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Frodo rolled over for what seemed the tenth time tonight. He opened his tired eyes and looked around him.
“Why am I unable to sleep?” he asked the empty room.
He let out an exhausted sigh and closed his heavy eyelids. He was on the verge of sleep when he felt it; a simple little itch at the base of his neck. He reached back to brush away what he thought was a stray hair and was rewarded with a sharp stinging pain.
“Ouch!” Frodo exclaimed as he quickly pulled his hand away. ‘I must have been bitten by a bug,’ he thought to himself. “A beetle or a wasp or a spi….”
Frodo felt the blood drain from his face and his hands started shaking.
“Shelob!”
Frodo mouthed the word, afraid to say it out loud.
His mind started to swim with the nightmarish images that this memory brought to him since he, Sam, Merry and Pippin returned to the Shire.
There was a time when Frodo loved the springtime in the Shire. The grass would start to turn from brown to green. Trees awakened to bird song and sprouted new leaves. The young lads and lasses seemed to come out of a stupor and find more energy. Even the flower beds sprang alive and birthed a glorious vision of color.
But there was no joy for him any longer. The colors had faded to various shades of gray and now, in the early hours of dawn, Frodo was caught in a cold, damp darkness. He could feel the webs catching in his hair and on his skin. He could smell the awful stench that was still beyond description. And to his utter horror Frodo could see the giant spider advancing on him from the darkest recesses of his room.
From somewhere in the distance Frodo heard someone screaming. He knew the feeling of despair that scream portrayed. It wasn’t until he took a deep shuddering breath that Frodo realized that the person he heard screaming was himself.
He closed his eyes and willed his racing heart beat to slow and took deep calming breaths. “It’s not real. I am safe in Bag End in my own bed,” he chastised himself. Frodo opened his eyes again and saw the familiar surroundings of his room.
Frodo sat up slowly, the pain in his neck had settled down to a dull throb but it had spread to his head and he realized he was extremely thirsty. With trembling hands, Frodo reached out to grasp the glass of water he always kept on his nightstand. To his dismay he knocked the glass over spilling its contents onto the floor.
‘Sam will not be happy to see that mess’ Frodo thought. ‘I should at least wipe it up.’
As he swung his feet over the side of the bed a dizzy spell hit. The room blurred and began to spin around him. He reached out to grab something to steady himself, but there was nothing there.
Frodo hit the floor hard -- the breath rushing from his lungs in a loud grunt. He lay on the cold hard floor panting, unable to move or catch his breath. What energy he had quickly drained from his body.
“Sam, Sam I need you,” Frodo whispered between gasps. But Sam wasn’t there. He was in his own Smial with Rosie.
Soon Frodo felt his breathing slow and some strength return to his limbs. He painfully pushed himself up into a sitting position with his back leaning against the bed. Even this little effort brought on a wave of dizziness and Frodo’s stomach rolled with it. He closed his eyes and willed his stomach to calm. He’d not had much to eat for supper and he didn’t want to lose what little might remain.
“I’ll never be able to get back into bed!” Frodo cried. Then he shivered as he broke out into a cold sweat. “So cold.” Frodo reached over, grabbed the corner of the comforter and dragged it off the bed and over him. He lay on the floor and curled into a fetal position.
Sam walked toward Bag End through the fields as he always did. It was still early, just after dawn. The birds were just waking up and starting to welcome the new day with song. The dew that covered the grass and flowers felt cool and soothing on his feet.
He entered Bag End through the back door. He always did this so as not to disturb his master with any undo noise. As he closed the door and removed his coat a cold chill slithered down his spine. Sam shivered and turned around slowly expecting to see orcs lurking in the corners of the room.
“Sam you ninny,” he chastised himself. “The orcs are all gone and that’s a fact so stop imagining things and get to making Mr. Frodo’s breakfast!” With that said Sam quickly stoked up the fire and set water to boil for the tea. He went to the larder and pulled out some bacon and eggs. When he placed these on the counter he was again assaulted by a cold chill. “Something isn’t right,” said a small voice inside his head. Sam had learned to never ignore that voice as he immediately made his way to Frodo’s bedroom.
