Chapter 2 Author's Note: I hadn't thought to continue this but it was nagging at me persistently. This unexpectedly turned into a Sam story as I was writing it; you know how these things can take on a life of their own! The song that appears at the end of this story is obviously quoted from Tolkien's Return of the King, "The Tower of Cirith Ungol," which I quote here wholly without any sort of permission whatsoever except the sheer love of these characters. Everyone here posts a disclaimer, so I'll jump on that bandwagon: I certainly don't own or make any money off of any of these characters.

Thank you to everyone who posted reviews for Chapter One. I'd like to say this story is "complete" but I'm not quite sure that it is.

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On October 6, Chapter 2

The curtains were drawn and no light, neither of moon nor of star, could pass the heavy drapery. The red star, if it were still there, burned alone and unseen on the Southern horizon, its flame smothered in the deepest part of the night. I did not care to look.

Inside, the only light came from the low fire, and though it was warm, the room felt dim and cheerless, as sickrooms always do. Since Frodo had taken ill, I had sat up and put warm compresses on his shoulder and spoken to him quietly until he eased. He had either fallen asleep or merely into an exhausted stupor; his eyes were closed and he did not toss or call out. I took the compress from his shoulder and covered him up warmly and lay down next to him, thinking to get a little sleep.

I had dozed for only a little while when I felt him stir and make a tight sound in his throat. I looked up and saw that he had turned his face to the side, and was lying with his good hand over his eyes, his eyebrows drawn together, as if suffering a terrible headache. He had begun to breathe in a shallow, shuddering pant.

"Must the fire be lit?" he asked, and his teeth were almost clenched. "You know I can't bear the light."

"I know, but it will be too cold without it. Here…" I lifted his hand and placed a warmed compress against his eyes, and laid my hand over the cloth. "Is that better?"

He covered my hand with his own. "Yes. Yes, thank you." He seemed to quiet, but I did not lie down again. I sat with one hand over his eyes and with the other I stroked his hair away from his forehead.

I had long ago grown accustomed to his uncanny ability to see in the dark. He was able to find his way about the house at night with no candle or lamp, and I had walked outside with him on moonless nights so black that I needed to cling to his hand or be lost, while he did not even miss a step, and moved as easily as if in plain daylight. He had told me of how he first noticed it in the Mines, and that he knew it was an effect of the blade that had struck him. But when the illness that the same blade had wrought came upon him, it slowly hindered and then robbed him of real sight altogether. At first there was just a veiling of his vision, then this aversion to light, any light, even the softest glowing fire or candle. If this followed the course of all the previous years, he would soon lose his sight altogether, except in absolute pitch darkness, and would remain that way until the spell had passed. If even the light of this little fire pained him, I knew for certain that while the duration of his illness may have lessened, the severity of it had not. Not this year.
 
"Not this year then," he said, echoing my own thoughts, as he so often did.

"No, not this year. Although it won't last long, at least."

"Not ever, perhaps."

"No, someday it will be gone altogether."

He smiled weakly. "When I am gone, I fear."

"No, you will be healed before then."

He stroked the back of my hand with his own. "I am sorry you have to suffer this with me."

"I only suffer in that I cannot take this from you."

"You…" he began, but his words were cut off by a sharp intake of breath. He groaned and took his hand from mine and raised himself up on his elbow, twisting away from me.

"What is it?" I asked, alarmed by the sudden change. "Are you in pain?"

"Yes," he forced out between his teeth. He groaned again, his voice rising nearly to a scream as pain assailed him a second time. "It's like being stabbed again. All over again…" His body seized and he tilted his head back and then he did scream, not with full-throated strength, but with a hopeless, gasping sound.

I put my arm around his chest and cradled his head, trying to ease him back down onto the bed. "Lie down," I told him. "Lie down and breathe."

"I can't, I can't," he cried, shaking his head. "It makes it worse, it…it…" He sucked air in through his teeth and I saw tears beginning to trickle from his eyes. His unsteady position gave out and I was just able to catch him as he fell backwards. He stared blindly up at the ceiling.

"I can't see," he said and grimaced against another wave of pain.

I knew what I had to do. He needed another compress, he needed to be kept warm, he needed darkness and quiet, he needed…

And suddenly I remembered that Sam was here. He had arrived only a week ago, and of course I had not told him that Frodo still fell sick upon this anniversary. Sam had been overjoyed to see Frodo looking so well and happy, and I had hoped, as Frodo had, that this year he would not be sick. Yet he was afflicted again, and in all the previous years when Frodo had lain in his delirium, always there had come a point at which he had asked or called out for Sam, and there had been nothing that I could do to comfort him. But for the first time, Sam was here.

I caressed Frodo's face but he seemed barely aware of my presence. I rearranged the covers over him and left the room to bring Sam.

"Sam…wake up."

"What," he said sleepily. "What is it?"

"Frodo is sick…will you come sit with him? I think it will do him good."

Sam was instantly awake and alert. "What day is this?"

"October 6," I answered, and I did not need to explain any further. Sam rose immediately and we returned to Frodo's room.

