"Missus Tansy? Are you all right?" The voice is unfamiliar. Everything is unfamiliar.
I am huddled over, gasping for breath. I look around. I'm in a strange room I've never seen before. Several shuttered round windows. A large four-poster bed had been shoved against the far wall. I am sitting on a low birthing stool. Pain. Pain rips through my midsection and I clench my teeth on a scream. Sweat trickles down my face, into my eyes and mouth. I look down and see the rivulets of blood on my legs.
Mustn't scream. It would worry him. Mustn't. The linen of my shift is clinging to me, transparent with sweat. I am vaguely aware that I would normally be embarrassed to be seen like this. I don't particularly care right now.
The midwife's red face swims into view. "Push, dearie," she says, her fingers digging into my knee, "Push hard now!" I remember this sensation. I take a deep breath, and push on the exhalation. My muscles knot into a hard band of agony.
A new voice. "That's good, Missus!" A woman I don't know, with blonde curls, holds a damp cloth to my forehead. It feels wonderfully cool. I stop pushing and struggle for breath. As soon as I relax my abused muscles, they collapse into trembles, uncontrollable shivers that hurt worse than the pushes do.
"Almost, dearie!" crows the midwife happily. "A few more like that and you'll have your little lad!" I take another breath and push again. And again. And again. My head is swimming, and the room fades in and out of focus. The light-haired woman keeps sponging my face and murmuring encouragement. A neighbor, perhaps, or a servant? I can't tell by her dress. Then, in the middle of a push, it happens.
The pressure and the pains are wiped away, as if by magic. I release my breath in a long sigh, relaxing my muscles even before I hear the midwife yell. "Easy, now, for the shoulders… It's a lass, Missus!" The midwife shoves the baby into my arms, and the woman next to me leans over and wraps her in towels, rubbing briskly and clearing the tiny nose and mouth. The baby moves her head weakly, and makes a tiny sound, not much more than a kitten's cry.
I've barely caught my breath when the midwife pushes in hard on my stomach and the muscles clench in renewed pain. The midwife massages my abdomen briskly and I glare down at her. She is unmoved. "You'll be able to rest soon, Missus," she says consolingly. The neighbor-or-servant woman is holding the baby and tying off the bluish cord when the afterbirth comes. The midwife takes it and the baby for examination. A minute later, I hear a healthy squall of outrage and the door of the bedchamber opens promptly, as if the cry had pulled it on a string.
"Mr. Frodo, we're not ready quite yet!" the neighbor-or-servant-woman calls.
"Best to wait till you're called for, I find," the midwife says tartly.
He ignores them and enters anyway. "Come now, ladies," he says. "I was present for the sowing, wasn't I?"
The light-haired woman bursts out laughing. "Mr. Frodo, how you go on!" She speaks so familiarly that she must be a neighbor. Frodo comes and crouches by the stool, putting an arm around me. "Are you all right?" he asks. He stares into my face and takes one of my hands in his. When he unfolds my fist, he frowns at the fingernail marks. "You've hurt yourself, my love."
I smile giddily at him. All I'm aware of is the relief from the pain, and that is so wonderful, I feel like laughing and singing. "A girl, Frodo!" I say breathlessly. " A beautiful girl, with dark hair like yours." He looks over and seems to notice the baby for the first time. The light-haired woman finishes wiping her and places her, swaddled snugly, into his arms. The baby has quieted and is trying to look about with her dark blue eyes crossed but intent. He takes a step backward and sits down hard on the bed, looking as genuinely surprised and stunned as I've ever seen him. He touches the miniature hand tentatively with one finger, and she grasps it, trying to bring it to her mouth. He looks at me, a wondering smile dawning on his face. "Primula, then," I say happily, and he nods.
The midwife and the light-haired woman freshen me up, then drape a clean dressing gown about me. They help me over to the bed and I sink down on it unsteadily. The midwife and the must-be-neighbor-woman leave the room. Frodo pulls a quilt over me, and sits next to me on the bed with our baby snuggled across his lap. "I love you, dearest," he says quietly. Tears of joy blur my vision. I need to feed the baby but I am so tired. I lean my head against his shoulder and sigh. So tired. Just a short rest, and then I'll take her. I am drowsing when I feel a sudden pain, not in my belly, but in my hand.
Something is burning in my hand. I unclench my fist, and the white jewel is lying there, glaring harshly. I stare at it in confusion—why isn't it around Frodo's neck? I start up, and look at them. The baby is still awake and quiet, lying across his knees. She yawns widely with a small grumbling. Frodo's head has fallen to one side, and one hand is limp on the quilt.
