In Gondor in 1429, Rosie relates the story of Frodo's illness two years before.

Rosie picked up the plate with its untouched contents, and sighed heavily. This was becoming far too common, Frodo either sitting toying with his food or not even coming to the table. He had made an effort and eaten something two days ago when Merry and Pippin were there, but she had her suspicions that he had gone to the bathroom and thrown up later on. She would try and broach the subject with Sam later, although it would not be easy. His first instinct was to deny there was a problem, and become defensive, and then he would go quiet and busy himself outside in the garden.

       Scraping the uneaten food into the bin, she put the plate into the sink and poured a kettle of hot water over the crocks. While they soaked, she had five minutes in the rocking chair to ease her aching legs and the twinges in her back. She drummed her fingers lightly over her bump and spoke softly to the baby.

        "I'll be mighty glad when you're out of there, little one. You're making my back gip something awful, and you weigh a ton. I reckon you're too content in there, you little horror!" She heaved herself out of the chair and finished the washing up while the children napped. Outside, Sam was whistling as he tidied the flowerbeds and prepared them for the summer bedding plants. He planted things that Frodo liked, despite the fact that Frodo had not ventured into the garden since the previous summer and kept the shutters of the study closed at all times.

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       The baby arrived three days later, a large and lively boy. Frodo was having a good day, and kept Sam company in the kitchen as they waited for the baby's first cry. The other children were staying at the Cotton's farm, rampaging round the meadows and playing with the new lambs and calves. Sam no longer paced about as he had when Elanor was born, but he was always a little tense. Rosie made very little noise but any cry from the bedroom set his teeth on edge and made him puff more strongly on his pipe. Frodo poured tea as they sat in companionable silence at the table. When the midwife appeared and beckoned them they hurried in, expecting the worst as there had been no cry from the babe.

       Rosie was sitting up, flushed and tired but smiling happily. She held out her hands and called them to the bedside to admire the new arrival, a red-faced but contented baby with a mop of light brown curls and restless downy feet which kicked and struggled to be free of the covering shawl.

       "Not a cry, not a peep. Happy little soul. What shall we call this one, lass?"

       "I reckon he's a Merry, don't you?" she smiled. "What do you think, Mr. Frodo?"

       Frodo thought for a moment, his head slightly to one side. "Mmmmm.........yes, I like that. Hello, little Merry." He held the tiny hand between his finger and thumb and solemnly shook hands. Rosie smiled at Sam, and tried to hide her fears that this was only a temporary respite for their dear friend.

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       Frodo was standing at the sink with his back to the door when Sam entered the kitchen. He jumped in surprise and spun round, dropping the knife he was holding with a clatter. He looked quite wild, eyes narrowed, lips drawn back, clearly angry at being disturbed. There was guilt too, and Sam was still trying to assimilate all this as Frodo wrenched his shirt sleeve down and rushed from the room without a word. Sam heard the sound of the study door being slammed and the bolt drawn. He walked to the sink and picked up the knife, puzzled and fearful; there was blood on the blade.

       "Don't know what that was all about," he muttered, frowning as he tried to make sense of it.

       "What what was all about?" enquired Rosie from the doorway, her arms full of dirty washing.

       Sam debated whether to tell her, but she had reached his side and looked down at the knife. "I was wondering when you were going to notice."

       "Notice what?" he asked, bewildered. "What do you know about this?"

       "Only that he's been cutting himself for weeks now. Haven't you noticed the scars on his arms? I know he keeps his sleeves down but I saw them when he was ill." She put the sheets into the kitchen copper and stoked the fire. "And I've found tiny bloodstains on the insides of his shirtsleeves."

       "You mean he's trying to....................................." Sam could hardly bring himself to say it. " ..............kill himself?" he whispered finally.

       "No, I don't think it's that. I think he's hurting himself as punishment, and possibly because that pain makes him forget his other pain for a while. He can't deal with his real pain so he does something he can see and feel properly. It's as though he's only really alive when he has the pain of a proper wound to deal with. If I were you I'd lock up that sword of his, just in case." She turned and looked at Sam. "He makes himself sick after meals too - if he gets as far as eating anything, that is!"

       "Mr. Frodo's always had a delicate stomach."

       "Delicate stomach, fiddlesticks! He's doing it deliberately!"

       Sam looked even more confused. "Why would he do that? What are you talking about, Rose?"

