22. New Endeavours

April 25, 1392

Frodo opened his eyes and looked around in confusion. He must have fallen asleep while Bilbo was reading to him. Frodo glanced at the window and smiled. The curtains were mostly open, and he could see the late afternoon sun shining brightly on the garden. His eyes were certainly less sensitive today; he recalled Bilbo saying he would be allowed to read later if he wanted.

Blinking a little, Frodo propped himself up on one elbow and reached for the glass of water that stood on the nightstand. His throat wasn’t sore anymore, but it still felt dry as toast every time he awoke.

The dark-haired lad took a long, slow swallow of the cool water and paused to take a breath. He lifted the glass to his lips again and took another mouthful.

“Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo exclaimed in surprise at finding he was not alone. Unfortunately, the young hobbit’s mouth was still full of water, and the exclamation resulted in a fountain being sprayed into the air.

“Oh!” Sam cried, coming forward from where he’d been standing by the hearth. “I’m awful sorry, sir! I didn’t mean ta scare you!”

Frodo wiped his chin on the sleeve of his nightshirt and smiled sheepishly. “Don’t worry, Sam! I just didn’t see you there.”

“It’s mighty good to see you awake, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, returning the older lad’s smile tentatively.

“I am glad to see you, too, Sam,” Frodo replied, then frowned thoughtfully. “I thought your mum said you might visit yesterday—or did she say that last night?”

“No, sir,” Sam said seriously. “And I did come yesterday afternoon, beggin’ your pardon, but ye weren’t to know it; you slept the whole time, you did!”

“I did?” Frodo echoed stupidly.

“Aye,” Sam answered soberly. “And mighty pale and ill you looked, too, sir, lyin’ there so quiet. I was real careful not to wake you.”

Those wide hazel eyes spoke to Frodo of the days of anxious worry and distress the Gaffer’s youngest lad had suffered. Frodo realized with a pang that Bilbo had worn the same look, yesterday morning when he had come in to see Frodo for the first time since the fever had broken. The dark-haired boy shifted restlessly, uncomfortable with the thought of worrying so many, and cast his mind back to the morning before.

“Frodo!” came a soft exclamation from the doorway.

Frodo turned away from the window and sat up eagerly, a bright smile lighting his pale face. “Hullo, Uncle!”

“How are you feeling, lad?” Bilbo came to sit on the edge of Frodo’s bed. He cupped the boy’s face between his hands and peered intently into his ward’s round blue eyes, as if to verify that Frodo was truly awake and lucid.

Frodo paused to consider his answer. “Hungry,” he said finally.

Bilbo laughed aloud, the clear sound ringing delightedly in the small bedroom.

Frodo wasn’t certain why that should be amusing, but he enjoyed the way the worry seemed to melt from his uncle’s brown eyes as he laughed.

“Well, my boy,” Bilbo said finally. “I can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve scarcely eaten a thing in the last week!”

“Truly?” Frodo said, puzzled. “It didn’t seem that long...”

“What do you remember, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked curiously.

“I don’t know... Was Mr. or Mrs. Gamgee here?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said with a smile. “Both were here, at times. That family is quite devoted to you, dear boy.”

Frodo shrugged uncomfortably and looked away. “I think... I think I remember that Mama was here, too...” he said after a pause. “I suppose I was dreaming, but it seemed so real. I know she couldn’t have been here, truly, but-”

He broke off in embarrassed confusion. Bilbo was regarding him with an expression he couldn’t interpret.

“Your mother was a remarkable lady,” Bilbo said finally. “You are entitled to cherish whatever memories of her you have, however they come to you.”

Frodo ducked his head and smiled gratefully. “Mostly I remember that you were here, Uncle Bilbo,” he said slowly. “And I was glad of that.”

Bilbo released a shuddering breath and reached out to rub gentle circles into Frodo’s back. “And I am glad to see you recovering, my dear boy,” Bilbo said with a slow smile. “Now then, I believe you said you were hungry, and I’ve been waiting to hear those words all week. Tell me what you would like, and you shall have it!”

Frodo smiled at the memory and turned back to Samwise. The child was watching him in wide-eyed silence.

“Anyhow, I’m glad I’m awake for your visit this time,” Frodo said lightly. “Now come sit up here with me, where I can see you!”

Sam grinned and clambered up on the bed beside Frodo with no further encouragement needed, much to Frodo’s delight. Frodo waited for Sam to say something, but the child simply sat there, beaming happily at Frodo as though he couldn’t believe the older lad was truly alive and awake and sitting here in front of him.

Frodo cast about for something to say, trying not to let Sam’s worshipful scrutiny unnerve him. His glance fell on his bookcase, and the slate he used for lessons with Bilbo. “Why don’t you fetch me my slate, Sam? I’ll help you practice your letters, if you like.”

Sam looked at Frodo in confusion, but he hopped down quickly and brought the slate and slate pencil to the bed. “I don’t know any letters, beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Frodo,” the child said uncertainly.

“You don’t?” Frodo said blankly. “You haven’t started lessons yet?”

“No, sir,” Sam answered, looking as if he was wondering why he had to explain something so obvious to a supposedly intelligent hobbit like Mr. Frodo. “And I shan’t, ever. My Gaffer and my mum never learnt their letters, nor did Ham, Hal, Daisy, and May.”

