20. The Worst Expected

Gavin awoke slowly, from a vivid dream of shimmering Elves and strange, exotic music. Even as he opened his eyes partially, it seemed that he could still see the Elves, glimmering with a silver light, dancing and singing in a tongue he did not understand. The vision faded reluctantly, tendrils of it still remaining before his eyes even as he propped himself up on his elbows and shook his head to rid it of sleep.

He looked up at the sky, pitch-black and glittering with countless stars, and wondered why Faramond had not woken him earlier. He gave a soft, indignant snort, feeling slighted that he had not been awoken, as they had agreed that he would take first watch that night.

Suddenly full memory of that evening came back to him and he looked down for Hazel. At the same time, he realized that there were soft, murmuring voices coming from the other side of camp. He recognized Faramond’s, but the other two he did not know.

Gavin pushed off the blanket and got to his feet, crossing the campsite without the others’ notice. He saw now that the owners of the two strange voices were hobbits, and by the way one of them, (the older one, he guessed), held Hazel in his lap, absently stroking his hair, assured Gavin that he must be the child’s father.

Only when he seated himself beside Faramond was Gavin noticed. Then the hobbits blinked, looking surprised, and the older Ranger placed a hand on Gavin’s shoulder and smiled at him tiredly.

"This is Gavin," he introduced the youth to the two hobbits. "He is my... er... apprentice, being trained as a Ranger." The hobbits both nodded, absently, and Hazel smiled shyly at him. Turning to Gavin, Faramond explained, "This is Halfred Gamgee, Hazel’s father, and his brother, Samwise." He gestured to the younger hobbit, holding one of Frodo’s hands gently in his own, who gave Gavin a fleeting glance and then returned his attention to the injured hobbit.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance," said Gavin politely, as he would have said in Bree—though this was the first occasion where manners had been necessary since leaving with Faramond. "Or at least it would be, under different circumstances perhaps," he added tactfully—and truthfully.

Halfred smiled wearily at him, and his honest, kind face warmed Gavin’s heart immediately. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly. "And thank you for findin’ my son—I don’t think I can ever repay you."

Gavin returned the smile, touched by the hobbit’s gratitude. "There is no debt between us," he said sincerely. "It is I who had the pleasure of meeting your son. He is truly a brave lad."

"Thank you," Halfred repeated with a wider smile, his arms tightening around Hazel, who blushed with pleasure.

"Beggin’ your pardon, sirs," said Samwise suddenly, looking up at Faramond, "but what about my master? I’ll not have Mr. Frodo spendin’ the night out ’ere, hurt as he is, an’ that’s flat."

Under more pleasant circumstances, Gavin would have laughed at the obviously stubborn, rather bold young hobbit; but now, he only felt sorrow that these gentle creatures should experience such pain and grief. Suddenly he understood the purpose of guarding the Shire so carefully, and made a silent resolution to do so with all of his heart.

"No indeed, Samwise," Faramond assured him, gently. "I agree, Frodo should not stay outside. I believe the best thing to do is to bring him in the cart back to your home, Master Halfred, while he still sleeps. With your permission, I would like to accompany you and tend to Frodo until I am sure he is out of danger."

Gavin looked with surprise at Faramond, and glanced down at Hazel, whose brown eyes had also widened with a look of shock, then, despite the circumstances, delight that a Man would be staying in his small home.

"O’ course, Mr. Faramond," Halfred replied without hesitation. "O’ course, if you want to tend to Mr. Frodo, I’ll not disagree." He glanced at Sam, who looked up at the Ranger, giving a brief nod of permission before returning his gaze to his master. "But I don’t think you’ll be very comfortable in a hobbit-hole; we’ve naught for Big People, beggin’ your pardon."

"I would not ask you to trouble yourself," said Faramond, shaking his head. "Gavin and I will most likely stay only until tomorrow night, and what sleep we may take will be outside. We are used to sleeping under the stars."

"Then if that’s settled," Sam said, raising his head, "let’s hurry and get back home, an’ get Mr. Frodo safe an’ comfortable."

Gavin couldn’t contain a small smile this time. It was obvious that Samwise was extremely protective of his master, and it pleased the Ranger to see such love from a servant, thinking that the love of the master must be just as great, to inspire such devotion.

"Of course, Samwise." Faramond nodded, his lips twitching as he held back a smile of his own. "The cart is over there by the tree where the ponies are tied—Hazel, is the cart empty?"

