I hadn't really planned to write this today, but it's a lovely day, there's no school, and I highly doubt that Mainecoon intends to wake up before two o'clock. She deserves some sleep…*smiles fondly*

Anyway, rather than heading for the phone, I'll write this chapter! I've decided to be cruel and nasty and not end this happily just yet. *chuckles evilly* I'll make it all right in the end, on my honor as a devotee of Samfluff, but I fully intend to draw this out as long as I can hold your attention. Or until I weaken and make it happily-ever-after just because I love Sam & Frodo so much. Whichever comes first.

Oh…and also…I have a theory about elves. The only reason they act so high-and-mighty-and-mysterious is because everyone expects them to. I see no reason they should continue pretending to be so all-fired important in Valinor – no one would be impressed, because they're all elves and Maiar anyway. Ergo, the elves are suddenly a good deal less aloof – and their speech is more colloquial. See? –ORS

***

"Sam!"

Gandalf looked up from the parchment he had been reading, a look of annoyance on his face. From his seat at the kitchen table in Elrond's home, he could see the front door hanging open, but the hobbit responsible for it was already upstairs.

"Careless hobbit," he muttered, slowly getting up and walking to the door. As he reached for the handle, he heard a joyous shout from the bedroom upstairs.

"Mr. Frodo! Oh, Frodo!"

Peals of merry laughter cascaded down the stairs as the wizard shut the door. He smiled to himself as he shuffled back to the table.

"Silly little things," he muttered, not meaning it at all. "Can't a Maia read in peace?" Taking up the parchment, he sat down and recommenced reading.

A moment later, the door creaked open, slowly this time. Elrond walked in, then jumped back in surprise at the wizard's exasperated look.

"What did I do?" he asked in confusion. Gandalf chuckled.

"Interrupted my reading, that's all."

Elrond snapped his fingers.

"Reading! That's what I should be doing!" He charged into the dining room, where the bookcase full of parchment scrolls stood and gathered dust.

Gandalf laid down his parchment again – Elf-Fashions of the Second Age: A Beginner's Guide – and followed his friend into the dining room.

"What in Valinor are you looking for?"

"Anything about hobbit illnesses."

"Ah. Bottom shelf, to the far right. Everything I've ever known and forgotten about hobbits in six scrolls."

"Thanks." Elrond bent down and pulled out the musty manuscripts, releasing a cloud of dust. With a sneeze and a violent swipe at the swarming dust molecules, the elf unrolled the first of the scrolls. " 'Pipeweed.' Oh, Mithrandir!"

Gandalf looked slightly miffed.

"It's a very important topic, Elrond!" he said defensively. "Where would the world be without Longbottom weed?"

"Well, for one thing, we'd have a much crankier wizard on our hands. Which reminds me – the Alqua brought in another few barrels of it."

"Ah, excellent. When is it being brought up?"

"Soon." Elrond inspected the second scroll. " 'Maps.' Not this one." The third: " 'Description of the Average Hobbit.' Not this."

Finally, on the fifth scroll, he found what he sought. " 'Hobbit Ailments, Common & Uncommon.' Aha!" He carefully replaced the other manuscripts and brought his lucky find to a seat close to the light source, the glowing Vilya.

Gandalf walked over and stood close by, reading over his shoulder. Elrond looked at him in irritation.

"Do you mind?"

"Sorry." The wizard moved away. "Have you found anything?"

"Not yet – ah!" The Loremaster peered closely at the wizard's tiny handwriting. "I think I've found something."

"What is it?"

"Does 'Seaspell' bring anything to mind?"

The wizard blanched.

"Vanyar preserve us!"

***

Tears fell from Sam's eyes, even as he laughed. Frodo tightened his embrace, weeping and laughing along with him.

"It's too good to be true," he whispered hoarsely. "I thought you were dead!"

"So did I, Mr. Frodo." Sam relaxed in Frodo's loving arms. "I've never been happier in my life."

"Nor have I," murmured Galadriel as she watched them, smiling with pure joy. "Just seeing you two is enough for me."

Sam cocked an eyebrow at the Morning Star.

"Is it? I'll never understand elves."

"There really isn't anything to understand, little master." She smiled enigmatically. "If you know what I mean."

The hobbit shrugged and returned his attention to its former subject.

"You needn't weep any more, master. I'm all right, and so are you."

"You're weeping, too, dear Sam."

"That's true." He laughed again. "I'm so happy, I'm all mixed up."

"I know. So am I." Frodo's smile rivaled the sunlight in brilliance. "Nothing can keep us apart now."

The wizard's heavy tread, and an elf's muted step, sounded on the stairs. Galadriel looked towards the door.

"Come in, Elrond. You, too, Gandalf."

"How did you know we were coming?" asked Elrond as he walked in, followed by Gandalf.

"Lucky guess."

"I always thought it was that mind-speak thing," whispered Sam to Frodo, who stifled a giggle.

"We think we know what ails Samwise," said Gandalf solemnly. The hobbits looked at him quickly.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Frodo, fear creeping into his eyes. Sam buried his face in Frodo's shoulder, trembling in anticipation.

Elrond heaved a heavy sigh.

"It is an uncommon ailment. They once called it 'Seaspell,' but it has been mostly forgotten." His eyes rested on a crack in the floorboards. "Every hundred years or so, a mortal is born with a certain condition. As long as that mortal stays away from the sea, there is no effect. However, if he stays in close proximity to salt water for more than a day, he becomes very ill."

"That can't be right!" protested Frodo suddenly. "That sounds like an old wives' tale!"

"Much truth can be found in old wives' tales," countered the Loremaster. "And this is Gandalf's research, my dear hobbit."

"What else happens?" inquired Galadriel, looking anxious.

"Well…" Gandalf fastened his eyes on a knothole on one of the wood panels. "…The mortal usually falls into a coma and dies. If he does not die – if he is restored – he has a little longer to live."

"How long?" Galadriel whispered, looking fearfully at the ashen-faced Frodo.

"Two days at the longest."

Sam's quivering stopped. He had fainted.

***

Well, here you are…cliffie and all…I've managed, in the process not only to eat a slice of chocolate mousse cake (too good for words), but also to misspell 'Elrond' as 'Elton' once. Whoa…what a day. Time for lunch, anyway.

Poor Sam. We'll see what happens when I get another idea.

Until next chapter, then! –ORS