“Oh,” Frodo said faintly, turning pink. “Oh...” He felt foolish for making such assumptions, but he had never known any children Sam’s age who were not learning to read.

Sam was watching him curiously, holding the slate pencil loosely in his left hand. The child did not appear to be offended, and the beginnings of an idea began to prickle at the edges of Frodo’s mind.

“May I try to teach you a little, Sam?” Frodo asked. He hurried on when Sam’s jaw dropped. “I’ve never taught anyone before, but there isn’t much else to do while I have to stay in bed.”

Sam’s grip on the slate pencil tightened a little. “Would ye do that, sir?” he asked in astonishment. “I reckon I’d like to try it... My Gaffer said I’m to keep you company as much as you like, while you’re recoverin’.”

“Oh, wonderful!” Frodo said, delighted by the prospect.

Samwise bounced on the bed a little in his excitement. “What do I do, sir?”

Frodo thought for a moment. “Here, I’ll show you something first. Give me your hand-” Frodo took the pencil out of Sam’s left hand and put it in his right. He balanced the slate carefully on Sam’s knee and took the child’s right hand in his.

Sam held his breath in anticipation and watched in wonder as Frodo gently pressed Sam’s fingers around the pencil and began to move Sam’s hand over the slate. Like magic, that pale, smooth hand and Sam’s smaller, rougher one moved in strange patterns on the flat surface. First a long, wavy line appeared on the slate. It reminded Sam of a garden snake, slithering on the ground. Next they made a circle, and a little tail hanging down. The strangest shape of all was the last one; it looked like two bumps, with a line sticking up in front.

Frodo let Sam’s hand go, and together they stared at the three symbols on the slate. Sam squinted at them, brimming with curiosity.

“What’s it mean, Mr. Frodo?” the gardener’s son asked finally, unable to wait any longer. “What did we write?”

Frodo smiled. “We wrote your name! Part of it, anyhow. We wrote ‘Sam,’ in the common tongue!”

Sam went home for supper quite delighted that day, and Bilbo was very interested to hear why, as he sat watching Frodo slowly demolish a tray of steaming mushroom soup, toast smeared liberally with honey, and a glass of apple juice.

“I think it’s a fine idea, Frodo,” Bilbo said thoughtfully when he had heard the tale. “I’ll speak to the Gaffer tomorrow and make certain he has no objections. I can’t imagine he would; if Samwise is going to keep you company while you lie abed, you lads might as well pass the time usefully!”

“Thank you, Uncle,” Frodo said gladly. He finished his juice and laid down with a sigh. Bilbo had brought him a shockingly large amount of food, but he had somehow managed to finish it all. Frodo closed his eyes. This was the first day he hadn’t mostly slept through since being ill, and he was beginning to feel rather exhausted.

Bilbo smiled and set the tray aside. “Mind you don’t let yourself get worn out, Frodo-lad. I know you enjoy Sam’s company, but you must send him away if you find yourself becoming tired.”

“I will,” Frodo promised. He reached up absently to scratch at his hair. It was still matted from the long days in bed, and Frodo was only now recovered enough to find it uncomfortable.

Bilbo noticed his nephew’s discomfort immediately. “Perhaps we can take care of that bird’s nest tonight, my boy,” he said with a wink. “Do you feel up to a good brushing?”

Frodo groaned, imagining how much it would hurt to unsnarl all those tangles. “Not especially, Uncle, but I suppose you’d best do it before it gets any worse.”

“That’s the spirit, lad!” Bilbo exclaimed cheerfully. “Just roll over and I’ll get right to it.”

Wondering how Bilbo could sound so sickeningly jovial, Frodo turned himself onto his stomach while Bilbo fetched his hairbrush.

Much to Frodo’s amazement, Bilbo managed to brush out the thick, dark curls with a minimum of whimpers. The old hobbit was gentle and patient, and Frodo soon found himself sighing in relief.

“There! That’s much better, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo agreed, then yawned despite himself.

Bilbo smiled. “You’ve had a long day, Frodo-lad. What do you say we get you cleaned up and put you to bed?”

Frodo opened his eyes quickly. “It isn’t even dark yet, Uncle Bilbo!”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, and Frodo yawned again. “I’ll take that as a yes,” Bilbo said, eyes twinkling. He helped his nephew stumble to the bathroom, promising to wait outside.

Frodo washed slowly and changed his nightshirt, then stood blinking dully at his reflection in the looking glass. He couldn’t recall seeing himself since before he had been ill. His eyes gazed back at him as blue as ever, but they were dull and bloodshot. His skin was an appalling waxy white, and he looked to have lost weight, as well. No wonder Uncle Bilbo keeps trying to overfeed me, Frodo thought with a flicker of amusement.

At least his hair was in decent condition now. Frodo looked at the dark curls hanging around his face. In the dim light of the bathroom, his hair looked nearly black, but in daylight it was a rich, dark, chestnut brown. Frodo shook his head and opened the door. He wished his hair was a proper hobbit colour, like the Gamgee’s honey-coloured locks, or Bilbo’s light brown. And he surely wouldn’t look so odd if his eyes weren’t that bright blue.

On the other hand... An image of his blue-eyed, dark-haired mother suddenly flashed across Frodo’s mind, and he smiled to himself, enjoying the memory of that dream-visit.

“What are you smiling about, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked as he helped his nephew back into bed.

“I was just thinking,” Frodo said. “I’m glad I look like my mother.”