"Yes sir," the boy answered, eager to be helpful, "’cept for a bit o’ rope."

"Good." Faramond got to his feet, and the others, save Samwise, followed his example. "Gavin," he directed, "please take your bedroll and all spare blankets to the cart, and spread them out on top of one another, so that Frodo will not be jostled on the journey. And then place your pack beside it, to help." Gavin hurried off to obey, without resentment or rebellion at following Faramond’s commands.

Within a few minutes, the cart was sufficiently padded and protected, the campfire doused, the herbs and medical tools put away, and the still-warm venison placed into the cart along with their campfire stones, safely stowed in the thick coil of rope so that they would not slide.

Then Gavin hitched up Galad, and Halfred, with Hazel sitting before him, mounted Gil. Faramond carefully lifted Frodo, along with the blankets, and held him while Sam hurriedly pulled the bedroll he’d been laying on over to the cart, where Gavin placed it on top of the first one. Then Faramond gently laid Frodo back down on the layered bedrolls and blankets, and made sure he was again covered warmly. Sam climbed into the back of the cart and dutifully seated himself beside his master, making sure that he was not jostled.

With the cart going slowly and carefully along the narrow dirt road, it was over half an hour before they cleared the Bindbale. Halfred and Hazel rode a little ahead, the latter continuously glancing back from under his father’s arm.

Sam sat dutifully beside Frodo, stroking his face with the compress Hazel had made, and whispering reassurances, though he knew his master could not hear him. Though Faramond guided the cart with skill and caution, trying his best not to hit any ruts in the crude road, occasionally the cart would be rocked slightly when he hit a bump he had not seen. When that happened, Sam would brace himself, holding on to Frodo’s hand and making sure nothing slid around in the back of the cart—including his master. The first few bumps they hit, Frodo did not stir at all, but as they neared the edge of the Bindbale, he began to moan softly every time he was jostled, moving his head and trying to get comfortable.

Sam faithfully soothed his master as best he could, though to his dismay and concern, tears of pain began to slide down Frodo’s cheeks, and he grew more and more restless. It was just as they reached the open countryside that Sam, removing the compress for a moment to rest the back of his hand against Frodo’s forehead, discovered that his temperature had begun to rise, far too quickly for Sam's liking.

"Mr. Faramond!" he cried. "Mr. Frodo’s gettin’ a fever, right fast!"

Faramond muttered something that might have been a curse, and handing the reins to Gavin, he climbed over the small driver’s seat and into the back of the cart, sitting down next to Sam and feeling Frodo’s forehead with his large hand.

"So he is," he murmured, almost to himself.

"Should we stop?" Sam asked anxiously, trying to read the Ranger’s expression.

Faramond considered a moment. Then he raised his head and looked at Halfred, who had halted, hearing their raised voices. "How long do you estimate it will take us to get to your home, Halfred?"

"Probably another ten minutes, at our pace," Halfred called back. "It’s all easy roads, though, from ’ere."

Faramond chewed his lower lip in thought and looked back down at Frodo and Sam. "We will not stop yet, Samwise," he decided. "Not unless your master’s fever gets much higher. It will be safer for him inside their home."

Sam eyed him closely for a moment, considering his words, and then nodded. "Very well, sir," he said, looking down at Frodo. "If that’s what you think is best, I’ll not argue."

Faramond patted Sam on the shoulder and then climbed back into the driver’s seat; a rather cramped position for both him and Gavin, for their knees were drawn up almost to their chins. He glanced back to see Sam wetting the compress with one of the waterskins and returning to the task of cooling his master’s face and neck.

The Ranger turned to Gavin, who was looking at him questioningly, concern in his eyes. "Frodo is developing a fever," said Faramond quietly. "Slowly, but steadily. This is just as I feared! Those herbs may send him into unconsciousness, but they cannot stop a fever."

"Should we continue?" Gavin asked worriedly.

"With all speed," Faramond replied grimly, flicking the reins and sending Galad into a trot.

Sam heard the Rangers’ quiet exchange and though he could not catch the words, their apprehensive tone made him uneasy. He felt Frodo’s forehead again: the fever continued to rise. It was already high enough to worry Sam greatly, and he again wetted the compress and wiped away the tears and beads of sweat from his master’s face.

