“Sam?” He heard faintly, “Sam the crickets are even in bed by now.” 

Behind his place on a log there lay Frodo, blinking blearily and with mild irritation. “An’ why are you awake then, Mr. Frodo?” He asked with a hum, turning his sights away from the rocks ahead to Frodo’s pale, vaguely concerned face. 

“I’m cold. And terribly lonely on the ground, if you must know.” Frodo griped, rolling onto his back and folding his hands over his sadly shrinking stomach. “I thought to myself in my dreams– goodness, imagine if I had some sort of companion on which to warm myself against! My, what an idea that’d be!” He tacked on the next part with a shrug: “And then I was awake.”

Sam watched him yawn, teeth flashing a glossy white beneath the moon. “Mr. Frodo, one o’ us has to keep watch.” He said gently, stretching out an arm just to allow Frodo to place a hand in his own. The hand was rather chilly, actually. He tsked worriedly. Why hadn’t he packed more blankets? In fact, why didn’t he pack a whole featherbed and carried the fool-thing on his back?

He realistically couldn’t afford to sleep. Not fully, not if he wanted to keep his master safe. But the night was quiet– one might say too quiet, only as neither thought any living thing willingly lived in the Emyn Muil. “Right,” he sighed, taking one last look around before unclasping his cloak, moving off the long-dead log and onto the ground beside Frodo. Who notably very happily attached himself to Sam’s side, burying an ice-cold nose into his shoulder. “Ah, me dear,” he tutted, pulling his cloak over them both and shifting his head to lay it against Frodo’s pack.