Wordcount: 3,180 for this part

A/N: The medical-type stuff in this fic has not been run by those who know more about such things than I do, so no guarantees that it is realistic despite the research I did.

Warning: We have progressed to the point in which Frodo's death is openly discussed. Also, there are bodily functions and other such things present (but you could probably guess that).

Chapter Summary: Frodo endures the March anniversary with the help and comfort of Sam and his family.

Frodo-lad was startled from sleep by an unearthly wailing, and in wondering what was going on, he realized he'd slept late. He dressed hurriedly, hopping on one foot as he pulled on his trousers and buttoning his shirt haphazardly as he dashed from his bedroom. He stopped by the kitchen to ask his sisters what was going on. They both giggled at his shirt-buttoning attempt, and Rose-lass told him about Mr. Frodo's troubles that morning as she rebuttoned his shirt for him. By that point all was quiet, so Frodo-lad ate a bit to tide him over until second breakfast, then went to see if his help was needed.

His mother was standing in the doorway; over her shoulder he could just barely see his father on the floor, holding Mr. Frodo and rocking him back and forth. "What happened?"

"He startled somehow, and tried to get away," Rosie whispered. "We're waiting until he's calmer to see if he hurt hisself."

"Do you need me?"

"We might. Sam, should I try now?"

Sam nodded and Rosie slowly approached, with Frodo-lad trailing her by several steps, watching curiously. Frodo had his face buried in Sam's shoulder and trembled in his arms, but didn't react when Rosie touched him to check his legs.

"Check his ankles, it looked like he may have twisted one."

"Aye, the right one's a bit swollen," Rosie answered after Frodo tensed and tried to pull away when she touched it. "Lad, go tell your sisters to put together an ice pack, then come right back," she instructed Frodo-lad.

He obeyed, and returned quickly. Rosie had him help Frodo stand and support him there so Sam could get up from the floor. After they had Frodo settled in bed with an ice pack on his ankle, Frodo-lad hovered near the bedroom, keeping his father company and helping where he could. Just before lunch he sat with Frodo while Sam stepped out for a few minutes; Frodo had been quiet and calm for a while, so it seemed a prudent time for Sam to have a breather.

Shortly after Sam left, Frodo opened his eyes and looked around warily. His eyes fixed on Frodo-lad and his face clouded with confusion "Sam? How are you . . .? Why aren't I . . .?"

"Mr. Frodo? Do you want me to fetch my da?" Frodo-lad ventured, confused as well.

Frodo shook his head slightly and his expression cleared. "Frodo-lad. You look so much like your father did at that age."

Frodo-lad had heard that before, so all he could do was nod. "Did you want me to get Da?"

"No, no, I don't need to trouble him." Frodo had to cough then, but not for long. He sighed afterward, and reluctantly accepted some water from Frodo-lad. He was asleep again almost immediately.

Frodo-lad puzzled for a while over what Mr. Frodo had been trying to say, but gave it up as a bad job. Mr. Frodo could be a tough nut to crack on a normal day, much less while confused over where and when he was.

.

.

In the afternoon, Frodo grew restive and Sam's touch and voice no longer reached him as it had. Rosie noted that his fever seemed worse, but the usual remedies were impossible with his restlessness and aversion to touch. So they could only watch and intervene when Frodo would allow it.

He would often cry out, sometimes moaning, sometimes pleading. "Please . . . stop . . . " "Elf? I don't know what you're talking about . . ." "No, please . . ." It chilled the blood, and Frodo-lad felt a knot growing in his stomach. The book hadn't done his suffering justice, not by a long road.

When he asked his da about it, his da nodded and said, "Aye, he put in as little of his own pains as he could and still have the story make sense." Frodo-lad had even more respect for his namesake after that.

From time to time Frodo's pleas would give way to cowering and panting in fear, and soon enough the panting was too much for his weakened lungs and he coughed roughly. Sam and Frodo-lad would help him sit -if allowed to draw near at all- for easier breathing, but there were times when he curled into himself and coughed so hard Frodo-lad feared he would choke. One time, instead of choking, he retched, coughing all the while, and Sam hauled him upright so he wouldn't choke or breathe in what he'd just brought up. Frodo weakly struggled against his grasp but had too many drains on his strength and attention that he couldn't maintain the effort.