"Poor Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured as they hit a rut, causing the cart to bounce and Frodo to give a low whimper of pain. "It’s all right, me dear. Your Sam’s ’ere. Just you lie quiet ’til we get back to Hal’s house, that’s it…"

Frodo quieted, and though his tears had stopped, his face was still taut with pain. Sam sighed, amazed and saddened by how quickly the pleasurable trip to the Northfarthing with his master had ended in disaster. He thought of the wolf that had injured Frodo so gravely, and gripped his master’s hand tightly. The image conjured up in his mind by his slightly wild imagination was of a fearsome Warg, like the ones from old Mr. Bilbo’s tales. He shuddered at the thought; but in the midst of all his worry and sorrow, he could not help but feel a great amount of awed admiration for his master’s courage in facing such a creature.

‘But that’s how he is,’ he thought fondly, squeezing his master’s hot hand. ‘Never stops to think of himself.’

A surge of love and respect for his master welled up suddenly in Sam’s heart, and he kissed Frodo’s hand. "Thank you, Mr. Frodo," he whispered, "for savin’ little Hazel. An’ for bein’ the way you are. The world would be a dark place without you." He paused, drawing in his breath a little at the thought. "I promise, Mr. Frodo, I’ll take care of you and help you get well. I promise."

Feeling slightly better, Sam dutifully resumed his task of bathing Frodo’s face and throat, putting aside the compress and using a clean cloth. His master’s temperature stubbornly continued to rise, yet despite the heat of his fever, Frodo was beginning to tremble as if he was cold, even beneath his layers of blankets.

Sam, chewing on his lower lip in concern, raised his head and looked about. From the dim light of the two lanterns carried by Gavin and Halfred, he could only barely see the road ahead. But he guessed, from the widening and evening out of it, and the gradual transition they had made from hills to flatter land, that they were within a few miles of Halfred’s home.

"Hold on, Mr. Frodo," he whispered, heartened a little from this observation. "We’re almost there."

Jessimine stood outside the back door, her shawl wrapped closely about her shoulders, holding aloft a brightly glowing lantern. She had made ready the guest bedroom where Frodo and Sam slept (leaving the tea there along with a basin of warm water and some clean cloths, as a precaution), checked that the two little girls were soundly asleep, and then come outside to wait.

It seemed like hours since Halfred and Sam had left, though it had only been perhaps a little over one, and in that amount of time she had been able to think over what she hoped was every possible explanation for what had happened to her son and friend. Though it frightened her dreadfully, she had gotten out most of her medicinal herbs just in case something had indeed gone wrong. ‘It’s a good thing,’ she thought, ‘that my mum’s so good a healer—and that she taught me a few things. If Mr. Frodo or Hazel have had a mishap.’

Jessimine quickly pushed the thought aside, taking a deep breath, and decided to go back inside for a moment to make sure the little ones were still sleeping. She took one last look at what she could see of the road, and then turned and went inside.

Hardly had she shut the door behind her and placed the lantern on the table when baby Tansy began to cry. Jessimine breathed a small sigh and hurried down the hall to the bedroom she and Halfred shared, where the ten-month-old still slept in a wooden crib beside the bed.

"It’s all right, me dear," she soothed softly, gathering the wailing infant into her arms and rocking her gently, stroking her fingers through the soft black curls. "Mumma’s here. Hush now, love, everything’s all right."

Within moments, comforted by her soft words, Tansy calmed, though she did not go back to sleep. She lay in her mother’s arms, her head resting against Jessimine’s shoulder and her small thumb thrust into her mouth. Her blue eyes were wide and bright in the darkness, and she looked about her as though curious or puzzled.

"Would you like to come outside with me and wait for your Da, Tansy dear?" Jessimine asked gently, still rocking the child comfortingly. "Come with me, then, and we shall wait outside for Da and Uncle Sam."

"Da," Tansy repeated softly, looking around. "Da-Da! Da?"

Finding no "Da" anywhere near, she looked at her mother questioningly. "Da’s comin’, love," Jessimine assured the baby, wrapping her shawl around Tansy as she walked down the hall and retrieved the lantern. "We’ll go watch for ’im outside."

Tansy had no objections and lay placidly balanced on her mother’s hip, sucking vigorously on her thumb. Jessimine held the infant in one arm while holding up the lantern in the other, straining her eyes in the darkness for any sign of the returning hobbits.

Hardly had she raised the lantern when she heard hoofbeats and the rumble of a cart along the road—though she could not see them yet, she recognized the sound of the cart and the quick, light steps of the ponies, and bit back a cry of relief and joy. So they had found Frodo and Hazel after all!

