Author Notes : Oh – pause – migod. An entire month since I last updated. I. Am. So. Sorry. So so so so so so sorry. And amazed at anyone who has managed to sustain interest in this story for so long. It's like this – the computer caught a virus. And died. Or nearly died, anyway, we managed to resurrect it. And while the computer was down for the count, my muses resigned. It's very hard to find good help these days, and naturally I had to interview all the new candidates… Anywho, it boils down to this : I have not updated in a month. I am the biggest jerk of all time. I am a penitent jerk. I am updating now. I really, really, really hope you haven't all moved away or something, or totally lost interest (which would serve me right). And I really, really, really hope my new muses have done as good a job as you've credited my former muses with. (Meaning, I haven't written any part of this story for a looooong time and I don't know if this'll be any good my deepest apologies if it's not.) As for a reviewers' section, I hesitate to include one. The comments you made were all made weeks and weeks ago, so my comments on your comments would be a bit obscure, I think. One person, though : foolofatook – thanks for reading ! and reviewing ! all of my stories ! (Okay, that was kind of fractured…) But anyway, thank you ! To the rest of you (if you're even reading this anymore) – I love you all, and I am so terribly sorry about making you wait so long. Shoot me, please. Crucify me, whatever. I won't do it again. O_O Onto the story – here's hoping it's still good…
Bell grimaced as she scraped away the clotted blood and pus that caked the edges of the wound.
« I'm afraid I've ruined your towel, sir, » she apologized to Bilbo. Bilbo seemed amused.
« Only a towel, Bell, only a towel, » he reassured her. « I can always get another one. »
« Aye, » Bell agreed. « Assumin' this storm ever stops long enough for you to go to market. »
« It'll stop, I'm sure, » Bilbo said. « It just has to rain itself out. I'm betting it's over by the end of the week. »
« Hmph, » Bell snorted. « Says you. » Bilbo laughed out loud.
« Yes, says me. And I know what I'm talking about, so stop looking at me that way ! » he said. Bell's skeptical glance softened into a smile.
« Alright. You're probably right, anyway. I hope you are Hamfast's all in a fluster 'bout 'is flowerbeds. Convinced they've been ruined by the rain. 'A whole summer's work, come to nought !', he keeps sayin'. »
« I should certainly hope not, » said Bilbo, frowning suddenly. « My gardens have quite a reputation. Wouldn't do at all for them to be ruined. »
« Aye, well. That's what he's been saying. I don't know as it's true, but it's what he's been saying, » Bell said. « Oh, dear. »
« What ? » asked Bilbo, looking anxiously from Frodo to Sam for some sudden sign of worsening. Bell paused a moment in her ministrations.
« Nothin', it's just I promised Ham I'd be back to tell him how things was gettin' on with the boys. An' here it is, past noon, an' I haven't been back. He probably thinks they're dead by now, » she said, shaking her head.
« Well, you could go tell him now, » suggested Bilbo. « I mean, couldn't you ? How long would it take ? »
« I've no idea, sir, really, » she replied. « An' I should finish what I started, at least the cleanin' anyway, afore I do anythin' else. » Bilbo had just come up with a brilliant idea.
« The children are clamoring to see him, aren't they ? » he asked. Bell nodded, looking vaguely annoyed at the reminder.
« Have been since yesterday mornin', apparently, » she said. « Just about drove my husband crazy, they did, an' Mari's got it into her head that Sam's never coming back, so she hasn't stopped wailing all this time. » Bilbo wanted to be sympathetic, but instead found himself fighting the urge to laugh. He could just imagine his patient, dark-haired gardener, usually so stoic, steadily losing his temper as five, separate children fired five, separate streams of questions at him – questions he naturally couldn't answer, but that they asked, nonetheless.
« Why don't you finish cleaning his foot, and then let them visit before you cauterize it ? » he suggested. Bell looked confused.
« Why before ? » she asked. « Makes more sense just to get it over with all at once. »
« Yes, I know, but if they want to see him – and I take it they do – he's fairly calm right now. Sleeping, but calm, and you could probably wake him, at least for a short period of time, » Bilbo answered.
