Chapter Rating: PG (angsty situations)
Chapter title: Snow and Shadow
January S.R. 1420
The winter snows arrived in stately order. Each Wednesday morning dawned to reveal yet another overnight dusting. Neither too much nor too little – always the right amount.
The snows were as steady as clockwork and nearly as predictable as Sam's replanting schedule. Thursdays were for moving the saplings to their new locations. The weather cooperated with a gentle warming on Wednesdays and Thursdays so that the ground was not completely frozen. On Fridays holes were dug for the new plants. Fridays were always fair and warmer than Thursdays. On Saturdays the trees had their root balls freed and were planted and staked. It always rained on Saturday evenings after sunset. Sundays and Mondays were clear and cold again, allowing excellent time to be made on trips around the Shire. This promoted moving stock and saplings out from the Cotton's farm and into temporary storage areas. Then it snowed again on Tuesdays. The cycle continued for an entire month. By that time the replanting of the trees throughout the Shire was complete.
Sam's life during this month was filled to overflowing with the replanting work. It was hard, cold labor, but he didn't mind. A sweet satisfaction of work well-thought out and well-implemented came to his routine. As each tree was planted, Sam placed a single precious grain of the dust of Lothlorien at the base of the root ball. He muttered his own humble blessing on the Lady's gift, hopeful that somehow the blessing of the Lady of the Wood would enrich the soil of his own beloved country.
Sam received his own blessing each Saturday evening. He spent the night at the Cotton farm on Saturdays, visiting with Rosie, the Cottons and Frodo as they whiled away the cold, rainy Saturday evenings with games and story- telling. In deference to Frodo, the stories never ventured into the recent past. They mostly consisted of funny Shire tall tales and well-known ancient Elvish lays about the First and Second Ages.
Frodo knew quite a few of the Elvish epic poems by heart. His lilting voice could captivate an audience as he told and sang of bold deeds and lost loves, of magical talismans and enormous sailing ships from the West, of lands which had sunk into the sea and kingdoms of the immortals, of Men and Elves and the Valar. Saturday evenings after supper were spent gathered around a roaring fire in the living room's fireplace, drinking beer or wine or tea, and listening to tales of far-away places.
Sam always sat on the old rag-braided rug with his back up against the fireplace's raised hearthstone. Rose always snuggled into Sam's strong arms, gathering comfort from the feel of his solid body pressed against hers. Soon they would be married and would move in with Mister Frodo at Bag End. Her happiness was always doubled on Saturdays.
Work continued on rebuilding Lower Hobbiton's business district. The outlines of the Green Dragon Inn, the blacksmith shop, the Apothecary and other buildings sprang up from their foundations. Freddy and Sam had carefully salvaged lumber from selected trees which Sharkey's Men had cut down in the previous year. Loving hands shaped, turned and carved the precious wood for use in rebuilding the town. It was evident that the new buildings would be more beautiful than their predecessors, even at this early stage of construction.
Bag End's restoration continued at a much slower pace. Frodo and Freddy worked on it when Frodo was feeling up to it, and when Freddy's schedule allowed. On the 30th of January, Frodo was able to permanently relocate himself to Bag End. It only had one bedroom, the entrance hall, the kitchen, the study and a bathing room in working condition, but it was enough.
February
After moving into Bag End, Frodo began to take extended walks at night under the winter sky. Now that he was free from worrying about upsetting the Cottons or Sam, he used these walks to take his mind off a constant low- level pain in his left shoulder and his frequent bouts of mild depression and insomnia.
Occasionally he wandered by the physician's home. He didn't quite know why he went there, but more than once he found his footsteps leading to her door. Most times he hesitated at the doorway, then went on his way without entering. This night he softly knocked at the door. Iris answered the door dressed in a dark blue robe pulled over her sleeping flannels and carrying a candle.
"Frodo. Come in, please. Let's get you out of the cold. Come in!" she ushered him into her combination bedroom and physician's office.
"Thank you very much," Frodo whispered, removing his snow-dusted cloak and sitting on the smaller second bed in the room. Iris noted that he was favoring his left shoulder again.
She closed the door to give them some privacy. She suspected something was wrong. It was long after normal hours and the snow was falling in fat wet flakes. "He must be in a lot of pain for him to come out in this weather at this hour of the night," she thought.