Not wanting to just barge right in and scare his master, Sam quietly approached the door and knocked softly.
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam said half in whisper. He waited for a response, but none came. He knocked a little louder. “Mr. Frodo it’s Sam, are you awake?” Sam waited and listened again. This time he heard a distinct moan.
Alarmed, Sam opened the door and was shocked by what he saw. His master was on the floor, curled into a tight ball and seemingly in the thrones of a nightmare.
“Frodo!” he called out in fear. He ran to his beloved friend and knelt beside him. “Are you hurt? What happened?” He asked as he carefully untangled Frodo from the comforter.
Frodo slowly opened his eyes and looked fearfully at Sam. “Don’t let it get me, save me Sam!” he cried as he clutched Sam’s arm for dear life.
“What Mr. Frodo, don’t let what get you?” Sam asked as tears filled his eyes. “You’re safe at home, Mr. Frodo. There’s nothing here. No one’s going to hurt you.” He carefully lifted Frodo’s trembling body off the floor and laid him in the bed.
Frodo looked around the room wildly. “It’s here Sam. I know it is! I can smell its awful stench! I can feel its webs on my skin!”
Sam quickly placed his hands on either side of Frodo’s sweat soaked face and forced Frodo to look at him. “Frodo that monster is dead. I killed it,” Sam said, frantically trying to snap his master out of the nightmare he was seemingly lost in.
Frodo’s eyes closed and he seemed to relax as he recognized that Sam was right. “Oh Sam, it was awful! I couldn’t sleep, then I spilled the water and when I tried to clean it up, I fell and I couldn’t get up.” The words rushed from Frodo’s lips all at once. Frodo looked at Sam sadly. “I needed you Sam.” He said as his eyes lost their focus and Frodo slipped into a restless sleep.
“I’m here Mr. Frodo, I’m here,” Sam whispered as he covered Frodo with the comforter. “Don’t you worry none, your Sam will take care of you.”
Sam left the room and returned shortly with a bowl of cool water and a clean rag. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to wipe Frodo’s fever flushed face with it. Each time Sam dipped the cloth into the bowl his own despair grew. It wasn’t fair! His master had destroyed that blasted ring. The lands had been granted a new peace. Why couldn’t Frodo share that peace? Why must he continue to suffer?
“Why?” Sam whispered quietly as a tear fell from his face and splashed delicately on Frodo’s comforter. “I would take this doom from you if I could Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo whimpered softly and pulled the comforter closer around himself. He could feel the poison burning inside him. It coursed through his veins like boiling oil. “Sam!” Frodo whispered hoarsely. “The pain…make it stop!”
Sam gently wiped the sweat from Frodo’s face then placed the cloth into the bowl. “I’ll be right back Mr. Frodo. I’m just going to get some healing herbs for you. Don’t worry. Naught will happen to you.” With that Sam slowly rose and quietly left the room.
As soon as Sam left, Frodo let out a soft moan and rolled onto his right side. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take. Each time the illness took him, it seemed to get worse. He didn’t know if he was getting weaker or if the illness was getting stronger. Either way Frodo felt as if he would surely die this time. In fact he could feel his body dying cell by cell as the poison advanced on its relentless death march.
When Sam returned with the herbs and hot water, he found Frodo curled up in a fetal position moaning softly. He set the tray on a table and placed his hand gently on Frodo’s shoulder.
“Mr. Frodo, I’m back,” he said quietly.
A soft moan was Frodo’s only answer.
Sam slowly rolled Frodo onto his back and propped him up on pillows. “There you are Mr. Frodo,” he whispered. “All comfy.”
Frodo opened his eyes briefly. “Sam…” he stated, but then lost his thought. He closed his eyes again and tried to fight the sick feeling.
Sam quickly mixed the herbs into a tea, sweetened with a bit of honey and held up the cup to Frodo’s lips. “Drink this Mr. Frodo. It will help.”
