Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com. 

October Quickenings

Slight AU in timing of events

Chapter One

Samwise gently patted the soil back over the seedling and wished the infant tree well.  It would be forty years before the little tree would grow enough to replace the one that had graced this hill, the one so wantonly cut down and left to rot by the despoilers.  Maybe twenty years, with the magic of Galadrial’s dust working on it…  Still, so long.   So long before the Shire was again what it once was, before all the Troubles.

Sam rose to his feet and grimaced, his back aching from so much bending.   He’d been out three days now on this planting trip and was looking forward to getting back.   Sam insisted on planting each tree himself, so he could place at its roots one precious speck of the Lady’s Gift.  His helpers knew he carried and treasured the little box, but few of them knew what it was and none knew the full story of how he had been gifted it.  Though not elevenses yet, Sam called a rest and the other three hobbits gathered around him to share in the much-reduced basket that Mistress Cotton had so kindly packed them. 

He and Mr. Frodo had been invited to stay with the Cottons while Bag End was being repaired and renovated, much to everyone’s pleasure.   Sam was overjoyed to be near his Rosie, and Frodo enjoyed both the Cottons and their fine table.  In their turn, the Cottons were delighted to host such distinguished guests, and Mistress Cotton had made putting some meat back on Frodo’s bones her special project.  Both guests were enjoying the endless parade of mouth-watering dishes and pies, and Sam’s master was looking much more like his old self. 

The workers had scarcely fallen to when Thad climbed to his feet and shaded his eyes with a brown hand, staring off down the road.   “There’s a pony coming, Sam,” he said.  “Coming fast, too.  The rider’s not sparin’ the whip.”

Sam put down his bread and cheese and stood up besides Thad.  “That’s young Tom Cotton, Rosie’s brother.   I recognize the pony.  What could-a gotten ‘im so het up?”   Tom had inherited his father’s farming instincts and would never mistreat one of Farmer Cotton’s beasts without great need.   Sam felt his chest constrict and started down the hill, running to meet the pony.

Tom pulled the beast to a halt and swung off it.  “Sam!  Sam!  I’ve looked for you half o’ the morning.  You’ve got to come home quick.” 

“What’s wrong, Tom?  Has someone been hurt?”   Sam barely noticed that Thad had pulled up aside him, the others not far behind. 

Tom shook his head.  “Da sent me.  It’s Mr. Frodo, Sam.  He’s taken awful sick.  Da says he fears he’s dying.”

Sam felt his vision tunnel down until he was looking through a long black hole.  He dimly heard the other’s assurances that they would finish up the work, that he must go at once.  Slowly he became aware that Tom was tugging on his arm, talking to him, telling him to mount the pony.

“He’s tired, Sam, but he’ll carry you back.  I’ll walk home with Thad and the others.  Sam, hurry.”

 Sam swung himself up on the pony and turned it around.  The poor animal was blowing and frothed at flanks and withers, but it gamely broke into a spine-jarring trot back the way it had come.  Sensing its rider was heading for home, the pony put its heart into it, allowing Sam to focus on the fears churning in his gut. 

“It’s been a year…  How could I forget?  How could I be gone, when Gandalf said this might happen?  Stupid!  I just lost track o’ the days.  So much damage, so much to do.  I just forgot.

“If he dies … and I’m not there…”  Sam could not bear this train of thought and sought to distract himself.   How slowly the pony seemed to move!   To keep himself from useless worry, he turned over in his mind one of his last conversations with the wizard.

Gandalf had called him aside one of their last nights in Rivendell.  His master and the others were listening to a tale of the Elder Days, told by an Elf whose musical voice wove a spell around them all.  All four hobbits had largely recovered from their ordeals, but Frodo still seemed quiet and listless.  He spent most of his time with old Mr. Bilbo, and Sam knew he was preparing himself to say farewell to his beloved uncle.  Sam left them together as much as he could, interrupting only to see that Frodo ate and took some rest.   He hadn’t regained much of the weight lost during their terrible journey.  Privately, Sam worried about him.

He had been loath to leave the tale-spinning but one look from under the wizard’s bristling brows had stifled any protest.  Slipping away without the others’ noticing, the two had gone out to stand at the railing of one of Rivendell’s balconies, watching the moonlight glint on the falling waters.  There, Gandalf had shattered his hopes of normalcy and of returning to the Shire in peace.

