"Mr. Frodo?... Mr. Frodo?!"

Oh, dear, he overdid it after all, didn't he – were Marigold's first thoughts when she arrived at Bag End the following morning and let herself in.

For there was no Frodo in the parlor – or in the kitchen, or in the dining room – and it was ordinarily his custom to be up early and to already be reading by the time she arrived, greeting her with a nod and good-natured inquiries about how she had passed the prior evening.

The door to the bedroom was not quite shut – so she lost no time in making her way in. And sure enough, Frodo was lying in the bed, looking very pale. He stirred only slightly as she entered the room. She rushed to his side, dropping her bag on the dressing-table, and clasped his hand.

Cold as ice.

Colder than ice.

What in the Shire?!

As far as memory served, he had been perfectly well – or at least no worse than usual – only a few hours before.

In fact, holding his hand now brought back memories – memories she knew she ought not dwell on at a time like this, but could not help it. The night before when she had emerged from the guest room, her eyes glued to the floor, Frodo had been very gracious. Unlike Sam, he did not fly into a tizzy, did not treat her as if she were made of glass, did not demand reassurance that all was well. He merely asked if the room was comfortable, and if there was anything else she needed, and from the steady look in his eye she knew that when he had spoken to Sam, he had kept his word to be discreet. And, later, as they said their goodbyes at the door, he had bowed – something he had never done before, and not just with his head, but ever-so-slightly at the waist – and it would have been a lie to say that she had not thought of that bow almost as much as she had thought of being held by him, as Sam ushered her back to the Row.

But no – Marigold, NO. This was no time for romantic imagining. She shook her head urgently, trying to clear it of all unnecessary thoughts as she regarded Frodo, too weak to move, splayed out on the bed like one crushed.

Nothing from the night before could have predicted this. Certainly, he had been tired after their walk, and moving as if through water, but that was not uncommon, despite his gains in the last few weeks.

"Mr. Frodo," she whispered. "It's me, Marigold."

His eyes flickered open, but he did not respond.

Marigold let his hand go, and pulled up his cuff to expose his wrist. "Mr. Frodo, where does it hurt?" His wrists, too, were frigid.

He gave a feeble moan, and Marigold, hoping he was giving an answer, looked at his face. But his eyes were rolled back.

"Alright, Mr. Frodo," she said, decisively – her words meant as much for her own ears as those of her patient. "I'm going to check you over now. Let me know if you don't want it."

Unsurprisingly, no answer came, so she began – deftly feeling the sides of his neck, lowering her ear directly to his chest in the absence of any listening aid, percussing up and down his sides.

Her hands were soft, gentle: but they were not the hands of a lass: she would not allow them to be. They were the hands of a healer. Sam, blast him, had been right – once learned, skills were never truly forgotten, and she was capable, right capable. Had she not been, she might have run, mortified, from the room, but once she had recognized the gravity of the situation, a strange calm had settled over her mind, and her hands – right capable hands – began moving on their own accord, her thoughts running along familiar lines.

Alright, let's see…

Shallow, rapid, raspy breathing, with wheezes in the chest. Thin, fast, thready pulse. Cold skin. No tenderness or swelling around the neck. A chest cold, easy. Fevers were more common with chest colds, but a profound chill was also not unheard of. But there was also the pain – seemingly everywhere by the way his brows knitted as she felt up and down his torso and limbs – and particularly bad over his left shoulder. Even in his weakness, he had drawn a sharp breath and winced as if a bolt of lightning shot through him when she touched it.

She was hard-pressed to imagine that a chest cold alone could do this… But how exactly could he have injured himself so badly in his own home, and in a time of peace? There was no blood that she could see… Perhaps it was a honey-bee? She had heard of terrible happenings, even near-deaths, from honey-bee stings, but it was not exactly high season for them, not anymore…

Instinctively, she reached for the shoulder again, but no sooner had her fingertips grazed the linen that he tensed up again, and actually shook his head.

She drew away.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo" – she pressed her lips, and reached for his hand instead, stroking it gently. "I shan't do it again. But look – it seems your shoulder's ailing you quite a bit now, so if you don't mind me sayin', somebody's going to have to take a look at it, even if I don't –"

Frodo moved his lips, almost soundlessly, and she lowered herself closer to hear him.