"Frodo?" I ask. My heart, why is it pounding so? He is so still. "Frodo!" I cry.
The light-haired woman rushes in. "Tansy, what is it, what's the matter?" I stare at her for a second, willing her to say everything would be fine, just an odd little turn, he gets those, you know that… The color drains from her, leaving her skin greenish-sick. She grabs his chin and tilts his face up to hers. "Frodo, Mr. Frodo," she says, shaking him. Her next words are nearly a scream. "Sam! Sam, come quick!" Primula is jostled and begins wailing.
And despite all this Frodo still does not move. I hear an anguished male cry from the door. "No, no, it can't…" He will never move again. The hubbub in the room seems as far removed from me as the stars. I stare at his face, buried by the enormity of what I now face.
"Frodo." The stout hobbit falls to his knees at the bedside, pressing Frodo's hand to his cheek. "Frodo!" A long night with no promise of day, ever. The light haired woman is cradling Primula expertly, tears streaking down her cheeks. How would I live without him? No, I can't, I can't, I can't, I can't…
My body convulsed and I half sat up in bed. I stared wildly around me, at the dim room, the black shadows of the tree boughs, trying to gulp down my sobs. Stop, stop, you'll wake him and what would you say? Frodo was on his side next to me, with knees bent and one arm tucked under his head.
I reached one finger out to his shoulder, afraid of what I would find. His skin was blazingly warm underneath the smooth linen. Thank you, thank you… I slid down to my accustomed place and my cheek touched a cool, hard oval. Queen Arwen's jewel had slipped over one shoulder and was glimmering faintly against the skin of his back. I jerked back and regarded it silently for a moment. I'd never in my life had such odd dreams…not until I started sleeping with Frodo. And I hated these dreams, I hated the way they made me feel, and the way they seemed to take over my body and mind. Even now, several minutes after waking, I still felt the terror and the horrible gut-wrenching sadness of my loss. Not a loss, I thought angrily. Not truly a loss because Frodo is alive, he's right here next to you, and you will not act like some frightened, witless teeny.
I stared at the gem, which even in this darkness glittered light on its frosty surface, and I feared it. Irrational, but I feared it and did not wish to touch it. "Those are not my dreams," I whispered defiantly. "Those were not my dreams at all, so why do you force them on me?" The gem returned nothing but silence. I shook my head and became abruptly aware of how absurd this would seem to Frodo if he awoke now. What are you doing, dear?
Nothing, my love, just giving your gem a firm talking to. It's been sending me dreams and…
I forced a shaky laugh and felt my forehead. It was cool. I don't feel sick. I eased back down to cuddle to Frodo. But before I got too close, I lifted Arwen's jewel by the chain and eased it carefully back over onto his chest. I'm over-wrought. I'll feel fine tomorrow. Then I pressed my cheek to his back and listened to him breathing, and his heart beating. The sounds soothed my jangled nerves and at last, I fell asleep.
The next morning I was tired and distracted. I managed to smile and speak pleasantly to Frodo at breakfast and he seemed to suspect nothing. But the cheerful room with its low ceiling beams oppressed me until I felt as if I were straining to breathe. The air was close and thick and dusty…like that of a tomb. The thought sent me leaping to my feet, and muttering an apology to Frodo, I fled into the bedroom. I splashed water on my face and leaned out the open window until I felt recovered. What's wrong with me? I thought anxiously. Opal's dry voice answered. Maybe you're with child.
I turned the thought over. I was never broody with Toby.
Every babe is different, Opal's voice reminded me. I stared out over the grassy verge. Let that be it, then. Better that, than… I shook myself and finished dressing.
When I re-entered the sitting room, Frodo was perusing his notes at the table. I hung onto the doorjamb and watched him. He traced one slender finger carefully along the page, puzzling out its meaning. His hands moved deftly, with nary a wasted motion. Competent hands. I no longer noticed the offending ceiling beams. His lips moved slightly, and his eyebrows drew together. His lips were a pale velvety pink. He shifted forward in his chair as if by getting closer to the offending document he could decipher it. I was drawn irresistibly into the room until I stood beside his chair. He slid one arm about my waist absently, and I smoothed his hair back from his brow.
"I'm going to help with the sewing in the Hall," I told him.
He frowned down at the page he still held in one hand. "Sewing?" he questioned. "For whom?"
