A/N: Sorry for the delay in this chapter! I had writers block, which I haven't had since writing my first fic! Plus I thought for a good while about how to handle this story. It's running longer than I thought it would, but not by a lot. My problem was with how to keep the fic timeline at least somewhat in agreement with the book timeline. Just so you know, right now they are approximately half a day behind the books. They should be 1/3rd of the way through the Marshes, but in my fic they're only just about to enter them.

I hope you enjoy this chapter! :) It is a bit longer than previous ones, I believe.

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Chapter 7:

On March 1st, after two nights of journeying with Gollum though the Emyn Muil, the hobbits could at last glimpse—not to mention smell—fog rising off of the Dead Marshes just as they ended the night's march. Neither Sam nor Frodo had spoken much during the night. Frodo was barely managing to stay on his feet, pouring all of his will into taking another step.

"Easy, Mr. Frodo," Sam said as he lowered Frodo's trembling body to the ground, "Sleep now, master. I'll keep watch."

"But, Sam," Frodo whispered through chattering teeth, "You've not rested for two days… You must… you must rest." He pleaded.

"I won't hear of it, sir." He answered firmly, "As it is now you don't look like you could manage another night, if you'll pardon my sayin' so, but it's the truth." He admitted. "Now you must take some of the Lady's lembas before you sleep."

Frodo's stomach lurched at the mention of food. "I'm not hungry." He replied.

"You'll at least have somethin' to drink then." Sam pressed.

"I am terribly thirsty, Sam. I've got to have something before I dry up and blow away!" he laughed lightly.

Frodo took the water skin from Sam and drank deeply. He was so tired, and wanted nothing more than to be left alone to sleep.

Sam put the back of a hand to Frodo's forehead; it was still quite warm. "And your fever's none better neither." He fretted.

Frodo shivered as another chill took him. "I know," he said quietly, "There's nothing that can be done for it though."

"Well, you can at least stay bundled up." Sam pointed out, "You'll take both of our cloaks again, and wrap up real good." He insisted.

Sam was very much concerned that this fever was connected to Frodo's injured leg somehow, and he thought as much of the cramp his master had experienced the previous evening. He knew if was correct in reading the symptoms, they boded ill. "How's your leg, Mr. Frodo?" he asked.

Frodo looked up hesitantly, "It's at least as bad, Sam. No better."

Sam eyed his master then with new concern, "I mean, has it been cramping any more? Anythin' of the like?"

Frodo turned his eyes away before answering, "Nothing worth mentioning." He answered, pulling the cloaks closer around him as he settled in for a rest.

Sam didn't push Frodo any further, but didn't let his master's comment go unnoted either. He would perhaps pursue a more complete answer after Frodo had taken some rest, and hopefully something to eat.

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Gollum had slunk off to a crack among the rocks, close to where the two hobbits rested, that was better protected from the cruel sunlight, and close to a shallow pool where he hoped to find a fish or two, if luck would have it. The foul bread that the hobbits were living on was nothing he wanted to touch: the Elves had made it.

He mulled over in his head what his best course of action would be. It was clear that the injured hobbit, the Master of his Precious, was falling ill. Gollum hoped it would claim him quickly, so he could regain possession of his Ring. Yet, he couldn't help but wonder what the stout hobbit, the gardener, would do. He appeared to be rather loyal; both hobbits had exhibited great dedication to their cause. Would he journey on in Master's stead? Could he be dissuaded? Perhaps… could the Precious be taken from him by force? "No, he has nassty cruel blades, Precious." Gollum thought aloud, "He'll ssting us, Precious, hurt us, he will! Nassty cruel hobbit!"

Maybe, if he didn't stray from the hobbits by day, he could gain the trust of even the stout one. He had considered it. The Master, the one called Frodo, had displayed to him both tolerance and kindness. Perhaps he could gain their trust. But, if illness should claim the Ring-bearer's life, then Gollum would be left at Sam's mercy: a position he didn't find favorable if things stood as they were now.

