Rating: PG-13

Wordcount: 5,172 for this part

Chapter Summary: Frodo wallows in self-pity; Rosie tries to set him straight.


Rosie left for market with Rose-lass, Merry, and Pippin after breakfast. Sam sat with Frodo, who had been given his morning medicines and was now nibbling at his own breakfast, which consisted of small portions of what the family had eaten a short while earlier. "They always give me too much," Frodo said petulantly.

Sam eyed the dishes, then eyed Frodo. "If you can't eat more of the eggs or sausage, you could try the juice or the porridge," he suggested after a moment of silence. Frodo grimaced. "I hear you're telling more of the story today," he said to draw Frodo's attention away from the vexing problem of food.

Frodo nodded. "Yes." Any further response was interrupted when Tom burst in the room.

"Uncle Frodo, when do we get the story?" he asked eagerly, starting to climb up on the bed.

Sam gestured for him to get down. "Let him eat, lad."

Frodo chuckled. "Your Ma says we'll have the story this afternoon, after chores are done. Are your chores done yet?"

Tom looked at his father, then Frodo, and shook his head, looking down at his feet. "No."

"Go do your chores then, or you'll not get to hear the story," Frodo encouraged.

Tom nodded enthusiastically and scurried out of the room.

"We ought to have you tell a story every day, if it'll get them to do their chores quickly," Sam commented with a grin.

Frodo ate a bit more egg and smiled slightly. "I don't think I'd mind doing it." He sighed and put down his fork, picking up the glass of apple juice instead. "Do you still dream of it? What happened?" he nodded toward the Red Book on the bookshelf under the window.

"Aye, every now and again."

"I do sometimes. It often feels more real, somehow, than any of this." He gestured at himself and the room around him. He coughed and took a sip of juice.

"Are the dreams ever nightmares?" Sam asked curiously.

Frodo chuckled humorlessly. "I lived a nightmare those many years. The memories pale in comparison." He focused his attention on his juice, swallowing several large gulps as if to say he didn't want to talk about it anymore.

Sam regarded him seriously. "I've meant to ask for a long time . . . why did you end the Book like you did? Sailing away with the Elves . . . it certainly ain't true."

"No, it isn't true. More like a flight of fancy on my part. But come now, how would you have had me end it? 'Then Frodo lost his mind and the others wasted much of their lives trying to care for him'? Or, even better, 'Frodo tried to off himself and went mad'? What a satisfying ending!"

Sam stared at the bedclothes, deep in thought. He knew Frodo was being sarcastic, but he did have a point, and yet . . . "But the story hasn't ended. We're all still here."

Frodo laughed hollowly. "I wouldn't be, if it weren't for you."

Sam couldn't interpret Frodo's tone of voice to tell how that was meant, so he said nothing.

"I ended the story how I wished things might have happened," Frodo finally said wearily. "I never felt I belonged in the Shire after we came back. You, Merry, and Pippin got right back to life, but I couldn't. If I could have just left, you three would have lived your lives, perhaps sad that I left, but at least the memories of me wouldn't have been bad. But now . . . now I will be forever remembered as the mad hobbit raving in the back room." He gritted his teeth and looked for a moment like he was going to throw the empty glass, but he controlled himself and set it on the tray.

"No, you won't. We know that wasn't really you," Sam argued, rubbing the back of Frodo's hand.

Frodo jerked his hand away. "Your children don't. Frodo-lad only believes that the story is true because he saw my scars, but I'm not going to have the entire Shire trooping through here for show-and-tell just so they believe the Mayor that poor, dear Mr. Frodo really did what he claims. Not that they care to find out for sure, anyway." He pushed at the breakfast tray agitatedly. "Even worse, I have ruined your life. You should be happy with your family and being Mayor, not taking time away from those duties to tend an old, broken hobbit."

"I'm the one who decides whether my life has been ruined," Sam contradicted firmly. "I say it hasn't. Helping you is just as much a part of my life as being Mayor, if not more. I've known you far longer than I've been Mayor, after all."

"Yes, and you've done quite enough for me. Go spend your time where it might actually do some good," Frodo said heatedly.