"Ask… Sam… He'll… Ex… plain…"

She waited for more, but there was none. In fact, Frodo's eyes – two blue slivers between his lids – began to roll back again, so she seized both his hands and squeezed them.

"It's alright, Mr. Frodo… It's alright…"

She kept her voice low, rocking her body back and forth and willing her words not to run away with her. Her shoulders shook: the healer-calm was dissipating, and her own, raw feelings were flowing back.

"It's alright, Mr. Frodo, it's alright," she repeated, her words, once more, as much for herself as they were for him. "Stay here, stay with me. You're safe. Sam will be here soon. We'll take good care of you, don't worry..."

She wanted to do so much more than just hold his hands, however. She wanted to hold all of him. To give him her warmth, to thaw his freezing limbs, and if she could, bear his pain for him. She raised his hands, and though she did not kiss them, she pressed them to her lips.

Frodo drew a small breath, the air wheezing in and out. Ever so slightly, his hands relaxed, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows smoothed out.

She heard the click of a lock in the front hall, and the whine of hinges.

Sam.

Thank goodness, just in time.

Squeezing Frodo's hands once more, she put them down, rushed to the linen-press to extract another blanket – nay, two – and with Frodo comfortably tucked in to preserve what little body heat he had, she rushed from the room.

She waylaid Sam in the atrium – for, having found neither Frodo nor her at the breakfast table as was their custom, he, too, had suspected the worst and made tracks for the bedroom.

She seized her brother's hands and related, in rapid terms, what she had found, and Sam's face grew grim – but, oddly enough, there was little surprise in his expression. He took his knapsack off his shoulder where he stood, and shook his head, dropping his gaze.

She searched his face, but to no avail – he was hiding his eyes, seemingly on the verge of tears.

"Sam!" – she cried, resisting the urge to snap her fingers in front of his face. "Look at me! Tell me right this instant – what did he mean? What are you supposed to explain to me? And why aren't you doin' it five minutes ago?"

"I – I didna think –" Sam stuttered.

He covered his face with his hand.

Yes, that's the problem, you DON'T think – she wanted to spit, but instead clicked her tongue. This was no time for niceties – but no time for infighting, either.

"I – I didna think it was still goin' to happen after all this time – I thought he'd been gettin' better." Sam shook his head again, his voice cracking. "I – I was hopin' I could spare you some of the ugly parts…"

Marigold tapped her foot, and stared at her brother, hard.

"Well, if that's the case, you had better tell me what I need to know NOW, Samwise Gamgee" – she intoned through clenched teeth. "Tell me now and spare nothing this time. I can take it. I can take it all — but make it quick. We need to start tending to Mr. Frodo as soon as we can, but I ain't doin' this blind."

The flint-hearted healer was coming back. She was enunciating every word with deadly precision — one that left no room for argument, or dissembling.

Sam looked up at his sister, and sighed. There was no stopping her when she was like this. And she was right: the truth would out, and it was only fair, for she was no child anymore.

He took her by the upper arm, and steered her into the kitchen.

The rest of the day passed in taking care of Frodo, and as far as patients went, Frodo was certainly a model one. He braced himself bravely as they sat him up and had him cough and deep breathe, repeatedly, every hour to clear the phlegm. He swallowed warm, honeyed tea and salty broth and herbal concoctions even as half of it came up again. He even weathered a visit from Dr. Boffin, whom Marigold had insisted on calling to repeat her examination, ensure that nothing had been missed, and to bring his strongest antiinflammatory herbs.

Despite his pain, both Marigold and Dr. Boffin had agreed that Frodo could not have the milk of the poppy – with his chest cold as severe as it was, they feared it could stop his breathing altogether. But even as they moved him about, he only whimpered softly, and from time to time a film of tears covered his eyes. Dr. Boffin, too, had at first been puzzled by the level of pain Frodo was in on account of a simple chest cold, but Sam had done well in pulling him aside and explaining the same thing he had done to Marigold, though in briefer and more matter-of-fact terms. And Dr. Boffin, with his well-nigh fifty years of experience, knew better than to disbelieve him: for he had learned, by this point in his career, that Middle Earth was filled with strange ailments beyond count, and not all of them could be found in books.

