They started to read every day, poetry mostly, putting it to song and copying it over into the new leather-bound notebook Marigold had started for the purpose. She was amazed to learn just how much Bilbo wrote, and dismayed to hear that he did not think highly of his own poetry. Sam walked in on them several times, once as Marigold intoned in her diffident, unpolished voice, "Past eyes of pale fire, black sand for my bed, I trade all I've known for the unknown ahead" (1) – and remarked with a laugh that he thought Frodo was teaching her spelling, not singing. Soon, Frodo was looking forward to their lessons each day – a brighter spot on an otherwise dreary canvas. He enjoyed putting his mind to work understanding how her mind worked – differently, to be sure, but not necessarily slower. It was rather that she had more to sift through with any given task, and saw words and texts as parts rather than wholes, which did hold her back at times, but also provided opportunities. And she was a maximalist, too, in all respects. When she found out there could be different meanings to words and poems, she tried to come up with as many as she could.

In the evenings, their conversations were full of "what if" and "how about." And soon, by the time they had jokingly agreed to disagree whether a composition was about dragons, or garden snakes, or perhaps birthday parties, Frodo would be too spent to reach for his customary cup of New Winyard.

One might have thought foregoing his nightcap would have hurt his sleep – but the first night was not just his imagination. He still could not sleep deeply, and the nights still piled insults on top of injuries – but he was now acutely aware that he was only waking up three or four times each night, and this was quite a bit better than five, or six, or even twelve.

In his younger years, of course, Frodo had enjoyed sleep almost as much as any hobbit enjoyed food. Come what may, it was a respite he could always count on, going back to his days as a young, orphaned lad at Brandy Hall.

Before he and Sam left the Shire, too, he had enjoyed long, beautiful dreams, and was known for a curious ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere – even in the company of friends when the conversation dragged and no one spoke to him in particular. (He still opened his eyes straight away when addressed, of course, which saved him from accusations of rudeness.) This ability served him well early on in the quest – even as Sam complained of the hard ground and painful twigs in his back, all Frodo had to do was close his eyes, imagine being in bed at home, and drift off to sleep.

But soon the Ring took hold, calling out to him at night and making it preferable – sweet, even – to stay awake. He would sit up all night watching it, even as his body ached and his mind was so tired he could barely tell what was real. And the dreams! When they did come, they continued long and vivid, but the beauty was gone; there was only terror and pain. He dreamt of dark shadows, tall figures with swords, losing the Ring, and always something seeking – relentlessly seeking him in a darkness where he lay, naked and afraid.

His sleep never really returned. He could lie in the softest bed in Gondor or in the Shire, and still it eluded him. If he slept, it was in hour-long spurts that he started out of, groping for the Ring in the sheets, drenched in sweat like he had been running. In Gondor, the healers gave him draughts that put him in a dreamless haze, but that came at a cost – he felt dizzy and drugged in the morning, and got headaches that lingered long into the day.

Even now, fatigue as heavy as boulders was not enough to overpower the fear that had taken hold in his bones, and that ripped him out of his sleep, surely and methodically as the cruelest executioner.

No – given the sad state of affairs, it would take more than a bright, lively lass, more than engaging conversation, and more than the lavender milk, honey-infused and gently warmed, to bring him peace. But somehow, while his mind was on her and on their studies, his fear of the night did lessen. He wondered how he had never truly noticed her before – she was always Sam's sweet, unassuming little sister – and yet it was sad to think that such a gem could have languished so long unheeded at Bagshot Row.

If he had to explain why he had not noticed her, it was perhaps that he had started to feel… thin was maybe the word, and it had started quite soon after Bilbo's departure. He had begun to feel restless, too, and was loth to put down roots, so he stopped associating much with lasses, and did not have the wherewithal – nor indeed the desire – to add to his inner circle.