“Samwise, I had hoped that it would not be necessary to have this talk with you.  But I think it best.  I would not want you to be unprepared, should my fears be realized.”

 Sam had felt the first prinking of apprehension.  “Why, Mr. Gandalf?  What should I know?  It’s somethin’ to do with Mr. Frodo, isn’t it?”

“As usual, Sam, you see clearly concerning your master.  Yes, I am concerned about Frodo.  He is recovering his strength, but he is not healing.  After that wound on Weathertop, and the other hurts he has taken, and lastly, the destruction of the Ring, twined so tightly around his soul…  Sam, I fear that your master will never be as he once was.”

Sam nodded, sorrowful but not surprised to hear that Gandalf had come to the same conclusion he had.  “I know, sir.  I’ve seen it.  He’s not come all the way back, like the rest of us have.   I think he’d like to stay ‘ere with Mr. Bilbo, but he feels he should see us home and see what’s happening in the Shire.”

“I think so too, Sam.   He wants to stay but wouldn’t rest here, not with rumors of trouble at home.”  The wizard puffed on his pipe, his brow furrowed.  “But my fears are more specific.  Sam, when one has been hurt as Frodo has been hurt, pierced by such evil weapons, that evil never completely departs.  The splinter of the Morgul-blade that wounded him was removed, but the body – and the mind – remembers.   Perhaps there is the tiniest seed of evil steel left in the wound.   Elrond feared so but could not find it, and it would have finished Frodo to have endured more cutting to search for it.  So the wound was allowed to close, or he would have died.”

Sam was silent, cold in the moonlight, remembering those days of anxiety and fear for his master.  So much blood, so much pain.  The vile poison that had infected him, the fever.  It seemed not long ago at all.

“Sam, what I am trying to say is that you must stay near to Frodo each October, each anniversary of his wounding.  I fear that the evil that has remained in him will take advantage of the annual shock and reseed itself.   I fear that the death he escaped when the wound was taken will try again, each October sixth, to claim him.   I might be wrong, Sam, but I believe this.”

“But what does that mean, Mr. Gandalf?  Do you mean he might die come October, or the year after that?”

“Yes, that is essentially what I mean.  I believe that he will sicken on the anniversary of the wounding, that he will once again have to fight for his life.  Each year.  I am sorry, Sam.  I wish there was something that I could do.”

Sam digested this in grief.  “He’s suffered so much.  It don’t seem fair…”  Sam trailed off and stared out at the sparkling waters, realizing the futility of that lament.  “Isn’t there anything you can do?  That Master Elrond could do?”

“No, Sam.  Were Frodo to remain here, he would be watched carefully at these times and cared for.  But his heart is set on returning to the Shire.   I can…”  the wizard trailed off and seemed to be holding some internal debate with himself.   “I have no medicine, know of no medicine that will prevent this.  I can but give you a potion that will help when things are at their worst.”

“I’ll take it then, sir, but wish there was more…”

“I know, Sam.  I do not want to worry Frodo with this, especially when it may all come to naught.  But you should be prepared.”   With this, the wizard reached into the deerskin pouch he wore at his belt and pulled out a small fabric sack.  Opening the drawstring, he rolled into Sam’s cupped hand what appeared to be seedpods, shiny and black.  Sam inspected the seeds but the gardener in him could not identify them.

“What are these, sir?  I don’t know them.”   Sam rolled the seeds around in his palm, noting they gave off a sharp but not unpleasant scent, like thyme.

“They are the seeds of the irrisen plant, Sam.  A useful herb.  It does not grow in this part of the world.   Used wrongly, it is a powerful poison.”   Sam’s hand clenched around the seeds, and Gandalf reached out and gently pried open his fingers.  “Used rightly,” he continued, “it is a powerful relaxant, a sedative.   It combats fever, eases straining muscles.   Seep two seeds in hot water, Sam, and give the potion to Frodo in a cup of tea.  Never more than two seeds at a time, and never more than twice a day.  He will not be able to detect it by smell or by taste.  And it will help.”

Gandalf held the sack for him while Sam rolled the seeds back into it.  “Thank you, then, for the potion.   But I hope it never comes to a-usin’ it.”