"Now what can I do for you?" she said, noting the pinched look around his eyes. "Are you in pain?" she asked softly, pushing his damp curls away from his forehead. She placed the back of her fingers against his soft cheek. He was definitely running a fever.
Frodo was looking at the floor. He seemed reluctant to speak, gnawing at the inside of his lip rather than risk telling her his secret. But that was why he was here, wasn't it? "Should we tell her?" the voices asked inside his head. "Can we trust her? Will she tell Sam?"
Iris noticed him masking some sort of pain and evidently debating on whether to talk with her or not. It was a delicate situation. If she said anything she might break the fragile trust he was placing in her through his act of coming over. She said nothing, resting her hands in her lap, remaining passive and detached, letting Frodo take the next action.
"Iris?" he finally spoke. It was a whisper of despair. "Iris, I think I am loosing my mind."
She maintained her hands in her lap, not wanting to disturb her patient in any way. "What makes you say that, Frodo?"
"I can not stop thinking about It. It haunts me still. I thought when It was destroyed that would be the end of It and I would be left in peace. But I still dream of It and hear It. Only lately I am having trouble knowing the difference between the dreams and waking." He finally looked up at her, shame and confusion written across his pale brow.
"Frodo," Iris said as she brought her hand back up to gently caress his cheek, "you are not loosing your mind. You have a fever and you might be having a hallucination brought on by the fever. I can do something for your fever right now, if you'll let me. May I?"
Her voice was soothing and non-judgmental. "I like her. I can trust her," he thought. "We don't. She lies," another voice in his head angrily countered.
"Yes," Frodo whispered. He suddenly grabbed her hand. "Please don't tell Sam about this. Don't tell anyone I was here! I don't want them to know. Please?"
"All sessions between a physician and her patient are strictly confidential, Frodo," Iris replied, patting his hand. "I won't tell anyone you were here. This is only between you and I. Now let me get you some medicine. I'll be right back. Don't leave."
She left the room and quickly returned with a simmering teapot and a cup. Frodo watched as she found a special mixture of herbs and put them into the pot for steeping. An astringent odor of lemons, ginger and some indefinable smell filled the room. Iris talked Frodo into taking off his coat while the tea steeped. But she was unable to get him to agree to a physician examination.
"No, no," he protested. "It is nothing, really. It's nothing we can't handle."
Iris noted the sudden use of the plural. "That was strange," she thought, "He's talking to someone or something in his mind. Maybe the 'It' to which he referred earlier. This has to do with his horrible experiences with the Ring that Sam told me about during their time down South. I must get him to voice his thoughts out loud somehow."
"Frodo?" she said, straining the medicinal tea into the cup, "please drink all of this. I know it doesn't taste very good, but it will help reduce your fever and allow you to sleep."
He took the proffered cup, looked at her suspiciously, then closed his eyes. After a moment's internal debate, he downed the full cup in one gulp.
"What now?" he innocently asked.
Iris almost cried at the expression on his face at that moment. His eyes pleaded for help, but his unconscious mind would not allow himself to voice it. The corners of his mouth twitched. Something terrible had happened to him which he was unable to articulate.
Iris took the tea cup from his hands. "We have to wait awhile for the medicine to take effect. Why don't you get comfortable and lay down on the patient's bed here. I apologize for the chilliness in the room. Get under the covers while I build up the fire." She helped him into the extra bed and pulled the comforter up to his chin before tending to the fire.
Frodo lay in the bed, trying to relax, but unable to stop a shiver. He felt uneasy being in a strange bed in the physician's room. Yet, at the same time, one part of him was completely willing to trust her. The debate continued in his head. "Why did you drink that? We don't know what's in it. Maybe she just poisoned you. Leave me alone. She's just helping, that's all. She said she wouldn't tell."
"Frodo?"
His thoughts were disturbed. He suddenly realized he was drifting into sleep. He couldn't help himself. Frodo opened his eyes reluctantly. He was finally warm – warmer than he had been the entire month it seemed. Warm like…like… He couldn't remember. What was warm? He couldn't remember warm. Part of him didn't want to talk to the physician, but another part desperately needed to. The need overcame his reluctance.
"Um….yes?" His own voice sounded very far away and small to him. It was as if he were a passive on-looker to the scene unfolding. He closed his eyes.
"Who is with you in your mind, Frodo?" the lady's voice softly purred. "Who is 'we'?"
"The Ring," he heard himself reply as from underwater. "Precious is here. Precious never left us. We carry its shadow still."
