Chapter Nineteen: The Thirteenth

Time passed with little change. Merry and Pippin had gone back to Crickhollow but still spent time with their beloved, troubled cousin. At times they caught him looking at them, tenderly and sadly, full of love and grief. They would hold him tightly, kiss his head and tell him how much they loved him and he would respond the same. No more words were said, but their arms and hearts were long in conversation, until finally they parted.

Each day that came brought Frodo closer to leaving, and he often looked over his shoulder, as he longed to remain in the past, to travel backward instead of forward, until he reached a time before he had been hurt.

“But you cannot do that,” Gandalf told him softly one day when he spoke of that on one of their walks together. “You can only go forward. The way back is in your future, not your past, beyond the Mountain, not before it.”

“Why is it so much longer this time? It seemed while we were walking before, we weren’t making any progress, but slowly we saw that we were. I don’t feel like I am now.”

“Because the journeys of the heart at times take longer than the Roads trod merely by feet. Your heart is still on its Road, the one that went to the Fire and returned from it, and yet travels still. Do not lose your hope in the light you seek at the end. It is there, waiting for you to claim it, and through the darkness you shall find it.”

Frodo found that to be true for the only solace he found was looking up at the stars. He stood in the garden for hours, never any further than that, and Sam watched from the window, entranced by his master’s softly glowing beauty, and his heart broken by the wounds that were still bleeding within his treasure. Rose joined him at times as he watched. Sometimes it was long after midnight that he came back in and Sam would hear the quiet closing of the door and the soft pad of beloved feet until the smial was silent again. The gardener always waited a little while, then got up to check on his master. He would watch those dear, fair features for a long bit, then satisfied that Frodo had found some true sleep, was able to sleep better himself. At times he felt on the edge of his senses, another presence in the room, more ethereal than the moonlight that streamed in the Ring-bearer’s window. It was nothing he could ever see clearly with his eyes, except that the tears tracks down Frodo’s cheeks glistened like starlight then as though an invisible hand had wiped them and left luminous trails behind. What Sam felt was more in his heart, and some peace would come to him then also, even with all his worry and grief over his beloved one. He noted that Frodo seemed better rested in the morning.

March began to pass and the time for Rose to deliver came near. Frodo was restless on the night of the 12^th, for he knew or feared what the next day would bring. The darkness that surrounded him as he lay in bed was more than physical, even more than the black that still shrouded his broken heart. He looked out at the moonlight through his window and longed to stand out in it, to combat the terrible night that he felt coming to overwhelm him, but he could not move and wouldn’t have dared if he could. He feared collapsing on the way and giving something more for Sam to fret about was the last thing he wanted to do. Like a wave that could not be stopped, he watched the darkness come toward him. He cried out for help in his mind, but couldn’t even part his lips to whisper aloud. Utterly paralyzed, he watched the wave tower over him and then crash down upon him. He felt his neck pierced by that dreadful sting and the venom spread throughout him. He knew no more until morning when he was dimly aware that Faramir was rousing him for second breakfast.

The man seemed an Orc at first to Frodo’s bleary eyes and his room, the horrible prison in the Tower. But the voice did not seem to be like of Orc-kind and wearily the Ring-bearer rubbed his eyes and fought his way out of the memories, though he could not escape them entirely.

“Are you ill, Frodo?” Faramir was asking, reaching to support his brother’s frame as he struggled to sit up.

Frodo rubbed his neck and grimaced. “...neck...”

The man gently removed the hobbit’s hand and looked. The area was red and chaffed, but there was no other sign of infection or the wound there opening up again.

“Shall I ask Aragorn to come?”

Frodo did not answer. He could barely sit up and would have fallen if Faramir had not tightened his embrace. He gently laid his brother back down and covered him with as many blankets as he could find for the Ring-bearer was trembling badly and holding himself in a tight curl. The man saw that he looked as though he would be sick and so brought a chamber pot to him and held him as the hobbit vomited.

“I am going to call Aragorn,” the man said.

“Don’t.... let Sam....know,” Frodo murmured weakly. “....don’t want him to fret.”

Frodo did not even hear the man leave for he was lost once more in the darkness. He shivered as he lay naked on the cold stone floor in the Tower, bereft of everything. The loss of the Ring consumed him and heard nothing within himself but the shrieking grief and despair of that. The Orc had left him and he was alone with nothing but his terrible bereavement. How much longer would it be until they came again to question him and torment him? But he knew they could do nothing to him worse than what they had already done, unless it was to bring him before the Dark Lord and he saw his precious treasure on that black hand. All was lost.

Faramir came into the kitchen and signaled to Aragorn. Sam looked up at them curiously as he was almost finished preparing breakfast. “Is my master all right?”

“His stomach is unsettled,” the Steward said.

“I’ll make him some peppermint tea then.”

Faramir debated with himself whether he should say more and that was all the clue Sam needed.

