In Gondor in 1429 SR, Rosie continues to relate the story of Frodo's illness two years previously.

The Shire, October 1427 SR

Rose was hanging out washing to take advantage of the October sun when footsteps sounded in the lane, and a laughing voice said admiringly,

       "Always busy, Rosie! How are you, mellon nin?"

       She spun round and there were Gimli and Legolas leaning on the front garden wall, smiling cheerfully. Their smiles vanished as they saw her miserable and careworn expression, and Legolas vaulted the wall to take her in his arms.

       "What is it, my dear little one?" He knelt and studied her. Gimli walked up also and put an arm round her shoulders.

       "You look so sad, Rose. What is it?" He thought for a second. "Is it one of the children? Or is it Frodo?"

       Rosie took a deep breath, nodded and burst into tears. She rested her head on Legolas' shoulder and sobbed out the story, her body shuddering with grief. It was a relief to let go. She was being so strong for everyone else but she too needed someone to be strong for her.

       "Then we will help," said the Elf firmly. "I do not have Lord Elrond's healing skills unfortunately, but I will do whatever I can. I'm sure Gimli and I can do some nursing and take our turn at sitting with him, otherwise you'll be exhausted." He smiled encouragingly as Rosie found her handkerchief and dried her eyes.

       "Mustn't let Sam see me like this. He's beside himself as it is, poor lamb. We'll have quite a team if you two help out. Merry and Pippin are here, and Merry's mother. She sort of adopted Frodo after his mum and dad were drowned, so she's very close to him." She led the way inside, calling softly, "Sam? Sam dear, look who's here!"

       Sam, Merry and Pippin tumbled out into the passage and flew at the visitors. Soon Legolas and Gimli were comforting them all while Esmeralda made tea. She had never met Elves and dwarves before but they were both very charming, and she was a Took born and bred, and therefore used to odd things happening. The fact that a tall blond Elf-prince was talking to her and arranging teacups on a tray while a dwarf set out plates of sandwiches did not unsettle her in the least. She soon had them organised and drew up a rota of nurses, so that there were two people with Frodo at all times.

       "The cough is no better, but no worse, so it hasn't gone to pneumonia yet. The wound on his shoulder is swelling now, and there's an abscess building, so we're bathing that several times a day. Getting fluids down him is the most difficult because he's not very co-operative, to say the least. Sometimes he fights us, and sometimes he's so deeply unconscious that his throat has to be stroked to make him swallow. He's often very delirious and can be quite violent. Poor dear, he doesn't know what he's doing ." She handed round the tea as though she were entertaining the good ladies of the Marish to a sewing circle, quite unflustered.

       Legolas was keen to see Frodo, and he and Gimli went to him as soon as they had finished tea. Sam was sitting with him, stroking his hand and talking softly of Bilbo, and Sam's own mother who had been so fond of Frodo. The Ring-bearer lay propped against the pillows, his curls damp and tousled. His face was as still as a Gondorian monument, pale and clammy, and his chest rose and fell with the fast breathing and erratic heartbeat of a rising fever. Dark blackish-purple bruise-like smudges beneath his eyes marred the alabaster complexion and his lips had an unhealthy bluish tinge. Gimli drew in his breath in a sharp gasp when he saw him and opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He went into the hall, removed his mail, rolled up his sleeves and sat down opposite Sam.

       "Get ye'self to the kitchen and rest, lad. You look done in. Legolas and I will take our turn and we will call you if there is need."

       Sam looked doubtful, but he moved towards the door. "Well........if you're sure, Mister Gimli.......I suppose I am a bit tired........" He ran a hand through his curls in a distracted fashion.

       "I should think you are. Go and sleep, Sam. We will watch him." Legolas sat down in the chair Sam had just vacated, folding his legs under him with his usual grace. "Even when deeply unconscious it is still possible for him to hear us," he warned Gimli. He took the small hand in his, and began to croon softly in Elvish, trying to reach the tortured soul of the Ring-bearer. He could feel the rents and tatters in the gentle spirit, and was at a loss to know how to heal such fearful damage. He found being in the presence of death spiritually distressing and it cast a great shadow over his soul, but he would never desert his friends. The Fellowship would not fail.