« What's this leading to ? » Bell asked, still confused. Bilbo leaned forward a bit and rested his elbows on the bed as he explained.
« Well, searing the wound is undoubtedly going to cause him tremendous pain, » he said, and paused.
« Yes… » Bell agreed, nodding slowly.
« Which is going to make him scream and cry, which would be extremely upsetting to his brothers and sisters – especially little Marigold, if she thinks he's already dead or dying, » Bilbo continued.
« True, » Bell acknowleged.
« So, » Bilbo reasoned, « let them visit with him beforehand, assure themselves he's alive and well – or mostly well, anyway – and then send them away and finish the job. » He sat back, rather pleased with his reasoning. Bell tilted her head to the side, considering.
« Master Frodo's bronchitis might be catching, » she said after a moment. « An' it's turning worse. Besides, Sam might not wake up at all, » she said. « Then what ? »
« If it's catching, we've caught it by now, » Bilbo argued. « And have probably given it to your family already. And who said Sam had to be awake ? They just want to see him, is all. Weigh the difference, Bell – the slight chance of them catching Frodo's chill, or the greater chance of your husband going mad from all the questions ? » Bell hid a smile at the thought of her husband going mad from the incessant queries of his children.
« Alright, » she consented. « Just let me finish this. » The towel, now thoroughly disgusting, she wadded up into a ball and threw into Frodo's laundry hamper. She then soaked one of Bilbo's washcloths in her bowl of boiling water and wiped Sam's foot clean with it, being careful not to touch his ankle. The stiff white bandages around his broken bones were still tight and dry and clean, and Bell whispered prayerful thanks Westward for that. Rinsing the washcloth and turning the water dirty red, she wiped his foot again, and then again, until there was no trace of blood except that which oozed from the wound. The sticky clots around the edges, she scraped off, and the blood ran more freely, streaming into the bowl beneath it and giving the water a thin, crimson consistency.
The edges of the wound were swollen, and a peculiar yellowish color. Bell hoped the searing would burn the infection out and save her son. Her childhood friend's older brother had gotten a wound very similar to Sam's, and it had gotten infected, and, like Sam, he had fallen ill. Bell closed her mind to the memories of her best friend's tears at his funeral. He's not goin' to die, stop thinkin' that ! she ordered herself. Think that, an' it'll happen. Bad luck, it is, to be thinkin' such things about your own son. Stop it. But she couldn't.
Bilbo, looking down at Frodo, was thinking of a very special friend of his who had come down with bronchitis and never gotten up again. The illness had advanced aggressively, and in two weeks in November, the year Bilbo was eighteen, had wasted his friend away. It struck a bitter chord in his heart to be reminded of that loss, and he didn't think he could stand to lose his nephew. Frodo's breathing sounded a bit labored, and gurgled in his throat with a wetness that did not bode well. His fever had risen, despite their attempts to lower it, and he was sweating like a blacksmith on a hot day in Afterlithe. His black curls were plastered to his forehead in a wet curve, and his sweat dripped onto the face of the small boy curled so close to him. Strangely enough, Frodo looked content. Bilbo wondered what he was dreaming of.
« Done, » said Bell. « I'll go get them now. » She paused. « Master Bilbo ? » she asked, breaking his thoughts.
« Hmmm ? » he asked, looking up. Bell was brow was furrowed in concern.
« Are you alright, sir, if you don't mind my askin' ? » Bilbo thought a moment before answering.
« Yes… Just… nothing, » he trailed off. Bell was a good woman, a good friend of his, and he'd trust her with just about anything. But tales of love lost in youth and the youth he'd loved and lost were too private and too painful to be shared. He could see Bell didn't believe his dismissal, but she was truly a good friend. If he said 'nothing', she wasn't going to ask. She shrugged, and the moment passed.
« Would you look after 'em, then, while I go round up my family ? » she said lightly, already walking towards the bedroom door.