"Merry and Estella," I answered. "The wedding sewing."
He raised his eyebrows. "Ah. I'd hoped you would help me translate Pippin's abominable handwriting."
Being this close to him scattered my wits. "Uh-hmmm…" I laughed, a little breathlessly. "I'll not be gone long. And perhaps Merry could help."
He flattened his hand along the small of my back. "Perhaps I'll be ready for a break from writing when you return, then."
I bent and brushed his lips with mine, quickly, for I knew if I lingered I'd be lost. "Farewell, love."
I spent a pleasant pair of hours sewing on the wedding quilt in the great hall, and catching up on gossip. It seemed that the Banks were feuding with the Maggots again, and the cause seemed to be a burgeoning regard between the Banks' eldest son and the middle Maggot girl. We broke for elevenses, and I found myself cornered by Mentha, who was complaining angrily that Meli had chosen the exact same shade of dress-fabric that she, Mentha had, for the last blessed time. I sipped tea and soothed her, feeling thoroughly at home, and completely well.
When I returned before lunch, Frodo and Merry were curled in front of the fire, talking quietly. They looked over as I closed the door behind me. Ill-at-ease, I realized that I hadn't knocked before I'd entered. It was ill mannered to walk into a private room that way unless you were family…or a very close friend. And what was appropriate behavior when you had just interrupted your lover's conversation with your guardian, anyway?
"Er….Good afternoon, Frodo," I temporized. "Sorry to interrupt but I heard voices and….wondered if you would like to come to lunch with me."
Merry raised his eyebrows until they disappeared under his hair. Then he grinned widely. "Well, that explains why we didn't hear your knock."
I felt my cheeks heating as I glared at him. "I said I heard your voices, didn't I?"
"Heard voices or heard our voices? If it's the latter, you have Elven ears!" he retorted.
Frodo got up from the floor, smiling ruefully. "Stop teasing, Merry. We have a regular lunch appointment, don't we, Tansy?" He came over to me and took my arm. "Shall we?"
We walked out into the hallway, and Merry followed us still blathering. "Go on without me, I insist," he said. "No, really, I have a lunch….what did you call it, Frodo? Appointment? A lunch appointment, as well."
"I'm pleased to hear you'll have company," Frodo retorted smartly. "Especially since we are otherwise engaged."
Merry laughed and stopped in the hallway, patting the pockets of his bright blue weskit. "Very well, then I'll beg a favor." Not finding what he sought, he turned his breeches pockets out and finally produced a key dangling on a fine silver chain. "Select a wine from the wine cellar for the table tonight? I'm afraid it slipped my mind until just this moment, and I know mother is waiting for me to escort her." He looked over at me. "Tansy won't mind, will you? She has excellent taste." He looked up to the ceiling, chortling. "Yes, excellent taste, she has..."
I took the key to quiet him. "Yes, Merry. Good afternoon, Merry."
He looked relieved and headed off toward the back entrance to the family wing. Once he was out of earshot, I looked at Frodo questioningly. "Have a nice visit?"
"Of course." He looked at me with a faint smile on his lips and gestured for me to continue down the corridor.
"Did you get caught up on all the news?" I ventured after a minute's silence.
"Yes, somewhat."
I was frustrated at his non-responses but hesitated to press him further. The questions I really wanted to ask paraded through my mind repeatedly. Did you tell him you asked me to marry you? What did he say? Did he agree? Did he set a dowry? And the most insistent: Did you ask me because you knew he would insist on it?
We arrived at the kitchen while I was occupied with my thoughts and I waited quietly while Frodo asked Cook about the evening meal.
She listened to his explanation, stirring a large pot of soup. It smelled delicious. Then she tucked a few wisps of hair back under her white cap and looked Frodo over appraisingly. Her face split in a broad grin. "Some rest and good cooking and you're right as rain, eh'nt you, Mister Frodo?"
"I do feel much improved," he said, smiling wistfully. "I'm in your debt."
She set down her ladle and simpered like a girl, and not at all the brusque elder-servant I knew. "Bless 'ee, Mister Frodo, I'm just doing what as should be done. But it's very kind of you to say so, I'm sure." She stood there for a moment, while Frodo waited for her to continue.
