WE WALK TOGETHER

I don't own anything. All characters, places and "historical" events belong to JRR Tolkien. This is fanfic.

Frodo had once confided to his uncle that the approach of the months of October and March now birthed in him a deep trepidation. Bilbo's first experience of one of his nephew's illnesses was shortly after their arrival in the West and he had found it alarming, simply to watch, although Frodo tried to assure him that the event had not been as bad as in previous years. Today was the twenty-fifth of March and Bilbo scurried to the door of their shared cottage to admit visitors. "Thank goodness you are here. Please come in Elrond, Celebrian. Frodo has not been himself for several days and took to his bed with a headache yesterday afternoon."

The tall elves ducked slightly to accommodate New Bag End's low doorway. It was the lady who spoke first, her gentle voice like an evening breeze at close of a hot summer day. "Have you looked upon him, yet?"

Bilbo nodded, wringing his hands. "About an hour ago. He seemed cold and pale, so I added an extra blanket, but I didn't try to wake him."

Elrond inclined his head in approval. "If he could sleep through most of it, that would perhaps be best."

Celebrian shook her head. "Not always. The dreams can be worse than the waking."

"I bow to your experience," Elrond conceded. "Perhaps we should see for ourselves."

Bilbo was only too willing to lead the way to Frodo's bedroom. It was dim within, curtains drawn against the weak sunlight of a rainy day. A small fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth but, despite the extra blanket Bilbo had provided, his nephew's trembling was clear to see. At that moment a deep shudder wracked Frodo's frame and a wild moan sounded, caged behind clenched lips.

Celebrian lowered to her knees at the bedside. Her serene face now level with Frodo, she studied him closely for several moments before reaching out to lift a limp lock of dark hair from his pale brow. "His dreams are dark."

From a pocket somewhere deep within his layered robes Elrond produced a candle, lighting it from the hearth before setting it upon the mantle. Within moments a clean and wholesome air began to fill the room and Bilbo inhaled, his troubled thoughts settling at once. When he looked to the elven healer in query, Elrond smiled. "The wax has been infused with oil from the Athelas plant."

"Kingsfoil? Frodo tried to explain it to me, but his description did not come close to the experience."

Elrond settled, cross-legged, at his wife's side, laying a gentle hand upon Frodo's head. Bilbo watched in awe as both elves remained silent and still for several minutes. He had almost given up on the idea that either elf would speak again, when Elrond's rich, warm voice drifted to him, as though from some great distance. "The shadows crowd too close. Can you assist him?"

His lady's voice was barely more than a silvered whisper. "He has wondered far but I believe so. Will you walk with me?"

"Always," came her husband's firm reply. Elrond drew her close into his side and Celebrian laid a silver head upon his shoulder, his cheek falling easily to rest upon her crown.

And thus they remained, while the sun made her stately progress across the sky and stars wheeled, all unseen beyond the round, curtained window. At dawn they arose, slipping silently from the cottage, out into the burgeoning light of a fine golden sunrise.

With a sigh, Bilbo stretched and turned for the kitchen, hoping that his nephew would be hungry when he awoke.