« Surely, » he replied, and nodding, she left the room. He heard her footsteps disappearing down the hallway, and the distant sound of the front door opening and shutting. Then the house was silent, and he was alone in the room with the sleeping boys. What goes on in your young hearts ? he wondered. The pain had gone out of Sam's bone-white face, and his small hand had tightened its grip on Frodo's. They were so close together that, should they wake, they would find themselves staring into one another's eyes. Bilbo had pondered their sudden friendship these past three days, and had come to one conclusion : theirs was a bond so strong, so intimate, so unfathomably deep that the gods themselves must have ordained it. It was the only explanation he could think of and besides, if the gods had ordained it, there was no further need for questions. This in itself made the solution satisfactory, and so he left it at that. Frodo shifted in his sleep and coughed suddenly, just once, and then lay still. Bilbo's mind turned from philosophical musings to the possible crisis at hand, and he chewed his lip nervously. Come on, lads ! You'll be alright ! he thought encouragingly.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
The lads were, in fact, doing fairly well, all things considered. They found that dream-wanderings were much more pleasant than waking realities, and consigned themselves to remaining dream-bound until it seemed safe to wake again. In dreams, their physical dilemmas did not affect them, and in dreams, they were free to go roaming. Their dreams seemed to be interwoven with memory, and often they would point things out to one another. They were still walking through a wooded area, but it was not anyplace Sam had ever been.
« Where're we now ? » he asked, looking up at Frodo. Frodo had been looking around, trying to figure that out for himself.
« I don't know, » he admitted. « Seems familiar, though… » Sam stood beside him patiently, waiting for him to get his bearings. Frodo took rather longer than the child had anticipated, and he began to swing their clasped hand back and forth, signaling his boredom. « Give me a minute, » Frodo said, mildly irritated. Sam let go of his hand and sat down with a sigh, crossing his legs and propping his chin on his hand. He looked so resigned, Frodo burst out laughing.
« It hasn't been that long, » he teased. Sam looked up at him, unamused.
« No. It's been longer, » he retorted, and Frodo laughed again.
« And you're supposed to be so patient, » he said, not bothering to hide his grin.
« Well, how long am I s'posed to be patient for ? » Sam asked, frowning.
« Not much longer, » Frodo assured him. « Just another moment I'm almost certain I recognize this place. » Sam watched him interestedly and sure enough, a few moments later, light dawned in Frodo's eyes. « I know ! » he exclaimed. « We're in Tuckborough ! »
« We are ? » Now Sam looked very interested. He had never been more than ten miles from his home at any given time in his short life, and though this was a dream, a memory, and not an actual experience, it was opening a window on the world that Sam had been curious about for as long as he could remember.
« Yes ! » said Frodo excitedly, pleased with himself for remembering. « Yes, this is Tuckborough. I didn't recognize it because I've only been to this part once before. » His smile faded suddenly, and the light in his eyes died.
« Frodo ? » Sam asked, laying a small hand on Frodo's arm. Frodo stared off into the space in front of him, unseeing, and Sam waited a moment before tugging Frodo's arm and making him sit down. Once seated, the boy climbed into his lap and put his arms around him. Frodo hugged back absently, still lost in memories.
« Did they bring you here ? » Sam asked quietly, breaking the silence but not looking up. Frodo shook his head slowly.
« No… » he said. « I – when I was fourteen, I – I ran away. » He hesitated. It was not a memory he was particularly proud of. « We'd come here to Tuckborough to visit all the relatives. We came with Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmy, and the baby they'd just had. We'd been here about two weeks, and we – my … father and I, we – quarrelled. It was an out-and-out fight, actually, » Frodo admitted, smiling unhappily.
« What about ? » Sam asked, and now he looked up, his green gaze curious, but respectfully distant, showing Frodo that, should he choose not to answer, no answer was expected. You understand me so well, he thought, and squeezed the child briefly. Then he returned to the question.
« Something foolish, incredibly stupid, » he said. « Trivial, meaningless. Things happened, we 'had words', you might say. Pretty harsh ones, too. I got upset about it, started swearing, he told me to shut my mouth and I told him to make me, so he did. He hit me. » He glanced down, but Sam did not look shocked, merely anxious, and rather sad. A small, soft hand touched his cheek, and dark green eyes regarded him worriedly, as though the bruise were still visible.
« Do you hate him for it ? » the boy asked softly, carefully.
« I did then, » Frodo said, just as softly, and his blue eyes were filled with sorrow and regret. Sam sat up a little straighter and kissed Frodo on the cheek, moving his arms and placing them round Frodo's neck.
