Author: Kelllie
Genre: Angst, h/c
Characters: Frodo and Sam
Rating: G, though there are mature themes of life and death here

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, it all begins to Master Tolkien's estate.

See below for comments to reviews:

IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER

Chapter 3: Dawning

Raw fear coursed through him. Fear, burgeoning on panic… seizing and spurring him to reckless action.

"I'm coming, Mr. Frodo… I'm coming."

Sam tore down the hill, the Elf-warrior once more -- brandishing lantern instead of sword and commanding his feet to find course down the treacherous frozen slope.

As he closed the distance, an endless stream of self-reproach raced through his mind. 'I shouldn't have left him. Not tonight, what with it growing so cold after the Lighting. I shouldn't have left him. But… but there he was, asking me to see the Cottons home, and Rosie, smiling and asking for my arm… and me thinking with my heart, instead of my head…'

Sam dropped to his knees beside Frodo and quickly picked up his hand. Sam winced. Frodo's fingers were hard, pale, cold as hoarfrost.

"Mr. Frodo… I'm here…"

Sam shook him by the shoulders, but Frodo's face was still and lifeless. He put his ear to Frodo's mouth and held his breath. For several anguished moments there was nothing… then the slightest puff of air. He pulled Frodo into his embrace, and called out to the night.

"Hurry, Jolly. We need to get him inside where it's warm. He's alive, but just barely it seems."

As hurried footsteps crunched through the snow toward him, Sam unbuttoned his cloak and pulled Frodo closer, enfolding him in his warmth.

"What were you thinking… wandering off so…?"

Jolly Cotton stopped in his tracks a few feet away and cast the light of his lantern around. He found Frodo's cloak lying carefully tucked around a small boulder nearby.

"Look at this, Sam… what do you reckon?"

Jolly pulled up the cloak, shook it out then brought it to Sam and wrapped it around Frodo.

"I don't know. He's soaking wet too… a right mystery it is."

Sam fingered the edges of Frodo's shirt, which were beginning to stiffen in the chill air. Suddenly a breeze blew through the dell, and the icicles tinkled and chimed above.

"Look Jolly… the bells."

Just then, several large icicles broke free and plummeted into the snow around them.

"Let us settle the mysteries later, Sam, unless you fancy being skewered… "

Leaving their lanterns behind, they lifted Frodo and slowly made their way out of the dell, following their grey footsteps back up the treacherous slope. Sam clutched at Frodo, and shuddered as he looked into his face. He was pale as snow, pale as frost-rimed mist… and so still; no longer of this world, but born of alabaster…

Once they gained the main footpath, they hastened their steps and within minutes burst through the Cotton's door.

Mrs. Cotton and Rosie flew into action when they caught sight of Frodo. They spread a thick quilt in front of the fire, and beckoned for Sam and Jolly to lay him out on it.

"Jolly…son, you'd best round up the others. They'll be nigh upon the Mill by now… searching in this cold. We'll be lucky if your old Dad in't laid out so..."

Mrs. Cotton slowly knelt next to Frodo on arthritic knees and gently felt the skin of his abdomen under his clothes. She tsked and shook her head.

As Sam began to chafe Frodo's hands, Mrs. Cotton stopped him.

"You're doing more harm than good, Samwise. Feel how stiff his fingers are? I'll warrant his toes and maybe his ears will be the same. They've begun to freeze. You'd best leave them be until we warm him up from the inside out. And see that he doesn't get too close to the fire..."

They peeled Frodo's sodden shirt from him, tinged pink from the small cut at his breastbone, and swiftly wrapped him in warmed blankets. As Mrs. Cotton pulled a warm covering over his head, she felt a large lump at the base of his skull. She quickly lifted each eyelid and peered into Frodo's pupils, shuttering each against the light with her hand.

"Samwise, you need to rouse your master, if you can. Mind, he won't be thanking you none for trying…but you must wake him if you can. He's had a nasty knock."

Sam moved behind Frodo and gently pulled him up to a sitting position against his chest. He wrapped him arms around him and spoke softly into his ear.

"Mr. Frodo. I need you wake up, sir."