Rosie heard the coughing and came to help; since Sam seemed to have Frodo himself under control, she attended to cleaning up the mess, shaking her head and clucking her tongue.

Sam had trouble keeping Frodo calm while Rosie cleaned up, and when they tried to remove his soiled nightshirt, Frodo panicked, clinging to Sam. "No, no . . . please . . . don't do this . . . Sam! Don't let them do it . . . Sam . . . Please . . ." Yet when they gave up and merely tried to persuade him to lie back down, Frodo still clung to Sam in desperation, his grip stronger than what would seem possible given his physical condition.

Then Sam had an idea. "Lad, fetch the phial from the locked chest. It may calm him down some."

It took Frodo-lad longer than he would have liked to find the key, find the right chest, get it open, and dig out the desired item. The glass felt cold and cheerless in his palm, but he trusted his Da. If he said it might help, then it might help. Frodo-lad handed the phial to his da with a sense of triumph, hoping and trusting that this would be the key to making Mr. Frodo feel better.

Sam, too, resolutely hoped that the Elf magic could do some good. He offered Galadriel's phial to Frodo, who picked it up and stared at it as if he'd never seen it before, shaking it and turning it upside-down as if expecting it to do something. Slowly, a light grew inside it, and Frodo gasped in wonder as he remembered. "When all other lights go out," he murmured to himself.

Frodo was pleased to see that the phial was still whole -he hadn't managed to smash it in his madness, then- but found it didn't confer the same peace that he thought he remembered. There was some light, yes, but the virtue must have waned with the departure of Galadriel over the Sea. Frodo sighed wistfully and wondered if Galadriel -or Elrond or even Gandalf- ever thought about him and the rest of those they'd left behind. "Are there many Elves left in Middle-Earth?"

"Not many, I reckon," Sam replied, relieved that Frodo had reacted to the phial.

"Legolas?"

"Last I heard he's still around."

Frodo fell silent again. Sam gently pried Frodo's hand off the front of his shirt and urged him to lie back. As Frodo followed Sam's urging, he groaned, "Oh, it hurts."

"Where does it hurt, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked anxiously, clasping Frodo's free hand.

"Everywhere," he replied plaintively.

"We'll have your next bit of tea ready soon," Rosie told him, rearranging the pillows under his knees and ankles that had been dislodged in his thrashing.

"Thank you, but . . . I don't think it will help." He clenched his hand around the phial, then handed it back to Sam. "It's not the same anymore."

Sam accepted it, disappointed but resigned. He would find something to help Frodo, he just knew it.

Rosie focused for now on Frodo's physical comfort. "What hurts you the most?"

Frodo grimaced. "I don't even know." He closed his eyes and focused on breathing.

"Would it help to use the sedative?" Sam asked suddenly.

"What?" Rosie wasn't sure what he had in mind.

"No," Frodo said shortly. "Just because . . . I'm not awake . . . doesn't mean . . . I can't feel pain."

"I had to ask," Sam said defensively.

"No, no . . . I appreciate the thought. It just wouldn't help," Frodo said faintly.

Rosie fetched the tea and helped Frodo drink; Frodo tried to take the cup from her, but she insisted on holding it and he decided she was right in assuming he couldn't do it without making a mess. He could feel his hands trembling.

Frodo drifted out of awareness after that and was fairly quiet for the rest of the day, periodically twitching or groaning, but without struggling or crying out as he'd done earlier in the day. Sam took this to mean his memories weren't troubling him as much, but Rosie was fairly certain he lacked those reactions because he lacked the strength to display them.

Frodo-lad thought it was almost eerie to see Mr. Frodo so still, after everything earlier. When Mr. Frodo stayed quiet through suppertime, Frodo-lad encouraged his parents to go to bed -it had been a long day for them, and they both looked so weary. "Go on, I'll be fine. I'll send Goldi for you if anything happens," he promised, and this was convincing enough that they assented.

