CHAPTER 2

At the table he crumbled the desiccated loralya leaves in to the tea pot, marvelling at how they had dried almost to dust within only a few days. As he leaned across the wide wooden table to retrieve the tea strainer in its dish the Lady Arwen's jewel escaped the neck of his night shirt and pinged against the china rim of the pot. Startled by the sound, he captured it in the inadequate grasp of his right hand and sat down slowly.

How could he have forgotten it? The crystal tingled in his clenched fist and warmth trickled in to his body and soul, causing him to close his eyes in relief. Even as he did so, however, the cold darkness returned as he recollected another chain, bearing another talisman and his eyes flew open; fleeing from the crimson flames searing his memory. He let the jewel drop and retrieved the kettle, pouring hot water into the tea pot and watching the fragments of loralya swirl as he stirred. Frodo sat down again to wait, absently slipping the chain and jewel back within the confines of his nightshirt. The crystal felt cold against his breast.

Outside, an owl hooted, sailing by on silent wings, searching for prey. The candle gave only a small pool of light and beyond the obsidian glass of the window panes the garden lay still and empty. Frost edged each leaf and set in an icy tomb any flower buds still daring to bring colour and fragrance. All was quiet. Each hobbit was wrapped in cosy dreams of breakfast and bright conversation around their kitchen ranges. And here he sat among the tattered wraiths of his life.

Did they know the price that had been paid for their cosy dreams and untroubled lives? If they learned the cost would their lives remain cosy? Sam, Merry and Pippin knew, of course, but they had not borne the burden so closely. It had not insinuated itself in to their hearts, wrapped itself around their souls, like the loralya vine around a tree, and strangled their dreams. His hand reached out to the teapot and he set the strainer atop the cup. The tea was a pale greyish green, the fragments caught in the strainer almost black. The smell was sweet, with a slightly sharp edge. He set the strainer back in its dish and sat, staring at the cup.

Could he do it? How could he not? There was no point to the existence he was leading. Arwen and Elrond had suggested that he could leave Middle Earth and perhaps find healing in the Undying Lands. Elrond had said that he and Bilbo would be leaving at around the time of the old hobbit's birthday. That would be soon, now. That's what he had been telling himself for months: soon. But the days had dragged on and the nights had become longer. Soon was no longer soon enough. He could not face another night. And what if he did not find healing in the Undying Lands? Neither Arwen nor Elrond had made any promises. They had only suggested it as an option.

Frodo watched in fascination as his left hand picked up the cup and brought it to his lips. Memory came of the bitter concoctions pressed upon him by Elrond when he had been recovering from the morgul blade. Would he be able to swallow it? He took a careful sip. It was sweet and light, pleasant on his tongue. A smile touched the hobbit's lips. So much tragedy wrapped up in such sweetness. So much pain wrapped up in a simple band of gold.

He was startled by the distant wail of a baby. Elanor. What if Rosie came to the kitchen to fetch her something? Frodo waited, his ears straining to every sound. For a few minutes he heard the muffled melody of a woman's voice, singing softly and the wails gradually subsided until hers was the only sound. Then there was silence. Frodo relaxed and concentrated on draining his cup. The liquid was hot, however, and he could not be bothered to get up and add some cold water to it, so he sipped, slowly, blowing away the steam.

He had forgotten how quietly Rosie could move about the smail and he had only half emptied the cup when she stumbled sleepily into the room.

"Hello, Mr Frodo. Couldn't you sleep?" She smiled at him, blearily surveying the table and turning to the settle for a mug.

Frodo's heart flopped around in his chest. "No, Rosie. I got up to make a cup of tea and I was just about to take it back to bed with me." He made to stand and watched in horror as she lifted the tea pot, judging the contents still warm enough, and poured herself a mug. For a moment he was frozen, then, as she raised it to her lips, he whipped his hand across the table and dashed the mug from her, the force of his blow sending it half way across the room, to shatter on the tiled floor.

Rosie cried out and leaped back in surprise, her emotions telling her that she had just been attacked by her friend. After a moment, however, her surprise turned to confusion. Fully awake now, she was no fool and her mind began to piece together the evidence before her.

Frodo was standing at the other side of the table, his hands guarding a mug. His face was pale and haggard, as it had been for many weeks now. There was a small opened packet on the table and a couple of heart shaped leaves had slipped out of it. She had lived on a farm long enough to recognise the shape. Many summers had been spent, as a girl, helping her father and brothers to strip the vine from trees before the cattle could get at it.

Like a startled coney, Frodo stood still as she walked around the table, holding his eyes all the while. Keeping her voice low and her movements slow she came to stand before him, reaching out and retrieving the mug from his now unresisting fingers. Rosie lifted it to her nose and sniffed, her eyes widening as she recognised the sweet smell.

"What have you done, Mr Frodo?" When he did not reply, she set the cup down and pushed his shoulders, forcing him gently on to the bench. "Mr Frodo, how many leaves did you use?" She shook him gently when he did not reply. His eyes focussed on her.

"Please Rosie….Let me go. I can't take any more." Tears began to well, threatening to spill down his alabaster face. Fighting back her own tears, Rosie gave the only reply she could.

"I can't let you go, Mr Frodo, because wherever you go, my Sam will follow and I won't let that happen." Frodo let out a low moan and dropped his head but she would not leave him. Kneeling before him, she took his face in her hands and forced him to look at her.

"How many leaves did you use?" Her face felt hot and yet, inside, she felt as though she had swallowed a bucket of ice water and she was amazed at how calm her voice sounded. He seemed to take an eternity to answer and Rosie's fear began to rise as she saw the powerful herb begin to take effect, his pupils growing wider and his body beginning to sag. His voice was barely a whisper,

"Three." Relieved that he was communicating, she tried again. "Three in a pot and you've drunk…what?…half a cup?"

The reply came more quickly this time. "Yes".

Rosie stood. She had helped her mother attend a neighbour's girl who had tried this some years ago but she had thought never to have to go through this trauma again. Running to the pantry for a pot of mustard, she collected a large basin and a mug and returned to a now swaying Frodo. From the kettle she added hot water to a spoonful of mustard and stirred it furiously. She set the bowl on the table and turned him to face it, putting the cup to his lips.

"Swallow, Mr Frodo." She tipped a little in to his mouth and he pulled away, spitting and gasping. Rosie was as stubborn as her husband, however. With a strength born of desperation she stood behind him, pulling his head back against her breast and pouring half the cup into his open mouth. Then she pinched his nose and covered his mouth until he was forced to swallow.

Within moments he began to retch, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl. Rosie held his head and tried to comfort him. "It's alright, Mr Frodo…It'll be over soon…..Sam and Rosie will look after you…Don't you fret." When he had finished she wiped his face with a damp cloth and laid his head upon the table. Then she bolted down the hall, tears rolling down her face, yelling for Sam and not caring if she woke Elanor in the process.