Tightening her arm around Tansy, she rushed across the grass to wait by the barn door, knowing that that would be where they would stop. As she hung the lantern on a hook on the wall of the barn, she heard an inarticulate shout of joy. Before she had time to make an equally jubilant and relieved reply, she saw the grey pony, ahead of the cart, trotting towards her. It was brought to a halt briefly as a small dim shape carefully slid off its back, and then the pony continued toward her at a walk.

But Jessimine’s eyes were for the little shadow alone. "Mumma!" Hazel cried rapturously, racing to throw himself into his mother’s arms. "Mumma!"

Jessimine, Tansy still balanced on her hip, knelt to take her son into her free arm, clutching him tightly to her and finding that tears of relief were sliding down her cheeks and wetting his brown hair. "Oh, Hazel my lad," she whispered, kissing his curls over and over. "You frightened me so! What happened? No, wait, don’t tell me yet. Let me talk to your father first." She kissed him one last time and then stood, her free arm around Hazel’s shoulders, waiting for Halfred to reach her. She could now see the dim shape of the cart making its careful way over the grass towards her.

Halfred halted Gil in front of his wife and hastily tied the pony’s reins to the split-log fence that surrounded Jessimine’s garden of ‘simples’ (as she called her collection of herbs) beside the barn. "We found ’em, Jessi-love," he said softly, kissing her. "An’ as you can see, Hazel’s fine as ever. But Frodo…" He sighed, and ran his fingers wearily through his hair. "Well, Frodo’s been hurt summat awful, Jessi, I’ll say it plain. As I hear it, he saved our Hazel-lad from a wolf, an’ nearly got torn to pieces doin’ it. He and Hazel met two Men—Big People—who are healers; Mr. Faramond and Mr. Gavin. They’re goin’ to stay with us an’ help Frodo as best they can until they think he’s safe."

All of this came out in a nervous rush, and left Jessimine staring at him with wide eyes and hands pressed over her mouth, slowly absorbing the story. But before she had time to react, the cart came rolling up to stop just beside Gil, and a very tall (or so it seemed to the slightly bemused hobbit-lady) Man stepped out of the cart’s seat. Another Man, slightly shorter and younger-looking, also got down, and after giving her quick nods of respect, they both hurried to the back of the cart.

A moment later, the taller one returned, carrying Frodo in his arms. Jessimine sucked in her breath at the sight of her friend—his face was nearly white, in sharp contrast to his sweat-dampened dark curls, and though he trembled beneath the layers of blankets that covered him, she could see by the red spots developing on his ashen cheeks that he was suffering from a high fever.

"Good lady," said the older Man in a kind voice, "my name is Faramond. I am trained as a healer. With me is my apprentice, Gavin. I fear we must impose on your hospitality and stay here until I deem Frodo to be out of danger."

Jessimine blinked and forced herself out of her bewilderment and into action. "Of course, sirs," she said, automatically bobbing a quick curtsy. "You are welcome to whatever you need to care for Mr. Frodo. Come, I’ll show you where you can lay ’im down."

She led the way back inside, Sam hurrying up to walk beside her, carrying Faramond’s large pack of medical equipment. He continually glanced back at the Men, making sure they weren’t jostling his Mr. Frodo too much, but he could not find fault with Faramond’s care.

Jessimine quickly opened the door to the guest bedroom and rushed over to the bed to pull back the coverlet and blankets. She stepped back as Faramond bent low to get through the small round doorway and entered the room, still stooped because of the height of the ceiling. He went over to the bed and gently laid Frodo down, removing the rougher woolen blankets to cover him with the bed’s soft ones. Frodo seemed more comfortable now, but his fever still burned, making him restless as he sought respite from the heat.

Sam hurried to his master’s side and finding the basin of water on the bedside table, immediately began cooling Frodo’s face with one of the cloths. Halfred came to stand by Jessimine, wrapping an arm about her. "What can we do, sir?" he asked softly.

Faramond looked at them. "Nothing, at present, I fear," he said. "Except, Mrs. Gamgee, would you be so kind as to brew some tea? Gavin will show you the correct herbs for fever, if you wi—"

"No, thank you, sir," Jessimine interrupted as brightly as she could be. "That shan’t be necessary. My mum’s one of the best healers in the Northfarthing, and she taught me a few things. I’ll get that tea brewin’ right away, sir."

