"He's not..." Frodo hesitated, afraid to speak the words, but he needed to know. He gathered his courage and continued, voice shaking. "What I mean to say is... Sam ... he isn't going to die, is he?"

       Bilbo had hoped Frodo would remain unaware of the seriousness of the Gamgee lad's illness, but supposed he might as well be wishing for three moons to rise instead of one. The Talk must be devouring every known detail, observation, speculation and outright fantasy that could be served up for public consumption.

       Bilbo's response was gentle. "He's very ill."

       "That's not an answer!" Frodo shouted back, frustrated. Under most circumstances, Bilbo would have reprimanded him for his rudeness, but the old hobbit recognized that Frodo needed someone at whom to direct his fear and anger. It was better he serve as lightening rod now than allow the lad's pain to grow and build until it became a house of hostility.

       Barely into his tweens, Frodo already knew more about death than most adults twice his age. He'd lost both his parents at twelve and seen his Aunt Esmeralda struggle through a stillbirth and two failed pregnancies before finally giving birth to his little cousin Merry. He'd seen a playmate at Brandy Hall succumb to a wasting fever and helplessly watched the decline of another cousin plagued by a breathing disorder. For Frodo, Hobbiton was a place of life and renewal, not death like Brandy Hall. Reminders of living filled the area: Frodo had been born here, his memories of his parents living were here, there was Bilbo - well into his nineties but with the vigor of a hobbit in his fifties. In all Frodo's many visits to Hobbiton, only the ancient died, and they passed quietly, a balm and a refuge against the untimely ends that plagued his life in the Eastfarthing. But life offers few havens and his sanctuary was now revealed to be no safer than any other place.

       Samwise Gamgee attached had himself to Frodo on his visits to Bag End almost as soon as he could toddle. Most occasions, Frodo was content to allow the lad to follow him about, though during his last visit he had scolded the boy for being a pest. Bilbo wondered if guilt over those words now overwhelmed Frodo and accounted for his concern over Sam.

       Weariness invaded the old hobbit's speech. Now was not the time for half-truths or pretty words, in many ways those could be worse than any lie. "He has the scabbing sickness, Frodo, and it is very serious. He might die, but he might live. I can't tell you any more than that. We won't know for some time yet if he will live. Right now it could go either way."

       "I want to see him," Frodo said firmly.

       "Frodo..."

       "I've had the scabbing sickness," he pointed out, his eyes burning blue fire. His jaw was set; it was Drogo's expression when he resolved to do something no matter what.

       Bilbo closed his eyes. The last time the scabbing sickness passed through the Shire was the year before Frodo's birth. Hobbiton was spared entirely, but it had a devastating effect on the Tookland. The disease swept through the Shire, cutting a swath of misery through the great families and accounting for a decline in the number of births among them until recently. It was fortunate that Bell and Hamfast recognized Sam's symptoms and isolated him so quickly, the sickness was highly contagious and only those who had it before were safe. The lack of cases in recent years meant few were able to care for young Samwise; even the local healers had never suffered it. Only he and Bell Gamgee, who had the disease as a child in Tighfield, were able to stay and nurse Sam. Even Hamfast (who had never been ill with the scabbing sickness) reluctantly took their remaining five children to stay with the Cottons.

       "I'll speak with Bell Gamgee and Healer Rosecraft," Bilbo said finally. He'd spent no few hours at the Gamgee hole himself this week, relieving a weary Bell. "If they agree, I will permit you to visit young Samwise."

       Frodo was allowed to relieve Bell and sit with Sam after Bilbo vouched for his previous bout with the disease to the Healer Rosecraft. He had to agree to return straight away to Bag End and bath immediately, not only his person but his clothing as well. It seemed a small price to pay to offer comfort to a child and family who had always been kind to him in the past.

       A length of red cloth was tacked to the yellow door of the Gamgee hole, to warn visitors that illness lay within. Frodo swallowed hard, then gathered his courage and pushed open the door. Mrs. Gamgee heard him enter and greeted him politely before she showed him to the sickroom. Then she retired to the kitchen for a bit of tea and a nap. She was asleep before she was even finished settling down into her chair. The nursing of her son drained her. There was little she could do but wait and watch him suffer. Helplessness was a suffocating feeling that Frodo understood too well.

       The scabbing sickness was a frustrating one for families and healers; there was no known treatment or cure; they could only offer things to ease the pain and discomfort. Sam lay in a narrow bed in a small side-room that doubled as a sickroom at need. Whether he lived or died, they would burn the bedding. Frodo hovered just inside the doorway, gripping the wooden door frame for support. A single spindly chair by the bed awaited him, Bell Gamgee's brown wool wrap draped over the back. He walked over and sat down carefully. On a bedside table stood a clay pitcher of water and a bowl of spicy rose potpourri ?to drive away the bad odors believed to play some role in illness. Frodo picked up a dried bit of bay leaf and cracked it into two with a finger, dead plants were no fit substitute for the living things Sam so loved.