But now, he found himself wondering why she had quit midwifery – a subject he had not given thought to much before. And he wondered if he ought to do some writing of his own, and to add to Bilbo's account of the War of the Ring – for even though revisiting some of the particulars still filled him with dread, he was inclined to think that in addition to his friends, there was at least one other who might like to read it: for the more they delved into the epic and the legendary poetry, the more questions Marigold had about what caused what, and who was related to whom, and she even asked if he and Bilbo had made family trees for the elves and the dwarves after the hobbit fashion. She even asked if she could see some of his uncle's wrinkled old maps.

To say that Marigold liked their lessons would not have been doing it justice. She chided herself for it, but now and again she actually found herself rushing through her work so they could start sooner. She did not only like sitting close to Mr. Frodo – though who would not? Though visibly older and more tired, with new wrinkles framing his eyes and mouth and a thinner, more angular countenance, he was still so handsome that no lass would have been immune. And he smelled nice, too: no longer of pipe weed, for he had done what no other hobbit had done before him and inexplicably quit, but of clean clothes and clean skin – of his own warm, musky scent like cinnamon and cloves, but also – she knew it now, the enigmatic fragrance she'd sensed all those years ago: of books with leather bindings.

She also liked to see him trace the letters, which he did skillfully and with elegant ease, even though he was missing a finger. In fact, watching him do so was still more fascinating for the lack.

But no, she didn't just like sitting next to Mr. Frodo, or listening to Mr. Frodo, or watching Mr. Frodo – with whom, whatever her past embarrassing feelings, she felt unashamed to be herself.

She was starting to like reading. It felt less like chewing rocks, or banging her head against a wall. Approaching the material from different angles – speaking, singing, writing, discussing, putting words into categories – it all made it easier to remember and to understand.

But it was still hard going. And a number of difficulties remained.

For one, even with the use of a bookmark, her eyes still liked to jump from line to line on their own accord, and if she read too long the lines would start to shake, and she got tired far sooner than she would a year ago – when she was still training under Mrs. Bracegirdle and would revisit her books from time to time.

And she would also get headaches. Headaches that cut down her time with reading and with Mr. Frodo.

One such headache came when they were poring over a poem about a dwarf named Durin, another one of Bilbo's recordings from his time with the company of fourteen. Marigold was imagining the bright din of hammers, the stately halls and the ponderous columns encrusted with runes. Frodo had drawn her a picture of the Mines of Moria, complete with how small people looked beside the great pillars of stone. Outside, the late summer sun was not yet waning, and through the curtain she could see the outline of apple tree branches, rocking in the breeze. The branches were heavy with fruit – a sight, sadly, that Durin and his folk would rarely see, spending much of their lives underground.

Did they ever get despondent, living so long without the sun?

A pain had begun to form behind her eyes, and the words were starting to dance, so she had hoped to keep it at bay by looking at the distance.

Not so.

In fact, she ought not have looked outside: even with the curtain tempering the sun-rays, they had been too bright for her. When she returned to the page, the words wobbled worse than usual, and the pain began to spread and intensify. It had been a busy day, and when she had eaten and drank, it had been in a hurry, and not enough.

She closed her eyes.

"Are you alright?"

She kept her eyes closed.

"Yes. Just a headache. I get them sometimes."

"Do you want to stop? We should stop. You need to rest."

But she shook her head, pressing her fingers to the corners of her eyes. Her head felt like a bucket, with water sloshing around inside.

"I'll be alright, Mr. Frodo."

But she wasn't alright. The dull fullness, paired with a vice-like grip, grew steadily, and before long she felt like she might lose what food she had eaten. She got up and moved to the couch, and put her face in her hands.

Darkness. Deep breaths. That ought to set her to rights.

She felt Frodo take a seat beside her.

"Would you like to lie down? Or would you like me to walk you home?"

She shook her head again. Bagshot Row was noisy from dawn till well past sundown, and noise was not her friend at such times.

"No, Mr. Frodo," she said. Her words came out slowly, like sap from a cut in a tree. "I just need to sit here for a spell, and then I'll brew some willow bark tea, and I'll be right as rain. I'm sorry to be an in-con-venience."

"Oh, you're no inconvenience, Mari."

She felt him get up and a few moments later, the cushions shifted again as he sat back down.

