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“I looked after the daffodils today. They’re on the very verge of blossoming,” Sam whispered to a sleeping Frodo, wrapped tight in his arms. “I reckon I’ll pick some soon. Be nice on your bedside table, won’t they?”
He looked towards his lover’s face. He was sick again. The first anniversary of the wound from Shelob’s lair had closed itself upon him faster than he had realised it to be.
“So long as you don’t mind the smell of the flowers, sir. I know they can hurt your head. ‘Specially when you’re in such a bad way.”
Frodo had slept the day through. Several times he had woken up, only to vomit into the bed pan beside him, and fall back to sleep, in fits of cold sweat. Sam could only remain by his side, applying poultices and remedies to his scars every once in a while; checking his pulse; rubbing his back when his stomach took another turn.
His expression remained fixed- a constant frown upon his face, struggling through nightmares, Sam presumed.
“I thought that when you’re better, we could sit out in the garden. I have some vegetables to harvest, now that it’s spring and all. I’ve set your bench right in the shadiest spot I could find. Means we can see each other, and all.” He gave a weak smile, watching Frodo’s unchanging expression.
“I’ve got a new book that I’ve been meaning to show you, it’s-”
Sam stopped.
Frodo’s body fell limp.
“Darling?”
The sudden weight of his head grew heavy upon Sam’s arm. The smaller hobbit whimpered, quietly.
“Frodo?”
Frodo began to jolt. As he would if in a nightmare.
“Oh, my love, oh, darling,” Sam attempted to stroke his face, yet he could not hold it.
His body tensed. He seized, choking and whimpering between convulsions, writhing, thrashing beneath the bedsheets.
Sam clasped onto him, as hard as he could.
“Oh, dear. Wake up,” he begged, watching Frodo’s eyes, rolling to the back of his head. “Please, wake up, Mister Frodo.”
His body moved jaggedly. His head knocked back, his jaw suddenly clasping together and clenching his teeth. He lay taut against Sam’s forearm, which held him so close.
“I’m scared,” Sam sobbed. “Please wake up.” His body pressed up against Frodo’s, begging for remorse. He had found himself entirely beyond the depth of what he knew.
To his regret, he drew his hand upon his fevered face, hitting it softly with his palm, repeatedly on his cheek. His love did not respond.
“Frodo, please,” he begged, raising his voice. “You’re frightening me.”
Frodo mewled between unconscious fits, contorting his body to whichever way his feverish state pulled him.
“Darling, you’re going to hurt yourself.” He hated to shout at his poor thing.
Sam’s arms tightened around him. He still felt the movement of his body, violently fighting against some horrible force.
“Please stop. Please,” he pleaded, pressing his face into his chest, squeezing him as tight as he could. “What are you doing, Frodo-love?”
Soon, he began to slow down, and his movement ceased by the hold of fatigue. His head fell crookedly in Sam’s shoulder, his body sprawled across the bed.
“Frodo, my dear?” He cried, confused; terrified of what was happening to his love. “Can you hear me?”
There was no response. He struck a palm to his face once more, although trying not to hurt him.
“Can you hear me, sweetheart?”
Frodo whined, his eyes closing gently, his body falling limp once more. “Sam…” he whispered, so faint that Sam wasn’t sure he had truly heard it.
“Frodo?”
Nothing.
“Oh, Frodo-love?” Sam wept, to no avail.
Yet his dear hobbit seemed to resume sleep, although his expression lay blank; exhausted.
He bundled up his tender body in his arms, stroking his hair, hurriedly. His hands shook. The weight of his guilt lay heavy and thick, for he did not know how to help his poor dear.
“I’m sorry, my sweet. I’ll have to call for a healer,” Sam uttered, biting the dead skin on his lip. “You’re very sick.”
He felt a great, looming guilt weigh upon his shoulders.
They had only needed a healer just once before, upon their return home. Sam initially struggled to care for his Frodo. He hadn’t been told what to do, or how it should be done. He watched for hours, as a fair young hobbit tended to him. Sam asked questions, intently noting down each answer he was given, even if ambiguous or of no relevance.
Frodo, on the other hand, struggled. His poor body protested against the care of another. Although weak and seldom conscious, he knew the warmth of his husband’s rough hands against his skin. He’d cry out for him whilst deep in nightmares, constantly mumbling of the ring, wishing for his fair Sam to drive him away from it. He kicked and flailed, frightened of somebody else’s tender touch.
Yet Sam could only watch; to only study what was being given to him in order to heal.
He looked to Frodo’s gentle face. His cheek pressed up against his forearm. “I’ve not seen you this bad since…”
He bit his tongue, thinking of the morgul wound upon his shoulder; of the scar, engraved by Shelob’s harsh sting, which wrapped itself across his upper chest; of when he collapsed upon the tops of Mount Doom, barely clinging to life, Sam holding him in his arms, begging him to prevail.
“You’re very poorly, sir. I’m so sorry. I really must ask for help. I can’t look after you by myself.”
-
It was the early hours of the morning when Sam heard a knock upon the door of Bag End.
There, a dainty young hobbit stood, clutching a medicine bag in her hand, smattered with rain.
“You’re here for Frodo, aren’t you?” Sam asked, his pulse still raised.
“Where is he now?” She replied, nervously.
“He’s sleeping in bed, miss. He’s very tired.”