       "Elves and dragons, Sam Gamgee! Do I have to spell it out for you? If he eats anything, like as not he goes to the privy or the bathroom and puts his fingers down his throat! He's so thin a puff of wind would blow him away! Mostly he doesn't eat at all, but you watch him if there's company. He'll make a big show of clearing his plate, although Rosie-lass could eat twice the portions he does, and then goes out and gets rid of it!"

       "B...bb...but ......why?" Sam finished lamely, although somewhere in his mind he had some vague idea of the reason. He needed Rose to put it into words.

       She thought hard, her hands clasped under her chin as she sat down at the table. "I think he feels he doesn't deserve to eat and thrive and enjoy life. No-one else blames him for claiming that thing so he blames himself. He is ashamed and so eaten up with guilt he can't see past it to the truth. You said he asked Gandalf once if the King would put him on trial? That is real guilt."

       "But no-one could have resisted the Ring then, not in Mordor, not with Sauron so powerful! Why does he blame himself? He got the Ring to the Cracks of Doom - he did what everyone asked of him! He didn't fail! He didn't!" Sam put his head in his hands and wept. Rosie got up, walked round the table and wrapped her arms around him.

       "You know that. I know that. Anyone who knows the story knows that. But he thinks he failed because he was entrusted with it and told to throw it in, and that bit he couldn't do. No-one could have done, but he won't see that. All he knows is that he broke his vow, and his guilt and shame are killing him. He won't let it go, it gnaws at him day and night, more and more. All we can do is try to convince him that he did what was asked of him. He got it there - the rest happened because he pitied that wretched Gollum. Of course he's also ashamed because he misses it. You know how he scrabbles for it when he's in one of those trances. Rips his chest and throat raw sometimes." She turned Sam to face her. "Didn't Gandalf say that it had left a gaping wound in his soul?"

       Sam nodded sadly. "He said, 'It isn't just his finger that's been ripped away, it's part of his soul, and what's left is a bleeding pulp that may never be healed'" He fumbled for his handkerchief and blew his nose. "I'm so frightened for him, lass. I don't see how he can bear another bout as he is now. He's so weak and frail. I've seen how often he has to sit down, I know sometimes he's dizzy and faint, and he doesn't sleep properly. Those terrible nightmares are getting worse too - I don't like to think what he was rambling last night because it scared me too much, but it was something about..................that place...."

       "The tower? What do you think they did to him there, Sam? .......................," her voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you think..................?"

       Sam flinched as though he'd been struck. "There was.............," he swallowed, "............blood on his legs and he had trouble walking. I was so anxious to get him out of there that I didn't ask, but mebbe I didn't dare because I was afraid of the answer."

       "All we can do is be there for him, love him and care for him when he's ill. He said he didn't go with Mr. Bilbo and the Elves because they said there was no guarantee he'd be cured over there. If the Valar and the Elves couldn't be sure he'd get well, then all we can do is trust to hope and love. There's certainly more of that here than he'd have in Valinor."

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       There was great excitement in the Gamgee family as Midsummer approached. The Free Fair was due to be held on the White Downs during Lithe, and the most important event at the fair was the election of the Mayor. Old Flour-dumpling, Will Whitfoot, was retiring. Sam had hoped that Frodo would stand as Mayor, as he had filled in for Will in the months following their return to the Shire, but Frodo declined all public office. He did, however, have an amazing suggestion, which was thoroughly approved of by the Thain, the Master, Old Will himself and virtually everyone in the Shire except Ted Sandyman.

       "Me?!" Sam had said incredulously. "Me as Mayor? You have to be kidding me!"

       "Who better than the one who healed the Shire, you dear ass! One day Merry will be Master and Pip will be the Thain, so what better than for you to be the Mayor? You know and love every tree, every flower, every blade of grass in the Shire, you are the obvious choice." He turned to Rosie. "Tell this husband of yours that he'll be the ideal Mayor!"

       Ted Sandyman declared that he wasn't going to take this lying down, and announced his decision to stand against Sam, hoping to buy votes with free beer. The hobbits had neither forgiven nor forgotten Ted's involvement with Sharkey's men, but they took the free beer anyway, then voted for Sam. Ted Sandyman slunk off, declaring his intention to move to Bree rather than live under the rule of a gardener!