Frodo lay still as stone.

"Please, sir. Mrs. Cotton here says you must."

Mrs. Cotton nodded at him, then gathered some nearby basins and padded off with Rosie. Sam and Frodo were alone.

Sam let out a great shuddering sigh, and closed his eyes wearily.

"What's come of you lately, Mr. Frodo… wandering off so? Closing yourself off from everyone and everything around you…?"

He pulled his arms tighter around Frodo's slight frame, and breathed onto his neck … sharing his warmth, his life force… willing it into Frodo's body.

"The battle ended on the Fiery Mountain, Mr. Frodo. It's over. Why do you still go on fighting against everything… against yourself?"

Sam opened his eyes, and found himself on the verge of tears.

"We need you to wake up… I need you to wake up… to come back… to us… to yourself. You don't see it, do you? There's so much waiting for you here… this is your home… your Shire. All you need to do is open your eyes to it."

He gave him a gentle shake.

"Just open your eyes, Mr. Frodo. Please… wake up."

Sam looked into Frodo's face. Studying it… searching it as if searching a map… looking for any sign of response or awareness. But it was still and fixed, as unchanged as before.

Rosie and Mrs. Cotton returned balancing basins of warm water. Rosie smiled tenderly at Sam, seeing the tears in his eyes, then gave his arm a brief touch -- a gesture at once both casual and intimate.

They gently placed Frodo's feet and hands into the basins and gradually added warmer water. As they watched, Frodo's fingers and toes slowly changed from chalk white, to pink, to angry crimson.

At this, Frodo began to rouse as well. At first, the only sign was his breathing – quickening and hitching. Then expression returned to his face as he began to frown and flinch. Finally, he tossed his head about and cried:

"B… burning... the fire, it's burning… St… Stop…"

---------------------

The voices were back – and in this space and time – not another. That much he could tell. He could feel strong hands gripping him, embracing him as he drifted on a warm, gentle breeze… floating and weightless…

Then a vague humming sensation awoke in his fingers, toes, and ears. Soon his elbows, buttocks and shoulder blades were buzzing sympathetically. He felt for all the world as if a great hive had found its way inside, and each nerve was a somnolent bee slowly awakening in the Spring's first warmth

Before long the buzzing became angry, insistent… giving way to prickling and stinging and countless pins and needles spreading up each extremity.

Then snatches of conversation, "…the fire… Fiery Mountain… waiting for you… open your eyes…wake up… "

And then the flames were there… licking at his fingers and toes, searing his skin, lifting and carrying him on a swift current of liquid heat and intense pain.

He cried out. His eyes flew open and he jerkily pulled his hands and feet out of the basins, splashing water across the floor. He began to flail his hands wildly, shaking off burning flames… then felt strong arms stilling him… and a torrent of voices confusing and confounding him.

"It's all right. Mr. Frodo. We've got…"

"--Calm yourself, young sir, and stop your--"

"…you here… me and Mrs. Cotton and Rosie…"

"—thrashing. You'll do yourself more harm if you don't settle—"

And a blast of chill air as five vaguely familiar faces bustled through the door, gaping and staring at him as he struggled.

Then a voice – more familiar yet -- calling out angrily, "This isn't a Litheday Pageant, you great lumbering oafs … I'm pleased you're back to hearth and home, but you'd do us a sight more good by lending a hand than gawking."

Frodo was aware of a flurry of action, yet felt oddly disoriented… unnaturally detached from his thoughts, though keenly aware of the emotions which overwhelmed him.

He cried out again, but was repeatedly assured that there were no flames burning him. He tried to pull away from the blankets surrounding him, but the faces around him soothed that his body was cold, he needed the warmth. None of it made any sense.

And underlying it all was a rhythmic throbbing in his head. An ambient ostinato of dull pain.

"Ss… Sam?"

The response, welcome and reassuring, was immediate.

"I'm right here, sir."

Frodo felt arms tighten around him, and he relaxed into Sam's sheltering embrace. He closed his eyes, and with great concentration, opened them and focused on his surroundings. He knew this place. It was… it was the Cotton's hole. He looked long and hard into the faces surrounding him. Gradually, the features of Rosie, Nibs, Nick and Old Tom came into focus. He looked at his sore, stinging hands and was shocked to see that his fingers were bright red, and strangely mottled with grey.