In the faint light of the candle that I held aloft, we looked down at Frodo, staring sightlessly, gasping with cold and pain.

"Why is he still so sick? I thought he was healed of all his ills!"

"He is healing, but slowly. It was a grievous wound, and not only to the body." The red star suddenly came to my mind, and brought with it an unbidden and unwanted thought. And the evil that inflicted it will never be wholly gone from this world. But I did not speak this out loud.

"I know," Sam sighed. "I was there."

He kneeled by the edge of the bed. He took Frodo's rigid left hand and kissed it and laid it on his breast, then set his own warm hand on Frodo's forehead. "Frodo, can you hear me? I know you can hear me. It's your Sam, Frodo. Frodo?"

Frodo turned blindly to the sound of his voice. "Sam…it's so dark…where is Strider…where are the others?"

"There, there," he said reassuringly. "Don't you worry about anything. Everyone is all right."

"We have to go now! We have to get away from here before they come back!"

"They're not coming back, Frodo, they're all gone. Let them go."

"Let them…? Sam…is that really you?" he asked, his voice suddenly suspicious with fear. "Why can't I see you?"

"It's nothing Frodo, it's just dark, and that's all."

"But it's so cold…"

"I know, Frodo. I know."

Frodo took a deep breath, the distress on his face easing. Sam stroked Frodo's cheek and smiled, and his face glowed with compassion and love. Frodo had spoken of Sam for years, so fondly that I felt I knew him long before I ever met him in the flesh. I had witnessed their joy at their reunion, that sunny day only a week ago, on the quay at Avallonë. As I sat beside him, I could feel Sam's love; it shone forth from his face, it seemed to resonate from him. I understood well, for I loved Frodo with a depth and an entirety that still astonished me. Yet Sam was bound to Frodo in a way that I could never be. Sam had walked with him through the depths of hell, and the power of his own love had been strong enough to shield them both. Sam had saved Frodo's life, and perhaps his soul as well. The image of the red star came briefly to my mind, then was gone. It was irrelevant. There could be no force in this world as strong as such love.

I touched Sam's arm. "He responds to your touch and your voice. I knew that he would."

Sam smiled. "He needs to feel us near him, when he's like this. It's the only thing that helps."

"Sam, stay here tonight. We should sleep here with him."

"Of course. That's what he needs. It's the best medicine in the world."

Sam and I turned him over onto his right side, but as gentle as we were with him, he still cried out.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Sam said under his breath. "Don't take on so. Just give us a moment," and I could not suppress a smile at his tender, fatherly tone.

I lay down behind Frodo, cradling him against myself, and Sam lay down before him. Between us we wrapped him into a warm embrace. His body was so cold against mine that a shiver ran through me, and when I rested my cheek against the back of his neck, I could feel his chill on my face. Even his hair was cold. I looked at Sam, who placed his forehead against Frodo's and spoke to him in a hushed voice.

"How is that, Frodo? How does that feel?"

Frodo swallowed and nodded. "Better…warmer."

"All right, well, we're not going anywhere. We won't leave you."

"No, don't leave. It's so cold…and I can't see…"

"Shh, shh, I know, but it will pass, tomorrow you'll be right as rain, you won't even remember this."

"Tomorrow it will all be over."

"Yes, that's right Frodo, and you'll be yourself again."

"Tomorrow we'll reach the mountain and it will be over, at last. I am glad. I am so tired."

"No, Frodo, there is no mountain. Tomorrow you'll wake up in your own bed, safe and sound."

"Oh, Sam, you're wrong. I am tired and sick and I am ready for this to end."

"Now, Mr. Frodo," Sam began, and I was surprised to hear him lapsing back into this formal address. His voice was thick and I saw tears standing in his eyes, reflecting the fire's dying light. "You don't know what you're saying. You're fine and you're safe now." He reached up and caressed Frodo's cheek. "Finally."

Frodo sighed and lay quietly for a moment, only shivering. He seemed to be asleep, when he began to hum, very softly.

"What is that, Mr. Frodo? That sounds familiar."

Frodo said nothing, only continued to hum, and then began to sing words in a low, wavering voice.

"…above all shadows rides the Sun
and Stars for ever dwell…"

"I remember, Mr. Frodo. I remember." And Sam sang with him.

"I will not say the Day is done…"

I lay and listened to them singing, here in this quiet room, in this warm bed, singing words they had last shared in a far different place, under the shadow of death. Tears came to my eyes and I pressed my face against Frodo's icy shoulder.

Frodo trailed off and Sam finished the last line.

"…nor bid the Stars farewell."

And we lay in perfect silence.

I felt Frodo's breathing become deep and steady. He was asleep. I looked at Sam, across the shadowy halo of Frodo's curls between us.

"He's asleep," Sam whispered.

"I know." I lifted Sam's hand from Frodo's cheek and kissed it and lay it down again. "Thank you."

"It weren't anything," he said. He looked back at his dear friend's sleeping face. "It weren't nothing at all."