“So do I, Sam-lad,” the wizard had replied.  “So do I.”

* * * * *

And today was October sixth…   Sam resisted the urge to lay whip to the pony; the poor thing was walking now, its head drooping wearily.  At least the road had passed under him while he was wool-gathering; he was now no more than a mile down South Lane from the Cottons’ farm.   He’d do faster on his own two legs.  Sam swung off the pony, knowing that it would head for its barn once it had recovered. 

He arrived at the house, panting.  Rosie was standing on the porch, waiting for him.  The sun glinted off her golden hair and the special smile she gave to him alone quelled much of his panic.  Greatly daring, he reached out and captured her hands as he came up the steps, and was surprised to feel her step into the circle of his arms.   She nestled there a moment, taking comfort as well as giving it.

“Mum’s with him, Sam.”  She stepped back and tugged him into the house.  "We’ve been worried sick.   He’s burning up and seems not to know us, or know where he is.   I’m almighty glad you’ve come.”

Sam was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes in the small white-washed room he shared with his master.  Frodo lay rigid on far bed, soaked with sweat, trembling, his beautiful  eyes closed and fists clenched at his sides.   Mistress Cotton was seated on the small chair between the beds, sponging his forehead with cool water.  At their entrance, she looked up with palpable relief.

“Sam, thank heavens you’ve come,” she said, echoing her daughter’s words.  “Mr. Cotton found him like this, this mornin’, when he didn’t come to breakfast.   I don’t know what’s wrong with ‘im.”

Sam laid the back of his hand against Frodo’s cheek and was dismayed by the fever he felt there.  “Mr. Frodo?  Frodo?” he asked.   “Frodo, can you hear me?”   Frodo’s eyes opened and Sam was horrified to see them heavily laced with blood, as they had been that terrible night on Weathertop.   Sam heard Mistress Cotton gasp beside him.  Frodo did not see him, did not respond.  He moaned and twisted his head aside, seeking to escape horrors that now existed only in his mind.

Sam pulled the coverlet off him and reached down, unlacing the thongs of Frodo’s muslin nightshirt.   He pushed the left side open and could not restrain a cry at the hideous pus-and-bile filled lesion that had broken open from the thin scar of the wounding.   Purple-black veins strained beneath the pale skin, extending from the wound down his arm and side.

“We’ve got to bring down the fever.”  Sam could control his terror for Frodo in action.  “Mistress Cotton, can you and Rosie wet some towels and wrap ‘im up in them?  And I’ll need hot water.  We’ve got to get some liquid into him.  I’ve a potion that will help.”

Frodo’s twisted, his right hand going to his throat.  Sam winced to see the motion; that’s were that cursed thing had hung.  Frodo had always seemed to have his hand around it in those last terrible days.   Now he sought the Lady Arwen’s jewel – where was the jewel?  No white gem – Frodo’s throat was bare.

Keeping his voice steady, Sam turned to Mistress Cotton and asked after the jewel.  “Oh,” she replied, “he was pulling at it in his fever.  I was afraid he’d break the chain, so I took it off.”  She reached to the bedside table and lifted up the gem.  Sam all but snatched it from her and quickly refastened it around Frodo’s neck.   His master immediately seemed eased; the writhing ceased and he lay quietly.  Sam breathed a silent sigh of relief.  “He’s got to wear it,” he tried to explain to a startled Mistress Cotton.  “He needs it.” 

Mistress Cotton leaned over Frodo, wiped his sweating face with the cool cloth.  “We’ve sent for Dr. Carnation.  He’s coming as quick as he can, but there’s a lad hurt in Bywater and he don’t know when he can come.  I sent one o’ the help to see if old Dr. Boffin would come, but travelin’s hard on him now, and I don’t think he can.”

“Wouldn’t help none anyway.”   Sam was scarcely aware of her, carefully lifting his master up and stuffing pillows behind him, trying to ease his breathing.  Mistress Cotton looked from Frodo’s suffering face to the pain on the young hobbit’s besides her, and felt tears for both of them start in her eyes.