With one last glance at Frodo, Jessimine hastened out of the room, Tansy still bouncing on her hip. Faramond watched her go with an admiring smile. "A clever lass," he remarked, looking at Halfred, who grinned and nodded proudly. "I see that Frodo will be in good hands when we leave."

"Aye, that he will," assured Halfred with another nod. He looked at Frodo, worry reflected clearly in his brown eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, paused, and then looked around the room. "Where’s Hazel-lad?" he asked nervously. Then, without waiting for an answer, he said, "I’ll go find him. Just half a moment, an’ I’ll be back to help."

Faramond nodded and Halfred hurried out the door. He glanced down the hall, and finding no trace of his son, he headed towards the sitting room and kitchen, wondering where in the Shire Hazel would be, if not hovering closeby his ‘Uncle’ Frodo.

Halfred almost rushed past the sitting room door, but stopped abruptly as he caught site of two figures out of the corner of his eye. He found Gavin sitting on the floor with Hazel curled up against his side. The two were speaking softly together, and Hazel seemed distraught, no doubt fearful for Frodo, while Gavin was gently consoling him, with one large arm around the boy’s shoulders and stroking his curls.

To Halfred, the scene reminded him of himself, his older brother, Hamson, and little Sam, before they had all gone their own ways, when they would sit together in the Gamgees’ small den, huddled close to the warm hearth. Sometimes, they would talk about their day, and troubles that they had, asking advice of the elder brothers and giving it, as well; but sometimes, they didn’t say anything, each thinking their own thoughts but comforted by the solidity of their brothers around them, supporting them without words. Often, Hamfast would join them, adding to the boys his wise, strong presence and making them all feel safe and protected. Though he was outwardly gruff, the Gaffer enjoyed spending these private moments with his sons, showing the gentler, fatherly side that was rarely seen by anyone else.

Remembering those nights with fondness, Halfred decided not to intrude, grateful that Hazel had someone to comfort him and keep his mind off worrying. It was better that the boy be occupied while they tended to Frodo through the worst of it.

Just as he turned to go back to the guestroom, he saw Jessimine coming from the kitchen, expertly carrying a tray that held a steaming teapot and several wide-rimmed cups. She had returned Tansy to her crib, where the baby could be heard crying, frustrated at being left out of all the excitement.

"What’re you lookin’ at, Hal?" asked Jessimine softly, coming to stand beside him in the doorway of the sitting room. Seeing Gavin and Hazel together answered her question and she looked up at Halfred with a smile. "Better for ’im, that."

Halfred nodded. "Aye. I’d rather not ’ave him be there while Mr. Faramond’s tendin’ to Frodo. Not a place fit for young boys; I don’t want him to worry more’n he is right now."

The two began walking softly back down the hall. "He seems to like that lad’s company—Gavin, was his name?" said Jessimine. "That’s good. I’m glad he’s got a friend to take his mind off worryin’, like you said; even if he is a great deal older and a Big Person."

They entered the guestroom and found Faramond waiting for them. Jessimine set the tray of tea carefully down on the bedside table. "I’ve made a brew for ’is fever," she said. "Ginger, meadowsweet and a bit o’ sage."

Faramond nodded his approval, again smiling at the hobbit-lady. "Well done," he praised. "I see you are well-learned in herb-lore." He glanced at Frodo and his smile faded. "Now, if I may, Mistress Jessimine, I must use your kitchen and make a bit of an infusion, myself, of a few herbs I’ve collected from the Wilds, which I have found have many uses for the healing of wounds and preventing of infections."

"O’ course, sir," said Jessimine, again bobbing a quick curtsy as she blushed with pleasure at his praise. "Use whatever you wish. I’m afraid there aren’t any more teapots, but there’s a kettle hanging over the hearth that you can use. Once Mr. Frodo’s better, I’d dearly love to learn more ’bout these foreign herbs you use," she added with a smile.

"It would be my honor to teach you as much as I can about their properties," Faramond agreed, pleased to find someone who shared his interest in healing. "If there is enough left over, I will leave you some, as well, for your use."

"You’re very kind, sir," said Jessimine eagerly. "I’d like nothing better."

Faramond bowed, smiling at her as he left the room. And instantly, anxiety fell upon them again and Jessimine’s smile vanished. She looked over at the bed where Sam, only looking up occasionally throughout their exchange, continued to faithfully sponge his master’s hot face, tirelessly trying to bring down Frodo’s fever.

