Sam swept away the bits of twigs in frustration. It seemed that every blasted piece of wood in this forsaken forest came from magical, incombustible trees.
He sighed and ran a dirty hand through his tangled curls, his eyes automatically searching out Mr. Frodo. He sighed. His Master seemed like a stranger to him lately, quiet and brooding.
He made another pile of twigs and once again struck flint and stone. Finally, a spark lit and flamed. He fed the fire, then sat raptorously in the warmth for a few moments, selfishly indulging himself, before turning to care for Frodo.