"Try to keep him comfortable, lad," Rosie instructed. "If he keeps sweatin' so, pat his face with a handkerchief. A dry one, not a wet one, or he might feel chilled, and that wouldn't do."

"Yes, Mum. And if he wakes up normal-like, I'll try to get him to drink something, but if he wakes and is upset, I'll send Goldi for Da. I know," he said, repeating instructions from earlier with amused exasperation.

Rosie patted his cheek. "Good lad. You have been a great help, you know. I appreciate it, and I know Mr. Frodo does, too."

Frodo-lad settled down for his watch with a mug of ale and the Red Book -while there were many books strewn about the smial that could hold his interest, he found this was the only one that drew him of late. He found himself turning to the passage about the spider, then had to skip a ways to the bit about the tower, his eyes periodically drawn to the haggard hobbit on the bed.

After that he flipped pages for a while until he landed on the last chapter. He started to skim, but after a while found himself reading aloud softly, perhaps subconsciously trying to soothe Mr. Frodo with the words he often asked to hear. Frodo-lad couldn't tell if Mr. Frodo heard him or if it was doing any good if he did, but he read to the very end anyhow.

He was finishing the chapter for the third time when Goldi showed up. "You're early," Frodo-lad said, glancing at the clock on the mantel to confirm his feeling that it wasn't late enough for her to take over watching Mr. Frodo.

Goldi shrugged. "I was done with all that needed doing, so I thought to come see what you was up to."

"Were. You were up to," Frodo-lad corrected automatically. Talking to Mr. Frodo had made him painfully aware of the difference between the way his family talked and the way Mr. Frodo did, and it was Mr. Frodo's way that was in books, so that must be the right way.

"Was," Goldi shot back, then drew closer to the bed. "How long has he been doing that?"

Frodo-lad studied Mr. Frodo, but couldn't tell what she was talking about. "Doing what?"

"Making those little gasps. He must be in a terrible lot o' pain, to be doing that."

"I don't know, I hadn't noticed," he admitted, wondering if he should own up to having been reading aloud to an unaware audience the whole time. "He did say earlier that he was hurting something fierce, but he couldn't say exactly where, so Ma couldn't help him."

"Maybe he's getting stiff from being abed," Goldi speculated. She sat on the bed, picked up one of Mr. Frodo's arms, and started moving it about, bending and straightening the elbow, moving the wrist in all directions, and playing with each finger before rubbing the entire length of the arm.

"What-? Where did you learn that?" Frodo-lad demanded.

"I read about it in one of them books we got from that Elf place. Rivendale?"

"Rivendell. But when do you read?" It always appeared to him that the lasses were as busy as he usually was in the garden, and in evenings there was always mending, so where she found the time was a puzzle.

She nodded her head toward Mr. Frodo. "It's mighty boring to watch a hobbit sleep, and even with you clumsy lot there ain't enough mending to keep a mind occupied. I been reading a fair bit since Mr. Frodo's been ill, so I figured as I'd read things that might help sometime." She gently set the first arm down and picked up the other. "I read that one, too," she added, gesturing toward the Red Book on the chair.

"What did you think?" Elanor was the only other one he'd known had read it, but she was so far away and he'd never thought to write and ask about her impressions.

Goldi clucked her tongue and shook her head. "It's a wonder any of them lived," she said softly. "Folk haven't a clue, and Da don't seem of a mind to tell them. A fair shame, that." She fell silent as she kneaded Mr. Frodo's damaged hand. "We need to get Roz to read it. She don't believe me when I tell her that spider weren't the only horrible beastie. And she insists no person in their right mind, Man or otherwise, would even think of settin' fire to hisself. I try to tell her he weren't in his right mind and that's the whole point, but she don't listen. She only believes the parts Mr. Frodo talked about, as it was Mr. Frodo that said it. She might listen to you, though -you're the eldest now."

"I doubt it, but I'll try to convince her to read it," Frodo-lad said. Their sister Rose was a formidable force, but she usually listened to him. Didn't always agree or do what he said, but at least she listened.