« He didn't mean it. » The sighing whisper slipped into Frodo's ear as the child embraced him. « He didn't mean it. » Frodo's chin began to tremble, and the now-familiar sensation of tears rising in his throat overtook him. He tightened his arms around Sam and buried his face in the boy's shoulder. Calm down, he ordered himself. You're going to frighten the wits out of him. Small fingers combed through his dark hair and small hands massaged his back, rigid with the sobs he was trying to suppress. Four words, whispered almost inaudibly four words breathed into his ear four words, spoken by this child he still hardly knew, and yet, in a way, had always known four words that had broken all defenses and reduced him to tears again. He choked on those tears, trying to swallow them, and failing mercifully as Sam whispered to him again, « He didn't mean it. »
It was good to weep now, and his tears were like balm to his wounded soul. There was a great burden of regret on his young shoulders that he had been carrying since the night they died. I never thanked her for all she did I never told him I loved him I never said I was sorry I never said goodbye – these had plagued him relentlessly, eating at him like an acid, like a cancer. They spilled out now in words and tears, choked out against Sam's small shoulder.
« I t-told him I – I… » He had not the strength to say it.
« Told him what ? » Sam asked gently.
« I hated him, » Frodo whispered, and his pain shook him in a storm of deep, gut-wrenching sobs. Two months was not long enough, it was not far enough away from the Accident for Frodo to think of his parents objectively. The pain was still too raw and too real to be dealt with abstractly, and though he had thought himself empty of tears, yet he found another floodgate to be opened, as it was opened by the soft words of the child.
Sam was standing now, while Frodo sat, combing his fingers through Frodo's hair and rubbing his shaking shoulders while his own shoulder grew damp with Frodo's tears. He felt in Frodo a depth of sorrow more profound than any he had known in his short life, and was dismayed. How do I comfort you ? he asked, though Frodo didn't hear him. So Sam stood, and stroked him, and held him, and murmured little nothings to quiet him, drawing on all his own experience of methods of reassurement.
« Shhhhhh, » he whispered into Frodo's hair. « Shhhhhh… it's alright, it's alright… hush, now calm down, Frodo … oh, Frodo… shhhhhhh… »
At last, when his great emotional purge was over, Frodo sniffed and coughed wetly, his nose and throat full of the mucus that tears induce. Once again, he had attained the sick, hollow feeling that comes from weeping long, and the strange lightening of the spirit that comes from cleansing tears. He wasn't sure if he felt better or worse. Worse physically, he decided his head was aching and heavy with spent tears. But better in other respects. The guilt that had been gnawing at him was gone, washed away in the salt floods of his weeping.
His arms ached from holding Sam for so long, so he let them drop and let go of the boy, dragging his sleeve across his face in an attempt to dry his tears.
« Don't suppose you have a handkerchief ? » he asked with a weak laugh, his voice still high and unsteady. Sam smiled and shook his head, and Frodo sniffed again, his own lips faltering when he tried to smile back. He cleared his throat loudly and looked down at the ground beside him. « Thought not, » he said, and cleared his throat more forcefully, trying to cover his embarrassment at the rise and fall of his voice. He looked up again when Sam sat down in his lap. Close your eyes, the boy instructed, so he did, and a moment later felt the soft fabric of Sam's tunic sleeve rubbing his tears away. The child spent some minutes at the task before he was finished and Frodo was allowed to open his eyes again.
« I must have been in quite a state, » Frodo said, only half-joking. Sam smiled again and patted his cheek.
« Just a state, » he replied. « 'Quite a state' would be messier. » Frodo laughed shakily at this statement and then gave a great, shuddering sigh. It seemed to Sam that all the air in Frodo's lungs was expelled in that sigh a sigh that expressed volumes with its sheer force. The tension went out of Frodo, and they sat quiet for a while. Frodo bent his head and buried his face in Sam's soft, golden hair, closing his eyes to the dream-world a moment and inhaling deeply the scent of rosemary, which the soap they used was made with. He breathed out again, his heartbeat steadied and his upset calmed.
« Know something ? » he said, resting his chin on the top of Sam's head.