       "Good riddance!" Merry snapped. Your cousin can run the mill - he's an honest enough sort who won't give short weight!" He grinned at Ted's spluttering fury and stepped closer, Pip beside him. "And I'll thank you not to deride one who has done much, not just for the Shire but for the whole of Middle-Earth. There's none finer or more honest and true than Sam Gamgee, and I'm proud to call him my friend!"

       Ted backed away. The two were alarming, towering above all other hobbits at around four and a half feet, and their experiences in the War had toughened them to a frightening degree. He loathed them, and that mad cousin of theirs, but he was too much of a coward to confront them. Even Baggins had a tricky temper if he was roused, although these days he looked like death warmed over, with a crazy gleam in his eye sometimes that fair turned Ted's stomach.

       "Well said, Merry!" Frodo said softly, and stepped up to join his cousins. He scowled at Ted. "You are not fit to be walked over by Samwise Gamgee, and if you want to go to Bree then that's fine by the rest of us. But make sure you stay there - I should hate to be bolstered by false hope and be disappointed at your return!"

       Howls of laughter from the crowd greeted this sally. 'Mad Baggins' he might be, but he could usually provide a witty retort when required.

       "Good one, Frodo!" cried Pippin. "You're a fool, Ted Sandyman. You always were and you always will be!"

       Sam blushed and glowed. Old Hamfast looked fit to burst with pride - his young Samwise Mayor! He said little but he slapped Sam on the back and grunted quietly, "Well done, lad."

       Rosie tucked her arm through his and kissed him. "Mmmm. Fancy me being married to the Mayor! Hope I'm not going to be accused of sleeping with those in high office for nefarious purposes!" She giggled as Sam gave her breast a gentle squeeze. "Public officials - they're all the same!"

       He grinned, then frowned as he looked across at Frodo. "He's so pale and thin. Still, he's eaten today - and had some ale."

       "Let's hope he keeps it down. Don't forget, it is his first time out since last September. I thought he'd never make it up on the pony. I hope he'll manage to get home alright."

       Esmeralda Brandybuck spoke from just behind them. "We'll bring him home in our carriage. He looks terrible, my dear. What is going on with the poor boy?" She shooed Sam off and led Rosie to a seat under the trees. "Tell me - I can see it isn't good. He's a bag of bones, he's no energy - even his eyes are paler than they used to be, like one of my old petticoats when the colour's washing out." She lowered her voice. "Is he cutting his arms again? Making himself sick?"

       Rosie was shocked. "Again? What do you mean, Ma'am?"

       "Call me Esme, dear. You're one of the family, and I can't abide the snobbery in some quarters which says the wife of the Master cannot be on first name terms with anyone other than born gentlehobbits. Yes, again. He did it for a little while after his parents died. I found out and managed to help him over it, but I suspect I'd have less success now." She sighed. "He's never been right since that awful journey and that Ring. Merry tells me some things, of course, and the rest I have to guess from what he doesn't say, but mothers are good at that, as I daresay you know already! I think he's hinted that something terrible happened to Frodo when he was captured."

       Rosie found it was a relief to talk to Esme, who had been Frodo's adoptive mother after his parents drowned. She told her what she knew, and what she could only guess, and Esme nodded sympathetically. She told Rosie to send for her if necessary, which gave Rosie some comfort. Her intuition told her such comfort would be sorely needed before the year was out.

       One of Sam's first duties was to conduct the double wedding of Merry to Estella Bolger and Pippin to Diamond of Long Cleeve. This had led to teasing on all sides, even from Frodo, who roused himself sufficiently to appear fairly normal. He was Chief Supporter to both bridegrooms, and they teased him about being a Ring-bearer again. He kept one pair of rings in his left pocket and the other in his right, so he wasn't muddled, and afterwards he made a charming and witty speech which was wildly applauded by everyone.

       Later that evening Frodo sought the shade of the bushes and sank down on a bench. He felt dizzy and weak, and his stomach was roiling uneasily. The strain of pretending had worn him down and now he was exhausted. His shoulders slumped and he rested his head on his arms. As soon as was decently possible he would return to Bag End and go to bed, although even sleep brought him no rest. He could hear the voices much more clearly at night.