       Gimli shrewdly said nothing, although he watched his friend carefully. He knew how helpless the Elf felt in the face of mortality, and Eru knew, they had witnessed enough during the Ring War. He himself had felt appalled at Helm's Deep, slipping in blood, falling over bodies, face to face with Death in all its guises and horror at every turn, and for an Elf it must have been even worse. Yet Legolas never flinched, and Gimli admired him for that.

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       The candles had guttered out while Gimli daydreamed and Legolas sat unmoving in the soft darkness. Gimli stirred and blinked, then shook his head. Was he imagining things? He looked more closely at the sleeping form on the bed; a soft glow seemed to emanate from Frodo's skin, an uncanny inner light like that of the stars.

       "Legolas!" the Dwarf whispered. "Am I going mad or is he shining?"

       The Elf leaned over to peer down at the delicate face of the Ring-bearer. "Mithrandir said this might happen - that he would become a clear vessel filled with light for eyes to see that can."

       "Well that's a relief. Thought I was seeing things! It reminds me of the Lady."

       "He is slipping from this world, Gimli, my friend. He has never quite been of this world since the Ring and the wound from the Morgul knife, and now he is relinquishing his hold on life. Such beauty and sorrow." Legolas bowed his head and wept softly, and Gimli hunched himself over a little more, hiding his grief as best he could.

                                                                     *******************

       When Frodo became fretful, Legolas unfastened the nightshirt and lifted the bandages to look at the abscess. Frodo moaned and rolled his head on the pillow, his face twisting in pain at even the lightest touch. Fire and ice warred deep in his flesh, the chill numbing his arm and side while the raging heat throbbed and burned along his collarbone and up into his neck. His skin was hot and dry, and his throat felt parched. Someone murmured softly, a voice he thought he recognised but could not place, then a cup was held to his lips.

       "Slowly, mellon nin. Small sips - we don't want you to choke. That's right........ good........... good."

       He should know that voice, it seemed familiar, but it hurt to think. His head ached and he felt very strange, but the cool water felt nice in his mouth. He found he was being settled back on the pillows, and a cloth was wiped over his face and hands. He drifted in and out of consciousness, and was vaguely aware at one point that he was in a bathful of tepid water. It was restful, floating like that. Perhaps this was how Death came for his parents, bearing them away so very gently...........

       Later there was more to endure as his torturers returned to change the dressings. The pain made him shriek, although the sound emerged as an eerie keening which set everyone's teeth on edge. He had been like this now for three weeks; Rose was amazed he had lasted this long. She swabbed the abscess with athelas water and as she did so she felt something give slightly.

       "Sam love, pass me that basin and some rags. I think it's going to burst!"

       "Don't touch whatever comes out," Legolas warned. "Frodo may have been correct about a tiny fragment of evil. Wrap some of the rag round your hand, Rose."

       She pressed gently but firmly. Legolas and Gimli held Frodo as carefully as they could, but he arched off the bed with a piercing cry. Sam and Pippin both clamped their hands over their ears, and Merry bit his lip. Esme held a basin under the wound, and suddenly black pus streamed out, smoking as it hit the athelas water. Rosie packed more cloths round the area to mop up the horrible, acrid-smelling muck, flushing the wound again and again with warm water. She threw the soaked rags onto the old bedroom rug, grabbing fresh ones while Sam ripped up another sheet and handed her the pieces. By the time red blood was flowing from the wound and she was satisfied it was clean, she was sweating with effort. Gimli rolled up the rug and took it into the garden to burn, taking no chances. The cavity was packed again with more fresh athelas leaves which Merry pounded with the pestle and mortar, and a clean dressing put in place. Frodo lay very still now, having made no noise or movement since the abscess burst. Esme checked his pulse and found it as weak and thready as it had been, but at least it was there.

      That night the fever broke and Frodo's nightshirt was soon soaked, as were the sheets. Legolas wrapped him in a towel and sat in the rocking chair with him in his lap, singing very softly as he stroked the sweaty brow and matted curls. The others were relieved and hoped that now he would recover, but the Elf was afraid. He had tried to touch Frodo's spirit but it seemed further away than before.