« What's that ? » Sam asked.
« I'm dreadfully tired of crying, » Frodo said heavily. « It seems all I've done since they died was cry, or feel like crying, or try not to cry, or hurt so much I just had to cry. And I'm tired of it. It's become very boring, being miserable. » He frowned at the trees that surrounded them, brooding. Sam shifted and sat back a little to look Frodo in the eyes.
« Who said you had to be ? » he asked. Frodo gave him a confused look.
« Nobody. I just was. Am, » he amended.
« But you said you're tired of it. Bored with bein' miserable, » Sam repeated. Frodo shrugged.
« Well, I am. So ? » he asked.
« So who said you had t'be miserable ? » Sam asked. « If you don't like bein' miserable, stop bein' miserable. Nobody's makin' you keep on but you. » The logic of this statement gave Frodo pause.
« It can't be that easy, » he said slowly.
« Why not ? » Sam asked.
« Because – because… » Frodo trailed off.
« Sounded like you didn't like it, » Sam said, and Frodo nodded. « Well, then, stop doing it. » His tone was level, with just a hint of authority, and perfectly rational. Don't like it, don't do it – it was an intriguing thought. It had never occurred to Frodo that he might simply refuse to give himself grief about it. I can try, anyway, he thought. He looked bemused.
« Tell me about – tell me why ? » Sam asked suddenly. It took Frodo a second to catch up with him.
« Tell you – oh. Well, like I said before, we had a fight, he hit me. » Frodo paused. Why not give him the whole story, after all ? « The baby – Meriadoc ridiculous name for someone so small. We all just call him Merry. But the baby, being the first son, was naturally quite a sensation, and when we came to Tuckborough there were nine million toasts to the 'Future Master of Buckland' and talks of marriage to strengthen the familial ties – marriage ! and Merry was barely two months old ! Poor kid, they'd planned his whole life for him. » Frodo shook his head, and continued.
« Anyway, it was all 'the baby' this, and 'your son' that, and personally, I failed to see the appeal of him. All the women cooed over him, it was repulsive and the men made absolute fools of themselves. You'd think they were looking at some child of kings, not a spitting little squaller who continually messed himself. And my parents – they acted like he was some sort of miracle sent by the Valar them and my aunt and uncle. They always wanted to hold him and touch him, and Dad and Uncle Saradoc would have long talks about his future and Mother and Aunt Esmy would compare Merry's baby problems to the ones I'd had, and in general, they ignored me. » Frodo frowned. « I don't like being ignored, » he muttered.
« Or at least, they ignored me till I wanted to hold the baby – oh, no they couldn't have that. Father knows, I've only held dozens in my time, but I might have dropped this one and then they'd be out an heir. Which, of course, would never do. And all the talk was about the child, and it seemed like there was nobody who wasn't absolutely fascinated with the little wretch, and nobody had any time for anything but that baby, not even the cousins my age. » Here Frodo looked sad, and Sam sensed the loneliness that still dwelt in him the loneliness of an only child who had never had any real friends. He felt a sharp pang to imagine Frodo so overlooked, and understood the hurt he must have felt. Frodo sighed, and went on.
« So, naturally, I rather came to resent him. And that's not fair he was a good baby. He's a good boy. He didn't cry too much, and he's very sweet-natured. But nobody ever let me touch him and they never shut up about him and I just – lost my temper. » He hesitated. « Threw it away, more like, » he said in a low voice. « But I couldn't help it ! » His voice rose defensively, as though Sam were arguing with him. The child in question looked up at him patiently, waiting for him to go on.
« I just – I was wandering about, I had nothing to do. All the others were off drooling over Merry, and if they weren't with him, they were talking about him, and I'd barely seen my parents since he was born, because they just had to be with him and his parents. So I was sort of wandering the hallways, looking for somebody who hadn't gone to render homage, and Dad – who'd said seven words, seven words to me since we'd arrived : 'Be quiet, Frodo, you'll wake the baby' – Dad comes down the hallway towards me grinning like he'd won the Mayfair races. And d'you know what he said to me ? » Frodo looked down and Sam shook his head.