       "Little filth! Where is it, little filth?" Groping fingers, sharp talons scrabbling at his clothes, tearing, grabbing at his hair. The weight of bodies, foul and stinking, pushing him to his knees. Agonising pain and humiliation, although no more than he deserved. He was filth. Their flesh was his now, he was corrupted beyond all aid. He could feel them all around him. They had put their mark on him and he would never be free. They had taken his self-respect and the Ring had taken his soul. He was nothing. Filth. Scum. He knew the real reason he had not dared to go to Valinor - he remembered that strange dream he had had in Tom Bombadil's house, of being rejected and shunned there, and being unnoticed on his return to Middle-Earth, despised and mad. He was tainted and he poisoned everything he touched and everything he loved. He should leave, before he infected Sam and Rosie and the children. Where though? Where could he go? Perhaps it would be best to just walk into the fast-flowing Brandywine and join his parents, or cut his throat with Sting's sharp blade. Anything was better than this.

       "Frodo! Where are you? The brides want a dance!"

       He was shaking and sweat ran down his face. He slipped forward off the bench and vomited quietly into the bushes, his stomach muscles clenching even when he had thrown up everything inside him. He remained on his knees for some minutes, fighting the waves of faintness which were threatening to overwhelm him. This torment would never end. Here or Valinor, it was all the same; a living death.

       "Frodo! Come on - there's two pretty girls eager to dance with you!"

       Frodo pushed his hair back, wiped his face with his handkerchief, then he squared his shoulders, forced a smile and walked back to the company.

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The Shire Summer 1427 SR

       The wedding turned out to be Frodo's last outing. Once back in Bag End he refused all invitations, ignored all pleas. He had not been down to the Ivy Bush or the Dragon for a year or more, and had no wish to go now and be the target for prying eyes and pitying glances. Some days he did not even rise from his bed, meals were sent away untouched and at night he paced the smial with a strangely intense look in his eyes. Sam locked Sting away in the chest in the cellar, and hid the key down at the Gaffer's in New Row, and he wondered about putting a lock on the knife drawer. Frodo's manner was alarming everyone; only the children seemed not to notice but they did not try to play with him any more because it was clear he was much too preoccupied to do so. When Rosie, Sam and the children had a picnic in the orchard they tried to persuade him to join them but he refused. They were as brown as berries and he was as pale as if he were made of moonbeams. When they trooped back indoors six hours later he was still sitting at his desk with his chin resting on his hand, lunch uneaten, tea not drunk.

       Frodo knew that life went on around him but it was as though a fog or a thick veil had separated him from the rest of the world, gradually blotting out the senses. Smells, sights, sounds, tastes, all seemed muted and dulled. He was no longer part of it; everything was flat and colourless. Oh, he could see the colours but not as he used to - the vivid greens of the fields and trees, the sharp clear blue of the sky, the rich luscious reds of the roses in the gardens, the way a ripe apple shone in the autumn sunlight. He had lost sight of all these things during that wasting trek across Mordor but after the Ring went into the fire he thought he could regain his ability to truly experience all the richness of life. He had been mistaken: month by month since their return his grip on the world had slipped. He was sliding slowly from the world, weakening and consumed from within. Soon there would be nothing but dust and Frodo Baggins would be no more. He no longer cared but wished for it to be over soon.

       One evening Sam found him in the study, staring at the desk where the Red Book was kept. He was muttering to himself in a manner which made Sam's neck hair rise.

       "I thought if I kept the book shut, and locked up in the drawer it would be safe, but it isn't. The Eye is still there, in the book..........watching me.......waiting......................................Burn it? Or will that make it worse? " He looked uncomprehendingly at Sam. "Do you think it's safe in there?"

       "Yes, me dear, I'm sure it is. Come on now, let's get you to bed." He took one cold hand and steered his master out of the room. When they reached Frodo's bedroom he turned to Sam, recognition once more in his eyes.

       "Sam, do you think I'm a danger to the children? Supposing I do something dangerous.........I don't think I know what I'm doing sometimes. I'd never forgive myself if...........if..............."

       "No," Sam said stoutly. "You're no danger to anyone, and they love you. They'd do anything for you, you know that."

       "I don't deserve it, you know. I'm poisoned, Sam. Damaged goods. I contaminate everything. I should go away somewhere.......far away from all of you, so I won't hurt anyone. I can never be healed.....not really. Perhaps I should have gone with Bilbo........?"

       Sam embraced him tenderly. "Well I'm very glad you didn't. We want you here, and I don't want to hear any more about you going away. We love you, all of us." He smiled at his master and Frodo looked as though he desperately wanted to believe him.

