Chapter 4 Title: Legends
Chapter Rating: PG (Angst)
Hobbiton slumbered away through the midnight shower. No one witnessed Iris and Frodo entering into the sleepy village, nor did anyone see them wearily pass through the doors to the Physician's Office and private residence. Iris ripped the rain-spattered note affixed to the front door, and threw it down into the mud.
She had been content to let Frodo carry the medical bag and hold her hand as they slogged their way through the rain and dark back to Hobbiton. But now she was cold and uncommunicative. Frodo didn't know what to do to. Had he made a mistake in making love to Iris when she was so vulnerable?
"Iris? Would you like me to draw you a warm bath, or get you something?" Frodo asked as he set down her medical bag and the useless splint. He located a candle and flint on a side table in the hallway. Within a moment the physician's living quarters came into focus in the wavering light.
The physician's private living areas were simple, yet elegant. She favored furnishings which focused on practicality and function, rather than the more normal clutter of a typical smial. Solid colors and solid furniture in easily-washed cottons and polished hardwoods defined Iris's style.
Frodo caught a glimpse of himself in an oval mirror set on the simple burled maple table. A pale, glimmering wraith grasping a flickering candle stared back at him. His hair was plastered in dripping midnight curls onto his forehead. His wet and bloodstained vest, shirt and breeches clung to his frame as if they were a second skin.
Iris looked like a nightmare. Her normally well-groomed and platted curly brown hair tumbled across her shoulders in a tangled mess. Her clothes were thoroughly soaked with the rain, and were stained a faint brownish-red from her deceased patient's blood. Scratches on her forearms had bled into the cloth and ribbons hanging limply from her sleeves.
Frodo walked over to Iris as she stood at the doorway to her bedroom. He reached out a hand towards her shoulder, but she deftly sidestepped his move. Something was definitely wrong.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, backing away from his reach and stumbling into a chair in the dark.
"Iris, please!" Frodo advanced towards her.
"Please don't, Frodo. Please leave," she sobbed. "Leave me alone. I've done enough damage today." Iris was blindly backing into her small bedroom, tears welling into her green eyes. She steadied herself on the small cushioned chair.
Frodo advanced and gathered her in his arms. She cried in misery. He stroked her tangled locks, holding her tight, and murmured little nonsense noises into her small pointed ears until the crying fit had passed.
"Shush now," Frodo crooned. "Shush. Tell me what is wrong."
"Oh, Frodo, I am afraid. And I'm so lonely," she sobbed into his already- wet curls. "I'm so far away from my home. From my family. You're the only one I can talk to, and now you must think me dreadful. I'm such a failure."
"You are not," he softly said, continuing to stroke her hair. "You are not a failure and you are not dreadful. You are wonderful and I love you very much." He placed his hand below her chin and tipped her plain face upwards to look into her green eyes. "Very much." And he closed his eyes and kissed her. A long, but pristine kiss. A kiss of angels and starlight. A kiss completely un-returned. His confusion mounted.
"You are very much wanted and needed here, Iris Proudfoot, physician and healer," he continued stroking her hair. "I need you. We all need you desperately. And you are very much loved here as well. Whilst we will never replace the family you left behind, we hope you will accept us as a new family. We all love you. Sam, Rose, Tandy, Freddy, Merry, Pippin, me. We all love you, Iris.
"Please do not let today ruin all you have worked for. Let it rest. Let it be. Right now you need to get out of these clothes and into a hot bath, and then into bed. Will you let me do that for you, my love?"
"I'll do it myself," Iris sighed as she pushed away from his embrace. "Please, please leave. I can't bear the thought of you touching me again."
"Why?" Frodo asked. They were making love only a short while ago. What was going on? He started towards her and she backed further into the room, placing the chair between them. "Why?"
"Oh, Frodo," Iris sobbed, "I am afraid I might hurt you too. Don't you see? I couldn't take care of Ted Wyncot. What happens the next time you get sick? What do I do then? I couldn't bear to kill you too."
Hot tears ran down her face. Frodo strode around the obstacle and gathered her into his arms again before she could pull away. He hugged her fiercely to himself, then held her away slightly and lightly shook his head. He wiped her tears deliberately using his maimed right hand.
"What can I do to alive your fears?" he asked. "You need not be afraid of me or my illness. I am right here. I am not going away. I am not dying. When I told you at the stream that I would stay with you as long as I was able, I meant it."
"Frodo," she said, "it's not you that I am afraid of. It is me. I am afraid of what I could do to you through ignorance. I feel so inadequate to be your friend and your physician. You suffer from wounds, the like of which I've never seen or even read about in books. It's not like a cold or a sprained ankle or even the vapors. I have no experience in poisonings such as yours.
Magic and Elvish medicine and poisoned swords. These are things out of adventure books or myth, yet here you stand in front of me. You are a legend even if you yourself don't know it. And you come back to the Shire and I don't know what to do! I have no clear idea of how to treat you... or care for you. or . or love you!"
Iris broke away again from his grasp. "Please, if you love me, please leave! I need to be alone to get my mind pieced back together again." She turned her back to him. "Please leave now."
Frodo didn't know what to say. How had this all gone so wrong? He thought he had been so careful to downplay his actions during the War, hiding his pain and terrible memories by a carefully-planned withdrawal from social activities. Planning a life free from the notoriety of the Quest and the Ring. A quiet life. A simple life of a modest landowner and writer of books. And now here he stood, being shunned by the one person in the Shire who he thought would understand and would share that life with him. What had he done wrong?
