It had been a long quest. If he were a hobbit prone to swearing……Well, now. Truth to tell, he wasn’t a hobbit prone, at all, to swearing, or, at least, the only swearing he’d done, of late, was to something, not at something.
Wait a bit. That wasn’t him, was it, wasn’t him as had done the swearing?
Oh, by the Lady and all the stars in the sky…..
NOW the voices in his head weren’t even his own, nor were they the niggling ones of that wretched trinket that somehow (despite the chain being three sizes too large) still hung about his neck. NOW he was thinking like Sam, as Sam.
Not necessarily a bad thing, that, thinking like Sam. He closed his eyes and saw clear, bright water, green grass, fields golden beneath a harvest sun. Roughs hands, rough voices, far-off, filling a common-room with laughter, dark-brown ale and sweet pipe-weed passing ‘round the plank……
A hand, rougher, even, than the one in his errant day-dream shook him, settled shockingly at his throat. A voice he knew, knew better than his own, knew as his own, hissed in his ear:
"Thief,” it whispered, with Sam’s mouth and his own voice, and then, after a pause (during which Frodo, in fear of what he might see, kept his eyes determinedly closed), “we…………hates ………it.” The hand at his throat tightened. “We..…….hates…..it……..forever.”
Frodo decided he was, after all, a hobbit quite prone to swearing.