While Mistress Cotton cocooned Frodo in towels dipped in the nearby ice-cold spring and Rosie set the water to heat, Sam dug out the little sack Gandalf had gifted him in Rivendell.  He plucked out two of the black seeds and examined them, set them to soak as the wizard had instructed. 

Placing the solution on the bedside table, Sam helped Mistress Cotton lift Frodo and wrap the cold towels around him.  Frodo fought them feebly when they tried to move him, twisting, lashing out with his arms.   Sam caught the maimed hand and crooned inane reassurances to him, and he seemed to settle. 

“I knew he was feeling poorly last night,”  Mistress Cotton whispered.  “He ate hardly any dinner and went to bed early.  Just said he was tired.  But I knew – I’ve birthed and raised six o’ them and I know when a body’s not well.  And tryin’ to hide it.”

Rosie came in with the first pail of heated water and Mistress Cotton sent her back to the kitchen for more.  Sam started to draw off the nightshirt over Frodo’s head, but the sound he made when Sam raised his arms stopped him.  Mistress Cotton shook her head and fetched a large pair of scissors, cut away the nightshirt.  Frodo moaned, his breath coming in gasps.  They bathed the wound, trying to draw the poison out of him.

Judging the potion had seeped long enough, Sam gently raised Frodo upright and propped him against the bedstead.   Limp and boneless from the fever, Frodo seemed to be marginally aware, still much too hot, but passive.  Sam put the cup to his lips and with much urging, got him to drink it.

Seeing how being upright eased Frodo’s breathing, Mistress Cotton told Sam to stay where he was, and continued to bathe the wound while Sam sat and supported his master.  She gently swabbed off the vile, stinking pus, clicking her tongue comfortingly now and then when the motion hurt Frodo.  The hours blurred into one another, Rosie supplying fresh heated water for the cleansing and cool water for the fever.  It seemed Frodo only burned the hotter, and the twisting and thrashing increased to the point where Sam feared he might go into convulsions, as he had done when Elrond had first tried to clean the poison from him in Rivendell.   Sam had just washed his sweating face when Frodo’s eyes opened wide and he grabbed Sam’s wrists.  “They’re coming, Sam!  Them and their cold blades and the knife.  The Witch-King’s knife!”  Sam eased himself free, murmuring comfort.  Frodo lay rigid, his darting eyes focused on remembered horrors.   Sam felt tears crowd his eyes; he could do nothing.

At some point in the indeterminable day, a dusty and weary Tom came in, followed by his brothers.    Later, Farmer Cotton stuck his head in the door and only then did Sam realize that it was evening.  Mistress Cotton excused herself to prepare supper, and Rosie came in to take her place.   Sam did not realized that Rosie and her mother were making sure that, should Frodo die, Sam was not alone with him when it happened.   He prepared another draught for Frodo and tried to give it to him, but Frodo turned his dark head away from the cup.   “C’mon, Mr. Frodo,” Sam whispered softly.  “It’ll make you feel better, it will.  Please drink it.”  Frodo did, slowly and reluctantly.

Weary hours passed.   Nibs brought Rosie and Sam dinner and they ate, Sam not even aware of what he was eating.  Watching his master’s face, Sam thought that Frodo looked less flushed.  There was no focused turning point, but Frodo’s fever gradually lessened.   Farmer Cotton took his place for a while, allowing Sam to wash and take some air.   Mistress Cotton relieved Rosie.

Frodo seemed better; the writhing had ceased and he lay quietly, seeming almost asleep except for the quivering tension in his frame and the sweating.   Mistress Cotton wiped away the perspiration on his forehead, pushed back the lank, tangled hair.  She began to hum softly, then sing a lullaby that Sam remembered from his own childhood.  To his surprise, Frodo turned his head towards her and seemed comforted.   He exhaled deeply and relaxed into natural sleep.  Mistress Cotton smiled at Sam and nodded her head in satisfaction.  “Aye,” she said, “that baby lullaby always does it.  Seems to work even better with them that lost their mothers young.  There’s always that hole in their lives, whether they know it or no.”

Mistress Cotton gathered up the basins and cloths, and rose to take them out.  Sam caught her arm.   “Thank ye,” was all he could say.   She patted his arm, then suddenly leaned down and kissed him on the forehead.