She refused to look at him.
He left.
Hobbiton slumbered away through the midnight shower. No one witnessed Iris and Frodo entering into the sleepy village, nor did anyone see them wearily pass through the doors to the Physician's Office and private residence. Iris ripped the rain-spattered note affixed to the front door, and threw it down into the mud.
She had been content to let Frodo carry the medical bag and hold her hand as they slogged their way through the rain and dark back to Hobbiton. But now she was cold and uncommunicative. Frodo didn't know what to do to. Had he made a mistake in making love to Iris when she was so vulnerable?
"Iris? Would you like me to draw you a warm bath, or get you something?" Frodo asked as he set down her medical bag and the useless splint. He located a candle and flint on a side table in the hallway. Within a moment the physician's living quarters came into focus in the wavering light.
The physician's private living areas were simple, yet elegant. She favored furnishings which focused on practicality and function, rather than the more normal clutter of a typical smial. Solid colors and solid furniture in easily-washed cottons and polished hardwoods defined Iris's style.
Frodo caught a glimpse of himself in an oval mirror set on the simple burled maple table. A pale, glimmering wraith grasping a flickering candle stared back at him. His hair was plastered in dripping midnight curls onto his forehead. His wet and bloodstained vest, shirt and breeches clung to his frame as if they were a second skin.
Iris looked like a nightmare. Her normally well-groomed and platted curly brown hair tumbled across her shoulders in a tangled mess. Her clothes were thoroughly soaked with the rain, and were stained a faint brownish-red from her deceased patient's blood. Scratches on her forearms had bled into the cloth and ribbons hanging limply from her sleeves.
Frodo walked over to Iris as she stood at the doorway to her bedroom. He reached out a hand towards her shoulder, but she deftly sidestepped his move. Something was definitely wrong.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, backing away from his reach and stumbling into a chair in the dark.
"Iris, please!" Frodo advanced towards her.
"Please don't, Frodo. Please leave," she sobbed. "Leave me alone. I've done enough damage today." Iris was blindly backing into her small bedroom, tears welling into her green eyes. She steadied herself on the small cushioned chair.
Frodo advanced and gathered her in his arms. She cried in misery. He stroked her tangled locks, holding her tight, and murmured little nonsense noises into her small pointed ears until the crying fit had passed.
"Shush now," Frodo crooned. "Shush. Tell me what is wrong."
"Oh, Frodo, I am afraid. And I'm so lonely," she sobbed into his already- wet curls. "I'm so far away from my home. From my family. You're the only one I can talk to, and now you must think me dreadful. I'm such a failure."
"You are not," he softly said, continuing to stroke her hair. "You are not a failure and you are not dreadful. You are wonderful and I love you very much." He placed his hand below her chin and tipped her plain face upwards to look into her green eyes. "Very much." And he closed his eyes and kissed her. A long, but pristine kiss. A kiss of angels and starlight. A kiss completely un-returned. His confusion mounted.
"You are very much wanted and needed here, Iris Proudfoot, physician and healer," he continued stroking her hair. "I need you. We all need you desperately. And you are very much loved here as well. Whilst we will never replace the family you left behind, we hope you will accept us as a new family. We all love you. Sam, Rose, Tandy, Freddy, Merry, Pippin, me. We all love you, Iris.
"Please do not let today ruin all you have worked for. Let it rest. Let it be. Right now you need to get out of these clothes and into a hot bath, and then into bed. Will you let me do that for you, my love?"
"I'll do it myself," Iris sighed as she pushed away from his embrace. "Please, please leave. I can't bear the thought of you touching me again."
"Why?" Frodo asked. They were making love only a short while ago. What was going on? He started towards her and she backed further into the room, placing the chair between them. "Why?"
"Oh, Frodo," Iris sobbed, "I am afraid I might hurt you too. Don't you see? I couldn't take care of Ted Wyncot. What happens the next time you get sick? What do I do then? I couldn't bear to kill you too."
Hot tears ran down her face. Frodo strode around the obstacle and gathered her into his arms again before she could pull away. He hugged her fiercely to himself, then held her away slightly and lightly shook his head. He wiped her tears deliberately using his maimed right hand.
"What can I do to alive your fears?" he asked. "You need not be afraid of me or my illness. I am right here. I am not going away. I am not dying. When I told you at the stream that I would stay with you as long as I was able, I meant it."
"Frodo," she said, "it's not you that I am afraid of. It is me. I am afraid of what I could do to you through ignorance. I feel so inadequate to be your friend and your physician. You suffer from wounds, the like of which I've never seen or even read about in books. It's not like a cold or a sprained ankle or even the vapors. I have no experience in poisonings such as yours.
Magic and Elvish medicine and poisoned swords. These are things out of adventure books or myth, yet here you stand in front of me. You are a legend even if you yourself don't know it. And you come back to the Shire and I don't know what to do! I have no clear idea of how to treat you... or care for you. or . or love you!"
Iris broke away again from his grasp. "Please, if you love me, please leave! I need to be alone to get my mind pieced back together again." She turned her back to him. "Please leave now."
Frodo didn't know what to say. How had this all gone so wrong? He thought he had been so careful to downplay his actions during the War, hiding his pain and terrible memories by a carefully-planned withdrawal from social activities. Planning a life free from the notoriety of the Quest and the Ring. A quiet life. A simple life of a modest landowner and writer of books. And now here he stood, being shunned by the one person in the Shire who he thought would understand and would share that life with him. What had he done wrong?
She refused to look at him.
He left.
