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The sun was gone, and Frodo was in the parlor, sitting very quietly, and very still.
The room was warm. A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, and the windows were shut and latched tight.
They were new ones, the windows. One of the old panes had been shattered by a windstorm during their long absence. Frodo would have been content with tacking grease paper over the gap and washing his hands of the matter, but Sam had voiced strong objections.
This is the second-best sitting room, he had said, hand draped dramatically over his forehead, in the very finest smial for miles around. You mean to tell me that you’d be happy having the Thain, or the mayor over, and that’s their view? A scrap of grease paper? When they could be looking straight down to the Water? Oh sir!
Merry had poked his nose in then, saying that Brandy Hall had recently had many of their windows replaced. With double glazing, he said, to keep the sound out and the warmth in. Pippin had got in on it too, moaning on about how Bag End always had been terribly drafty, and weren’t the grizzled old farmers predicting an unusually cold winter this year?
Having already been rendered fragile by the grease paper scare, the thought of Frodo catching a chill because of substandard, second-rate windows had worked Sam into a frenzy. Before Frodo quite knew what was happening, Sam and Merry had met with a glazier, worked out a contract, and arranged to have Bag End fitted with new windows before the fortnight was out.
For what it was worth, Merry had been right. He often was. The windows did keep the heat in. It was warm in the parlor.
Almost too warm. The air was close and thick. It’d been trapped for a long time now - how long precisely, Frodo could not say. But the door was closed and so were his brand-new windows. Frodo was sure he could smell his own breath mixed up with all the hot, still air. His shirt, sweat damp, clung uncomfortably to his back and stomach. He didn’t want them touching his skin anymore. He shifted anxiously in his chair before stilling again.
If he could just prop open one of the windows. That would be enough. The evening was cool and dark blue, brushing up ever so lightly against the smial. It needn’t be much, only a crack. Just a sip of fresh air, just a breath.
It was getting difficult to breathe.
A drop of sweat fell from his forehead onto the armrest. For a half second the bead lingered on the fabric before being absorbed, leaving only a faint damp circle behind. You’d only notice it if you were looking.
The wind had been coming out of the west of late, or so reported Samwise. Gentle but steady, barely strong enough to stir the curls on your head, yet bringing with it just enough relief from the noontime sun to keep outdoor work pleasant. Frodo had not been outside for days now, and so was unable to say whether this was true.
A log popped in the hearth, sending sparks swirling up the chimney. Frodo jolted at the noise, his hand instinctively straying to his chest, grasping for something was not there, would never be there again. The heat pressed up against him from all sides. It was stifling. He couldn’t breathe. The window was naught more than five steps away. He only had to stand up.
It was too hot. He couldn’t breathe.
Sam was worried about Frodo. He’d never say so, but Frodo could tell. He could always tell when Sam was in a fret, for it was always so obvious. Sam would get that pinched line between his brows, and his shoulders would get tense, and he’d let out these mournful little sighs. It used to make Frodo laugh to see sweet, stubborn Samwise muttering to himself and grouching about the garden because his master had gone into town with wet hair again or let the clementines go to mold in the fruit basket.
Silly things like that didn’t bother Sam anymore. Sam would probably leap for joy if Frodo went into town at all, wet hair or no. The things that worried Sam these days couldn’t be solved with hot water bottles, medicinal teas, or strong dosages of plain hobbit sense. The things that worried Sam these days maybe couldn’t ever be solved. But it was still Frodo he was worried about. Frodo: the wellspring from which all Sam’s troubles flowed. That at least remained unchanged.
He had to get up now. The heat had crossed over from uncomfortable to unbearable, and Frodo was beginning to get desperate. Panic curled around his chest and started to constrict.
Burning, blistering, aching, fever hot. He couldn’t get any air; he was gasping for it. He was burning up and he couldn’t breathe.