He remembered that, if all else should fail, death would dissuade them both.

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The mid-day sun rode high in the sky; and a gentle wind blew through the rocky terrain, whistling mournfully as it went, bringing with it the foul reek of the Marshes.

Frodo stirred from an uneasy sleep, roused by an unpleasant feeling of expectant tension in the calf muscle of his injured leg. Since the original cramp on the previous night, the feeling of tension had not dissipated completely, and now it seemed to be building.

Frodo shivered as a stray breeze rushed past; he suspected that his fever was still no better. Carefully, so as not to disturb his injury, he wrapped the cloaks tighter around him. He squinted out into the daylight: Gollum was nowhere to be seen, and Sam had fallen asleep only a few feet away. Frodo was relieved to see that his friend was at last resting; he didn't know how Sam had managed to go on without rest as long as he had.

He gasped in surprise as his calf muscle tightened uncomfortably, gradually the tension increased, and spread up to the thigh of his injured leg. Soon the whole leg was consumed with a painful muscle spasm. Frodo sat up as quickly as he could, and struggled to move up against the wall behind him for support. He pressed his back into the rock wall with all his strength, struggling not to cry out from the pain.

His breath began to come in shallow gasps as the pain escalated, he arched his neck back and bit his lip in an attempt to keep silent, his small features twisted in pain. The thick dark curls that framed his youthful face soon hung heavy in damp ringlets. A quiet moan escaped him then, more from fear than from the pain. He couldn't understand what had brought this on, and why it would not relent.

Almost immediately after that thought had entered his mind, his pain began to lessen and the tension eased a bit. Frodo gasped in relief, grateful tears filling his eyes. He allowed his head to fall heavily into his hands as he recovered from the spell.

Grateful he had not woken Sam, he sank back to the ground as weariness overcame him.

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Sam started from sleep, realizing with shame that he had somehow drifted off and left his master vulnerable. As he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, he saw that it was late afternoon: the sun was just beginning its descent, eventually to drop out of sight below the western skyline.

He then looked over to where he had left Frodo sleeping, presumably hours earlier. To his horror, Gollum was standing over Frodo's unmoving form, his back turned to the gardener.

"Hi! Stinker!" he called franticly, "What do you think you're doin'?" Sam was immediately on his feet, and had bridged the distance between himself and the slinking creature in about two steps.

"Nice hobbit…" Gollum whispered, "Don't wake the Master!" he admonished, "Ssick, he is."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked, cold fear filling his heart.

"Master is sick, we saw him earlier… crying over his leg, precious." Gollum had been watching Frodo's earlier struggle from his place among the rocks, across from where the hobbit's slept.

Sam barely heard Gollum's reply. He pushed the creature out of the way and quickly went to Frodo's side. He laid a hand on his master's damp brow. It was burning with fever.

"Sam?" Frodo whimpered upon feeling his servants touch, his eyes opened slowly, taking in the sight of a blurry Samwise.

"It's all right, Mr. Frodo," he soothed, "You're ill."

"I… I don't know what's wrong with me." Frodo breathed in answer, closing his eyes once more.

"I suspect it's all the walkin' you've had to do." Sam answered regretfully, knowing that the activity couldn't have been avoided. Injured or not, they had to keep stumbling on toward Mordor.

"I don't think it's that, Sam." Frodo admitted, "My leg has still been cramping awfully bad. I thought it had gone away but… it returns again and again. I…I don't…" he broke off, not knowing what else to say.

Sam regarded him with concern. "Are you in any other pain, Mr. Frodo? Does any place other than your leg hurt?"

Frodo avoided Sam's gaze, his breathing became more labored as another spasm of pain shot through his calf and thigh. He clenched his teeth, sucking in a sharp breath, and closed his eyes against it, gripping Sam's shirt in his fists. Tears dampened his grimy cheeks despite his best efforts to contain them. "It is difficult to talk, Sam… I'm all stiff." He admitted pointing to his jaw, shivering violently through another bout of chills.