       In September they thought he would do something for the Baggins birthday, if only to celebrate Bilbo's, but he did not mention it. When Sam reminded him that it would be his birthday in two days he merely nodded absently and went on staring into the distance. The next day he went down with a chill and stayed in bed, coughing and shivering. Drenching sweats left him wrung out and shaking, and the pain in his shoulder gnawed like toothache. It had never come on two weeks before the anniversary before, and did not bode well for him. He pushed Sam away, hissing in pain.

       "Please, no! It hurts too much. There's something there, Sam. I don't want it to poison you." He hunched forward, whimpering. Sam sat by him until he dozed off, and he himself was nodding when Frodo suddenly gripped his arm and said fiercely, "Do you love me, Sam? Would you do anything for me?"

       "You know I would, Mr. Frodo." He stared deep into Frodo's once dazzling blue eyes, now veiled and diluted, and thought what a disaster it had all been, to bring Frodo to this.

       The cultured voice was urgent. "Then end this for me, Sam. If you love me, kill me now! I can't go on like this!"

       Sam recoiled. "No, Frodo, no! Don't say that! Don't ask such a thing of me, please! You're not yourself, sir, you don't know what you're saying!"

       "For Eru's sake, Sam! You know what this is doing to me! I'm dying by inches here! Please, Sam..... ............" He began to sob brokenly, rocking backwards and forwards, his anguish more than Sam could bear. For the first time in his life Sam offered Frodo no comfort, but fled the room, his own tears streaming down his face.

       "Could we get him to Valinor?" Pippin asked anxiously. "They might be able to heal him there."

       "He'd never make the journey," said Merry, picking at his lunch. "He isn't strong enough, even if we took it slowly." He turned to Sam, who was still shaken by the events of the previous day. "He really asked you to kill him? Things are even worse than we thought."

       "He says I should have left him on the mountain, or that Gandalf shouldn't have bothered to pick him up, or that he should have jumped in after Gollum. I know he was resigned to death when we stood there. He only walked down the mountain because I wanted to, because I was still convinced it would be alright. I was wrong, though, wasn't I? It isn't alright. It never will be.........  Perhaps I should have................" Tears rolled down Sam's face and he pushed his plate away. Merry put an arm round his shoulders and tried to comfort him, even though he felt almost as hopeless.

       "Perhaps it will come right, Sam. We don't know what may happen. What was it Gandalf used to say? Even the very wise cannot see all ends? We have to hope. We must, we can't give up, even if Frodo has."

       "Why is he so thin?" enquired Pippin. "I thought he was eating - he ate whenever we came to lunch."

       "He don't keep it down though."

       "He always did have a very delicate stomach, our Fro."

       "'Tain't his stomach that's the problem," said Sam. "It's his mind that's rejecting the food because he thinks he's not worthy to live. Those retching spells are getting worse- it's like he can't stop sometimes, and if it don't happen naturally, he makes it happen - puts his fingers down his throat. I've heard him." He looked directly at the others. "He's going to die, isn't he? He'll never make it through another bout like last time. That cough's no better - next thing'll be pneumonia, and that'll be that. There's no fight left in him."

       Pippin was too flabbergasted to reply. He was trying to grasp the prospect of life without Frodo, and it was that thought which finally broke his self-control. He began to sob, and Merry couldn't hold out against his own grief. When Rosie entered the kitchen five minutes later she found all three weeping uncontrollably, and three plates of food untouched.

       "Trying to flood the Brandywine, are we?" she said gently. "I'll have none of this here! We keep hoping and we don't crumble! Is that clear?"

       Three meek little voices murmured, "Yes, Rose." Pippin scrubbed his face and sniffed. "But how are we going to help Fro? What can we do?"

       "Well, sitting here crying isn't going to help, now is it? I'll put the kettle on and make some tea. He's hurting so much right now that we have to help him all we can, and that means we have to be strong." Rosie glared at the three of them and tried to smile as though she meant it.

October 4th, 1427 SR

       Frodo now kept his bedroom door bolted. He lay on his bed, his frighteningly thin body tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets. A violent fit of coughing left him gasping and faint, his head pounding. The agony of the wound in his shoulder made him nauseous, the insidious chill seeped into his soul and tears of pain trickled slowly down his cheeks.. No matter how he tried, he could not make himself comfortable. He was taking far too much poppy draught for the pain, but it was completely unbearable without it. He wondered how much of the stuff he would have to drink to slide into merciful oblivion, but there was not enough. Should he take it all and fail he would have nothing to dull the unremitting agony. To his surprise he realised he had also drunk nearly half a bottle of best Gondorian brandy, and still the pain refused to release its grip.