“It’s not just his stomach, is it?” He thought for a moment, then “It’s the 13^th. I was away last time, but some things you don’t forget, and I can bet you he was sick then too, and thought to keep it a secret.” The gardener shook his head and both men then smiled to hear the hobbit murmuring to himself that his master should know better than holding to such a daft idea as trying to keep any secrets from his Sam.

“He doesn’t want you to be worried about him,” Faramir said.

“Well, there’s naught he can do about that, but you can bring him the tea your own self, if that will make him feel any better.” He muttered a few more choice words about stubborn Bagginses and then handed the man a mug. “It should be cool enough for it not to burn himself when he drinks and do be careful that he don’t choke.”

“I shall be vigilant in my duty,” Faramir assured.

When the Steward and Aragorn returned to Frodo’s side, the king sat down by his side and tenderly supported him in his arms. “I am here, gwador nin,” he said softly. The Ring-bearer opened his eyes, but the man knew Frodo did not see him.

He took the tea from his Steward’s hand and brought it to his brother’s lips, gently tipping it into his throat. Frodo choked and gagged as the Orc forced the foul liquid down his throat, burning as it went down. Aragorn withdrew the cup and wiped at his friend’s mouth. He shared a concerned look with Faramir and held the little one then tighter. Frodo fought against the constraining arms, but had little strength to do so.

“He is lost in a dark dream,” the king said to his Steward. He brushed at the Ring-bearer’s curls, which were damp with sweat. For a long while, he just held him, murmuring comforts, and singing very softly in Sindarin. Faramir was profoundly moved and his love for his king reached new heights watching such tender care.

Frodo was very confused for he heard Elvish words that he could not quite comprehend but he knew had no place among such vile creatures as had him prisoner. And what was more, the words were being sung to him. But it didn’t sound like Sam. What was this other dream he had wandered into? He lay still, for he did not wish to leave it, nor have the Orcs come again which they did whenever he tried to move. He floated away from himself as far as he could, toward the music and the loving voice. He could not travel far, tethered to his pain and loss far more stronger than the tender tendrils that reached out to soothe him. It was not as though he was back in the Hall of Fire in Rivendell when he had sunk beneath the song and been utterly carried away to another world, but it was a solace, and slowly barrier formed between him and the pain that roared just outside the reach of the song.

He opened his eyes after a long while and his vision was a little more clear, though he could not see even as far as the opposite wall in his prison. The shadows there could not be dispersed by the small red light that hung above. He was aware that arms were still around him, but the song had stopped.

Aragorn brushed at his curls. “Can you hear me, tithen gwador?” he asked softly. “Can I give you more tea?”

Frodo shook his head. He was very hungry and thirsty but he did not want to taste that terrible drink again. His head began to swim again and he was ill once more, emptying what little remained in him.

Aragorn laid him gently back down with a kiss to his brow and the blankets brought up to his chin. Frodo returned to his dark world. The king looked up at his Steward.

“What ails him?” Faramir asked. “I’ve seen such in the Houses of Healing, but none so bad.”

“Something worse than the Black Breath. He met the terror that dwelt in Cirth Ungol and was stung by her.”

“The Spider’s Pass,” the younger man breathed. He looked down at his brother with new love and grief. “So it is very rightly named and no wonder that such a wound would bring such vividly remembered pain.”

“Perhaps so rightly no longer, since Sam went to battle against the fearsome enemy. We know not whether his vicious blows were fatal, or only a very great and painful surprise.”

The two men smiled softly. “Love can accomplish great things.”

“It can indeed.” Aragorn touched Frodo’s brow. “He is not fevered. This should pass by next evening, if it like the illness that Gandalf tells me overtook Frodo on the way home when they came to the Ford near Rivendell.”

The two men left the room and Frodo could not tell whether he was glad or not. He was glad he was no longer held for the Orcs filled him with loathing, yet when they were with him, he knew what was going to happen, even if it was terrible. But the silence without them made his heart and imagination race. That and the terrible loss of the Ring which once more engulfed him was enough to drive him to the brink of madness. He stared over the edge, into the great abyss and almost he wished he could fall into and be lost for ever. A great wind tugged at him and he knew he would fall if it grew any stronger.

But then he back in the Tower and realized that there was someone in the room with him, a luminosity that shone softly. He sought to focus on it instead of the darkness that clawed at him. The wind died down. He felt embraced once more and this time he did sink beneath the beautiful weight of featherlight caresses and tender, voiceless words. The tears of the one who wept with him become blessed water to ease his thirst.

Aragorn and Faramir returned to the kitchen where Sam was preparing elevenses. “How is he?”

“He is wandering in a dark dream,” the king answered.

“Just like he was on the way back home, and just last October I found him in the study, but he wasn’t there, if you take my meaning. When is this going to stop for him? The Ring has been destroyed, yet in the doing, me master’s also been destroyed.”

“No, Sam, not destroyed, but wounded very badly,” Aragorn said. “Such is the price the worthy must pay at times for fighting the Shadow. We all have scars, some are deeper than others, yet healing can be sought while there is life and the master of your heart lives.”

“And while there’s life, there’s hope,” Sam said softly.