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       The days merged in a routine of caring and worry, and each dealt with it in their own way. Rosie nursed the baby, and she and Esme cooked huge meals; Gimli smoked his pipe, Legolas sat in the lower boughs of a tree and communed with the rhythms of the earth, Merry and Pippin raided the ale casks, and Sam worked in the garden. Rose watched him from the kitchen window, observing the furious pace at which he raked leaves and pruned dead wood. He had to keep his mind busy or he thought too much. Sam had always found some measure of peace in a garden, relaxed by the familiar tasks he had performed since he was a lad helping his father. Of old Hamfast's three sons, only Sam displayed an interest in gardening, but with him it had been a gift. Even as a tiny child he had a way with plants and they flourished, nurtured by his chubby fingers. He had rescued a half-dead geranium and fussed over it until it was a blooming beauty, then presented it to young Frodo when he came to stay at Bag End with Bilbo. He knew and loved every plant in the garden, and looked after them like a father tending his children, and often he would talk to them as he worked, encouraging them with tender words. He liked to sing too, but there was no singing now. Sam carried out the tasks with grim determination but no joy, for his heart was heavy.

       As the late October evening darkened the Shire, Sam wandered into the rose garden. He had scrubbed and washed and swept the blood from the grass beneath the swing seat but his eyes were drawn to the area nevertheless. He gently caressed the stem of one of the last of the roses, a delicate white bloom with the faintest pink edging to the snowy petals. This rose always reminded him of Frodo, so lovely, so fragile, so pale. Another bloom lay on the ground, glowing faintly in the twilight. Possibly a bird had perched on the stem and broken it, or it was just too heavy for the stem to bear. It lay crushed and broken, still beautiful but dying. Sam found himself choking as he lifted it to his face to catch one last trace of its perfume. How like Frodo, who lay in his bed unmoving, crushed, dying under the weight of his unjustified guilt and shame. Sam sank to his knees, bowed his head to the soft earth, and sobbed his grief into the velvet petals.

       Merry and Pippin sat at the table, smoking their pipes and sipping ale. Pippin was demolishing sandwiches, not because he was hungry but from force of habit. He might have been the family clown and always joking, but he was a very tender-hearted hobbit, and he adored Frodo. Seeing him in such a state frightened and depressed him. He was used to people recovering from illness, not sinking by inches while he watched helplessly. The inner light frightened him too. It was now so obvious that their cousin was fading. There seemed to be nothing they could do but wait, and Pippin was driven almost mad with frustration. He had sobbed himself to sleep the previous night, although only Merry knew. He was worried too, which made Pippin even more fearful. Merry had always managed to calm his fears in the past; that dreadful night when they thought the orcs were going to kill them - or worse - Merry had been calm, talking nonsense to cheer them, even with a head wound. Now Pip watched his beloved cousin across the table, noting the distress in his eyes, the usually humorous mouth tight, his fingers clenched round the pipe stem. If Merry was this worried, Pippin was terrified. They were losing Frodo. The whole house reeked with tension and fear.

       Tending Frodo was disconcerting, as Gimli agreed. He gave no sign, made no sound and had not done so since the abscess broke three weeks before. Even the hacking cough had subsided to an occasional reflex. It was like lifting a corpse, he thought privately, although he would never have said so.

       "I liked it better when he was mistaking us for orcs," Pippin declared. "This is scaring me - he's like he was when we got to Rivendell, only worse."

       "He's not in the wraith-world again, is he, Legolas?" Merry turned to the Elf, who sat on the rug with his knees drawn up to his chin.

      Legolas sighed. "No, but his spirit is far away in a wilderness, and I do not believe he can hear us anymore. The link between spirit and body can only be stretched so far before it breaks. I have tried to call him back but he does not hear - or will not hear. There is so much guilt and shame in him and his brave soul is torn almost beyond repair. I fear for him, since I do not know if he can even find his way to peace as he is now. It would be a terrible fate to wander in such a wilderness for eternity." He held out a hand to Sam, who was bereft. "I am sorry, Sam. I wish I could be of more comfort, but I will not lie to you. Frodo is in a very dark place now, and I know of nothing which could light his way home."

