by Sally Gardens
Chapter Seven: With Faltering Feet
I am wounded with knife, and tooth and sting.
He heard a sound in the distance.
And a long burden.
The tower. He must climb the tower.
Where shall I find rest?
He must see.
I am wounded.
The sound had often haunted his dreams.
Wounded.
And he knew.
It will never really heal.
It was the Sea.
Too deeply hurt.
A light glimmered in the West.
Not for me.
A strand, glittering white.
Pearls. Diamonds. Shimmering jewels.
Running, running, sailing, sailing, running...
Falling to his knees.
The light glimmered and went out.
Lost. Lost.
Gone forever.
Dark and empty.
Sand and salt slipped through his trembling fingers...
A patchwork quilt. Linens. A pillow, cold and damp against his face.
A broad hand, gentle on his brow.
Sam.
Frodo sucked air through his teeth. Shuddered.
The quilt was tucked snugly around his chin.
"Frodo."
His hand lay open, passive, upon the sheet, in front of his face.
His shoulder throbbed.
The hand upon his brow smoothed his hair in tender, delicate strokes.
"Frodo. How are you?"
There was an abyss where the Ring used to be.
A whisper.
"From deepest wounds springs healing."
A frown on Sam's face.
"Frodo? I don't understand."
His hand.
"Neither do I, Sam."