       Outside it was dark. The moon was a rich gold as it sailed in the night sky, and high above the Shire rode Earindil, the shining guiding star of the Elves, the light of the Silmaril upon his brow. It was well after midnight and the smial was quiet. Frodo dragged himself off the bed and staggered for a moment, reaching out to steady himself on the bedside table. With slow, painful steps he negotiated his way to the door and slid back the bolt as silently as he could. One lamp burned in the passage, giving him just enough light to find his way to the kitchen. He opened a drawer and scanned the contents, found what he was looking for, and tip-toed slowly out through the garden door.

       Sam was a light sleeper. Since the Quest he had had the ability to sleep with one eye open as it were, and with the children and Frodo to look after, this sense became even more developed. He lifted his head from the pillow and listened. Merry and Pippin had gone back to Crickhollow for a day or two, so whatever had woken him it wasn't Pip raiding the pantry. The children were quiet, baby Merry had a snuffle and was snoring slightly, and Rosie was breathing evenly beside him. Frodo! He sat up and Rosie was instantly awake.

       "What is it?" she hissed in his ear.

       "Dunno. Thought I heard something........I'd best go and check, lass. He might have tried to get up and fainted again." He grabbed his breeches.

       "What will you do if he's locked the door?" she asked, fumbling for her robe.

       "I'll have to go round and climb through the window."

       Sam set off down the passage to Frodo's room. He found the door unlocked, but the room was empty. He ran back along the passage, looking in all the rooms along the way, checking the study carefully. Rosie met him at the door to the kitchen, her face pale and frightened.

       "Lass? What..........what is it?"

       "He's taken the sharpest knife! It was in the drawer last night - I put it back myself after dinner, hidden under the tea towels. Sam, what if...........?" she began, but her husband was already snatching a lantern and heading for the garden.

       He fought to think calmly. Where would Frodo have gone? He thought briefly about the Party Tree but doubted Frodo could get that far. No, he had to be somewhere in the garden. He peered around for a moment, struggling against panic. Mr. Bilbo's rose garden! Frodo always went there when he wanted to think. Yes, start there and hope he was right. He ran down the path and round the corner of Bag End, then halted as he saw the white bundle on the ground near the swing seat, unmoving. Blind terror froze him to the spot for a minute or two. He was terrified of what he would find when he reached his master, but his need to know finally propelled him forward, and he ran to the centre rose bed.

       His heart and stomach back-flipped as he knelt beside Frodo. Blood soaked the front of his nightshirt and stained the grass. The knife lay near his right hand, dropped when he collapsed. There was blood everywhere, but Sam could not see where it was coming from. He managed to slide his hands carefully under Frodo's limp form and lift him. Turning, he made for the smial as fast as he could, his burden too light and still in his arms.

       Rosie almost screamed in horror as Sam stepped inside and laid his master on the couch. The snowy nightshirt was scarlet, and Frodo so pale he could not be alive........could he? She could hardly breathe for the pain in her chest and the stinging in her eyes, but she pulled herself together and found clean rags, a basin of water, and a sheet and pillowcase to tear into bandages. Sam unbuttoned the nightgown to see the extent of the damage. Had his master tried to cut his throat? Sam shuddered as he stared at Frodo's left shoulder. He must have gouged at it in a frenzy of pain because there was a gaping hole at least an inch wide and very deep, and blood was welling up and trickling down his chest. More blood dribbled from wounds on both wrists and dripped onto the parlour floor, and the air was filling with the coppery smell of it, sharp and metallic.

       "Elbereth! What has he done?! Oh Frodo, no, no!" Sam chafed one cold hand desperately as he realised the extent of his beloved master's despair.

       Rosie examined the wounds. "Come on, Sam, he ain't dead yet! Look lively and help me dress these wounds. I need lots of athelas, dear. Now hurry!"

       Sam gazed dumbly at her for a moment before her words sank in. He wasn't dead?

       Rosie shooed him out. "Get some blankets, and build up that fire - and the one in his room. Move, Samwise!" She turned her attention back to the still figure, and stroked his cheek gently. "Oh, Frodo! Why, my dear? Why did you do this? Why couldn't we help you? We're not enough for you, are we?"

