A bit of lighthearted-ness + some disability positivity in this chapter, because I can't write a story that is ALL sad :) there's also some unreality and dissociation at the end of the chapter, so please skip if that triggers you
Chapter 2: Mist
On the second day, Frodo spent lots of time sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a quilt. It was Bilbo's old quilt, worn to softness and very faded.
"I'm all right," he told Sam again. "It's just that walking is so tiring, and my legs feel numb."
Sam didn't like the sound of that. He asked Frodo to stand up and walk a bit while he watched. Sure enough, Frodo was limping slightly, and his legs didn't seem strong enough to support him.
"Well, never mind that," Sam said when Frodo had come to sit on the sofa again. "You just rest. There's no reason that you need to be up and about right now anyway. How's your shoulder?"
Frodo smiled wryly. "Not very good."
Sam touched his left hand. It felt cold. "Can I see it?"
Frodo's smile wavered. "I'd rather you didn't. It's not too bad anyway, and there's nothing to see."
"All right." Sam just patted his hand. He could see that Frodo felt uncomfortable talking about it.
They went for a walk in the afternoon. At least, Sam was walking, and pushing Frodo in his wheeled chair. But they called it a walk anyway. They were both trying to be cheerful for each other, and to keep things as normal as they could. They took the winding little path that led from the Hill past the Party Field, and Sam collected an armful of yellow leaves that the Party Tree had strewn across the meadow and dumped them into Frodo's lap. Frodo threw some at him, and Sam got leaves down his jacket and did a funny sort of dance trying to pick leaf bits out of his collar. Frodo laughed, but gave Sam a leaf bouquet and a kiss. Sam accepted both gladly, and then he ran down the road, pushing Frodo so fast that Frodo shrieked and had to hold on to the arms of his chair.
"I'm so glad I have this chair," he said over his shoulder to Sam, when Sam was too out of breath to run anymore and was standing behind him, gasping. "I can't imagine being stuck inside the smial every time my legs stop working. Thank you for pushing me."
"Of course, darlin'," Sam managed to say.
Frodo laughed at him then. "Your face is tomato-red, Mr Gamgee."
Sam just chuckled and kissed Frodo's pale cheek.
A rumble of thunder made them both glance up nervously.
"Hm. Guess we'd better head back," said Sam.
Frodo nodded. He twisted his hands in his lap and adjusted the blanket that covered his legs, smoothing out the fringe that hung on the edges.
Sam knew that storms always made Frodo nervous now, and he rubbed Frodo's arm gently. "It's all right, love. That thunder's a long way off. We'll be home well before it starts rainin'."
"We'd better be!" Frodo joked. "You left the washing on the line!"
"Oh Yavanna, that I did." Sam turned Frodo's chair around and began pushing him uphill toward home.
A pale autumn mist was descending over the garden as they reached the front gate. Leaning on Sam's arm, Frodo climbed the front steps and was soon safely settled on the sofa, and Sam went out again to get Frodo's chair and the laundry. Frodo waited inside for him. They had put out the fire in the fireplace before they left. Now the smial was cold and dark, and Frodo shivered. Thunder rumbled again outside. Then there was a whistling sound, and tree branches slapped against the window and spatters of rain appeared on the glass. A feeling of cold dread was slowly growing in Frodo's chest, and his palms were sweaty.
"Hurry, Sam," he whispered.
The front door blew open and slammed against the wall, and Sam came stumbling into the kitchen, bringing cold wind and rain with him. The clean laundry was clutched in his arms.
"I made it just in time!" he said cheerfully as he went to their room to put the clothes in a basket. He returned quickly, bringing some blankets with him, and he sat down beside Frodo.
Frodo tried to turn and look at him, but he felt suddenly as if he was frozen in place. His shoulder was aching horribly, and a terrible chill was spreading down his chest and arm. Vaguely he realized that Sam was tucking a blanket over his legs and speaking softly to him. Then he felt Sam's warm hand on his cheek, and he turned to see Sam's face near his own.
"Frodo?" Sam was asking. "Can you hear me, sweetheart?"
"Yes..." Frodo managed to say. His lips felt cold. He was glad that Sam didn't know how horrible this felt.
"What's the matter? Tell your Sam."
Frodo couldn't. He could open his mouth, and he could think of what he wanted to say, but somehow the words wouldn't come out. *Help*, he thought. *Help me, Sam. I feel like I'm fading. It feels like nothing is real. Are you even real?*
But then Sam's arms were around him, and Sam was rubbing his hurt shoulder so gently and saying "It's all right, darling. Sam's here."
Frodo buried his face in Sam's shoulder, and it made him feel just a little bit better.
