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He hadn’t left his bed in a week now. He remained captive in the hold of a fever, mostly sleeping; waking when nightmares called fit.
Long stretches of sickness now stole summer days. Even the smallest of things would make Frodo ill, these days.
Just days ago, he’d been up on his feet, smiling; sitting at his writing desk. He’d written a little poem for Sam, between slaving away at the pages of his book.
Then the rain came. Sam had warned him not to leave the house- for he would become ill. Yet he failed to listen.
“Sir, you’re not well. Please,” Sam pleaded. He held a balm in his hand, set in a small glass jar- a treatment for the many scars that lay upon Frodo’s body, “Let me care for you.”
Frodo whimpered, half-asleep; his body exhausted.
“I know,” Sam let out a breathy sigh. “I know.”
He perched himself on the edge of the bed and waited for Frodo to turn himself over to look at Sam.
“I’m sorry,” the smaller hobbit whispered.
“Don’t apologise, sir. You need to be cared for.”
Slowly, Frodo shuffled himself over. He’d grown pale yet again; his body weak and worn from sickness.
“Oh, Mister Frodo.” Sam’s face fell. “My poor thing.”
He took his master’s hand. He squeezed it tightly in response.
“I want my Sam,” Frodo replied, weakly. “Where has he gone?”
Sam shuffled himself onto the bed, rolling onto the pillow beside Frodo, who was now so small beside him. “Your Sam is here, my love.”
“The ring hurts me,” he cried. “It pains me awfully.”
He often got so feverish that he could not grasp that Sam was right beside him, usually rocking him gently in his arms, shushing him to sleep.
“The ring has gone, sir. It’s just us now. Me, you, and Rosie. Isn’t that lovely?” he whispered, pleadingly. “And we’re all happy. And it’s all okay. We’re okay, Frodo.”
He held Frodo with great care, stroking his curls, which had become slightly tangled with neglect.
“Please don’t hurt Sam,” he muttered, quietly. “My Sam.”
But Sam could not respond. He just squeezed his body tight and wished for the torment of his fever to leave him at once.
“Your Sam is here, and he loves you so very much.”
Frodo’s head sank into Sam’s chest. He slowly closed his eyes in defeat.
“Oh, bless you.” Sam kissed the top of his head, softly. “I have to put this on now. It won’t do you no harm, sir.”
He opened the balm in his hands and rubbed it into the tips of his fingers.
Sam always found it difficult to care for his fellow hobbit’s scars, despite having done it so very many times when he’d been sick. Frodo would no longer move when told. Sam would have to pick him up gently from the bed, holding his body close, struggling to reach certain areas of his tender body as he slowly tried to apply a multitude of salves and ointments to each and every scar.
Some worked well, although the effects of others faded over time, leaving Sam to return to other herbal remedies to scour through.
It was a weight he initially struggled to grapple with; an infinite loop of trying to help him, but to no avail. But he would do it forever if he had to, if it meant his fair Frodo would feel any sort of peace.
“You poor little lamb,” he said, Frodo’s head tucked into his chest, the skin of his limp body pressing up against him. “I’m not going to hurt you now, my love.”
His supple fingers rubbed gently into old wounds. He whispered as he did so, calming his love down, although he was not lucid enough to hear.
It was normal for Frodo to be ill these days. Sam had become consistently prepared for any bout of sickness that may arrive without warning; every spell of cold weather that could make him unwell.
The pantry was full of rich, fulfilling foods, for days of starvation and nausea called for nutrition and heartiness. There were bandages in the bathroom, for those wretched old wounds, which wouldn’t stop reappearing- red-raw like the day they had been carved; when they hurt so much that Frodo wished to conceal them. There were poultices and herbal remedies made from plants Sam had grown in the garden, all stacked up in the beside drawer. Medicinal herbs now had their own patch of land in the gardens of Bag End. Sam found he tended to them more often than his other plants.
However, most of all, Sam was there to bring his love.
-
Sam drew a hot compress to Frodo’s forehead, in the hopes that he would sweat out the fever. He had drifted off some time ago, and Sam had taken to kneeling on the floor beside the bed.
“There, there, my sweet thing,” he said, feigning a gentle smile. “You’ll sleep it off in no time.”
Frodo had been tucked in gently, his body too tired to writhe and thrash in agony. He simply lay quietly, his head pounding; his throat strewn with what felt like broken glass, while Sam sat watching him with great pity.
From time to time, he’d groan and mumble in his sleep- muddled nonsense about the ring, or about how much pain he was in. Sam would simply stroke his brow and ease him softly.
“You’re okay, my dear,” he’d utter. “I’m looking after you now. I won’t let none of those horrible dreams get to you.”
From time to time, he would hold his hand and kiss it, tenderly. Frodo would sometimes twitch and jolt in response.
It took great patience to tend to his love’s sickness, which would take up so much of his days at times. It was as if Sam had become a healer, in a way, based on how often he had looked after Frodo.
“You’ll be back on your feet soon. Up chatting and eating and doing your writing again. Maybe we could try going out, once it gets sunnier? I know you aren’t too fond of leaving the house, but it might do you some good.”
-
Frodo awoke briefly by the early evening, his fever beginning to fade.
He looked around. He felt the great pain in his neck as he turned his head, each muscle of his body tense and aching.
He found himself alone, his shirt removed from his body, now folded upon the dresser. A wet rag sat scrunched on the pillow next to him, having fallen off as he rolled over in his sleep.
Nausea chewed away at his stomach, although nothing like it had earlier in the day. His migraine had dulled, yet its uncomfortable buzzing remained in his head.
And yet, he was alone, and so tucked himself into bed once more, and drifted off to sleep.
He awoke once again wrapped in Sam’s arms, disoriented.
“My poor Frodo,” Sam whispered, not yet aware of his wakefulness. “What are we going to do with you, hey? You’re only a delicate thing.”
Frodo’s throat cracked upon trying to speak. It hurt to talk. A great thirst overcame him.
“Sam?”
“Oh!” Sam replied, a little startled. “Good evening, darling.”
“Water, please,” he muttered, too vulnerable for his own liking.
Sam, ever prepared as he was, reached over to the bedside table, and handed Frodo a mug of water.
It was received by a pair of shaking hands, grabbing it tightly with both, so as to refrain from spilling it.
“Small sips, remember?” Sam replied. “Too much’ll make you nauseous, my love.”
Frodo quietly drank, taking in as little as he could, despite his thirst. He was thankful for anything he was able to stomach, at the moment.
“What time is it, Sam?” He asked, weakly.
Sam looked out the window. It had grown pitch black since Frodo had last woken up.
“Around midnight, sir,” he replied. “I had to put you to bed. You got yourself all frightened.”
Frodo looked up at Sam. “How so?”
“A lot of mumbling, dear. Of the ring. Of me. Of how scared you were.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Frodo.” He stroked his head. “I wish this’d end for you.”