Jessimine went softly over to the bed and kissed the top of Sam’s curly head comfortingly. "Let me see him," she whispered, and obediently, though not without some reluctance, Sam moved back, folding the damp cloth over Frodo’s forehead. Jessimine stepped closer and sat down carefully on the edge of the bed, taking Frodo’s hand that lay at his side atop the coverlet. She felt it carefully, gauging the temperature, and then removed the cloth across his forehead and leaned forward over Frodo as if to kiss him.

"What’re you doin’?" asked Halfred in confusion.

"I’m trying to see how high his fever is," Jessimine replied matter-of-factly, pausing to look up at her husband.

"But why not just use your hand?"

"Because the hands may be warm or cold," answered Jessimine promptly. "Nothing can feel a temperature as well as a mother’s lips. And I’ve been through many a fever with Hazel and Tansy, I’ll have you know. This is the way my mum taught me, and I’ve seen it proved to be the best way."

Halfred shrugged, knowing better than to argue with his wife in matters of healing. Jessimine pressed her lips to Frodo’s forehead, closing her eyes as she measured his temperature. She remained like that for a moment, and then straightened herself up, replacing the cloth.

"You’ve done a good job bringin’ his temperature down, Sam-lad," she said approvingly. "It’s still a sight too high for my liking, but I’d say all that’s needed to help that is the tea and Mr. Faramond’s infusion, an’ maybe a cool spongebath, as well." Seeing the tips of Sam’s ears turn red, she chuckled. "I’ll leave that task to you menfolk," she assured him, smiling. "That is, if Mr. Faramond approves. He knows far more about healing than me."

Halfred shook his head admiringly at his wife. "I don’t know what my old Gaffer’d say if he saw you bein’ so forward like that with Mr. Frodo," he said, half teasing.

Jessimine tossed her black hair back from her shoulders. "He’d say I was takin’ care of Mr. Frodo the best way I knew how," she retorted primly, sliding cautiously off the bed. "Your Gaffer is no fool, Hal—he knows when to trust a mother’s skill."

Halfred grinned fondly at her, stepping forward to put an arm around her small shoulders as Sam resumed his seat by Frodo’s bedside. "I guess I’ll have to follow his example, then," he said, "an’ trust a mother’s skill."

***

Sometime around midnight, Sam was awakened out of a light doze by movement and a soft cry beside him. He jerked his head up in surprise, wincing at the ache in his neck from sleeping in the hard wooden chair by Frodo’s bedside, with his head drooping down to his chest.

Another slight whimper brought his attention to Frodo, and he hurried to light a candle so he could see what was the matter. That done, he brought the candle over and placed it on the bedside table, and leaned forward to take Frodo’s hand.

"Mr. Frodo," he whispered. "Your Sam’s here, don’t fret. What’s the matter?"

To his surprise and joy, Frodo’s eyes fluttered open, overly bright with fever but aware. He stared in confusion at the ceiling a moment before slowly turning his head to look at Sam, wincing at the movement. "S…Sam?" he murmured, barely audibly.

Sam started to place the back of his hand to Frodo’s forehead, but then remembering Jessimine’s advice, hesitantly he leaned forward and pressed his lips there instead, feeling awkward. But he found with relief that the cool sponging down they’d given him earlier had lowered the fever a good deal. "I’m here, Mr. Frodo," he assured his master, squeezing the pale hand. "Can I get you anythin’? Are you thirsty?"

Frodo nodded, too weak and dazed to speak, and Sam picked up a cup of what was left of the fever brew. It was cold now, but he knew Frodo wouldn’t care. "Here, Mr. Frodo," he said softly, "it’s some tea to bring your fever down. Let me help lift you up so’s you can drink it."

Sam carefully climbed up into the bed and maneuvered himself behind Frodo, lifting his master’s upper body with the utmost gentleness. "Here now, Mr. Frodo dear," he murmured comfortingly, as Frodo gave a low groan of pain at the movement. "There, just lie still while I help you drink. Slowly, now." He pressed the rim of the cup to Frodo’s lips and slowly poured a small bit of the tea into Frodo’s mouth. He waited as his master swallowed slowly, and then poured in some more.

After a few minutes, Frodo turned his head away and would drink no more, and Sam was satisfied that he had had enough for now. He set the cup back down on the bedside table but stayed where he was, propped up on many pillows with Frodo settled against him, dark curls resting beneath his chin.

"How’re you feelin’, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked quietly, unsure if his master was even awake.