“No Sam. It won’t help this time,” Frodo said without opening his eyes. “The poison is stronger this time…” he finished weakly.
“Mr. Frodo,” Sam stated. “Don’t go talking like that. You know it’s not true. Now drink this tea and you’ll feel better.” Sam lifted the cup to Frodo’s lips again and smiled when Frodo drank the tea.
“Wonderful,” Sam said as he helped Frodo lay down and tucked him in. “You get some rest and don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of what needs doing today.” Sam got up to leave, but stopped when Frodo reached up and took his hand.
“Thank you Sam,” he said. Sam smiled and nodded then turned toward the door and left the room.
Frodo closed his eyes, grateful for Sam’s help and fell into an uneasy sleep. He suddenly found himself back in Shelob’s lair. He was stumbling in the dark, trying not to trip over the many bones scattered around, desperately swiping at the cob webs to keep them out of his eyes and nose.
“Sam! Sam where are you!” Frodo cried out in a panic. He looked around frantically. “SAM!”
Sam ran into Frodo’s room having heard the screams. He found Frodo sitting up in bed his eyes were wide open, but he didn’t seem to see Sam. He had never seen his master this way before.
Frodo looked like a wild animal caught in a trap.
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked timidly.
Frodo shivered and looked around as if coming out of a daze. “Oh Sam!” he cried. “The nightmares are getting worse.” Then Frodo broke down and sobbed.
Sam’s fear melted away as he climbed into the bed and took Frodo’s shaking body into his arms. “It’s all right, Mr. Frodo. I’m here and I’m not about to leave you. Ole Samwise will help you through this.” Sam rocked Frodo and shushed his sobs as if he were a lad of 6 years. “I have you Frodo, you just try to get some sleep and I’ll keep watch.” Sam knew from the past few years that these illnesses took Frodo back to the quest and nothing could be done, but to support him through it.
When his sobs subsided, Frodo was immediately embarrassed. He straightened himself up and wiped his tear soaked face on the sleeve of his nightshirt. “Forgive me Sam, I’m acting like a wee lad,” Frodo said sounding more like himself.
“There’s naught to be sorry for Mr. Frodo,” Sam said crawling out of the bed. “Now, how about a bite to eat?”
“No thank you, Sam, I’m not hungry,” Frodo replied, ignoring the hollow feeling in his stomach.
“But sir, it’s almost dinner! You’ve missed first and second breakfast and elvenses!” Sam protested, giving Frodo a look of such sadness that Frodo reached out and stroked Sam’s cheek.
“All right Sam, I’ll eat something,” he relented. “But…nothing too heavy, I’m not sure I can keep much down.”
“Now that’s more like it!” Sam said brightly. “I’ll be right back Mr. Frodo.” He went into the kitchen and started to prepare something for Frodo.
“I think ginger tea would help settle Mr. Frodo’s stomach and perhaps a little fruit spread on short cakes. That should help him along. Oh! Some cheese wouldn’t hurt neither,” Sam said to himself as he gathered everything together. He whistled happily as he prepared the small meal.
Sam placed everything on a tray and carried it back into the room. He found Frodo leaning against the headboard supported by his pillows with his eyes closed. Sam cleared his throat and Frodo opened his eyes. “I have your dinner Mr. Frodo,” Sam stated lightly.
Frodo smiled as Sam set the tray on his lap. “It looks delicious Sam,” Frodo said, taking a sip of the tea. “Thank you.”
Sam blushed. “No need to thank me sir. I enjoy doing for you.” He went to the window and opened up the drapes. “It’s a beautiful day out. Mind if I open the windows?”
“That would be nice Sam. It is a bit stuffy in here,” Frodo replied.
As Sam opened the window a gentle breeze swept into the room carrying with it the fresh smell of spring. “Oh, look Mr. Frodo!” Sam exclaimed, pointing out the window. “Daffodil’s sir! The first ones of the season.”
Frodo smiled. “Daffodils,” he said almost too softly to be heard. “The promise of renewal and better things to come.” He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and sighed. He had lived through another illness.
The End