"Aye lad… your toes as well. They'll likely turn a bit black before the worst is over. Time will tell what you'll keep, and what you'll lose. Let's hope for the best, though. Young Nick here gave us a scare a few years back… all the toes on his feet turned as black as the grate… but nary a one lost…"

Frodo looked up into Old Tom's face, smiling grimly down at him as he recounted the tale of his son and a wayward sled. But soon Frodo's mind began to drift and float, and his eyelids grew leaden. He was roused by a great shake, and pain blazed through his head. He opened his eyes and saw alarm in Old Tom's eyes.

"No, young sir. The missus says you mustn't sleep. Not yet, leastways."

Frodo heard Sam, Nick and Old Tom murmur together for a bit, then he felt his bearings shift and sway, as he was lifted and carried across the smial to his room.

Mrs. Cotton followed on their heels and sat on the edge of Frodo's bed with a creak. She looked deeply into his eyes, and poked and prodded the lump at the back of his head. A surge of pain and a great wave of nausea swelled, then ebbed as Frodo swallowed hard. Mrs. Cotton whispered a bit to Sam, then together they stripped off his remaining clothing and clad him in a warm, woolen nightshirt. Mrs. Cotton frowned a bit as she looked at the cut on Frodo's chest.

"Can you tell us anything about what happened tonight, Mr. Frodor? How'd you come to wander off the footpath so?"

Frodo quirked his brow as he considered the question. Yes…. he remembered wandering off the path. But why?

Fear rumbled deep in his belly as full recollection flooded his mind. The dell, the mists… Saruman. He felt his face flush, his head throb and his body flame anew as his pulse quickened. He threw a panicked look at Sam, then stammered:

"I… I don't… I don't remember. I'm sorry.…"

"Oh… well, soon enough, I'm sure. Though I'm afraid they'll be no sleep for you tonight, Mr. Frodo, what with you nearly catching your death of cold and that great clout on your head. I've heard too many tales of Hobbits that went abed with such, and never woke up. The six of us, we'll all take our turns with Samwise here to make sure—"

Sam began to fidget nervously, stepping from one foot to the next, as he stood next to the bed.

"Oh no, Mrs. Cotton. That won't be necessary. I'll see to Mr. Frodo tonight. Not that I don't thank you for your offer and all…"

"I have no doubt you'll see to him, Samwise… but who will see to you? That's what I'd like to know. I'd never forgive myself if I came in here at daybreak and found you sawing logs aside your master here, and him the worse for it…"

Frodo listened vacantly as Sam and Mrs. Cotton softly argued and reached accord. Then more blankets and warming stones were piled around him, and his hands and feet were placed on pillows above his heart. Rosie brought in an enormous pot of tea, with two mugs, and directions that they were to down its contents, and request another within the hour. She then whispered soft words to Sam, bringing a bright flush to his face and neck, nodded shyly to Frodo and left them in relative peace.

Frodo stared at the fire in the grate, the bright candles sputtering around his room, and Sam's shadowed face as he sat stiff and wooden in his chair next to the bed. In the dim light, Sam looked strained, careworn… aged beyond his young years, with a trace of the old Gaffer already in his features.

It wasn't right… Sam looking so. He should be young and fresh, still.

But Frodo knew the cause… and that knowledge smote his heart. The scornful words of Saruman echoed in his mind… your unhappiness begins to infect…

Sam poured them each a cup of tea and helped Frodo take a sip.

"You… you should be with Daisy. I'm sorry…"

"No, Mr. Frodo… I should be with you."

Sam helped Frodo lift his head for another sip of tea, and inadvertently brushed against the swelling at the back. Frodo winced and shut his eyes as the room spun and tilted ominously.

"I'm sorry, sir. Now look what I've gone and done…"

"It's… it's fine Sam. Really… "

Frodo opened his eyes, and tried to smile wanly, all the while gritting his teeth against the pain.