It looked to me as if she'd completely forgotten that he'd asked her a question and was just staring at him. I couldn't fault her for that. He was wearing a faded light blue shirt with snug tweed breeches so he was quite enjoyable to look upon. There was a pause, and then a look of comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh, I nearly forgot the wine!" She laughed, sounding a little embarrassed. "Well, I'm not sure. Red is nice and hearty, and it seems like I remember a goodly amount of 1360 laid away that would go nicely. 'Ere taste this soup."
He tasted it solemnly and pronounced it delicious, to her obvious pleasure. She added complacently: "The 1360 vintage is good and not too expensive, either. Master Saradoc is always pleased to save a bit." Frodo thanked her gravely and took her hand to shake it. She smiled happily, blushing a little until she caught one of the maids staring.
She dropped his hand abruptly. "Right, well, I must get back to my cookery. Elsie, since you've nothing to do but stand around goggling like a fish, you can show Mr. Frodo to the cellar door."
Elsie looked not unhappy with this assignment. She straightened her apron and said, "Yes, mum. If you would follow me, sir?"
Frodo glanced over one shoulder at me, and I took his arm. Elsie led us to the door leading to the second kitchen, and stopped, waiting. When we came level with her, she looked at me in surprise. "Miss Tansy, you're not going, are you?"
"She's kindly agreed to assist me in my choice," Frodo said calmly.
Elsie pursed her lips, obviously debating what to say. "But Mr. Frodo…the ladies don't go into the wine cellars."
I was unsurprised by this announcement, knowing as I did that this was a chore the men of the Hall tended to reserve for themselves. I looked at Frodo and shrugged. "It's all right, Elsie, I understand." I started to tell Frodo that I would see him at luncheon, but he cut me off.
"Miss Tansy will be accompanying me and then we will go to luncheon together." That was all he said, but his quiet voice made her straighten and drop her eyes. She led us through the second kitchen and the pantry, before reaching the worn cellar stairs in the back storeroom. Elsie lit the wall candles as we descended but the stair was still dim. We proceeded slowly, myself behind Frodo who was in turn behind Elsie. Halfway down, she stumbled on some irregularity and Frodo seized her arm and steadied her.
She looked up at him, her face pale under the cap. "Thankee, sir. You saved me from falling."
"Perhaps, perhaps not," he said calmly. "You likely would have found your feet." She opened her mouth to argue and then checked herself. She held her peace but started stealing little sideways looks at his face. He seemed oblivious.
At the bottom of the stair, we confronted a stout wooden door. Elsie turned the iron key in the lock and then pulled the door open for Frodo.
"Shall I get the other door, too, sir?"
He glanced in and hesitated for a long moment as if thinking. Then he squared his shoulders and said, "No, I can get it. My thanks for your assistance, Elsie."
She turned rosy-pink at his use of her name and her lips parted. "If'n there's anything I can do, Mister Frodo, just ask." I must've made some noise then, for she glanced at me from under her eyelashes and then hurried away.
Frodo went inside without looking back and I followed, shaking my head. The wine cellar door was oak with a brass lock, and set into the stone and earthen wall close to the main entrance. I held my candlestick up while he fitted the key on its silver chain into the lock.
"I don't think I've ever seen an entire kitchen conquered so effortlessly," I said. "I'd heard of the Baggins charm, but that was amazing!" He pulled the door open and stepped inside. "I begin to wonder if perhaps I am not merely the latest in a long line of ladies slain by your blue eyes, in fact— "
He interrupted me in an oddly hoarse voice. "The 1360, where is it?"
"Oh. Let me help you look." I went inside and looked around curiously. I had never been in the wine cellar before. It was a large round chamber, with walls of earth and stone, and racks of wine bottles. The walls and ceiling were braced with heavy timbers. A crate sat half-unpacked against one wall; the rags that had been wrapped about the bottles heaped untidily on the floor.
I found and lit a single wall sconce that was inconveniently behind one of the racks. I found that it was practically useless; it shone through one of the bottles and so produced only a dim reddish glow. Frodo propped his candlestick on an empty space in the rack closest to the door and was looking at the labels. I went to the next in line and squinted at the cramped writing. The labels were grimy and hard to read. I had to wipe them off as I went and my hands were black before I had finished one row.
"1296? I didn't know we had that. I've certainly never gotten to drink any of it," I looked further along the row, reading aloud as I went. "1299…and here is 1300. They're in order by year." I knelt down to look at the last row. Unlike the outer cellar, this room had an actual wooden plank floor. Frodo brushed past me without a word and bent to the next rack. I pushed my hair back, remembering too late about the dirt on my hands.