Sam stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Your Gaffer was right to call you a ninnyhammer, Samwise Gamgee. Let me make my meaning plain: Get out. Leave me. I want to be alone!" With each successive phrase Frodo's voice rose in volume until he was nearly shrieking. When Sam still didn't move, he flung the tray on the floor with a loud clatter. "Out!" he commanded.

Sam leapt to his feet at the sound of the tray crashing to the floor. "Will you let me clean that up first?" he asked evenly.

"No!" Frodo took a deep breath to try to calm himself, feeling a cough coming on but unwilling to give Sam a reason to stay a moment longer. "Please leave," he asked again, and turned his back to Sam.

He did leave then, aghast at Frodo's abrupt change of mood. He closed the door softly, and sank down to sit against it, listening in vain for any sound from Frodo. Frodo-lad came to see what the noise was about and offered to sit with Mr. Frodo, but Sam wouldn't allow it. "He said he wanted to be alone, so we're going to leave him alone for now. When your ma gets home, tell her to come find me. I'll be right here."

When the door closed, Frodo shakily pushed himself up from the pillows and leaned over the edge of the bed to see the damage he caused. The porridge was slowly oozing onto the floor, and it looked like he'd shattered the juice glass. He sighed, holding back a cough, and climbed down to clean up his mess. He managed to right the tray and put the intact dishes back on it before he started weeping and coughing wretchedly.

Rosie hurried to Frodo's room when Frodo-lad relayed Sam's message, and found Sam hunched against the bedroom door, his eyes red. She knelt beside him and held his face gently. "What happened?" Sam told her of the conversation and Frodo's sudden violence. "Do you think he was out of his head again?" She asked after several moments' thought.

"Nay, he knew exactly what he were saying," Sam said bitterly.

Rosie kissed his forehead. "I'll try to talk to him. Remind me later to tell you what happened with the healer."

Sam nodded morosely and slowly got up from the floor. "I'm gettin' too old to sit on the floor so," he muttered.

"You could have gone to fetch a chair, you silly goose."

Sam mumbled something to the effect of 'didn't want to leave 'im,' and retreated down the hallway. Rosie knocked on the door gently, then opened it a crack. "Mr. Frodo, I'm coming in." There was no protest that she could hear, so she slipped into the room and closed the door firmly behind her.

She was momentarily startled to find the bed was empty. "Are you hiding, Mr. Frodo?" she asked as she peeked under the bed. No Frodo there, but she saw him on the other side of the bed. She cautiously approached that side of the bed. "Ah, there you are." He was sitting cross-legged against the bed, his hands in his lap and his head bowed.

"I made a mess. I'm sorry," he said in a small voice, not lifting his eyes from his lap.

"As you should be. I expect better behavior from Tom," Rosie scolded lightly, hands on her hips.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked in the same timid voice.

"Angry? No, not angry. Frustrated and upset, yes. I understand that you're feeling restless from being cooped up in bed so long, but you're not giving us time to try to help you before you go and do something like this! And you were very sharp with Sam."

"It was the truth," Frodo said defensively, still not looking at her.

"It may have been the truth, but if it can't be said nicely, perhaps it oughtn't be said at all."

Frodo did not reply for several moments, then he said softly, "He spends too much time on me. All of you do."

Rosie knelt next to him, put her hands on his cheeks, and made him look at her. "Who are you to say whether we have spent too much time on something? What makes you think that you can tell Sam how to spend his time?"

"I'm worried that he's not spending enough time with you or his children," Frodo protested, the argument sounding hollow even to his own ears.

Rosie snorted. "Ha! No you wasn't. And don't assume you know the state of things between me and Sam or Sam and the children. If I have a problem with how my husband is spending his time, I will take it up with him. I don't need you to speak on my behalf -I'm perfectly capable of doing my own speaking. Now go ahead, try again: what gives you the right to say any of these things?"

"He has wasted his life on me. My story should have ended long ago," Frodo said defeatedly, looking anywhere but at Rosie despite her grip on his face.