Sam looked at him hard, and saw through the transparency of his effort. He gently caressed Frodo's face, and his eyes grew misty.

Frodo closed his eyes again. He didn't want to see it. The look of pity on Sam's face. It somehow sharpened his own pain. And if he couldn't see it… he could pretend it wasn't there.

Then the shadows at the edge of his mind slowly began to sing a siren's song… they would take him away from it all, if he would only follow…

And he began to drift…

"Mr. Frodo… you stay awake now. You stay awake."

Frodo felt hands on his shoulders, shaking him. The movement boosted the pain in his head, setting off a surge of vertigo.

"Open your eyes… now, Mr. Frodo… NOW… That's better… and keep them open, if you please. Can you tell me, sir, about the rest of you? Do you still feel as if your hands and feet are afire?"

Frodo could do nothing but stare at the scene swirling dizzily in front of him, clinging to Sam's insistent voice.

"You need to talk to me, Mr. Frodo. Mrs. Cotton said as I should make you talk."

Frodo felt another shake.

"Talk… Mr. Frodo."

"St… stop, Sam… please…"

"I'll stop, Mr. Frodo, only if you show me you're not drifting away…"

Frodo looked into the clear eyes of his most cherished friend. Yes. There was pity there. But also a well of love and hope… spilling into an endless reservoir of strength. Frodo knew that reservoir had carried the both of them through the dark lands, and would carry Sam for years to come. It would sustain Sam. But it would no longer sustain Frodo. Sam had already given so much. In fact, he had given too much. If it weren't for Sam…

"Thank you… my dear Sam."

There was something in that simple declaration that set Sam's heart on edge. It wasn't the words spoken. No. The words were clear enough. It was the way they were spoken. The tone. It belied the words. The tone spoke of guilt, disappointment, regret… and parting. And the look in Frodo's eyes as he slowly closed them…and drifted again…

"Mr. Frodo…"

A hint of desperation crept into Sam's voice.

"Wake up, now… Frodo. You wake up…"

A voice full of weariness answered him. Weariness… past hope… past endurance…

"Pl… please, Sam. Just let me rest… let me find rest…"

Sam swore an oath, sat on the edge of Frodo's bed and firmly pulled him into a sitting position.

"No sir… you'll NOT sleep this night. Not if I have anything to say about it…"

With the rapid change of position, Frodo felt his tenuous hold on the world release. His senses spun giddily – sight, sound and touch tumbled and tilted dizzily. His mind spiraled wildly – away from cognizant thought to raw emotional impulse. And underlying it all, pain… of mind and body and soul.

Frodo began to retch and heave, purging himself of all that swirled within – the self-loathing, the misery, the lingering ring-lust, the promise of mortal release mockingly snatched from his grasp – emptying the contents of his churning, despairing mind.

For long moments that stretched seemingly into an eternity, Frodo's body painfully constricted with each spasm of his stomach. As release came, he would suck in a great breath of air, only to find another twisting spasm waiting in its stead. Wave after wave after wave followed, until slowly the breaths lengthened, and the spasms grew shorter.

And then… he was done. He found himself weeping, and Sam holding and supporting him.

"Never you mind about this, Mr. Frodo. Mrs. Cotton said as though this might happen… Just let me see to the mess, while you lie back there… "

Frodo sank back into the downy softness of his bed, his breath hitching in his chest, his voice no louder than a whisper.

"He… he should have finished it…"

"Who's that, sir?"

Frodo watched numbly as Sam busied himself with removing the soiled blankets, and replacing them with clean ones.

"He should have ended it…"

"Ended what, sir? Who's that you're talking about."

"Ss... Saruman…"

Sam stopped his efforts, and looked firmly at Frodo.

"Saruman's gone sir."

"No… he's not gone. I… I saw him tonight."

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I wouldn't go trusting much of what you saw tonight, with that great lump at the back of your head. Saruman met his end months ago, and that's a fact. It happened right outside of Bag End. Don't you remember?"

"No… he was there under the tree, tonight. He lured me there. He… he had a dagger…"

Sam sat again on the edge of Frodo's bed, and gently placed his hand on Frodo's shoulder.