He wanted to fling the windows open, all the windows in the smial, and all the doors too. He wanted the wind to come rushing in. He imagined it roaring through empty halls, sending papers swirling through the air, ruffling the pages of books, rattling portraits in their frames. He imagined it breezing into every corner, nosing into every nook and every cranny. He imagined it rushing down into the cellar, upsetting the glass jars of canned peaches and pickles and radishes, shattering them into glittering slivers on the stone floor, before storming up to the attic. He imagined gusts and gusts of wind lifting the dust from the dingy old mathoms Bilbo never bothered to get rid of. He imagined it stripping the wallpaper from the walls and ripping the sheets from the bed and peeling up the tiles from the floor. And then maybe the whole gale would swirl in on itself, taking all the rubble and rot along, before going flying through the back door again. And it would take the debris with it, ushering it out over the hills and valleys and back to the sea, and maybe Frodo would be swept along with it, and-
Another bead of sweat rolled down Frodo’s face, then another. They passed by the corner of his mouth, and he probed the salty trail with his tongue. The fire hissed and snapped. Frodo was breathing through his open mouth now, panting like a dog. His heart was racing. He was being ridiculous. He had to get out this infernal parlor. If he didn’t move, he would suffocate. Why couldn’t he move?
There was so much pain. Frodo hadn’t known it was possible to be in this much pain and retain consciousness. Every inch of him was burning. His skin sizzled, his eyes shriveled up in their sockets. His lungs were blackened and ash. He couldn’t draw breath. He was going to die here.
“Mister Frodo?”
There was no comfort, would never be comfort. There was only the blackness, red fire, and the pain, and all three descending on him, feeding off him, eating him alive. He was being condensed into a white-hot thing, a thing which could not speak, could not scream, could only burn. Seared on what once was his chest, the wheel of fire smoldered.
“Mister Frodo? Are you still in here?”
It was over. He was trapped. He was ruined. Out of the darkness flashed the Eye. Frodo was burning so bright. He was a flare, and that dreadful gaze was drawn straight to him. He would be in its sight soon. With the last shreds of his sanity, he prayed for death to find him swiftly, before He did.
“Frodo?” The floorboards creaked. “My, it’s stuffy in here! It’s a nice enough evening sir, why don’t I - Frodo?”
The prayer was futile. He had been spotted. The Eye was burning, filling all his vision. The wheel at his chest screamed with glee. The harsh thrumming overtook everything, and his mind crinkled at the edges, before igniting entirely. He burned.
“Frodo!” An iron grip rounded Frodo’s shoulders, shaking him. “Frodo, what’s wrong? Frodo, my dearest, please say something. Frodo!”
Frodo buckled forward and vomited. Darkness washed over him, and he knew no more.
-
When he came to, Frodo found himself waist deep in cold water. He was propped up in the tin tub in his own familiar kitchen. At the faucet, a hobbit was wetting a white rag.
“Sam,” Frodo croaked.
Sam whipped around at the sound of Frodo’s voice. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, freckles standing out boldly in his pale face.
“Frodo,” he gasped, and with a few hurried steps, he collapsed on the floor by the tub.
“Frodo,” he said again, desperate and tender in equal measure. He cradled Frodo’s cheek in his palm. Frodo leaned into his touch, although guilt was already boiling up inside him. “Oh, my sweetest Frodo.” Sam took both his hands in his and kissed them, first the backs, then the palms. “Whatever happened?”
Frodo sank down until the water touched his chin. Sam watched him with troubled eyes. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, and then, “I was too hot.”
“Don’t I know that,” said Sam. He dipped his rag out into the water and started wiping gently at Frodo’s face. “You were sweating something fierce when I found you. You were burning up.”
“Mm.”
“Drink this.”
A ceramic mug was held up to his lips. Frodo sipped at the cool water, slowly at first, then in big, gasping gulps.
“Slowly,” Sam murmured all the while. “We don’t want you losing it all again.”
When Frodo had finished, he lay back in the tub and closed his eyes. He felt like Sam’s washrag, wrung-out and limp. He breathed a laugh despite everything. His grasp on reality felt very light and tenuous. Meanwhile, Sam reclaimed the rag, and began running it along Frodo’s arms and shoulders, in his underarms and the insides of his elbows.
“So,” Sam said at length. “Why didn’t you call for me?”
Frodo cracked an eye. “You weren’t here. You were riding with Merry and Pippin to the waystation in Budgeford.”
Sam paused his washing, his face inscrutable. “Merry and Pippin left a week ago,” he said eventually, moving on to Frodo’s chest. “Don’t you remember sir? I told you I would be here this afternoon, so I could clean out the second larder.”
Frodo contemplated this. Yes, the details were returning now. He had tried to make Sam dinner, as a thank you for undertaking the restoration of the newly no longer abandoned Bag End. But the effort of cooking had worn him out, so Sam had settled him in the parlor for a rest.
“Oh,” said Frodo when the silence had stretched too long. “I suppose I forgot.”
Sam sighed and shook his head. “Lean forward,” he said, “so I can wash your back.”