"To call his care for you "wasted," well now, that's quite arrogant of you. Do you think his care in getting you to that mountain was wasted?" she asked pointedly.

Frodo closed his eyes. "No," he whispered.

"But then something changed when you got back to the Shire?"

"I was changed . . . I don't fit in the Shire anymore."

"So, what, we were supposed to just let you die because you feel you don't belong? Is that it? Have you truly forgotten how most of Hobbiton thought of you? What about Mr. Bilbo being called 'Mad Baggins'? Is that belonging?"

Frodo shrugged, struggling to put his thoughts into words that might make her understand. "I am of no use to anyone . . ."

Rosie scrutinized his eyes. "Sam was certain you weren't out of your head earlier, but I'm not so sure. What you're saying is a kind of madness, no doubting it." Frodo pulled away from her hands, and she let him go. "Mr. Frodo, we care for you because we care about you. I can see you don't understand that, but why don't you try accepting it? As to the question of endings, none of us get to choose our story's ending, so why should you be different?"

Frodo ignored the question. "If you had let me end my . . . story, I wouldn't be so miserable now," he muttered.

"Frodo Baggins!" Rosie cried, aghast, and when he turned his head slightly to look at her, she slapped him. "Don't you dare blame us for your misery," she scolded. "Yes, you are ill, but much of what you are suffering from right now is all in your head. If you weren't so obsessed with how you think your story should have ended, perhaps you'd appreciate more of the story you have been given."

Frodo started to touch his reddening cheek with his hand, then stopped and put his hand back in his lap. His eyes swam with tears, but even he couldn't say whether they were from the slap or the force of her words.

"You will apologize to Sam for what you said -and mean it!- and you're not going to get to tell the children more of the story until you do. The earliest you can tell the next bit will be tomorrow; I've decided you're not well enough today to do something so taxing."

"But-"

"No, I'm not changing my mind. Tomorrow, and only if you apologize to Sam to his satisfaction before then."

Frodo's shoulders slumped. "That was the only thing I had to look forward to today," he said woefully.

"You can't think you can throw your breakfast on the floor and still get to tell a story. And now you have something to look forward to for tomorrow." Rosie sighed and decided she was done scolding for now. "Let me see your hand. Don't think I didn't notice that you're bleeding."

Frodo surrendered both his hands, which were specked with bits of glass. "I didn't know where all the pieces were until I was trying to pick things up and felt pain," he said, sniffling. "You should look at my leg, too."

"Your leg?" She tugged the nightshirt up and saw a large bit of curved glass embedded in Frodo's shin. "Let me guess: you didn't see the piece there and put your leg on it."

Frodo nodded.

"That one might need stitching. Why didn't you take the bits out? I'm sure you could've managed some of them, though it's probably for the best that you didn't move the one in your leg."

Frodo shrugged. "I figured I deserved it for making the mess in the first place."

Rosie sat back on her heels and stared at him, then shook her head. "I won't even try to understand. Will you stand so I can make sure you're not sitting on any more pieces?"

"I can't," Frodo said glumly. "I think I strained my back when I jerked back after feeling the glass in my leg."

"All right, I'll help you up." Rosie stood over him and pulled him up by the armpits, and with her help Frodo staggered to the chair, letting her check for any other injuries before he sat down. "Stay there, and I'll be right back," she promised.

Sam was lurking in the hallway when Rosie emerged, and she beckoned for him to come with her. "He's in a rare mood, and no mistake," she said quietly as she gathered the things she needed. "I almost hope the healer does come by today, just to see what would happen."

"The healer might not come?" Sam asked in surprise.

"Aye, that's what I wanted to tell you. He wouldn't say one way or t'other whether he'd be by; I feel like he's avoiding Mr. Frodo. And he suggested liniment for Mr. Frodo's back." She made a face. "If I thought liniment would help, I woulda tried it already, but now we'll have to try just to tell him we did."

"And Mr. Frodo hates the smell of liniment," Sam said with a grimace. "How about we not tell him until he's more himself?"

"Oh, aye."

"Bandages?" Sam asked, noticing what Rosie was picking out.

"The juice glass broke, and he didn't see the pieces-"

"-until he was on top of them. Of course. Is there anything I can do?"