Chapter title: Snow and Shadow
January S.R. 1420
The winter snows arrived in stately order. Each Wednesday morning dawned to reveal yet another overnight dusting. Neither too much nor too little – always the right amount.
The snows were as steady as clockwork and nearly as predictable as Sam's replanting schedule. Thursdays were for moving the saplings to their new locations. The weather cooperated with a gentle warming on Wednesdays and Thursdays so that the ground was not completely frozen. On Fridays holes were dug for the new plants. Fridays were always fair and warmer than Thursdays. On Saturdays the trees had their root balls freed and were planted and staked. It always rained on Saturday evenings after sunset. Sundays and Mondays were clear and cold again, allowing excellent time to be made on trips around the Shire. This promoted moving stock and saplings out from the Cotton's farm and into temporary storage areas. Then it snowed again on Tuesdays. The cycle continued for an entire month. By that time the replanting of the trees throughout the Shire was complete.
Sam's life during this month was filled to overflowing with the replanting work. It was hard, cold labor, but he didn't mind. A sweet satisfaction of work well-thought out and well-implemented came to his routine. As each tree was planted, Sam placed a single precious grain of the dust of Lothlorien at the base of the root ball. He muttered his own humble blessing on the Lady's gift, hopeful that somehow the blessing of the Lady of the Wood would enrich the soil of his own beloved country.
Sam received his own blessing each Saturday evening. He spent the night at the Cotton farm on Saturdays, visiting with Rosie, the Cottons and Frodo as they whiled away the cold, rainy Saturday evenings with games and story- telling. In deference to Frodo, the stories never ventured into the recent past. They mostly consisted of funny Shire tall tales and well-known ancient Elvish lays about the First and Second Ages.
Frodo knew quite a few of the Elvish epic poems by heart. His lilting voice could captivate an audience as he told and sang of bold deeds and lost loves, of magical talismans and enormous sailing ships from the West, of lands which had sunk into the sea and kingdoms of the immortals, of Men and Elves and the Valar. Saturday evenings after supper were spent gathered around a roaring fire in the living room's fireplace, drinking beer or wine or tea, and listening to tales of far-away places.
Sam always sat on the old rag-braided rug with his back up against the fireplace's raised hearthstone. Rose always snuggled into Sam's strong arms, gathering comfort from the feel of his solid body pressed against hers. Soon they would be married and would move in with Mister Frodo at Bag End. Her happiness was always doubled on Saturdays.
Work continued on rebuilding Lower Hobbiton's business district. The outlines of the Green Dragon Inn, the blacksmith shop, the Apothecary and other buildings sprang up from their foundations. Freddy and Sam had carefully salvaged lumber from selected trees which Sharkey's Men had cut down in the previous year. Loving hands shaped, turned and carved the precious wood for use in rebuilding the town. It was evident that the new buildings would be more beautiful than their predecessors, even at this early stage of construction.
Bag End's restoration continued at a much slower pace. Frodo and Freddy worked on it when Frodo was feeling up to it, and when Freddy's schedule allowed. On the 30th of January, Frodo was able to permanently relocate himself to Bag End. It only had one bedroom, the entrance hall, the kitchen, the study and a bathing room in working condition, but it was enough.
February
After moving into Bag End, Frodo began to take extended walks at night under the winter sky. Now that he was free from worrying about upsetting the Cottons or Sam, he used these walks to take his mind off a constant low- level pain in his left shoulder and his frequent bouts of mild depression and insomnia.
Occasionally he wandered by the physician's home. He didn't quite know why he went there, but more than once he found his footsteps leading to her door. Most times he hesitated at the doorway, then went on his way without entering. This night he softly knocked at the door. Iris answered the door dressed in a dark blue robe pulled over her sleeping flannels and carrying a candle.
"Frodo. Come in, please. Let's get you out of the cold. Come in!" she ushered him into her combination bedroom and physician's office.
"Thank you very much," Frodo whispered, removing his snow-dusted cloak and sitting on the smaller second bed in the room. Iris noted that he was favoring his left shoulder again.
She closed the door to give them some privacy. She suspected something was wrong. It was long after normal hours and the snow was falling in fat wet flakes. "He must be in a lot of pain for him to come out in this weather at this hour of the night," she thought.
"Now what can I do for you?" she said, noting the pinched look around his eyes. "Are you in pain?" she asked softly, pushing his damp curls away from his forehead. She placed the back of her fingers against his soft cheek. He was definitely running a fever.