Sam knew what these symptoms meant. Though it was a rare disease in the Shire, occasionally a hobbit would come down with this ailment after a farming accident, or an injury that had been left untended for too long. In this case, the inattention was inevitable, Sam had done all he could, given the circumstances, and yet Frodo had still not been spared. He had to remain calm; it was up to him now to hold things together.

"Alright then, master," Sam began, stroking Frodo's dark curls soothingly, though he found himself unable to finish his sentence, for he had nothing to finish it with. He didn't know what to say. There was nothing he could do for Frodo; nothing but wait for the inevitable to happen, he swallowed hard at the thought of it. "This is all my fault!" he burst out, tears starting in his eyes, "I'm so sorry, Mr. Frodo…"

"How is it your fault, Sam?" Frodo asked earnestly, putting a hand on Sam's arm, "Nothing could have prevented my fall. The rope slipped… it was wet, I couldn't hold on."

"No," Sam said, sniffling a little and shaking his head in denial, "No, I should have tied it better, Mr. Frodo! I should have tied a better knot!" he cried.

"Sam, this is not your fault." Frodo tried to console his friend, "It was an accident, and things of this nature happen from time to time… it is the way of life."

"Don't matter, Mr. Frodo." Sam continued, avoiding his master's gaze, "It don't matter, because now you're ill with that… that…" he refused to speak the word, for fear that it would hasten the disease's progress; or instill glee in Gollum's twisted heart.

"Sam, that's not true." Frodo replied, "Maybe that's not what it is." Though even as he spoke, the soreness in his jaw, and his stiff neck told him otherwise.

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Sam took his master's hand in his own and patted it soothingly, whispering reassuring words into his ears, as Frodo endured another fit of cramps.

Sam could almost hear Frodo's teeth clenching together as the muscles in his jaw contracted, and the calf muscle of his broken leg remained rigid to the touch.

Frodo's eyes flew open, full of fear as he turned them on Sam in search of reassurance, he whimpered helplessly through clenched teeth, and tried to cry out.

"I'm here, Mr. Frodo, an' I won't leave you for nothin'." Sam promised.

No sooner than it had begun, the spell was ended.

"We must move on, Sam." Said Frodo, breathing heavily, "It's already dark," he said. He wanted so much just to lie where he was and sleep, yet it wasn't possible.

Sam was reluctant to let Frodo travel in this state, yet he knew they had to continue on as long as they possibly could.

"Well you'll at least let me dress your wounded leg before we go." Sam announced, not giving Frodo a choice in the matter. "An' take some lembas too," he said, holding out a portion of a wafer for Frodo to take.

Frodo took the small wafer of lembas from Sam and bit off a corner, chewing carefully with stiff muscles.

Sam gently pulled the old makeshift bandage from Frodo's leg. To his relief, no more dirt had made it's way into the cut, but the wound itself wasn't faring well at all. Though it did show signs of closing, it was swollen and pink, as well as hot to the touch. He clucked his tongue at seeing this; he may have to find some way to drain the infection if too much built up.

Of course, soon enough that would not matter anymore. Sam struggled to hold back the tears that wanted to come. He had to hold himself together for his master's sake, as well as for show: he didn't want Gollum knowing what it was that ailed Frodo. He suspected the slinking creature already knew more than was good for him.

Sam carefully tore a strip of fabric from his spare shirt, and wound it tenderly around his master's wounded leg. "So fast," he muttered under his breath, "It happened so fast." Frodo had fallen only three days ago, and the bone had been exposed for less than one, and already this affliction was working its cruel will on his master. Each painful episode wore him down faster than even the Ring could ever hope to.

Sam helped Frodo rise, and supported most of his master's weight as they began the night's journey. "We're almost to that stinkin' Marsh now, Mr. Frodo." Sam commented. He didn't anticipate that the going would get any easier for either of them.

TBC...