I don't own these characters and the background events to my story. They belong to JRR Tolkien, although if he could see what I had done with them he would probably put as much distance between them and himself as he possibly could.

I'm not going to put the usual disclaimers in about not using any healing methods I describe upon yourself because if you're in Frodo's condition you are in real bother. If male pregnancy bothers you please don't read this. Flames will be used to boil water and warm fluffy towels.

BEYOND ALL TOWERS.

Chapter 1

Frodo lowered himself into the warm water with a soft sigh, which switched to a giggle as he remembered the last time he had sighed. It had been just after second breakfast this morning and three concerned faces had turned in his direction at once, followed by a chorus of, "Are you alright, Frodo?"

He had laughed then, too. "I am perfectly well. You three are like broody hens. I'm not in pain and I'm not tired. I'm just pleasantly full. That was an excellent breakfast."

His three friends had joined him in his laughter then, faces clearly showing their relief.

Leaning his head against the towel, folded as a pillow across the back of the tub, Frodo closed his eyes, luxuriating in the comfort of warm water almost up to his shoulders. He did not know where they had found such a tub in Ithilien and he did not care. Pulling in a deep breath he filled his head with the scent of lavender. Aragorn had said that the oil would help to relax him. A small smile tugged at the corners of Frodo's lips again. If he were any more relaxed at the moment he would melt into a puddle and be indistinguishable from the bath water.

He would disappear.

Blue eyes flew open in alarm and then screwed shut again as Frodo pushed the memories down. It was gone . . . destroyed . . . and for the moment he did not want to look at the images from the last few months.

What was it Sam had said? "Try and think of a memory of a happier day, Mr Frodo."

A tear slid down his cheek. What memories? They had all been buried at best and torn away at worst. Those that he still had seemed to belong to another Frodo Baggins. It was like a play in which he was now the audience, rather than the player. He could not even remember when Sam had said that. When was it?

Frodo delved through the events of the past few months, trying to focus upon Sam's words . . . Sam's voice.

00000

Lying on his back, Frodo shut his eyes against the sun, filtering through the bracken above him. He was tired . . . more tired than he could ever remember having been in his life. He tried to remember a time when he had been even half as tired as this and rolled onto his side with a groan, trying to push away the wheel of flame that filled his mind. Not only had this thing stolen his future, but it was now plundering his past. He had become a creature existing only in this moment, hemmed in by a circle of fire that severed him from friends, future, past, love. His hand was caught up gently and Sam's voice cut through the hiss and crackle of the fire that was turning his soul to ashes.

"What's the matter? Are you hurting? Can I do anything for you?"

Poor Sam. He tried so hard to support his master, but Frodo knew now, all too well, the truth of the Lady's words. "To be a Ringbearer is to be alone." Strange that he could remember her speaking those words but could not recall the timbre of Bilbo's voice. It seemed that the Ring burned away anything that could bring him comfort . . . leaving him only despair and fear. Frodo's own voice was cracked and dry. The quest had robbed him even of that.

"The Ring fills my mind now, Sam. When I close my eyes it is all I see. Talk to me. Help me to push it away . . . please." He curled up on his side, eyes still firmly closed.

"Try and think of a memory of a happier day, Mr Frodo."

From somewhere the Ringbearer dredged up a ghostly imitation of a laugh. "I have no memories, Sam. It has taken them all. I cannot even take refuge in the knowledge that I am doing this to protect the Shire because I can no longer remember what the Shire was like."

Sam sat at Frodo's side and stroked the hand resting limply in his.

"Green, Mr Frodo. The Shire is green and filled with life. The plants push their roots into the rich dark earth and meadows strewn with wild flowers fill the air with a perfume so strong in the spring that it can make your head spin. And the folk have their roots in the earth too. They share the land and they share the love of it." The young hobbit's voice grew dreamy. "Do you remember Rose Cotton?"

Frodo opened curious eyes and was surprised to find Sam's gaze distant, his lips bowed in a small smile. He lay still a moment and his friend continued, not even aware that Frodo was watching him.

"She's got hair the colour of ripe wheat and cheeks that would put a peach to shame. Her lips are the colour of a fresh cut strawberry and just as sweet. And when she dances . . ."

Frodo sat up, placing himself in front of Sam's face, and the hazel eyes focussed upon his master's concerned features.

"Sam . . . Do you and Rose have an understanding?" he asked, quietly.

Sam blushed and looked down at their joined hands. "There weren't nothing formal. There wasn't hardly time, but she said she'd wait for me."

"Oh Sam." Frodo tried to hold back the tears he could feel gathering in his eyes. "Why didn't you tell me? I would not have let you come with me if I'd known."

"And that's why I didn't say nothing," Sam replied firmly, meeting his master's blue eyes unflinchingly. "You need me and I made my promise to Gandalf before ever Rosie spoke up. I keep my promises, Mr Frodo. My family don't have much in the way of possessions to take a pride in but we learned to take a pride in ourselves instead. When a Gamgee gives his word there's no going back on it. And Rosie said as she was willing to wait for me until I saw the job done."

Wait for him? Frodo threw himself back down and clenched shut his eyes, too exhausted to argue. His dearest friend in the world had sacrificed his love and his future to care for him. Could he not see that there would be no going back from this journey? Rose Cotton would sit at her window, waiting to see her love stride down the lane . . . but he would never come. There would be only a pile of bone and homespun on some ash heap in Mordor.

Frodo had known that all chance of having a family of his own had disappeared when he took on this burden. There had been lasses a plenty interested in him in the Shire, and not just because he was the Master of Bag End and heir to Bilbo's fortune. But Frodo had always considered that there would be time for such things. Now time had run out and that future had been seared away. There would be no Mistress Baggins and no little Frodo lad. He had accepted it, even if he did not like it.

When Sam had made the decision to follow him at the river he had even come to uneasy terms with the thought that there would be no Sam lad either . . . no-one to carry on Sam's loyal and loving line into the next generation. But he had never considered that there may be a lass back in the Shire, waiting for her husband to be . . . had not considered that Sam too, had consciously made that decision.

How many more people would be hurt in seeing him through this quest?

First Gandalf . . . and then Boromir . . . his sanity in tatters . . . and what of the others? Merry and Pippin, Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn.

00000

Frodo pulled himself back to the present. They had all survived, except poor Boromir. He would not consider it any further today. The pain of memory was still too raw.

The bath water was cooling and he fished around for soap and cloth, working up a good lather before washing himself. It felt so good to be clean again. He and Sam had been bathed while they lay unconscious and it was wonderful to wake to that knowledge. But there was something comforting in being able to bathe himself. It was such an ordinary thing; a task that grounded him in life once more.

He winced as the soapy cloth slipped over his pectoral muscles, finding soreness there, and looked down. The light filtering through the tent was tinged with green from the colour of the canvas but, even so, Frodo was surprised to see the dusky ring surrounding his nipples. His heart sank.

What was wrong now?

He had thought that when he awoke in that grove of beech trees his troubles were over but now he knew that his return to the world brought a whole new set of problems to be faced. The mental trauma was hard enough but his body kept betraying him still. He had fainted twice since that first day. Aragorn and the other healers had said it was to be expected. His injuries had been tended but he needed to regain his strength and that was the reason that his friends watched him so closely.

He sighed, and moved on to soap his arms. Perhaps the muscles of his chest were simply protesting at their abuse as he tried to breathe amongst the fiery outpourings of Mount Doom. He would ignore this new problem. Doubtless it would fade within a few days and was the least of his worries.