"Might you have some willow bark in here?" She opened her eyes to see him holding her bag. "If so, I can brew it for you."

The pain in her head was spreading and taking a hold in her neck, shoulders, and arms, and she did not have the wherewithal to protest.

She nodded.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," Marigold said, as she sipped the tea.

Frodo had done well in brewing the bark, particularly for one with no apothecary experience. The brew was thick without tasting like the plant had been scalded or over-steeped, and there was not a trace of dirt or dregs - just warm, thick, golden-brown liquid. It was spreading quickly throughout her body, numbing and relaxing wherever it found hurt, helping her breathe a little easier.

"I've been getting headaches since the Scouring," she added, not quite knowing why.

Frodo sat by her side, a look of concern over his lovely features.

"But it's getting better," she went on quickly. "The first few weeks my head hurt all the time. It's a wonder I knew what was what from one minute to the next. But now it's only here and there."

"Marigold… That's — not right. Maybe you should go see Dr. Boffin."

She shrugged, looking at her reflection in the tea.

"I know what it is. My brains got rattled pretty well when I was down in the Lockholes. There's nothing for it now, except time."

"Your… brains got rattled?"

Frodo thought back to that day in November – after the battle of Bywater, when the hobbits imprisoned by Saruman and Lotho had been freed. Marigold had been among them, and she had looked, as expected, very bedraggled – her hair matted, her features smeared with dirt, having lost much of her buxomness. But she had also staggered out propping up another hobbit, and while Sam had wept like a child when the two were reunited, she had also been the one to wipe away his tears, and to ask almost immediately who had been hurt and what help was needed. She had even set to work the very next day – even though it was her birthday, and had said that she had no resources for gifts that year, but was happy to give her time.

Come to think of it, he had never asked – did not think it was his place – what she had done to get imprisoned in the Lockholes. As far as he could tell, the Lockholes had been reserved for those who actively resisted Lotho and Saruman's rule, but it was hard to imagine the docile and obliging Marigold actively resisting anything – though he supposed, just as with Sam, that a stolid and patient nature could have easily hidden a passionate heart.

"Rattled is the word," Marigold replied matter of factly. The headache was loosening its grip, and so was the moribund, heavy feeling that came with it – a feeling that whispered and lied, sinking invisible claws in, promising no end in sight, no way of feeling well or happy ever again.

"They beat me almost daily in there. It was sure to happen e-ventually."

"They… what? But why?!"

He knew conditions were harsh – many hobbits could barely walk upon coming out, while some never walked out at all – but this was another order of cruelty. He recalled Sam's statement that if Lotho had not already been dead, he might have killed him all over again – not that Frodo approved of killing anyone for anything, even still.

Marigold took another sip. The willow-bark was working famously, which made her glad on a number of counts.

She stood up, straightening her skirts, and rolled her head this way and that, stretching her back with her hands on her waist. She looked out the window – thankfully, the sun was going down and a thin blanket of clouds had stretched across the sky. It was no longer bright enough to hurt her eyes.

"Why do you think, Mr. Frodo?" she said dispassionately, shrugging. "Because they could. Because people, if you give them power, like that kind of thing, if you get my meaning."

Of course, she knew exactly why they did it, though she did not want to say it in so many words. The guards must have been under orders – they did not touch her that way, which was surprising at first, but roughing her up was a daily occurrence. The degree varied depending on the guard and his mood that day – at times it was a cuff to the side of her head, at times she was thrown to the ground and had the breath kicked out of her.

A few of the other hobbits, including the former mayor, Will Whitfoot, had tried to stand up for her at first – "Leave the girl alone, for heaven's sake!" – the mayor had boomed, when he still could boom – "Whatever is the point of this?!" But it had only garnered him the same treatment, and he was starved for a week into the bargain.

The guards seemed to be under orders to avoid her face, too, and she knew why that was as well.