"Oh, dear. You can tell this is a man's preserve," I went on, wondering if I should try wiping my hands on my underskirt. "Look how dirty it is! I think I'll have to stop and wash before we go on to lunch, don't you think, Frodo?"
He paused and looked over at me. His face was tight, and looked greyish in the candles' flickering light. "Frodo? Are you all right?"
He forced a smile that looked ghastly. "I'm fine. Let's just find the blasted bottles and go."
My eyes widened at his tone. I left the rack immediately and went to him, putting an arm around his waist. "What is it? What's wrong?" He was trembling with tension under my touch and now I could see the dew of sweat beading his temples.
He pulled away from me and wiped his forehead. "I'm fine, Tansy—" He started back to the farthest rack but froze when he stumbled over the rags on the floor. I watched him anxiously, wondering what was wrong.
"Frodo?"
He didn't seem to hear me. He dropped his eyes slowly and stared down at the floor, breathing shallowly. I followed his gaze, but saw nothing but the tattered rags. "No…" he whispered. His face was livid in the faint reddish light. He looked at the stone walls around him and fell to his knees. "No!"
"Frodo, sweet, what is it?" I said, hastening over and kneeling next to him. He had covered his face with his hands, moaning, "No, no," with every other breath.
"Let me help you, Frodo." I tried to put my arms around him and he shook me off.
"Don't touch me!" he nearly screamed. He brought his hands down from his face and plunged them frantically into the pile of rags. "Where is it, it must be here, it must!"
"What? What must be there?" It was as if I hadn't spoken. I touched his shoulder and he grabbed my arm and thrust it violently away from him.
"Don't touch me, foul creature!" he cried. I looked back at him, aghast, and his face crumpled suddenly, tears spilling down his cheeks. "Don't, please, no.." He covered his face again and sank down until he was huddled on the rags.
I was in an agony of indecision. Should I run for help? I can't leave him alone in this shape! "Frodo, please… Frodo, look at me," I begged him. My hand went out to him involuntarily before I stilled it. I was afraid to touch him again.
He shook his head and began again rummaging about himself frantically. "I must have it, where is it!" he cried. My blood seemed to turn to ice. The Ring? Is he talking about the Ring? He looked around, and his eyes were a pale burning blue, fierce, wild and completely unknown to me. He touched his chest and caught on the chain around his neck. His hands locked around it tightly, and a flicker of confusion passed over his face.
He drew it out slowly, and clasped the gem to his breast. He was still fallen on his knees, staring at the far wall, his eyes moving as he watched some personal phantom.
"Frodo?" I whispered. He turned his head slowly, and his gaze met mine. I started to touch his hand and his eyes widened, showing the whites. He looked so suddenly distressed that I jerked around to look behind me. I was sure some terror loomed, but the chamber was still empty save for us two. I heard him mumble something indistinct and turned back.
"Frodo?" I asked him again. "Do….do you know me now?"
He had closed his eyes, still speaking softly. "I don't want to see….I don't want to see any more…I don't want to see it!" With the last words, he yanked the gem over his head and flung it across the room. I couldn't believe it. I'd never even seen him with the gem off before, much less showing this violent antipathy toward it. Is it the Ring's influence still? I must get it back to him!
I scrambled across the chamber and dropped to the floor, groping underneath the rack where I thought the necklace had fallen. I peered through the dust and could just make it out, gleaming with its own soft light against the wall. I managed to hook a finger on the chain and pulled it to me. I have it! The frosty surface was slippery under my fingers. I jumped to my feet and started back to Frodo with the gem clenched in my fist.
I took a step and paused…suddenly noticing the grain of the wood in the bracing timber closest to me. It was amazingly fine, bespeaking a tree of at least 150 years when it was felled. I touched it with one finger, marveling, and looked around the rest of the room. All the timbers and racks were of a beautiful dark wood, finely grained. The dust and the grime had faded to transparency. The wine bottles glowed in rich colors of ruby and emerald and gold.
I took another step and looked at Frodo, to exclaim to him over the amazing beauty around me. I looked over at him, where he still knelt on the wooden planks and my voice died in my throat. Lost his looks, some had said? Even I, who loved him dearly, had had to admit that his looks had changed. Pale, thin, worn by the rigors he'd undergone, but he still seemed beautiful to me. Or so I had thought.
I looked at him, and he gleamed. A thousand times brighter than the gem in my fist, he glowed as if he'd swallowed the moon. Beams of light poured out of his fingers, and shone from the curves of his face and body. The light foamed and danced about his knees, spilling around him in a widening pool that hid the floorboards completely.