« He said, 'Your cousin Meriadoc's just learned to hold his head up !' That's what he said ! Not 'Frodo-lad, I'm glad to see you' not 'Son, d'you want to go for a walk ?'. Not even 'Frodo, is something wrong ?'. But 'Your cousin Meriadoc's just learned to hold his head up !' » Frodo's voice dripped sarcasm. « And two and a half months of being ignored only to hear that – I lost my temper. I said I didn't care what he'd learned to do, he was a baby, a bloody infant he could drop off the edge of the world, it wouldn't make any difference. He stopped smiling and told me not to talk that way, and I said I'd talk any way I liked, it's not like he or Mum had been paying any attention they'd been too worked up over Meriadoc. I said it was a bloody foolish name for a baby, and Dad got angry, told me not to use 'such words', and so I said it again. 'A bloody foolish name for a bloody foolish baby' and he could die for all I cared. Then Dad told me to shut my mouth, and I told him to make me. » Frodo stopped.
« Right here, » he said, putting his right hand to his cheek and rubbing reflectively. « But it hurt more here. » He moved his hand from his cheek to his heart. « I told him I hated him. I said I wished – » he faltered. « I said I wished he would die. And then I ran. I ran and ran and ran, till I got here, and then I cried for hours and hours because I hated my father and wished he would die. I didn't want to hate him or wish those things, but he'd hit me. I felt… betrayed. And I was angry with him for a long time afterwards. Even after they found me here two days later, and he held me and kissed me and said he was sorry and told me he loved me – even then, I was angry. And I was too stubborn to apologize, » he said bitterly. « Too late now. »
Sam just looked at him. He didn't know what to say, and he wasn't going to pretend he did. Frodo sighed again and rubbed his face, his long black lashes still wet and spiky with tears. « Too late now, » he repeated softly. « And no use crying over spilt milk. » He shook his head and got to his feet, pulling Sam up with him. « Enough of true confessions, » he said. « Let's go somewhere else. » The boy smiled and took his hand, but then he choked as if the air had been knocked out of him, and his small face twisted in pain. « Sam ? » Frodo asked, alarmed.
« Hurts, it hurts, » Sam whimpered, and disappeared. Stunned, Frodo stared at the space for a long moment, feeling the warmth of Sam's hand fade from his own. And then he felt like he was being pushed, and with a searing pain in his chest, he awakened.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Frodo's face no longer looked peaceful, Bilbo noticed as he watched them. Frodo was sweating so heavily it took Bilbo a moment to realize tears were sliding down his face. « Cousin ? » he said aloud, though of course Frodo didn't answer. He was making soft whimpering noises and his breathing sounded thick. His level black brows drew together in a grimace of pain and grief familiar to Bilbo, who had wakened him from so many nightmares. Sam's small hand tightened on Frodo's, his lips were moving, but without sound. The older boy's tears dripped onto his face until it seemed he was weeping, too. Bell, where *are* you ? Bilbo thought desperately. He stroked Frodo's sweaty hair and rubbed his back and tried his level best to calm him down, but to no apparent avail. And then suddenly, it was as if Frodo had run out of tears. His face cleared and his breathing smoothed – somewhat – and Sam's grip on his hand relaxed. There was silence for a short while, and then Bilbo heard the front door opening. Praise the Father ! he thought, and left the boys to greet the Gamgees.
« Sorry it took so long, » Bell said breathlessly. « But th' Hill's more 'n a bit slippery and th' path's all but flooded out. »
« Fine, that's fine, » Bilbo said distractedly.
« How are they ? » Hamfast asked quietly, his dark eyes somber.
« See for yourselves, » Bilbo said, and waved them in the general direction of the bedroom. Bell led the way and they entered cautiously, as though something terrible might spring out at them.
« Oh, brother, » the children said as one. Bell made haste to place a blanket over Sam's foot – she had forgotten the wound was still exposed. The two boys, curled so close together, looked like death warmed over. Frodo looked as if he'd been dipped in the river, he was so wet. His cheeks were deeply flushed and he sounded like he was trying to breathe through water. Sam's breath came in shallow gasps, and his face was absolutely white. They looked like they were dying. The childred stood in shocked silence at the sight, until little Marigold went over to the bedside. She couldn't even see over the top of it, she was so small, but she reached her hand up to try and touch her brother.