"Tell the children Frodo isn't well enough to tell them a story today. I don't know when he will be telling it -he has to apologize to you and mean it before I'll allow any story-telling. And I'm going to have either you or me sit with him until he's acting like hisself again. I don't think Frodo-lad or Goldi or even Rose-lass could handle him in this state."

Sam nodded his agreement, and Rosie disappeared back into Frodo's bedroom. She set the bandage basket, towels, and a large pitcher of water down by Frodo's feet, then began by wiping up the porridge and bits of food from the floor. Once the floor was clean, she set the cloths on the tray and put the tray outside the bedroom door.

Rosie settled on the floor at Frodo's feet. "Let's start with your leg, shall we?"

Frodo shrugged, his eyes closed and his hands lying palms-up in his lap. "Whatever you think is best," he said dully.

Rosie set the washbasin in her lap, then set herself where the injured leg was directly over the basin. "This may hurt a bit," she warned as she gently tugged the piece of glass out and dropped it into the basin. Blood began running from the wound, and Rosie poured some water over it. Then she held a towel over it and waited for the bleeding to slow so she could see if the wound needed stitching.

It took a while for the blood flow to stop enough for her to get a clear view, and once it had she needed to blot it with the towel several times to clean bits of dried blood from the surrounding skin. Rosie prodded at the cut, causing Frodo to wince, before declaring, "I think I'll give it two or three knots, just to be safe. This will hurt."

Frodo nodded and tried to steel himself. Rosie was very quick about her business, and while that didn't make it hurt any less at the time, at least the pain wasn't prolonged. Some salve, then a bandage went on over that, and his leg was done.

Rosie had to do a bit of maneuvering to get up from the floor after sitting there so long; Frodo could sympathize, and for the first time he realized how old Rosie and Sam were getting to be themselves. Their biggest concern should be the weddings of their children and the arrival of grandchildren, not tending an old, bitter hobbit that was little better than a leech. But he knew that expressing such a view would draw out Rosie's wrath again, so he remained silent.

"If you'll hold the basin in your lap, that would be easiest," Rosie suggested, and helped him turn a bit in the chair so she could perch on the edge of the bed while tending his hands. She had to use the stitching needle to dislodge some of the glass shards from his hands, and when that was done, both palms were littered with small, bleeding cuts. "Hold them out, now, and I'll pour the water over."

The water stung a bit, but the salve was soothing, and Rosie took care to wrap his palms so that the wounds were covered, but with as little fabric as possible so he could still (awkwardly) grasp things. "You'll need help with most everything for a day or two, but it could be worse," Rosie said.

Frodo had to appreciate the irony of his outburst causing him to be even more reliant on those he didn't wish to burden. He found himself chuckling, which quickly turned to coughing that he couldn't seem to control. Rosie tried to help support him, but he waved off her hands -there was nothing she, or anyone, could do to help him.

At length he was left with just a pounding head and a chest that felt like a giant hand was squeezing it, and he found himself alone. He stiffly sat back in the chair, experimentally clenching his fists before he rubbed his face with his hands, wishing to erase the entire morning. Nothing had gone well, though he reflected ruefully that could be said of his life in general of late. But he could, at least, take advantage of being alone to use the chamber pot in private for once.

Frodo was considering whether he ought to attempt getting back in bed or just stay put when Rosie returned. He groaned when he saw the tray she carried. "I won't be hearing any of that from you," she said lightly. "You're going to eat a bit, then I'll let you have your medicines, and then you're going to rest and think about things. Now, would you like to sit there to eat, or would you rather be in bed?"

Frodo chose bed, as he wouldn't be able to get up there and get settled without feeling nauseated if he tried after he ate. Rosie was reasonably kind to him and only made him eat a piece of toast and finish off his piece of fish after he considered himself finished, though Frodo could sense that she was still rather upset with him and would start scolding again if he so much as slid a toe over the line.