       Sam rose and went into the garden. He gazed up at the stars which blurred and wavered through his tears. Of course he knew there was no hope. Frodo's breathing was slowing almost imperceptibly, his pulse weakening. It was torture to watch the rise and fall of his chest, for minutes would now elapse between breaths. Every time he would hold his own breath, waiting for the faint intake of air, the barely audible sigh of exhalation. The doctor had said it was only a matter of time, and deep in his heart Sam supposed that to be true. But Sam's stubborn faith in something else had sustained them both before. He heard voices in his mind as his gaze fell on the star which marked Earindil the Mariner.

       "Frodo is in a very dark place now." The voice of Legolas. Yet there was another. A female voice, as he stood on a riverbank in a wood full of golden trees, watching a beautiful woman in white bend to kiss his master's curls.

       "This is the light of Earindil, our most beloved star, caught in the waters of my fountain.......  May it be a light for you in dark places.........when all other lights go out."

       A light in dark places. May it be a llight for you..................

       Sam ran to the gate and hurried down to the Gaffer's house as fast as his legs could carry him.

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       The figure on the mountainside turned his head, as though listening for something. He gazed east, towards the shores of Middle-earth, and tears glittered in his compassionate blue eyes full of infinite wisdom. Younger than he had appeared during his time within the Circles of the World, tall and dark, his white robes glowing faintly in the twilight of Valinor, he was filled with pity for his young friend. Even here he could feel the Ring-bearer's pain, the sensitive spirit now worn so thin with grief and guilt that it was almost vanishing. He remembered the young hobbit's sense of mischief, his affection, his courage and his innocence, which had been whittled away and destroyed on that terrible journey.

       "The journey on which I sent him," he murmured, sighing heavily.

       "Tears, Olorin?" A woman's voice, infinitely gentle. "You weep for the Ring-bearer."

       He bowed. "My lady Varda. Yes, I weep for him. He should not have to suffer so after all he did. I grieve that he continues to suffer and can find no rest. There is no peace in his heart because he is riven with guilt and self-loathing. I wish he had come with us since I might have been able to help him, but at the last he could not leave those he loved the most."

       "Even here he might have suffered. He must want to heal, and to do that he must forgive himself. His torment comes from his refusal to accept that none could have resisted at the end. He believes he broke his promise and betrayed the trust of Middle-earth. That is a burden no-one can be expected to bear."

       "I know, lady. Now he wanders in darkness, lost and alone, in a morass of guilt and shame. Soon his spirit will be utterly lost."

       "I too would help Frodo." Another voice. A third figure joined them, bowing low to Varda. "My help has been sought; I cannot deny the request."

       The Istari smiled at Galadriel. "Requested? Not by Frodo, surely?"

       "No, Mithrandir. By Samwise." She looked into his face, her deep blue eyes full of pity and sorrow. "Dear Samwise, his love and loyalty are unwavering."

       "Dear old Sam! I should have guessed he would be hanging on. His determination kept them alive in Mordor, and he really is the most optimistic creature I've ever met!" He gave a short laugh. "Oh Sam!" He shook his head, and blinked away the tears.

       "The Ring-bearer must be exceptional, to draw tears from one of the Maia and a Queen of the Noldor," Varda said in wonder. "The King of Gondor weeps also. So much grief for one being. It is truly remarkable."

       "He is, or he would never have gone to Mordor. And Sam would never have gone with him. There was always something different about Frodo, and he was a very lovable little creature. Nothing of him, but he glowed with life and courage."

       Galadriel nodded. "He had qualities which set him apart from others of his race, and he and Samwise were very special together. I would beg for another chance for him. I should hate to see that valiant spirit lost forever."

       "Can you help him, Olorin?" Varda asked. "He knows you and my lady here. But if you wish to try, I suggest you hurry. His soul is fading fast."

       Mithrandir, or Gandalf as he was known in the realms of Middle-earth, turned to Galadriel. "Well, my lady? You said you would not deny Sam's plea for help. We must bend our minds to the place where Frodo wanders, and try to guide him home.......................or if not home, then at least into the next world where others wait for him. It must be one or the other."

       Bowing to Varda, they went a little way down the mountain, to begin their difficult task. Varda remained near the summit, listening to the prayers from Middle-earth. So many of those prayers contained the same simple request: "Save him, lady!"