« Sam ? » she said in a confused voice. May grabbed her up and held her close, tears forming in her eyes. « May ? » Marigold said, turning those huge, dark eyes on her sister, who looked pleadingly to Bell.
« It's not as bad as it looks, » their mother reassured them, but caught her husband's eye as she said it. A silent question was asked and answered. Will they – ? ~ Maybe. Hamfast suddenly looked ten years older, and his shoulders slumped like they carried a heavy burden. He liked Frodo very well, was affectionate enough with him – though always mindful of his 'station' – and would be very sorry if Frodo should die. But Samwise – oh, Father, please no. Please no. Don't take him, don't take him, he's so young, yet…
« Samwise ? » Bell said softly, bending over him. « Sam, love, wake up. Wake up. » She shook his shoulder lightly and he came awake with a gasp, his wide eyes pained and confused. Bell felt sorry for waking him. « Your brothers an' sisters came to see thee, » she said, trying to smile. Sam blinked up at her, uncomprehending, and she gestured to where they stood. He looked at them blankly and Daisy began to cry, despite her best efforts to the contrary. She bit her lip hard, but the tears ran down her cheeks, and she turned away from that unrecognizing gaze. May glared around the room and stalked over to the bedside, sitting down. Sam was too tired to move away, so he just watched her. She took his hand in hers, trying not to gasp aloud at the heat of it, and looked him straight in his confused green eyes.
« Little brother, » she said softly. Sam blinked wearily. « Little brother, » she said again, more forcefully. He looked over to Frodo, who was struggling to sit up. May glanced at him, wincing a little for how ill he looked. Frodo's blue eyes were equally uncomprehending, and he looked at her as though he'd never seen her before, reaching for Sam warily. The boys' eyes met for a burning moment, and then suddenly, Sam turned back to her.
« May ? » he whispered hoarsely. She nodded, and felt very much like crying, but choked down her tears.
« S'me, » she said, smiling as best she could, and Sam nodded slowly. His other siblings came over, touching him cautiously and smiling nervously at Frodo, who watched them all sharply and held Sam closer to himself, as if they would take Sam away from him. His breath quickened and he coughed, and he had to let go of Sam, coughing harder. Bilbo was at his side in an instant, helping him sit up and pounding on his back. The raw sound of his coughing filled the room and made them flinch until he came to an abrupt halt. He laid his head on Bilbo's shoulder and panted heavily, his head aching and his chest torn. Oh, Father, let me die, he thought miserably. Bilbo laid him back down and he reached for Sam, wrapping his sweaty arms around him. Sam's thoughts were all blue confusion and blood-black pain, with weak green flashes of comfort when his siblings kissed him and his father stroked his hair.
Frodo closed his eyes to the room and tried hard to recapture the safety and relative painlessness of their dreams, but to no avail. Sam's family's voices were all around him, piercing his throbbing head and keeping him awake. Sam's thoughts themselves could not be still, caught in a whirl of pain and bewilderment that agitated Frodo's mind. He wanted to tell them all to go away, to leave them alone, to be quiet, at the very least, but Frodo was a well-mannered and self-controlled boy, and some small corner of his mind realized that they weren't trying to keep him awake. They were very worried for Sam, was all. Put up with it, he thought wearily, his face pressed to the curve of Sam's neck. S'all you can do, anyway.
He began to wish he would go deaf, and then suddenly it seemed his wish was granted. All the noise stopped, and when he opened one eye carefully, they were gone. Sam was on an edge between sleep and consciousness, wavering between the two, his eyes still open and bright with exhaustion. In the sudden silence, Frodo felt sleep returning. Come on, he said to the child, taking Sam's hand in his again. Sam came willingly, his eyes closing, and soon they left their pain behind to wander in dreams again.
Bell and Bilbo returned to the room and looked at eachother for a moment.
« Well, » Bilbo said expectantly.
« Well, » Bell replied. There was another pause, and then she turned to the fireplace and picked up the poker. « It'll need to be hot, » she said.
~*~*~*~*~*~*
A/N: *winces* Any good? I haven't been able to write in so long… Please tell me if it's alright…