Frodo was looking at the floor. He seemed reluctant to speak, gnawing at the inside of his lip rather than risk telling her his secret. But that was why he was here, wasn't it? "Should we tell her?" the voices asked inside his head. "Can we trust her? Will she tell Sam?"
Iris noticed him masking some sort of pain and evidently debating on whether to talk with her or not. It was a delicate situation. If she said anything she might break the fragile trust he was placing in her through his act of coming over. She said nothing, resting her hands in her lap, remaining passive and detached, letting Frodo take the next action.
"Iris?" he finally spoke. It was a whisper of despair. "Iris, I think I am loosing my mind."
She maintained her hands in her lap, not wanting to disturb her patient in any way. "What makes you say that, Frodo?"
"I can not stop thinking about It. It haunts me still. I thought when It was destroyed that would be the end of It and I would be left in peace. But I still dream of It and hear It. Only lately I am having trouble knowing the difference between the dreams and waking." He finally looked up at her, shame and confusion written across his pale brow.
"Frodo," Iris said as she brought her hand back up to gently caress his cheek, "you are not loosing your mind. You have a fever and you might be having a hallucination brought on by the fever. I can do something for your fever right now, if you'll let me. May I?"
Her voice was soothing and non-judgmental. "I like her. I can trust her," he thought. "We don't. She lies," another voice in his head angrily countered.
"Yes," Frodo whispered. He suddenly grabbed her hand. "Please don't tell Sam about this. Don't tell anyone I was here! I don't want them to know. Please?"
"All sessions between a physician and her patient are strictly confidential, Frodo," Iris replied, patting his hand. "I won't tell anyone you were here. This is only between you and I. Now let me get you some medicine. I'll be right back. Don't leave."
She left the room and quickly returned with a simmering teapot and a cup. Frodo watched as she found a special mixture of herbs and put them into the pot for steeping. An astringent odor of lemons, ginger and some indefinable smell filled the room. Iris talked Frodo into taking off his coat while the tea steeped. But she was unable to get him to agree to a physician examination.
"No, no," he protested. "It is nothing, really. It's nothing we can't handle."
Iris noted the sudden use of the plural. "That was strange," she thought, "He's talking to someone or something in his mind. Maybe the 'It' to which he referred earlier. This has to do with his horrible experiences with the Ring that Sam told me about during their time down South. I must get him to voice his thoughts out loud somehow."
"Frodo?" she said, straining the medicinal tea into the cup, "please drink all of this. I know it doesn't taste very good, but it will help reduce your fever and allow you to sleep."
He took the proffered cup, looked at her suspiciously, then closed his eyes. After a moment's internal debate, he downed the full cup in one gulp.
"What now?" he innocently asked.
Iris almost cried at the expression on his face at that moment. His eyes pleaded for help, but his unconscious mind would not allow himself to voice it. The corners of his mouth twitched. Something terrible had happened to him which he was unable to articulate.
Iris took the tea cup from his hands. "We have to wait awhile for the medicine to take effect. Why don't you get comfortable and lay down on the patient's bed here. I apologize for the chilliness in the room. Get under the covers while I build up the fire." She helped him into the extra bed and pulled the comforter up to his chin before tending to the fire.
Frodo lay in the bed, trying to relax, but unable to stop a shiver. He felt uneasy being in a strange bed in the physician's room. Yet, at the same time, one part of him was completely willing to trust her. The debate continued in his head. "Why did you drink that? We don't know what's in it. Maybe she just poisoned you. Leave me alone. She's just helping, that's all. She said she wouldn't tell."
"Frodo?"
His thoughts were disturbed. He suddenly realized he was drifting into sleep. He couldn't help himself. Frodo opened his eyes reluctantly. He was finally warm – warmer than he had been the entire month it seemed. Warm like…like… He couldn't remember. What was warm? He couldn't remember warm. Part of him didn't want to talk to the physician, but another part desperately needed to. The need overcame his reluctance.
"Um….yes?" His own voice sounded very far away and small to him. It was as if he were a passive on-looker to the scene unfolding. He closed his eyes.
"Who is with you in your mind, Frodo?" the lady's voice softly purred. "Who is 'we'?"
"The Ring," he heard himself reply as from underwater. "Precious is here. Precious never left us. We carry its shadow still."