"There was no one under that tree but you, sir. And he had a dagger yes… but that was months ago. If it hadn't been for your mithril coat..."

"No, Sam. He had a dagger tonight… he cut me here—"

Frodo touched his breastbone.

"No sir… he didn't. I saw that you were cut by something when we first brought you in, and I've been turning it around in my head ever since. That great oak tree was full of icicles, deadly ones too by the sight of them. Jolly and I were nearly skewered rescuing you. I reckon you were nearly skewered too… only one fell and actually hit you -- there where that cut is – and it melted as it lay atop your shirt. That's why you were soaked to the skin."

Sam gently picked up Frodo's hand, lying at his chest.

"Saruman was a liar, Mr. Frodo, as sure as my name is S. Gamgee. What he said about you and the Shire never being healed…? It was all lies. Lies. Why… you only have to look out your window at the corrybells budding through the snow to see that."

Sam looked fiercely into Frodo's face, his expression grave.

"All that evil -- make no mistake Mr. Frodo -- it's all behind us. And to think, after all we've been through, that here -- in the Shire of all places -- I almost lost you…"

Sam's voice choked, emotion overwhelming him.

Frodo closed his eyes, and gave a heavy sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was hollow and vacant.

"You can't… you can't lose someone who's never been found, Sam."

Sam pursed his lips and shook his head.

"There's nothing for it… what with you speaking in riddles like Mr. Bilbo..."

Then Sam set his jaw, his voice reflecting iron will.

"You're not lost now, Mr. Frodo. And you never were lost on our journey… leastwise not when I was around…"

Frodo gave a weak, bitter laugh.

"Dear Sam. I was lost the moment Bilbo left me the ring…"

"No, sir, you weren't. You weren't lost. You were here in the Shire with me. You were living in Bag End. Your cousins knew where you were and Gandalf--"

"No, Sam… not physically lost, but my heart… my will was lost to darkness. It's still lost…"

Sam shook his head vehemently.

"No. Beggin' your pardon again, sir. But your heart and your will and such, sir. They've never been lost neither. There right here, still…"

At this, Sam gently touched Frodo's chest.

"And it's taken me awhile to get my thick head around it… but I think at last I have. We always thought the great battle was on the Fiery Mountain… when the ring went into the fire. But it wasn't, Mr. Frodo. Leastwise not for you, because afterward you were still left in the darkness."

Sam edged closer to Frodo on the bed.

"And you're still in the darkness, Mr. Frodo. Like the Sun. You've both reached the longest night, and you've no strength left to fight any longer. You've given everything a body has to give, Mr. Frodo, and that's a fact. But now you have to start seeing that accepting strength from others, well… that's a gift too. Only, it's a different kind of gift. When you gladly receive the strength others have to offer you… it's just like you're giving a gift to them that are offering it."

Sam gave a great sigh, and scratched at his head.

"I know I'm muddling this up something fierce, Mr. Frodo. But you've got to understand that there's love and forgiveness out there, and strength for you, sir. But you have to chose to accept it… you have to want to open your eyes to it."

Frodo turned his head away, to hide his shame, his voice a mere whisper.

"There is no forgiveness for me. I don't deserve the love and strength others have to offer me…"

Sam threw out his hands in exasperation.

"But don't you see, sir. None of us do. When it comes down to it, none of us deserve the good things we have. And as for forgiveness… it doesn't much matter whether you'll get it or not. You still have to look for it. My Gaffer always said forgiveness is really only yours to hold when it's sought, but not expected…"

Sam angled Frodo's face back to him, and waited for Frodo's eyes to meet his.

"…and I think you were drawn to that tree tonight… but it was for one simple reason. That great oak tree is like you, Mr. Frodo. Terrible, dark forces tried to bring it down… but they couldn't. They scarred it… but now it's even more beautiful and majestic than it was before. Its roots are deep in the soil of the Shire, because this is its home. Just like you, sir…just like you."

Frodo stared for a long moment into Sam's eyes, his look wavering from doubt to belief then back again. He then gave a weary sigh, giving himself over to exhaustion.

"Thank you, dear Sam, but I don't think I can go on talking so. I'm so tired…."

