Did he wish to remain here in his beloved Shire, or sail West to Elvenhome?

It seemed that either way he would be quite alone. The Shire, in all its innocence and simplicity – even after the Troubles – could not understand the burden of the Ring or the toll it had taken on both Frodo's body and his spirit. The Elves, on the other hand, could understand, because they understood what the Ring was.

But he was mortal. Where would he fit in a land of those bound to Arda while all lasted? They neither knew nor wondered what happened to a mortal's spirit – fëa, the Elven word was – when death claimed him at last. At least Hobbits understood that uncertainty, even if they did not think about it very often.

"Mister Frodo?" The children had ceased their play and made their way silently – as only Hobbits could – to Bag End, and Frodo looked down to see them gathered at his feet. "Where did you get that jewel?"

Frodo smiled. "From one of the most beautiful ladies to ever walk Middle-earth," he said. "From the Queen, who is said to be the very image of Lúthien her ancestor." He'd told the story before, though he wasn't sure how much of it these lads and lasses remembered, for all their wide eyes grew positively round as they regarded him. Frodo shifted uncomfortably after a moment, wondering what about him was so fascinating.

"You talk different, Mister Frodo," said one of the lads. "Not like you used to 'afore you left. Or even really like a Hobbit."

"Did you spend time with Elves, sir?" asked another lad. "Mister Sam says you did. What are they like?"

"I bet they're like Mister Frodo," said one of the younger lasses shyly, "happy and sad and all filled with pretty starlight."

Frodo looked at her in surprise. Did he indeed appear filled with starlight? It seemed so, for the other children were nodding thoughtfully.

They left at last, once Sam came out to fetch Frodo for dinner. On impulse, Frodo asked him, "Sam, do I appear filled with starlight – like an Elf?" He felt foolish as soon as the question left his lips, but waited patiently as Sam regarded him thoughtfully.

Finally, he nodded. "Aye, Master, I can see that. It's growin' brighter now. Has been since Master Elrond took that nasty blade from your shoulder."

The mere mention made that arm go cold. Frodo frowned as he rubbed at it. "But why...how…?"

Sam shrugged. "Don't ask me, I'm just a gardener, Mister Frodo."

"Oh, you're far more than that, Samwise Gamgee!" Frodo followed his friend into the dining room, where Elanor chattered happily to Rosie. It seemed that he was growing more Elvish by the day, the way everyone spoke and stared at him. More like an Elf and less like a Hobbit.

But that was the way of things, wasn't it? To save a thing someone had to lose it. As he sat down, Frodo decided to write to Elrond in the morning, and then to visit Michel Delving. There were things to take care of before he left that autumn on one last journey…