“You’ve made our Rosie whole again,” she told him softly.  “And you saved our homes and our lives.  I don’t understand what you and your master were doing, gone for so long, and our Rosie grievin’ like she was.  But I see what it did to both of ye.   How could we not help, when you and him needed us?”

With another of Rosie’s brothers sitting with Frodo, Sam felt secure enough to snatch a couple hours sleep.   Nibs moved out to a pallet by the fire, letting Sam take his bed.   He slept till after dawn, till Mistress Cotton called him gently.  “No, no, he’s all right,” she reassured him, as he sat bolt upright and snatched for his clothes.  “But he’s thinkin’ a-waking up.  You’d best come.”

In the pale morning light, Frodo looked almost ethereal, pallid skin translucent.  The farmer and his wife had already bathed him and changed the bedding, and now he slept peacefully.  “All my hard work in feedin’ him up, wasted,”  Mistress Cotton breathed in Sam’s ear.  “Have to start all over again.  You won’t mind that, will you, Sam?”

Sam almost choked on a laugh.  “No, ma’am, not at all.  Mr. Frodo, neither.”  He lowered himself into the bedside chair and set himself to wait.  The next free fortnight he had, he was going back to Weathertop to see if he could find some of that kings foil herb, what Aragorn called athelas.  It had sure helped Mr. Frodo on the road.  Maybe it would grow in the gardens here?  Should keep a stock on hand for them that needed it...

He must have slept again, not meaning to.  He was awoken by a soft, “Sam?”

Frodo was awake, looking quietly about him without moving.  “Sam, have I been ill?”  Sam saw that his right hand cradled the Lady’s gem at his throat.

“Yes, sir” Sam replied.  “You’ve been awful sick.   Me an’ the Cottons have been taking care of you.  You’ll be fine now, Mr. Frodo – it’s all over.”

Frodo nodded, closing his eyes.  Traces of blood still lingered in them but they were much clearer.  “May I have a drink of water?” he asked softly.

Sam poured him a cup and gently lifted Frodo into a sitting position, easing him back against the headboard.  Frodo did not protest as Sam held the cup for him and tilted it to his lips. 

“I was tired last night,” Frodo mused, closing his eyes. “Aching and stiff.  Not sick, though.” 

“That was two days ago, Mr. Frodo,” Sam told him gently as he could.

Frodo tensed, and Sam could see him adding up the days.  “Ah,” he said at last.  “Weathertop was a year ago, then.”

Sam felt guilt wash over him in a drowning wave.  “I lost track of the days, sir.  I’d ‘ave been here otherwise…  I was told you might need me now.  That you might be sick again, and you were…  I thought I’d lost you.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sam felt the need to confess.  “It’s something Gandalf said.”

Frodo’s eyes centered on him.  “What did he say?”

Pinned beneath that morning glory gaze, Sam stammered, “Er, something about the body, an’ the mind, remembering … evil hurts.   Every year.”

Frodo sighed and lowered his head back to the pillow.  “Every year…  I have this to face every year?”

“Gandalf said you might.”

Frodo was silent for several long moments.   He stared to turn his face to wall, then gasped as his shoulder shifted.   He signed, then looked up to Sam, who was hovering over him.  “Lay down and sleep, Sam.  You’re practically out on your feet.  And thank the Cottons for me, will you?”

“Aye, sir, that I will.  Can I get you something ‘ta eat, or more water?”

“No.  No thank you, Sam.  I just want to sleep.”

Sam tiptoed out the door but was stopped by another soft, “Sam?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Thank you.”

Sam smiled at him.  “Get some rest, Mr. Frodo.  I’ll check in on you later.”

Sam eased the door shut behind him.  The farmer and his sons were already gone, off to attend the never-ending chores of farm-life.   Rosie was washing the breakfast dishes and Mistress Cotton sat at the table, snapping beans for the noon meal.  She looked up at his entrance and asked, “He’s better, then?”

“Aye,” Sam replied.  “He’s through it.  Sleeping now.  Mistress Cotton, Rosie – he said to thank you.   I want to say it, too.   If you had’na taken care of him…  I should have been here an’ I wasn’t.   I had warning this might happen, and I plain forgot.”