"Yes… Mr. Frodo. I know you're tired. But you must stay awake. Perhaps if you can't go on talking, well… maybe you can go on listening."

At this, Sam moved to the small bookshelf next to the bed and pulled down a book of Elvish tales, painstakingly translated by Bilbo.

And so, through the long hours till daybreak, Sam read to Frodo. He read to him tales of great beauty and tales of grim hardship; tales of soaring love and tales of shattering heartbreak; and above all, tales of reward… unbidden, yet resplendent.

And Frodo listened, as captivated as any tiny Hobbit lad before the Yulefire.

Then, ever so slightly, the dark sky outside began to pale.

"Sam… please. I want to see the day break. Will you help me over to the window?"

Sam cautiously helped Frodo out of the bed, and led him to the window on trembling legs and tender feet. After making sure Frodo was thoroughly wrapped in blankets, Sam excused himself to use the privy.

"What with all that tea, we've been drinking, Mr. Frodo… I feel as if I could swim there…"

As Frodo stood there, alone at the window, he looked down into the vista before him. The mists were rising all around him, and he could barely make out Hobbiton in the distance. It was a stunning sight.

And then he caught sight of the Party Field. From his vantage point, he could see the Yulefire blazing away, and a trio of Hobbits struggling to turn the massive log.

He watched as the smoke of the Yulefire trailed up into the sky, and he noticed that the rising mists seemed to be drawn toward it. He struggled to open the window with sore, fumbling fingers, and pulled it free with a gasp. He then leaned out the window, and called to the retreating mists:

"Go in peace… and may you find forgiveness. Though you do not seek it, I freely give you mine."

At this the mists seemed to stop… and grow still. It seemed to Frodo's eyes that they began to quiver and shake, as if in the midst of some great internal turmoil and change.

Then the first rays of the sun broke through. All around him, Frodo heard the raucous celebrations begin – drums banging, pots and pans clanking, bells tolling, shouts, cheering, a multitude of Hobbit voices raised in joyful triumph – as if all of the land were awakening from a great sleep.

And then the mists followed the smoke of the Yulefire up into the sky. They rose to a great height and slowly moved to the East. Then they stopped, hesitated and meekly turned to the West. Though he knew it was not possible, it looked to Frodo for all the world as if the mists bowed down to the West for the briefest of moments – a clear gesture of supplication -- then turned abruptly back to the East.

Frodo felt silent tears well up again, the corners of his eyes stinging and smarting.

Then he beheld an amazing sight. Or rather, he felt and smelled it first. A gentle warm wind rose out of the East -- seemingly sent by the rising Sun. It blew through the Shire… sweeping away the bitter, chill air and bringing with it the smell of sweet grasses and blossoming trees. The scent of new life.

Frodo watched as it gently gathered up the grey mist, tenderly supported it and then bore it swiftly into the West.

And as the mists disappeared into the horizon… Frodo heard it again. It was faint… but growing with each heartbeat. It was the drumbeat. The ancient pulse of life that flowed through all of nature… and once again, flowed through him as well. It was the long sought sound, discovered anew. Hope.

Rising and growing stronger yet…

The End

REVIEW COMMENTS:

Althea: Thank you so much. You're right – This is a Yule ghost story – I figured it worked for Dickens, so…
I hope you enjoyed the conclusion!

LadyMiliana: Thank you for your kind words. I'm glad you've enjoyed the imagery. We must have kindred imaginations!

Inkling3: Oh my. You're quite right. I did a fair amount of searching before I started this and always found Tolkien's Sun references to be gender neutral (Anor, Yellow Face, "it")… but when I read your comment, I searched anew and found his sly little footnote after his charming "Man in the Moon" song. Well… I revised chapter 1 and removed all of the masculine references. Thank you for letting me know!!
Frodo's story and the rituals are my own imaginings. They're loosely based on the myth of the sun being swallowed (or dying) on Winter Solstice, but that's about as far as the similarity goes.

Naiade: Thank you very much. I'm glad you found the last chapter compelling, and I hope the conclusion is compelling for you as well. And… you're very welcome. It's no fun writing such things if you don't share them.