And so they followed Dr. Boffin's orders regarding the chest cold, and left the Morgul-wound to Sam, who boiled pail after pail of water, filling water-skins to pile around Frodo to keep him warm, and sent a very surprised Rosie to gather kingsfoil – for most hobbits assumed it to be a weed. And Marigold, for her part, began to make poultices – out of the selfsame kingsfoil, and mustard-plasters as well, until the whole kitchen looked like an apothecary's operation. As the afternoon waned, they turned Frodo over on his stomach for the requisite hour of draining the lungs, and a muster of glass jars, their insides flame-heated, sat in formation on his back, doing double-duty in phlegm-drainage.

It was not until well past sundown that Marigold had a chance to take a breath and truly digest what Sam had told her.

Indeed, she had precious else to digest – not that she was hungry, odd as it was. All day, she had spent running ragged and taking orders as often as she gave them. Second breakfast and elevenses had been completely foregone; lunch had been a piece of seed cake and dinner had been another, except with butter. All day, too, she could not shake the fear that she would start seeing dead children again – and yet, it never came to pass, so perhaps Dr. Boffin had been right: different types of healing really were different, or perhaps her mind was still too rattled by Frodo's abrupt change to think of anything else.

And yet, by this point, Frodo was looking slightly better. The session of lung drainage complete, he was resting on his back again, and his breathing was deeper and clearer. His chest was covered in mustard-plasters under the covers, his legs were flanked by hot water-skins, and a generous compress of kingsfoil lay over his shoulder.

Sam was napping in the guest room, for the two of them had agreed they would watch over Frodo in shifts, and would stay at Bag End until he was better. With both Frodo and Sam finally resting and Dr. Boffin gone home, the house was quiet, and Sam's words echoed in her thoughts.

Apparently, some wounds never really did heal. She had been aware, from earlier accounts of the quest, that Frodo had confronted one of the Dark Lord's minions and had been stabbed, and had suffered from his wound for many days until they arrived at the elvish enclave where he was healed. What she had not known was the amount of suffering he had been through – that the wound was made by a cursed weapon, wielded by a being neither dead nor alive, and had continued to torment him long after it had closed, robbing him of strength and lifeblood, and poisoning him from within.

The thought alone made her skin crawl – that of those odious, half-dead creatures, their touch cold and clammy, stabbing Frodo and calling, relentlessly, for him to come join them as he grew faint and frigid before his friends' very eyes. And yet Frodo had ridden, and even walked when necessary for nearly a fortnight, and then had taken a mad dash on an elvish horse toward a strategic ford, making one final stand against his assailants.

If she had respected and been impressed by Frodo before, the feeling was now of sheer awe, and she would have bowed low before him in deep humility had the circumstances been different.

But now he lay before her, his skin nearly translucent as rivers of blue blood flowed beneath it. His features, as always, were a balm to look on in their harmony, and the something in them like nobility – the way that Marigold imagined kings and queens must look – was made still higher by the mask of suffering upon them. The delicate flower of his cheeks was still well-balanced by the sharpness of the chin and jaw that denoted his true sex, but the flower, just then, had been kissed by winter's first frost. Touch it but a little, and it would wither – and yet all she longed to do was touch it, to hold it in her cupped palms, to breathe life into it.

Sam had reckoned that the wound would make itself known on anniversaries of the stabbing from now on, for Frodo had been silent and remarkably tense for a day in the early part of October last. But this time around, he thought, the chest-cold and the exertion from the days before had made the pain worse, even as the wound sapped Frodo's strength to fight the illness. But the point was that far beyond any physical damage the blade had caused, far beyond any scarring, it had left a mark on both body and soul, and the traces of evil still lingered, vying to claim him for their own even long after their demise.

Marigold felt a knot in her stomach, and a shiver stole across her shoulders.

Was it final – really that final, that Frodo would never be free of this torment?

No… It couldn't be…

Sam had said that he did not really know, that he was only guessing, and that the wise ones of this world, the wizards and the elves, did not truly know either. And after all, it was only once a year that the anniversary came. Surely, once a year they could be careful – well, just about everything.

Frodo coughed, wetly, and a furrow formed between his eyebrows as a thin trail of spittle ran down his cheek.

She reached and wiped his face with a cloth made ready for the purpose. She let the cloth, and her finger beneath it, linger briefly over his lips.