The healer rushed through the front door. Sam led her down the hall, to their room where Frodo lay quietly shivering, cocooned in the warmth of the bed.
“What’s happened?” She said, her brow knitted with concern.
“I was looking after him, you see,” Sam explained. “He’s not been so well these last few days. I got in bed next to him and took in my arms. He started shaking- thrashing around, like. I begged him to wake up, and he couldn’t. In this horrible trance, he was.”
He stood in the corner of the room, weakened by his inability to tend to his dear Frodo.
“He’s never been like this before.”
The healer knelt down beside the bed. “Frodo?” She beckoned. “My name is Rosie. I’m here to look after you.”
“He gets frightened, Miss. He doesn’t like it when other people try to touch him,” Sam cried. “He’s only a small thing, these days. I can’t imagine what his body is going through.”
Rosie gave an understanding nod. “You’ve done very well, Sam.”
She looked down at Frodo, only dainty beneath the bedsheets.
“Frodo, dear. What is the matter?” Rosie spoke so gently, as if to address him, although she turned to his husband, quivering in the corner.
“He was wounded around this time last year. This horrible creature hurt him. Paralysed him, she did.” Sam’s body shook upon recollection. His fists tightened, and his knuckles became as white as they were the day he held Frodo in his arms, begging him to wake up.
“He seems to get sick on these big anniversaries, mind you. It was one year since he was stabbed, a while ago. He got ill then, too.”
The healer attempted to take Frodo’s hand. She was met with a great jolt of his body, and a piercing cry of pain.
Sam rushed over to the other side of the bed, hurriedly. His eyes brimmed with tears, although he did not let them spill.
“I’m so sorry, Miss,” he spluttered. “He’s not an easy patient. He’s not been the same since we got home.”
She smiled, worriedly. “I understand. Poor, brave hobbit.”
They both looked down on him, watching him sleep. His gentle face shone in the candle light, glistening with sweat. He breathed heavily, fighting the pressure that built up in his weak chest.
Rosie tried once again to take his hand. Frodo scratched at her arm with dulled nails, and let out another sharp wail.
“Frodo, please, you must try your best to stay calm,” Sam begged. “She wants to help you. Please don’t hurt her.”
Rosie struggled for quite some time. Each touch was met with stubbornness; the flailing of limbs, and loud, troubled cries. Sam was not aware if Frodo knew of this consciously.
Sam fretted, now pacing silently around the bedroom and trying his very best to not intervene. He became increasingly more worried as time passed, watching the healer try to examine him, somehow without touching his body.
“Let me hold him, Miss Rosie. It might help you get through to him,” he finally spoke, to which she nodded.
He slid himself onto the bed quietly. The sheets had become stained with sweat and tears from both him and his dear hobbit.
“No, no. It’s okay. I’m looking after you now, Frodo,” he lied. “Just let me hold you.”
Sam scooped him up. He had become even lighter than he once was, since their return. Frodo whimpered, and his hand fell upon Sam’s shirt, balling it into a fist and clutching at the fabric.
“Shhhh, shhhh…” he ushered. “We’re only trying to help you, Frodo-love.”
At long last, Rosie delicately took his hand. He only groaned slightly, but finally submitted to defeat in his loving husband’s arms.
“There we go, Frodo. That’s all we needed, wasn’t it?” She laughed a hollow laugh. “You’re doing very well.”
She felt for his fever, and the scar from the wound, which had now become greyish in appearance, duly noting down information she had gathered. She tried her best to avoid delivering Sam a look of great worry.
Frodo’s head lay in the crook of his arm. He still struggled and whined, although he was no weight to his dear Sam, who looked on him with a sad smile.
As Rosie examined him, Sam sung under his breath, tracing his eyes across his pale white face, woefully feigning the joy he would usually hold when singing to his love.
After a while, Frodo began to settle.
“You said he was convulsing?”
Sam looked to his dear hobbit’s slack face, still trying to very hard not to burst into tears. “He was. Not for long, but he very well suffered,” he quivered. “Poor little love.”
“He feels very, very warm…” Rosie conferred. “And you’ve said he’s never done this before?”
He nodded, looking dishevelled with worry. “Never in his life, Miss Rosie.”
The healer gave a gentle sigh. “I believe the seizure could be down to his fever. Has he eaten, or had much to drink?”
“Not kept naught down since last night.” He leant down to his Frodo. “Haven’t had the stomach for it, have you, darling?”
“He’s probably very dehydrated, too, then. I can see he’s already been sick,” she explained.
“Will he be alright?” Sam fretted.
She smiled. “I think he will be okay. He’s very fatigued now. He needs all the sleep he’s getting. But I’ll have to make something to bring the fever down, so you can give it to him throughout the night.”
Rosie soon left the room, after explaining to Sam of Frodo’s condition. She took to the kitchen, preparing a herbal tea- one that could help him to sweat the fever out.
It was a relief to hear that it was likely a one-off situation. Merely a fault.
Sam remained on the bed. He held his love so tight.
“You’re so brave,” he sobbed, watching his unmoving face. “I hope you don’t ever think you deserve this, my dear Frodo.”
He brought his body in closer. Frodo groaned.
“It won’t always be this way, darling. You’ll get better. I promise.”
He sobbed, tears splashing onto his lover’s bed shirt. He did not stir. Sam could only hold him closer.