"Numb still," Frodo whispered after a moment, shifting a little. "But my side is beginning to ache, and I’ve a dreadful headache." He sighed, going still again in Sam’s arms, too weary to add more.

"Well then, Mr. Frodo," Sam said as cheerfully as he could, "would you like me to give you a bit o’ medicine for your hurts?"

"Not yet, Sam," came the soft reply, Frodo’s voice trembling and barely above a whisper. "It’s not that bad yet. I’d like to stay awake for a while longer, if I can."

Sam smiled. "O’ course, Mr. Frodo," he answered, brushing back the tousled curls from his master’s forehead, "whatever you feel like. It’s nice to have you awake!"

"I’m glad you’re here, Sam," Frodo murmured back, and Sam thought he could sense him smiling a little. "I’m still not sure where I am or what’s happened."

"You’re back at Halfred’s house," Sam told him. "But I’ll tell you the rest when you’re a little better. It’s a long story, an’ no mistake."

"What time is it?"

"Near midnight, I’d guess. Mr. Faramond and Mr. Gavin went outside for a bit o’ rest. Everyone else is asleep, I think. We’ve all been dreadfully worried ’bout you, sir, an’ that’s a fact."

"I’ll try not to wake them, then. I’m sorry that they have gone to all this trouble." He sighed softly, flinching as the movement sent a sharp stab of pain into his side. "I always seem to find trouble on these trips, and always away from home so that I must burden my friends with worry and extra toil."

"Oh no, Mr. Frodo!" Sam cried softly, squeezing his master’s hand. "No one ever feels that you’re a burden at all! You can’t ’elp it if you get hurt out while we’re a-walkin’ far from home, and I daresay it can ’appen to anyone easily enough. Don’t you remember that time I twisted my ankle when we went on a trip to the Three Farthing Stone? You had to carry me all the way back home!"

Frodo smiled slightly at the memory. "And then I kept you at Bag End while Dr. Bolger tended to you," he said softly.

"My mum and dad were beside themselves when you insisted I stay there for the night!" Sam agreed, shaking his head at the memory, all the while smiling at the kindness of his master. "But you were so stubborn, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir, an’ there was naught they could do to change your mind."

"That was when Bilbo was in Frogmorton on business, wasn’t it?" Frodo’s voice, though still quiet and weak, showed his pleasure at remembering the incident and keeping his mind off the growing pain all over his body for a moment, at least. "Something about the Will, he said, and wouldn’t let me come."

"Aye, sir," Sam said, nodding. "An’ if I recall correctly, sir, you weren’t none too pleased at bein’ left behind." He heard what might have been a soft, breathy laugh from Frodo and his heart soared. "You were downright cross, beggin’ your pardon. Only time I’ve ever seen you cross, I think." He smiled at his own slight exaggeration, almost forgetting that his master was wounded and feverish as he recounted these memories.

"Oh, I’m sure I’ve been cross a great deal more than that," Frodo assured him with a wider smile, closing his eyes. "But I was especially upset that Bilbo had left… without me." He finished in a barely audible whisper, his smiled vanishing as he thought of that last time his much-loved uncle had gone off, again leaving Frodo behind.

"Now, Mr. Frodo," Sam said soothingly, his own enjoyment disappearing with his master’s sadness, "that doesn’t bear thinkin’ of. Mr. Bilbo wouldn’t want you to pine after him—an’ you may yet see him again, even, someday."

"Do you think so, Sam?" Frodo asked softly, feeling weary again as his pain continued to increase.

"O’ course, Mr. Frodo," Sam assured him, though privately he could not think that old Mr. Bilbo would ever be seen by any hobbit again. He did not believe the Hobbiton story that the queer old hobbit had gone off into the blue and died somewhere; but he did not believe that Mr. Bilbo was coming back, either. "Who knows? Maybe he’s at Rivendell with the Elves, an’ maybe you’ll go there someday. Surely you’ll see ’im again eventually, Mr. Frodo."

They were silent a moment, thinking of the greatly missed Bilbo, and then Sam shifted. "I’ll go get you a nice, cool cloth for your face, Mr. Frodo," he said, hoping he sounded cheery enough to cover up his worry at the heat he could feel coming from his master’s body. "Your fever’s up a bit."

"All right, Sam," Frodo murmured, barely coherently, allowing Sam to carefully wriggle out from behind him. But suddenly his eyes flew open as Sam began to gently ease him back down into the pillows, and he gave a half smothered cry of pain before biting his lips, hard, to keep back more.