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       Sam ran back to Bag End. He let himself in by the back door and crept down the cellar steps, where he unlocked the chest and gazed upon the contents. These were their most cherished treasures, brought back from their travels and reverently laid here. He picked up the little wooden box and touched the carved G rune in the lid with his finger. G for Galadriel, and garden...........and Gamgee, he thought wryly, tracing the Elven design and remembering the Lady of the Golden Wood. Next to it was Frodo's beautiful mithril shirt, gleaming with a light of its own in the dark cellar. Here was Sting, in its sheath and with the jewelled belt attached. It had once hung over the fireplace in the study, but Sam had locked it away months before, when Frodo began to harm himself. Sam remembered the weight of the sword in his hand as he faced the spider, Shelob, in that terrible place. The memory made him start, and turn to the last item, which had driven away the darkness and helped them past the gate at Cirith Ungol. He lifted the rich green velevet and unwrapped it carefully, until the star-glass lay revealed, glimmering faintly as it always did.

       Sam sat on the bottom step with the Phial in his hand, and bowed his head. Then he spoke.

       "Lady, hear me if you can. I don't know who else to turn to or what to do, but you helped us before and perhaps you can again. Help him, my lady. He is so ill and so lost. Legolas says he cannot find his way home now, but if we can light his way...........We're all in a dark place right now, and Frodo's in the darkest place of all. Guide him back to us.............................or to his rest if he can't come back here." He choked on those words, his acceptance that Frodo might never come home, but then he swallowed hard and continued, "Help us, lady, I beg you, please............." Unable to go on, he closed his eyes to squeeze away the tears. When he opened them again he gasped. The cellar was filling with light, a dazzling unearthly light which cascaded down the walls and across the floor and continued to grow still brighter. In his calloused hand, the star from the heavens had come to earth and was so bright he could no longer look directly at it.

       "Thank you," he breathed, and ran up the steps and into the kitchen. "Here you are, Legolas! You said you knew of nothing which could light Frodo's way, but this will!"

       Rosie and Esme emerged from the bedroom, startled that the smial was suddenly filled with blazing light. They gasped and stared in amazement, as did everyone else. Merry put an arm round Sam and hugged him. He could not see how it would help, but Sam never lost hope.

       "Call me a ninnyhammer if you like, but if anything can help guide him, it's this!"

       Legolas was deeply moved. "Sam, Gandalf was indeed correct when he called you Harthad Uluithiad. You never lose hope."

       Sam blushed. No-one but he and Frodo had ever seen the Phial at full power. Normally it gave off a gentle glow, yet now Sam's hand was bright red where the light shone through it,, showing the blood vessels. They were all overawed at the brilliance and exquisite beauty of the Lady's gift, Gimli in particular.

       "Sam, you are truly astonishing. Yes, if anyone can help Frodo now it is my Lady." He spoke almost dreamily, remembering her compassionate words to him at their first meeting, her laughter and generosity, and her gift to him of three golden hairs. Legolas had told him later that Feanor begged her for such a gift and was refused - three times! While he, Gimli, son of Gloin, had his request granted. He took the delicate piece of fine crystal, in which they were now set, from his pocket and held it up. Even that was glowing with an unnatural brightness, the hairs shimmering with a life of their own. He smiled, kissed it gently, and returned it to his pocket.

       Sam carried the Phial into the bedroom and placed it high on the chest by the window, and by draping the curtain he shaded Frodo from the intense glare. Even the light of the Phial could no longer hide the luminesence of Frodo himself. It frightened Esme to see this strange phenomena, proof, if proof were needed, that he was no longer part of the mortal world. The others kissed Frodo gently and left to rest, having made Sam promise them that he would call them when the end came. They all silently acknowledged that the end must come soon, probably during the early hours when the bonds of life were at their weakest. Sam and Rosie would take this watch, as was only fitting. They took up their stations, one on each side of the bed, and each took one of Frodo's hands. They looked at each other across his body, then looked down to watch the faint movements of his chest. Frodo was so cold now, even with hot water bottles in the bed and blankets wrapped round his feet. Sam held the limp hand between both his strong ones, kissing the fingers tenderly, and tried to call to Frodo, begging him to come back. Rosie watched him with her eyes full of tears. It would be a very long night.