For those not privy to certain facts, it may have been odd that they targeted her that way. After all, there were many good looking lasses, though her reputation for goodness might have made her a particularly attractive object for defilement. Had she simply refused to do as she was told, she might have been passed around by Sharkey's men and then discarded. But in a rare moment of righteous passion, and in front of the ruffians no less, she had found her voice and said something so cutting to Lotho — something only longtime residents of the Shire would know — that she earned herself a more elaborate punishment.

Frodo stood up beside her. He looked abjectly horrified, like he could barely keep his own feet.

"Marigold…" He wanted to touch her arm, but refrained with some effort. "How… How can you be so calm about this? Should you even be working? You need to rest, to heal. And those – those –"

He ran in his mind a list of hobbits who had been party to Lotho's, and "Sharkey's" regime – those, indeed, who were still alive and had not fled. He had but to say the word, and Sam and the other farm lads would deliver justice of the pitchfork and fist variety. But how would that help Marigold now, and would she even want such things done in her name?

An eye for an eye made the whole world blind. (2)

"But I am almost completely well, Mr. Frodo." Marigold looked at him earnestly.

And it was true, too – the headache was melting away, and she was quickly coming back into her own, the Marigold that bounced.

"And I get plenty of rest, as well" – she added – which she did, at night, since waking up from the dreams of getting brutalized was growing less frequent – "And I like work," she went on. "It makes me feel like all is well in the world, if you get my meaning. Even if I'm hurting all the time, and even if I have to repeat everything to myself twice over, I don't think I could be happy sitting still."

Frodo regarded her, quietly, and opened and closed his hand a few times – as if exercising his joints, or recalling the weight of some object.

"But how did you get through it?" he finally asked. "I mean – well, you know what I mean."

Marigold thought for a moment.

How had she gotten through?

The first thing that came to mind – and she had asked herself the same question, many times – was Mrs. Tunnelly. She was an older hobbit lady from Frogmorton, who had shared her cell, and had been kind. She would hold Marigold, and rock her to sleep and sing to her when she was hurting, and told her she had a daughter just the same age. She offered Marigold her rations, which Marigold staunchly refused, and had died in her sleep only a few days before the liberation.

But it wasn't just Mrs. Tunnelly, as Marigold had realized with time. There was something else that had made it materially different from the other thing – from well before – that still haunted her and made her ill.

"I got through it because I had to, Mr. Frodo," she replied. "I knew it would be worse if I didn't. It was a simple choice, really, as far as choices go."

And, suddenly, it felt like a simple choice, too, to tell him what had happened — all of it. He looked at her with such soulful feeling in his eyes – with a hint of admiration she did not deserve, but also more: a sort of luminosity and perceptiveness, echoing through each line of his rapidly aging face. Had their relationship been different, their arms might have reached toward one another, and they might have embraced.

"And Mr. Frodo, I could've kept company with the enemy, too, if you get my meaning," she went on. "And I could have been safe that way for a while. But that would have meant I con-doned what was happening, that I con-doned the Shire and the others being ill-used, and people would have spat at me in the streets for it, and would have been right to do it. But Mr. Frodo, I knew it couldn't go on forever – I knew Sharkey and Lotho would never win. I knew we would be rescued in time – and we were." She looked at him significantly.

It was simple, really.

Simple.

There it was again. A word not in his lexicon, however comforting it was at times.

Marigold took another breath, and turned from side to side, her arms following her shoulders, her skirt fanning out like a bell.

"Well, Mr. Frodo, I'm feeling better now," she said, almost joyfully. "Shall we go back to our letters?"

Frodo shook his head in wonderment and sighed.

The Gamgees, it seemed, were made of truly strong stuff. Far stronger than he was, anyway, and perhaps their secret was just that: a pure and simple heart – such a rare thing in this world, but also essential to not fall prey to its evils.

It was people like them who tended the light, simply because they could not conceive of anything else.

(1) This is from "Wandering Day," written by Bear McCreary for the TV show Rings of Power, a song that easily could have been part of hobbit oral tradition and passed down to the time of The Lord of the Rings.

(2) "An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind" is, of course, a quote attributed to Gandhi, but Frodo would not know this.