       Sam ran back, carrying blankets, and they removed his nightgown and wrapped his legs and body carefully. Rosie bathed and flushed the shoulder wound with athelas water, then pounded a bundle of the leaves and stuffed them into the cavity.

       "The cuts on his wrists are not too bad. I reckon he was too weak by then to do much, what with his illness and the loss of blood. He must have really attacked this one though. Looks as though he just stuck the point in and twisted it round and round." Rosie winced at the thought, and bound his wrists with strips of the pillowcase. She had placed a clean dressing on the shoulder wound and wrapped long strips of the sheet round his chest and back. When she was satisfied, she draped another blanket over him and sat beside the couch to watch over him. She thought he was like one of those beautiful Elven goblets, clear and full of light, but there was a crack in it somewhere, and no matter how much was poured in, it all leaked out again. They had tried so hard to show him he was loved and cared for, but nothing reached him. He was lost and alone.

        With Sam out of the room, she allowed her tears to fall over the cold maimed hand with its missing finger, and wept until she had no more tears left.

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       With the dawn Sam sent messages to Merry and Pippin, who arrived the following evening, together with Esmeralda. Frodo had barely moved since Sam had found him, and his fever was climbing ever higher. The children, except for the baby, were packed off to Mari and Tom's since Rosie saw no point in distressing them, and they would all have their work cut out for some time, without having three boisterous children running around. Esme was sitting with Frodo, talking to him about his childhood and his parents, and all the while stroking his brow. She was worried at the heat coming off him, and when Rosie had fed Merry-lad, the two women sponged him down with cool water. Esme could have wept at the state of him, nothing but skin and bones and a mass of scars. Each one stood out on the alabaster skin, testament to the trials and torments he had undergone. She wondered what Prim would say if she could see her precious, beautiful son now, and the thought almost broke her heart.

       Esme made sure he was propped up. Allowing him to lie flat with that cough was just asking for trouble. He had had pneumonia after his parents died, and once since the Quest. Another bout would finish him off, she was sure of that. She also sent for the doctor from Buckland. Like his colleague in Hobbiton, he thought it was a waste of time, but he answered the summons because alienating the wife of the Master would be very foolish. He held out little hope, but he left various medicines for the cough and fever, approved the tepid sponging and left them with a list of instructions. The wounds were clean and well-bandaged, and if he noted the multiple lines and criss-cross scars on Frodo's arms he made no comment.

       "Get away from me! No! No! Don't touch me!"

       Merry held Frodo down as gently as he could, marvelling at the strength he still possessed in his delirium. Pippin was on the other side of the bed, struggling to calm his cousin as he thrashed and writhed. He winced as Frodo began to scream, but he forced himself to speak soothingly.

       "It's alright, Frodo. It's us, Merry and Pip. We're trying to help you. Come along now dearest, let silly old Pip give you a drink."

       "You're trying to poison me! Get away! Get away, damn you!" He fought and struggled until he was gasping for breath and coughing uncontrollably.

       "It's not us he's talking to, Pip. He's back in that terrible place again. Come on now, Fro, you'll only make that cough worse." He rubbed Frodo's back gently and then gestured hastily to Pip as the thin body started to convulse. "Basin, Pip! Now!"

       Pippin leapt forward just in time as the hacking coughs turned to retching, and Merry supported Frodo's head over the basin while he was wretchedly and repeatedly sick. He groaned in frustration. The doctor had said not to allow him to dehydrate, and it was difficult enough persuading him to swallow, without him spewing it back up again.

       They eased him back on the pillows, emptied the basin, changed his nightshirt and sponged his face without further protest. Later, Merry propped him against his shoulder and stroked his throat to encourage him to swallow the weak, sweet tea Pip held to his lips. It took a long time but they managed to get a cupful down him, and smiled at each other in relief at the achievement. Apart from an occasional moan, Frodo was quiet now. His fever had dropped a little as a result of another sponging, and he fell into a restless doze, his breath rattling slightly in his chest. The doctor had prescribed cherry bark tea for his chest but it was vile, and Frodo was very sensitive to nasty tastes. It came down to a horrible choice - give him the medicine and risk making him sick, or do without, knowing he would probably die. Merry shuddered at the prospect of taking such a decision and resolved to discuss it with the others first. He trimmed the lamps and settled down in the chair beside the bed. Pippin threw another log on the fire and curled up on the bed with his fingers threaded through Frodo's. They were quiet and watchful, each thinking the same thoughts and whispering the same prayers.

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