The lips were no longer dry, which was good news, but they were still pale and bloodless.

Frodo coughed again.

"Aw, Mr. Frodo, let's get you turned."

It was nearly time to turn him anyway — every two hours, as was prescribed, along with intentional coughing and deep breathing. But his eyes were still closed, shrouded by a thin veil of sleep, so she decided to forego the second part and simply rolled him on his side toward her, positioning his legs at an angle to keep him from rolling back, and placing an extra pillow under his head and neck.

Frodo did not wake as she moved him, just mumbled under his breath, and his eyes twitched under his eyelids. He did not cough again, but took a small breath, rather like a sigh — this time without audible wheezing — and lay still.

He looked troubled still — a twitch here and there disturbing the surface of his face like an eddy – but at least he slept.

She wanted to run a knuckle down his high cheek bone, but refrained.

Whatever else could have been said about his illness, it seemed to have exhausted him so much that he was able to sleep — for his eyes were so dark-rimmed every morning that she was sure he did not sleep well at the best of times.

She took his hand, and began to smooth long pacifying strokes up and down his forearm. It was his right arm that she held, and when she reached his hand, she let her fingers linger over his.

Frodo was lying in the darkening forest, the twilight slanting through the trees. Some paces away, the other hobbits sat in conference over the fire, speaking in hushed tones, the twigs of the fire crackling. His shoulder ached; his whole body ached with a dark, sick, frigid feeling. The trees rose around him like the bars of a grate, or perhaps the jagged teeth of a comb. Aragorn was somewhere nearby, either on patrol or looking for herbs. Frodo could see and hear everything around him, but it was as if through a thick haze, the world rendered in light and shadow.

He heard a branch snap underfoot, and a rustle of cloth. Someone squatted down beside him and took his hand.

He looked up.

Marigold? Marigold Gamgee?

How was she here? How had she found out? Had she followed them in secret?

She had no road clothes on, no cloak, not even a shawl, and yet looked fresh and full of life in her everyday house dress, the yellow one with the pattern of tan flowers. And yet it was so cold, so terribly cold…

"Marigold, you shouldn't be here," he whispered urgently. "It's not safe…" He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes. "Go back… Go back to the Shire…"

Go back to your Gaffer, to your garden, to your girlfriends and your books… Go back, for pity's sake, before it's too late… – or so he would have said, if he had had the strength.

But Marigold only looked confused.

"But Mr. Frodo, we're perfectly safe," she replied. "We are in the Shire, at Bag End. You must be dreaming. You're ill, but you'll be better soon."

Oh, Marigold…

Indeed, it would have been pretty to think so, that he was still at Bag End. It would have been pretty to be an innocent lass of the Shire, and to never have heard anything about a Ring, a Dark Lord, or the end of the world.

The darkness thickened all around them, and soon there was little more he could see, and little more he could feel, than the strokes of her warm, clever, hard-working hands, smoothing their way up and down his forearm. But soon even that disappeared and he lay in darkness and silence, feeling cursed and sad – longing for company – any company – even that of beings as cursed as himself.

And then, a number of other visions began to appear before him: tall towers rising up in the midst of a barren landscape like jagged teeth; hosts clashing over vast, lonely tracts of land; men dressed in armor sitting in close, tense council inside a smoky room. And there was also Bilbo, pacing the floor of his study, and Merry riding off to battle tucked under the cloak of a mounted knight, and a bright, tall ship, shaped like a swan, with the brilliant shards of sun scattered over the surface of a bay as the salty air thrilled his lungs and the seagulls cried overhead.

And yet, every now and again as the scenes changed, he returned to the forest. And each time it was just as dark and deep, and Marigold continued to sit beside him, wearing only her yellow dress against the cold. And no matter how much his eyes pleaded with her to go back – for his voice no longer had the strength – she refused to heed him. She only pressed his hand tighter, and, once, as he returned from a sojourn to the Dead Marshes, with the cries of the Fell Beasts in his ears and his body in a sweat shaking from head to toe, she finally clasped both his hands in hers, and, seemingly overcome by growing pain and fear, began to sing.