Rosie dried her hands and crossed over to him.   “Don’t you go tearin’ yourself up now, Sam.  You can’t be everywhere at once.”   She led him to the table and sat him down.  “Here now, you can make yourself useful.”  Mistress Cotton smiled at him and pushed a pile of beans across the table.  Gathering the sun-warmed beans in his hands, Sam was happy enough to help.  He’d sleep later; this was rest for his soul.

* TBC * 

Chapter Two

“Careful there, sir!  Mind the jamb!” panted Sam, as Frodo struggled to keep his feet and turn the corner.  ‘He shouldn’t be up, yet,’ muttered Sam to himself.  ‘He’d be on the floor if I weren’t holding him.’

With Rosie supporting Frodo on his other side, Sam carefully maneuvered his master outside to the warm bench in the sun that was their objective.  Frodo had awoken just before midday, less disoriented than he had been in the morning but still very tired.  He had lain in the narrow bed quietly, looking at the sun on the scrubbed furniture, until he had alerted Sam of his rising by dressing and almost bashing his head against the washbasin when his legs gave out.  Sam had half-carried him to the kitchen table, where the Ringbearer sat stiffly, hands trembling under the table until he could regain control of them.  It had taken both of them to coax a breakfast of Mistress Cotton’s famous chicken soup and honey biscuits into him. 

Mistress Cotton followed them outside anxiously, her best quilt over her arm, wrapping it around Frodo as soon as they had him seated.  He leaned back against the warm wall behind him with poorly hidden relief.  “Thank you, Mistress Cotton.  This is very kind of you.”

“Not at all, Master Baggins.  It’s our honor, it is.  You sure I can’t make you something, sir?”

“No thank you, Mistress.  I think I’ll just sit here for a while and enjoy the fine day.  It’s going to be an excellent year for flowers, isn’t it?”  Frodo smiled at her with forced cheer, quite unaware that Mistress Cotton saw right through him.  Perspiration beaded his forehead and glistened on his face. 

The farmwife looked over his head to meet Sam’s grey eyes.  “Well, you let me know, sir, if there’s anything me Rosie or I can get you.  C’mon, Rosie-luv, we’ve a table ‘ta lay.”  Rosie followed her mother back to work, but not without a quick squeeze of Sam’s hand that made the stocky hobbit’s round face go red.

Frodo observed his friend’s discomfort with amusement sparkling in his so-blue eyes.  “Ah, Sam, I envy you.  Rosie’s a fine lass.”

Sam’s blush deepened.  “Thank you, sir.  I still don’t believe she waited for me.”

“Rosie knows a treasure when she sees one, Sam,” Frodo returned, pulling the edges of the quilt more closely about him.   Embarrassed, Sam grinned shyly at his master and ducked his head, casting about for a change of conversation.

“Are you feelin’ better now, Mr. Frodo?”

“Yes, Sam, thank you.”  The two were silent for a while, basking in the rays of the strengthless sun and watching the white clouds chase each other across the sky.  Sam could tell his master was thinking; he knew that distracted stare well.  At last Frodo sighed and turned to him.  “Every year, Gandalf said?”

“Yes, sir.  Every year.”

“Will it always be this bad?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Frodo.   Gandalf didn’t say.”  Sam saw Frodo close his eyes and shiver.  “It might get better, sir.”  Frodo looked at him silently.  “Well, it might.”

Frodo nodded and sagged back against the wall.  Watching him from the corner of his eye, Sam waited.  Five minutes.  Frodo began to list to the side, his breathing deepening.  Ten.  Sam wished he could lay his master’s head in his lap as he had done so many times towards the end of that dark journey, but he knew that Frodo would not admit to weakness or weariness now.  Fifteen minutes.  Eyes closing, his dark head falling on his breast, the hobbit slid down slightly on the bench, sleeping deeply.  Sam made sure that Frodo was secure and well covered, then rose quietly and padded into the farmhouse.

Rosie looked up from setting out the bread and rolls for the midday meal.  “He’s resting, then?”

“Aye, sound asleep.”

“He shouldn’t be out o’ bed, Sam.”

“I know, lass.  But what can I do?  Mr. Frodo’s got a stubborn streak a mile wide.”  Sam relieved Rosie of the heavy platter she was carrying up and placed it on the table, sniffing the aroma of sliced pork garnished with cinnamon-sprinkled apples.  “I think it’s all that got him through what he had ‘ta do,” he added softly, “there at the end.”