-
Frodo didn’t watch as Sam lit the candles in his bedroom. He sat in the center of his bed, legs crossed, and fiddled with the collar of his new nightshirt. Though perhaps new wasn’t the right word. Pippin’s sister Pearl had sewn it for him over a year ago now, intending it as a gift at her most recent birthday. They’d still been marching eastward at the time of the celebration, but Pearl had held on to it, not believing her brother and cousins to be dead, only temporarily misplaced. Now Frodo was wearing it. A happy ending for somebody, at least.
“I’m going to comb your hair while it’s still damp,” said Sam, breaking into the meandering of Frodo’s thoughts. Frodo nodded and the mattress dipped as Sam clambered up. His hair was parted with a practiced hand, and dark curls slowly started to be gently detangled.
Frodo could feel Sam thinking behind him, but still managed to be startled when he spoke.
“Master,” said Sam, and by that Frodo knew he was nervous. “You need help.”
“I thought that’s what I paid you for Samwise,” said Frodo. The joke fell flat. Frodo didn’t need to see Sam to know that he was pursing his lips. “I’m alright.” His voice sounded weak even to his own ears.
“You aren’t,” said Sam. The comb tugged roughly on a stubborn snarl. Frodo winced. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“You aren’t alright,” Sam said again. “We’ve been home for over a month now. You don’t leave the smial, you go for days without sleep. Or you else you don’t leave your bed at all. You don’t eat what I cook you. And don’t lie and say you do. I’ve seen the food in the bin, I’ve seen it sir. And you forget things, and you won’t tell me what’s the matter, but it’s plain as day to anyone whose got eyes that you aren’t well. You just aren’t well, sir.”
Sam voice cracked on the last sir. Frodo looked over his shoulder in alarm, and found Sam silently crying, his hand over his mouth.
“Oh, Sam,” said Frodo, and flung his arms around Sam’s neck. “I’m so sorry Sam. I’m so sorry.” He kissed Sam’s cheek, his forehead. “Forgive me.”
Sam buried his face in Frodo’s shoulder, crumbling the thin linen of the nightshirt in his hands.
“It’s not your fault,” he gasped. “It’s not your fault. Lady knows none of this is your fault, my dearest. But I worry about you so much. I can’t hardly stand it, I worry so.”
“I know,” said Frodo, smoothing Sam’s honeyed curls under his palm. Tears were pricking in his eyes now. He blinked them away fiercely. “I’m so grateful for you, my Sam. I’m sorry. I love you.”
Sam pulled back, rubbing at his eyes. “Don’t mind me,” he said.
“Sam.”
Sam put a finger over Frodo’s lips. “Hush now,” he said. “I’m tired out, and so are you. I’d like to see you get some sleep. We can talk more later. I was a fool for bringing this up now.”
He pulled back the coverlet, and Frodo dutifully crawled under. Sam made to rise. “You’re not staying?” Frodo asked, trying not to sound too dismayed.
Sam scoffed with hallmark Gamgee indignation. “You’d think I’d up and leave you after all that? That’s plain foolishness, and I don’t think you’ll mind my saying so sir.”
Frodo smiled wanly. “I thought you might have had enough of me.”
Sam softened. He gazed down at Frodo. Sam had beautiful eyes, thought Frodo, but they were so sad.
“I’m going to dash down to the Gaffers to let him know where I’ll be,” he said soothingly. “And I’ll need to bank the fires. Just you lie quiet. I’ll be back.”
-
Frodo was already half-asleep when Sam returned. He watched through half-lidded eyes as Sam opened the door slowly, and carefully stepped over the creaking floorboard. He tip-toed around the room, blowing out the candles one by one, before shucking off his day clothes and aiming for the bed.
“Sam,” murmured Frodo into the darkness. “Can you open the window please?”
If Sam was surprised to find Frodo still awake, he made no sign. “It’s a nice night.”
The sweet evening breeze rustled the curtains as Sam crawled into bed and encircled Frodo in his arms.
“Daisy has an extra room in her new hole,” whispered Sam. “She said she could talk to the Gaffer about his moving in there.”
“Hm?”
“Then I could stay here. Permanent-like.”
Frodo sighed. “I’d like that.”
“Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Alright. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
“Mm.”
Sam’s breath on the back of Frodo’s neck slowed. A few minutes later the snores began. Frodo shifted in his embrace so he could keep watch of the window. The wind was coming from the west.