"What’s the matter, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked, frightened by his master’s sudden turn.

Frodo clutched the blankets tightly and shut his eyes, unable to answer for a moment. "Quick, Sam," he finally forced through clenched teeth, "get me something to bite down on!"

Sam, feeling sick himself, quickly reached over to grab a dry cloth from the bedside table. Swallowing hard, he put it to his master’s lips, then slid the cloth into Frodo’s mouth as he opened it. He made sure it was far enough in before drawing back his hand.

Frodo bit down so hard on the cloth in his mouth that he felt his teeth would surely meet through the thick material. He collapsed back on the pillow, still clutching fistfuls of sheets as he writhed in anguish, the pain from his side suddenly almost unbearable.

Sam, speechless with fright by the sudden intensity of his master’s pain, could only helplessly sit beside him and try to comfort him. Tears running down his own face as he saw Frodo’s, he took one of his master’s hands in his, and Frodo gripped it almost painfully tight. Sam could think of no way to comfort him, only to sit beside him and wait until the fit had passed. But his heart flew into his throat and he nearly cried out, himself, when Frodo turned his face into the pillows to muffle a scream.

Terrified now, Sam held on to Frodo’s hand with the same strength his master did, stroking Frodo’s sweat-dampened curls and trying to console him as best he could, praying that it would be over soon.

Fortunately, it was. Just as suddenly as it had come, the fit passed, and Frodo went limp, completely spent. Sam felt his heart stop a moment as Frodo’s death-grip on his hand relaxed suddenly, and he saw his master’s eyes fell shut.

"Mr. Frodo?" he whispered tremblingly, carefully pulling out the cloth from his master’s mouth and setting it aside. He could see the marks in the material from Frodo’s teeth, and shuddered to think how much pain Frodo had been in to have been forced to bite down so hard.

Frodo moved his head slightly, his eyes sliding halfway open, with difficulty. They were unfocussed with fever and tear-filled, but they slowly turned towards Sam and struggled to see him clearly.

Sam gently stroked Frodo’s sweat-soaked cheek, finding that it was hot as ever. "I’ll go fetch Mr. Faramond," he whispered. "He’ll be able to give you somethin’ for your hurts."

Frodo stared at him hazily for a moment, then gave a faint nod and allowed his eyes to close again, too exhausted to keep them open any longer. Sam leaned forward and tenderly kissed his master’s damp forehead, brushing away the tears that slid down Frodo’s cheeks. "Just half a moment, Mr. Frodo," he promised, squeezing his master’s hand one last time before sliding carefully off the bed.

Sam hurried quietly to the door, pausing to glance once more at Frodo before shutting it softly behind him.

It was dark in the hall, for Sam in his haste and worry had forgotten to bring the candle, but he felt his way along the wall and went as quickly as he could without waking anyone. He found his way to the back door and quietly went outside; then took off at as fast a run as he could manage to find Faramond and Gavin, who were sleeping in the hayloft of the barn.

Sam dragged open the heavy doors and raced up the ladder to the loft, frightening away Tibs the cat, who meowed irritably at him before disappearing into the darkness. It was not difficult to see the large shapes of the Men, even without any light. Sam hurried to Faramond’s side and shook him by the shoulder.

"Mr. Faramond," he whispered loudly. "Wake up! Mr. Frodo needs you!"

Faramond had wakened and sat up before Sam had even finished saying "Wake up." He shook the hay out of his hair and looked down at the frantic hobbit. "What has happened?" he asked quickly.

"Mr. Frodo woke up and talked with me for a while," Sam told him, "an’ then his fever started goin’ up again. But when I started to lay ’im down to get a cloth for his face, he all of a sudden had a dreadful spell—I think ’is side was hurtin’ mostly. He made me put a cloth in his mouth to bite down on, not wantin’ to wake anyone up, you understand, an' he had to bite it so hard his teeth nearly went through it! It only lasted a few minutes, I think, but now he’s only barely awake and too spent to even keep his eyes open. Can’t you do something to ease him?"

"Patience, Sam," Faramond said calmly, putting a hand on the hobbit’s small shoulder. "I have plenty of herbs to help with the pain—but I must see Frodo first before I decide what is to be done." He sighed deeply, standing up and brushing the hay out of his clothes. "Just as I expected but hoped to prevent," he whispered to himself. "This is a grievous turn, indeed."

TBC...