       There were no windows in the sickroom and the only light was a dim halo provided by a small oil lamp hung on a hook above his head. It was too dark for Frodo to make out details of Sam's features until his eyes adjusted. Sam lay in a drugged sleep, exhausted from fear and the wrenching pain of the disease. His body was covered with hundreds of what looked like crusted-over bug bites, the hallmarks of the scabbing sickness. If the scabs fell off, he would recover and live. If they did not fall off... one in five hobbits who caught the scabbing sickness did not survive it, but if they lived they would never catch it again. Bilbo told him that Men who survived the disease bore the marks of it their entire lives; it was more common among them and their capacity to heal from its damage was lesser.

       Frodo shifted uncomfortably in his the chair. He thought about taking Sam's hand into his own, but feared even a gentle touch might cause Sam torment. From his own bout with the illness he recalled how even contact with the sheets was agony. Frodo remembered the horror of seeing his own skin riddled by hard mounds. He'd seen similar bumps on leaves and it took an hour for Esmeralda to convince him that there were no tiny eggs laid under his skin. He hadn't been able to bear the thought of spiders crawling over his flesh.

       It struck him that the smial was quiet, he could hear the crackling of the fire in the next room and Sam's ragged breathing was unnaturally loud. During his previous visits, the rooms rang with laughter, good natured squabbles, the Gaffer and Mrs. Gamgee's voices edged with affection, and the myriad smells of cooking. The Gamgees were a noisy and usually healthy household; he'd thought they were spared because of their distance from the river. When he was younger, Frodo wondered if the Brandywine River bred death and disease the way it seemed to spawn endless quantities of biting insects in the summer. He'd hated it even before it took his parents. Now he realized his belief in the sanctuary of Hobbiton was a myth; nothing and no one was truly free of sickness and loss. It was a bitter draught to swallow.

       Sam whimpered in his dreams and Frodo gently stroked his curls. He couldn't articulate to anyone why Sam was so important to him now. He'd always liked Sam, but he never paid him much mind. Then he'd heard in the market that the lad was deathly ill and Frodo felt his breath freeze in his chest. It was a tightening he'd known once before, when the fabric of his life was altered by the drowning deaths of his parents. In that moment, he saw that without his ever being aware of it, something inside him knotted itself around the youngster. He was possessed of the soul-deep knowledge that if Sam died some vital part of Frodo would depart this world with him. It was a terrifying thing to realize that another being, especially one whose own hold on life was so uncertain, held such a power.

       "You have to get better Sam," Frodo whispered, taking care to keep his voice too low for the lad to hear. The words felt good on his dry lips. "I want to take you with me when I go see the last Homely House like Bilbo did."

       He sat, running his fingers through sun-soaked curls for an hour more before Bell Gamgee was roused from sleep by a soft knocking at the door.

       She smiled sadly at him from the doorway. "Thank you, Master Frodo. Mr. Bilbo's waitin' for you," she said, yawning. Frodo noticed new lines etched around her mouth and eyes - Sam was not the only one being marked by this ordeal. "I'm surprised he's slept as long as he has."

       Frodo was about to reply when Bell made a slight gasping sound and knelt by her son's bed. She stood up to take down the lamp and gently pulled back the sheet for a better look.

       "Is he dying now?" Frodo asked, afraid of the answer. He'd heard whispers of the terrible way those who succumbed to the scabbing sickness died. His heart seemed to shake with each beat.

       Bell shook her head in the negative. She gestured to Sam's arm, but Frodo's tired eyes couldn't see anything of note. "They're fallin' off. My lad is going to live." Tears ran salty rivers down her worn cheeks.

       Frodo peered closer and saw that some of the scabs were indeed flaking off. Sam was going to live! He wanted to run outside and gulp great quantities of air while screaming the news, but relief made his knees wobble as though they were columns of water. Exhaustion hit him like a cartload of bricks and he found himself longing for Bilbo in a way that reminded him of how he felt upon seeing his parents after a trying time. "I'll come back tomorrow and read to him," Frodo promised.

       "He'll love that," Bell choked. She mopped her face with her apron.

       Frodo allowed himself to be ushered to the door where he was given into Bilbo's care. He didn't protest the thorough scrubbing of either his person or his clothing. As he lay in bed that night, he turned to face the window and wondered if the other stars noticed when one faded, leaving only blackness where once twinkled blue tinged light.