The two moved around the table, arranging on it the fine bounty of the farmwife’s art.  Rosie’s mother was reknown throughout the Shire for her cooking and Sam knew that she had taught her daughter well.  The thought of him and Rosie setting their own table someday made his face go red again, and Rosie looked into his eyes and laughed.

Mistress Cotton bustled through the kitchen door, her arms encircling an enormous bowl of mashed ‘taters.  She placed it at one end of the table, casting a quick glance out the door, which Sam had left open so he might hear if Frodo needed him.  The great wooden spoon slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor.  “Don’t mind me,” she said with a wry grin, retrieving the spoon.  “I’ll just give this spoon a quick wash.  Mr. Cotton and the farmhands will be in soon.  You young people just keep on with your talkin’.”  For no clear reason he could give, Sam blushed clear to the roots of his sandy hair.

Frodo jerked into wakefulness at the unexpected sound, his heart hammering.  They’d been seen, they’d be found … no.  No.  No Black Riders, no Orcs, no wicked Men … not here.  Greening fields met his unfocused gaze, the smell of fresh-turned earth.  Flowers nodded their heads at him from Mistress Cotton’s garden, their fragrance mingling with the appetizing smells of luncheon. 

He was better, he realized.  He inhaled deeply of the sweet scents of the Shire, filling his lungs with the smell of flowers and sheep and pipe-weed and hay.  Filling the vast emptiness within him.  Yesterday was a blur, the days before it hazy and confusing.  His shoulder and side still ached but the pain was fading.  He had a vague memory of some foul-tasting tea that Sam had forced him to drink – courtesy of Elrond or Gandalf, no doubt.  It seemed he could not escape their tonics and “strengthening cordials” even now.

If he could just have enough time before the illness came again … time to complete the history he had promised Aragorn, time to finish Bilbo’s book.  For one who had never expected to live past his given task, it did not seem too much to ask.  He’d work day and night in his study until it was done.  And soon his beloved Bag End would be finished, cleaned and cleansed, ready for occupancy.  Frodo ached for his home with almost a physical pain.  Bless old Lobelia for returning it to him …

It might get better, the Ringbearer mused.  Didn’t all wounds heal with time?  Wounds of the heart and mind as well as the body?  Arwen Evenstar’s offer rose in his mind and his hand sought the white gem that hung about his throat.  A white gem to replace another thing that had once shackled him there…   His fingers traced the fine band of scarring at the back of his neck and sides of his throat, where the ever-increasing weight of the Ring had caused the silver chain to grind into his skin.  His touch lingered briefly over the small raised scars of the spider’s bite and a shock of pain lanced through him.  He dropped his hand and regarded the mutilation, the ugly gap and scarring that replaced the once-fine bones of his fingers.  Where the cave-troll’s spear had driven the links of his mithril coat into his chest did not hurt any longer, at least.

It seemed a small price to pay, when he could raise his eyes and see the whole Shire spread out before him, green and living and at peace.  The images he had seen in the Lady’s Mirror came back to him unbidden, and dispassionately, he could compare those horrendous visions to the serenity and tranquility his eyes drank in like spring rain after a parched winter.  So beautiful, the Shire.  And it was only a tiny corner of the greater world of Middle-earth. 

So why did he mourn what-might-have-been?  He would not regret – he would not.  Sudden tears threatened their way past his defenses and he closed his eyes and forced them back.  His small life mattered so little when such living reward spread before him.  Sam and Rosie would have a life, now.  And Merry and Pippin and the lasses they would someday take to wife.  The green fields would resound with the shouts of their children’s laughter, in time.

Time… 

“’Bout time you woke up, sir,” came Sam’s anchoring, much-loved voice.  “Ready for luncheon?”  Sam settled himself next to his master on the bench, relief at Frodo’s improved condition evident in his honest face.  “Mistress Cotton made you a cream-and-mushroom pie.  And the green bean an’ mushroom dish you like so much.”

“That sounds wonderful, Sam.”  Frodo rose, grateful for the steadying hand Sam slid under his elbow.  “It’s good to be home, isn’t it?”

“Aye, sir.  That it is.”

The End