I stood there with my mouth open, looking witless, and just gazed at him. His hair was a sea of light, each raven-dark strand outlined in radiance. I see him. His eyes were closed and I could see the luster of each single eyelash, one a thing of unbearable beauty, and the whole of them tortuous. How had I not seen it before? He was rubbing his left shoulder absently, seemingly unaware of the light and glory within him.
I focused on his left arm and felt a chill. The light had waned. In the next few seconds, the luminescence vanished over his left shoulder. I watched, horror-struck, as the corrosion spread rapidly, across his chest to his other arm and down his torso. The dancing pool of light at his knees faltered and faded. Waves of darkness seemed to wash over his face, dousing the incandescence of his lips and hair. In the last feeble flickers of the light, his face was pale and perfect…and lifeless.
The jewel flared between my fingers and in its harsh light, he twitched once and fell backward. He's dead... No! I caught my breath on a sob. Without his radiance, he seemed impossibly tiny and fragile, a discarded doll. And then as if in a horrible dream, I saw his skin darken; his hair became dull. No, no, no, no… Locks of it tumbled off his head, lying on his shoulder, caught on his collar. His cheeks were sunken. A network of black tracery spread across his forehead, harbinger of the coming decay. No, no, no, no!
I felt dizzy and the horrible sight before me wavered. My hand clenched spasmodically, loosened, and Queen Arwen's cold gem fell onto the floor. I sucked in a breath and blinked. And, lo! Frodo was before me, fallen on his knees, and no nearer either glory or corruption than he'd been before I picked the jewel up.
I stared down at the necklace, glimmering on the floor, and felt an urge to knock it down the drain hole. What was it? I thought frantically. What happened? The gem's glitter mocked my lover's wondrous radiance. You see now, don't you? it signaled to me. Now you see truly.
I kicked it away from me with my foot, sending it skittering across the floor to bump against Frodo's knee. The clatter of the necklace roused him a little. He put one hand on its chain, and I fought down an urge to cry a warning to him. I was cold, so cold. I wrapped my arms around myself and sank down to the floor. The images I'd seen kept replaying in my mind. The glow fading…death…decay. I couldn't stop shaking. Now you see.
Frodo twirled the silver chain about his fingers and raised it to his neck. I noticed that he did not touch the gem itself as he settled it into place. What does he see? I thought to myself. He wears it against his skin, all the time. What does he know? Suddenly he seemed far beyond me and my small concerns, as I was beyond a child's tears for her broken doll. If I asked him, what would he tell me? Would I want to know? What did he see when he looked at me just now?
At last, he opened his eyes and looked around. I was still crouched on the floor, and he focused on me. Did he see my death, as I had seen his? He swiped at the tears still trickling down his cheeks, and said "Tansy?"
I wiped my eyes, and took a deep breath. He knows me, thank goodness… I tried to straighten and nearly fell over. I felt frozen in this position. "It's all right, Frodo. I'll help you up and we'll go." I tried to keep my tone even, nearly blank. Maybe this was all just a dream. He started to stand, and his face tightened in pain. I crawled over to where he knelt and put his arm across my shoulders. We eventually managed to stumble to our feet and out of that cursed cellar. I eased him down onto a rough bench at the foot of the stair. He sat rubbing his neck while I grabbed three bottles from the middle of the room and set them in the bin by the door. I re-locked the door and closed up the main cellar, and dropped those keys in the bottle bin, as well. By rights, I should return it to Merry, but this was definitely a time for creative rule interpretation.
We made our way slowly up the steps and into the last storeroom. I leaned against the wall, panting with effort, and tried to think of what to do next. "I think you need to go to the healer, " I told him.
He looked bitterly amused. "If I thought she could help, I would. What do you think?"
I shook my head in reluctant agreement. "Shall I get Merry, then?"
He stiffened, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Help me back to my room," he said. "I simply need rest. There is no need to worry Merry." I stepped away to peek into the pantry and beyond to the second kitchen. All was quiet. Luncheon had started so everyone was busy serving or carrying.
I went back to get him and found him standing independently. I took his hand between my two, and kissed it. "The servants are busy with luncheon, Frodo. I think we can slip quietly back."
He nodded and I ducked under his arm again to help him. He grew steadier as we walked, but stayed silent. Luckily, we met no one in the hallways to notice our disheveled condition or ask us awkward questions.
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