Rosie was pleasantly surprised when Frodo took his medicine without complaint. She'd been prepared to fight him on it, as always, but rather than the martyred sighs, wrinkled noses, and overexaggerated grimaces, there was passive acceptance of whatever tonic, tincture, or tea she handed him. The exception was one instance of gagging, when Frodo tried to gulp the willowbark tea too quickly, but that was unintentional and therefore acceptable.

When Frodo visibly relaxed as the medicines began to work, Rosie asked, "Who would you rather sit with you right now, me or Sam?"

Frodo yawned languidly, then replied, "Neither."

"Neither isn't one of the options. It will be Sam or me until you apologize to Sam and I'm sure you won't try to pull any more stunts and manipulate the children so you get what you want."

Frodo frowned. "Calling it manipulation is rather harsh, I think."

"I don't," Rosie said shortly. "You're very good at getting your way; always have been. Like the nonsense with Frodo-lad letting you sit in the chair -it was your idea and you convinced him to agree with you, I just know it."

"And nothing I say will change your mind, so you're free to believe what you like," Frodo said with a defeated-sounding sigh.

"So will it be me or Sam?" Rosie persisted.

Frodo had to think about it. Facing Sam would be a touch embarrassing, but Rosie was more likely to scold and he really wasn't in the mood for more scolding.

Rosie, too, was thinking, particularly about the fact that her husband was very easily manipulated by Frodo Baggins. "I've changed my mind," she announced before Frodo could voice his choice. "I'll be staying here for the time being. Sam needs some time away from you, I wager."

Ah, well, she'd realized that Sam could not say no to his Mr. Frodo, with the exception of letting said Mr. Frodo die. Frodo had no idea what she thought he might try to convince Sam to do, but she certainly knew Sam well enough to predict there could be trouble. He had to give her that. Fortunately, he was sleepy enough that who was sitting by his bed didn't particularly matter -he wouldn't be awake to care. And Rosie wouldn't scold while he slept.

Frodo fell asleep so quickly that Rosie suspected the bit of sleep herbs she'd slipped in with his other tonics had been unnecessary, but she hoped a good bit of sleep would remedy his inexplicable mood, so she wasn't sorry she'd done it. He slept deeply, too, so she left him alone for a while to see to a few things.

Sam took the time to sit with Frodo-lad in the study to go over the account-books; he'd decided to have Frodo-lad assume the bulk of the responsibilities belonging to the Master of Bag End when he came of age later in the year. Sam would retain the title for the time being, but having Frodo-lad seeing to the estate would make his Mayoring vastly easier. Frodo was right that Sam couldn't do everything by himself, so Sam deemed it time to let his son step in. Who would take care of the garden in his place was a more troublesome matter, as neither Merry nor Pippin showed the natural talent for it that Frodo-lad had. They both could muddle through well enough, and Sam had already tasked them with preparing for Spring, but he suspected that would not be a permanent solution.

Rosie checked on Frodo periodically, but he slept soundly all afternoon, and was rather difficult to rouse when it came time for dinner. She sat with him while he slowly ate, occasionally needing to lend a hand so he wouldn't drop his mug, but mostly she just watched him. His mind seemed to be someplace else, and every so often Rosie had to gently direct his attention back to his food lest he fall asleep in his plate.

After a while, he asked quietly, "Would it be a terrible bother for me not to have a bath tonight?"

"No, it wouldn't be a bother at all. Why?"

"I'm afraid I'm not feeling up to having a bath tonight. I didn't realize how much energy it takes to be upset," he said musingly.

"Are you sure? You're feeling warmer than usual, and having a bath might be better for the fever."

"The fever isn't bothering me nearly so much as being so dreadfully tired is," Frodo replied, opening his eyes with difficulty after they'd drifted shut of their own accord.

"All right, I suppose we can skip the bath tonight," Rosie agreed reluctantly.

Frodo nodded once, then seemed to be asleep almost immediately. Part of Rosie wondered if she'd overdone the sleep herbs, but then her mind countered that those would have lost their effect hours ago, so this must simply be exhaustion from the morning's events. Perhaps his overexertion that morning had worsened his illness, as well, but only time would tell that.