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       Daylight was just beginning to trickle down the curtains when Sam lifted his head from the coverlet. He was momentarily disorientated. How could he have fallen asleep on this of all nights? He berated himself furiously, because no doubt Frodo had died and he hadn't been awake. Supposing he had woken before the end and needed reassurance? Sam wept with rage at his own incompetence. On the other side of the bed Rosie had fallen asleep in much the same position, her head fallen forward, golden-brown curls tumbling over her shoulders. Why had they both slept? Now he would have to face the rest, having promised faithfully to summon them when it was time.

       He wondered if there would be anything different about Frodo in death. He had been so close for so long that it was likely he would look no different. The Elvish beauty would be the same and only the total stillness would be new. Sam struggled to pluck up the courage to turn his head and look at his friend and master. He had been dreading such a day for many months, and remembered the previous occasions when Frodo had been near to death - in Rivendell, in Shelob's lair, and after Mount Doom. Fool, Sam Gamgee, he thought to himself. He won't look no different and death's nothing to be afraid of, so get it over with and look. He turned slowly, preparing himself for the marble pallor and solemn stillness............................................................and found himself staring into a pair of cerulean blue eyes.

       "Frodo?" he said doubtfully. "Frodo?!"

       "Hello, Sam." Too weak to even whisper, he mouthed the words with a tremulous smile.

       "My Frodo!" Sam cried, and leapt up to kiss him on the forehead, his tears flowing unchecked down his ruddy cheeks. "Bless you, you're awake!"

       Rosie stirred, sat up with a gasp and stared at Sam. They had slept while poor Mr.Frodo lay dying! She would never forgive herself, and here was Sam weeping over his master's body.

       "He's come back to us, Rose-girl! Frodo's awake! He's awake!"

       She leaned over, disbelieving. Her face registered grief, shock and delight in the space of half a second, and she kissed Frodo's cheek several times, saying, "Welcome back, dear Frodo!" She was laughing and crying at the same time and could hardly contain her joy. She turned to look at the star glass, which had returned to its luminous shimmer, for its work was done. They had their miracle.

       A sound at the door attracted their attention. The others had heard voices and ventured to Frodo's room, fearing the worst. Legolas was weeping unashamedly, Pippin sobbed loudly on Merry's shoulder although Merry was in a similar state, and even Gimli's eyes were suspiciously over-bright. Esme was the first to move, running to the bed and cradling Frodo in her arms, her tears dripping on his face and into his curls.

       "Oh my boy, my boy! I begged Prim to help you back to us!"

       "Hello, Esme," he managed. "Why am I so weak?" It was too much effort even to lift his hand and wipe the tears from her cheek.

       She pulled away slightly and stroked his hair. "Darling boy, you've been so very ill. We thought........we thought...................You're going to be weak for a long time, my pet, but we'll make you strong again."

       Pippin was kissing him now, and Merry, and he was surprised to see Legolas and Gimli. What were they doing here, and why was everyone crying? He wanted to ask but he could not find the strength. There was so much he wanted to know.

      Rosie was the first to pull herself together. She fumbled for her handkerchief, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and straightened her dress. Then she spoke.

      "Give the poor dear some space, you lot! I expect he needs a drink, don't you my lamb? Then you can have a nice rest while I go and feed this hungry brood." She propped his head on her breast and held the cup to his lips. He drank eagerly, the flat water from the previous night tasting like nectar. When he had drunk two full cups she eased him onto the pillows, pulled the covers up and made him comfortable. She felt his forehead, which was neither burning hot nor freezing cold, and laughed in relief.

       Sam threw another log on the fire, and went to collect the Phial. He took it to Frodo first. "See, Frodo? I begged the Lady to guide you back to us, and she did!" He kissed his master again. "Just promise me you'll never go away again, me dear."

       Frodo smiled sleepily. "Dear Sam, I promise," he whispered.

                                       ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

mellon nin - my friend

Harthad Uluithiad - Hope Unquenchable

Frodo was called Bronwe Athan Harthad - Endurance Beyond Hope