Goldi set the second arm down. "Watch his face and tell me if I'm hurtin' him," she instructed as she uncovered Frodo's left leg and started working her way from foot to ankle to knee. Frodo-lad would tell her where Mr. Frodo started reacting, and she would work within the acceptable range. He also had to tell her about Mr. Frodo's twisted ankle, which she gently touched but chose to refrain from actually moving it.

By the time she was finished handling the second leg, Mr. Frodo was no longer making the little gasps that she'd said meant he was in pain. "Sometimes you're a marvel, Goldi," Frodo-lad said.

"Only sometimes?" she asked with a smirk. "Help me turn him on his side."

"What for?"

"His back needs rubbing too, most like. And it ain't good for sick folk to always lie the same way."

"Did you read that in that book, too? What kind of book is this, anyhow?" Frodo-lad started pulling a few pillows out from behind Mr. Frodo's head.

"Aye, I read it in the book. The title was something about the 'seriously ill, wounded, and dying' or somesuch like that." She pulled back the covers and they carefully rolled Mr. Frodo onto his side. With a bit of discussion and negotiation, they had him rolled far enough over that she could get to his back easily but he could still breathe.

As Goldi began by rubbing Mr. Frodo's shoulders, Frodo-lad finally hit on something that bothered him. "If the book was from Rivendell, why was it in Westron? Unless you're going to tell me you can read Elvish now, too."

Goldi snorted. "'Twas in Westron, right enough. But how should I know why? It wasn't me as wrote it!"

"I know, but why would an Elf have a book in Westron?"

"It probably wasn't written by Elves or for Elves." Mr. Frodo's voice startled them both, and Goldi snatched her hands away from his back. "Oh, please don't stop!"

While Goldi hesitantly resumed, Frodo-lad put his head down by Mr. Frodo's. "What do you mean?"

"Elves don't get sick or die like us mortals," Mr. Frodo explained. "The book was most likely written . . . by healers in Minas Tirith, if it was in Westron." He took a deep breath and continued, "Elrond was a great collector of books of healing, both Elvish and otherwise. He . . . probably used them to teach Aragorn, as well."

"Oh." Frodo-lad considered this. "I suppose that makes sense. But how long have you been awake?"

"I don't know. A few minutes, maybe."

"I'm supposed to have you drink some water if you wake, but I guess it can wait until Goldi's done with you. Is she hurting you?"

"Oh, no, it feels nice."

Goldi beamed. When she got down to his lower back, she rubbed more gently and quite carefully; she only made him hiss in pain twice, so she considered her efforts to be a reasonable success. Mr. Frodo was nearly asleep after she'd finished, but they insisted that he take a bit of water before they would let him sleep again.

Frodo-lad noticed that he didn't try to dissuade them the same way that he would try with Mum and Da; that bit of knowledge might be useful later, so he made note of it. Goldi insisted that they have Mr. Frodo sleep on his side for now, especially since Mr. Frodo didn't disagree, so Frodo-lad showed her where the placed the pillows to keep him from falling over and to keep his skin from rubbing together and causing more sores.

Mr. Frodo was asleep -or unconscious, who could say?- when they'd finished fussing with pillows and blankets and making sure everything was lying flat and smooth. By then it was also far past the time Frodo-lad ordinarily went to bed, but he was somewhat reluctant to leave, just in case Goldi or Mr. Frodo needed anything. Goldi rolled her eyes at him and told him his brief time of usefulness with the pillows was at an end and he was of no more use.

But still he hesitated. "Go to bed, Fro!" Goldi commanded, pushing him out the door.

"But-"

"Don't make me have to lock this door," she threatened.

"All right, I'll sleep on the couch."

"If you fall asleep somewhere other than your bed, so help me, I'll dump a chamberpot on your head."

"You're not Mum, you can't tell me what to do," Frodo-lad said huffily.

"You should have the sense to use your perfectly good bed, what with being almost of age and all," Goldi shot back. "Mr. Frodo will most likely sleep the rest of the night. He usually does. If he asks for you, I'll fetch you. All right?" she said in a gentler tone.

"Oh, all right. But you're still bossy."

"And you're pigheaded. Sleep well." Goldi closed the door in his face.