He was a bit more awake and present when Rosie roused him for a small bit of supper, though he remained quiet for almost the entire time he spent eating. Rosie was content to let him be quiet, and had brought her bit of embroidery to work on. After a while that drew Frodo's attention and he asked what it was and who it was for. Rosie briefly explained, reminding him that Fatty had mentioned his coming grandbabe when he'd visited for Frodo's birthday.

Frodo frowned and confessed he didn't remember that particular bit of information. He seemed upset that he couldn't remember hearing about Fatty's first grandchild. Rosie tried to soothe him with the reasoning that his birthday had been rather overwhelming for him, so of course he wouldn't remember all of the details, but Frodo was still distressed. "How can I appreciate the story I have if I can't even remember the details?" he asked despairingly.

Rosie couldn't answer that, of course, and she was taken aback that Frodo was obviously still dwelling on her earlier words. Silence fell again until Frodo asked, "Will you allow Frodo-lad to read to me for a little while?"

"No, you only get me or Sam until you apologize to Sam for this morning," Rosie replied immediately. "I'm sure Sam would be happy to read to you."

Frodo smiled slightly. "How can I apologize when you're the only person I've seen since then?"

Rosie grinned back. "You have a point," she conceded. "Shall I fetch him, then?"

"Yes, if he wouldn't mind reading to me, I'd appreciate it. And if you don't mind, I'm quite done with trying to eat."

Rosie eyed the tray calculatingly, then shrugged and removed it from his lap. "I'll come back with your medicines."

Frodo nodded and closed his eyes to wait for Sam. He nearly dozed off before he heard footsteps and felt a hand on his forehead; it was Rosie. "Drink up, dear," she said, handing him a mug. "The sleep brew is on the table for when you're done with this." A second mug was sitting on his bedside table with a small towel over it to keep it a bit warmer. She patted his shoulder and left.

Sam settled into the chair beside the bed while Rosie talked to Frodo, and he watched Frodo closely, but Frodo seemed to avoid looking at him, devoting all his attention to drinking from the first mug. "Rosie tells me you wanted someone to read to you," Sam said.

Frodo glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yes. I wanted to hear the last chapter of the Red Book . . ."

"No."

"Please, Sam. I need to hear it."

"You want me to read the bit that we was arguing over this morning. You must take me for a fool to go asking something like that."

Frodo sighed and gagged as he gulped the dregs of the tea. He finally turned to look at Sam. "Please. I'm . . . trying to sort through some things in my head, and I need to hear it."

Sam frowned, but Frodo met his gaze steadily. Still outwardly frowning, Sam's mind wavered until it reluctantly settled on reading the darn chapter. "All right, I'll do it, but you have to promise you won't get upset again."

"I promise," Frodo said immediately. He carefully exchanged his empty mug for the full one while Sam retrieved the book from the top of the bookcase and flipped through the pages until finding the right section. Sam cleared his throat and began to read, hesitantly at first, then growing more confident as he reached the part about his early time with Rosie. That, at least, was true.

Frodo listened silently, his eyes closed, and occasionally took a sip of his cooling tea. He didn't want to fall asleep before the chapter ended, after all. When Sam finished, they both sat in silent contemplation. Frodo was the first to stir, and put the second mug with the first. "Thank you, Sam," he said, wearily settling back onto his pillows. "When- when did Bilbo die? I don't remembering hearing about it."

"Well now, that was . . . hmm . . . we got the letter from Lord Elrond a few months before Merry was born, so 'twas at the beginning of 1427. We told you, but you . . . weren't in a state to remember."

"No, of course I wasn't," Frodo said resignedly, then smiled slightly. "So he really did pass the Old Took."

"Aye, that he did."

"I'm sure he was pleased . . . if he was awake enough to realize it."

"I'd think he was. It's the sort of thing he'd know, no matter what," Sam said confidently.

"You're probably right," Frodo said, then yawned. "Good night, Sam."

"G'night, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied, putting the book back where he'd found it and leaving him to sleep undisturbed. Frodo-lad poked his head in a while later and thought he saw traces of tears on Mr. Frodo's cheeks. He shrugged, blew out most of the lamps, and sat quietly with him until his father returned.