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Till We Have Faces  by Antane

Chapter Twelve

Some days passed while Boromir continued to heal. Frodo remained to care for him. Bilbo stayed as well but not the whole time. Once he was convinced that the man was no longer a threat to his heartson, he retired at night to his own bed.

“When you get as old as me, my lad, your bones will be glad too for the softest feather bed and pillows,” the ancient hobbit said with a smile. Each time Frodo was able to return it, even a little bit, Bilbo smiled wider. He held his beloved tightly and had the joy of having the embrace returned. The love they saw in each other’s eyes was a treat to them both and a special one for Bilbo at the times it crowded out the pain and allowed more of his lad's beauty to shine forth. A mutual kiss to the head ended the nightly ritual and then Frodo returned to Boromir’s side for the night, content to sleep on the cot on the floor. Bilbo returned each morning to take each of his meals with Frodo and was able to talk him into walking with him outside once a day.

Boromir’s appetite slowly returned as Elrond allowed him to eat more. The pain continued to fade as his wounds healed. Frodo was almost always near to help and their bond grew stronger daily. The Ring-bearer returned more actively to writing and Boromir learned much of what had gone on since he had left the Company. But as to anything that dealt with where they were, Frodo always diverted the conversation elsewhere. The man wondered about that, as well as about other things.

The day Boromir was able to sit up in his bed for the first time was a cause of celebration for them both. It was the first time Frodo had truly smiled for him since the man had come back to consciousness. He turned his head and looked behind him, half-excepting to see someone and somewhat disconcerted that he did not. Frodo’s servant had at times fulfilled his duties in silence and there was very few moments that he was not at his master’s side. The man had seen how the two of them did not need words to communicate. Sam always knew exactly what his master needed and sometimes before Frodo himself was aware. Having his heart and mind read that easily did not seem to have bothered the Ring-bearer. Sam’s producing what was needed - an extra blanket, a rare mug of tea or a pipe to smoke, balm for his master’s chapped hands, an extra dessert that had been tucked away - had always earned him a smile and soft thanks.

Even when Frodo had been half-asleep and troubled by the Ring, Sam or one of the other of the Company would reach for his hand and hold it to keep him from clutching at the chain. Frodo had always calmed best and quickest when it was Sam, Merry, or Pippin, but he also liked the touch of Gandalf or Aragorn. He knew each touch from the other and always murmured their name as he slid back into sleep. Boromir had marveled at that, but Gandalf only smiled and that caused the others to do so. The wizard and the others knew that if there was any way that Frodo could survive the weight of his burden, it would be because of the love that was showered down upon him so freely and easily by servant and kin. The nights were cold without a fire to warm them, but they were never cheerless, as Merry and Pippin fought over who would sleep next to Frodo. Sam had always claimed one side and would not budge. The others of the party suspected that the younger hobbits did this to entertain their cousin, who would let them go on with a smile and then silence them with an seemingly arbitrary decision as to which one of them would get the prize spot next to him. Some nights though Frodo was especially bothered by the Ring and silently took them both to be at either side and Sam would curl up at his master’s head.

Boromir had supposed that Sam had continued to serve behind him, and he simply did not see him because he could not until now turn his head that way. But even if Sam was silent, Frodo’s thanks were also and that had made the man wonder.

“Where is Sam?”

The fragile cheer within Frodo faded and Boromir mourned that it was gone so soon.

“He’s not here. He’s at home with his wife and child. I except Rose has quickened with another by now.”

Boromir took time to absorb this shock. “I have missed much. My brother wed, Aragorn wed, and now Sam.”

“Yes, much has passed. An entire age. The Fourth has already begun.”

Absently, Frodo began to rub the gap on his maimed hand.

"Does your hand hurt?"

Frodo stopped rubbing, only then aware that he had been doing so. He did not meet his companion’s eyes. He tucked his hand under his leg. He had always been careful not to face Boromir in such a way while writing that the man would see the wound. “I’m sorry. Sam used to do that for me and it always helped the pain. It’s not the same when I do it myself. I miss him.”

“I miss my brother, but we will see them again.”

“Perhaps I will see him. I can only hope.”

“Rivendell is not that far away from your Shire. It’s much closer than it is to Gondor.”

“Yes, it is. I wish . . .”

Boromir waited for Frodo to continue but he did not. An unease began to stir uneasily in the man.

Frodo took up his writing again, but he laid it aside soon after and began to rub his hand again. “Aragorn told me there would be times that it would hurt more than others. Sometimes I don’t feel it at all and can almost forget about it. Other times it aches, but he taught me some things to do to help that. But I don’t have his touch and I don’t have Sam’s. Perhaps it's hurting because I don’t want to write about . . .”

“What happened?” Boromir asked.

Frodo laid aside all his dissembling and held up his hand. “Someone wanted the Ring more than you.”





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