" The sun is fast fallin'

Beneath trees of stone,

The light in the tower,

No longer my home,

Past eyes of pale fire,

Black sand for my bed,

I trade all I've known for

The unknown ahead. " (1)

Her voice was not radiant or enchanting like that of the elves; it was not tempered yet heavy with feeling like the voices of Gondor as they raised their laments to the dead and celebrated their new king. It was not loud, nor powerful, nor indeed remarkable in any way; it did not rise to the tops of the trees, but it did envelop the two of them in a close embrace, and for a moment fought back the darkness.

She finished the song, and peered into his face, anxious – indeed a lass who was suddenly far from home, tending to a charge whose illness she did not understand. Lost for words, lost for what to do… He found himself wanting to weep – for her goodness, for her youthful innocence, which he had not returned soon enough to save – yet, strangely, he no longer wanted her to leave. He wanted her with him.

And she, for her part, watched him as well, and searched for something in his face and, despairing of finding it, began to sing once more:

" The sun is fast fallin'

Beneath trees of stone… "

He closed his eyes, and soon could no longer discern the words, for they were soft like a whisper. But even as he lay, the music soothed him – soothed him like a tiny baby in his mother's arms – and seemed to promise that all ships lost at sea would soon find their safe harbor, and all people who had lost their joy would soon find it again.

He breathed a deep sigh, and settled as best he could into the earth. The ground was covered in sharp branches and wet leaves, and he could feel them only too well through the thin road-blanket. His wound was still colder than cold, and rivulets of ice were still snaking, relentlessly, through his blood. His limbs were still heavy, and he knew more terror was yet to come. And yet, by then the world was slowly melting around him – bit by bit, vision by vision.

When he next opened his eyes, he was in his bedroom again. His body still ached, head to toe, and there was a hollow pain in his chest that made him feel like he could never be well again. The freezing pain in his shoulder left him scarce able to move, and the mustard-plasters, quilts and generous fire in the grate were only a faint comfort.

But still, he was home, and by degrees the cold horror and the despair ebbed. Marigold sat slumped forward in her chair, resting partway on the bed, and her head was on her arm. She breathed easily, restfully, and her rosy lips were just slightly parted.

She had cared for him all day – changing compresses, lifting him up, wiping all manner of unmentionable things off his face. She had even fed him off a spoon and praised him for such simple things as breathing and not vomiting up his food.

He sighed, and closed his eyes once more, but did not remove his hands from hers.

When Sam awoke – long after his allotted three hours, he was sure – the house was quiet. He let himself down softly from the bed onto the floor, and tiptoed down the hall to Frodo's bedroom.

Both Marigold and Frodo were asleep.

Frodo lay on his side, the hot water skins outlining his body, and a sharp, sudden gasp would disturb his breathing from time to time. His eyes twitched beneath the thin, fragile curtain of sleep, and his face had the same otherworldly beauty that Sam had seen at the height of his suffering during the quest.

Marigold lay slumped onto the bed from her chair, the firelight dancing on her cheek. Her brows twitched, and she smacked her lips, just like she had done when they were children.

The two of them were holding hands.

Sam stood quietly for a long moment, beholding the scene.

He knew he ought to have been happy, and he was. They were growing closer after all, and Frodo's half-statements and Marigold's defensiveness only confirmed it. Both were learning, both in spite of and because of their pain, to accept and protect and hold each other…

To have and to hold.

Yes, he felt happy for them, but also somehow lonely – which, in itself, was rather daft, for hadn't he orchestrated the entire thing?

He wondered if he should go home and check on Rosie. She would surely be happy to see him, if she was awake. But no… Rosie did not need him like he was needed here, today. For Marigold would soon wake, and would surely want to rest in a proper bed after a long day's toil. And, surely, she would want to wake naturally and find her brother still snoring blissfully away, and not be caught in a compromising position with her master.

Sam sighed, and tiptoed back down the hall.

(1) "Wandering Day," written by Bear McCreary for the TV show Rings of Power.

Author's note: Before reliable antibiotics, there were some rather interesting ways of treating pneumonia. A lot of them had to do with clearing excess moisture from the lungs, and not allowing stagnation through coughing and deep breathing, frequent changes in position, and cupping. Mustard plasters were also used as a prototypical heating pad. Some of these techniques are still in use today, as an adjunct to antibiotics. Also, poppy was one of the first opioids, and as such is very good for pain, but could suppress breathing.