Chapter Text
“Why are you taking him away, Mister Gandalf? Where is he going?” Sam cried, chasing after the healers that seemed to crowd his dearest hobbit.
Frodo’s body had been lifted onto a stretcher. An elven maid laid a sheet of white upon him, pulling it over his face in dismay. She brushed the curls out of his face as she did so. Sam sobbed.
“Don’t mess with his hair like that. He doesn’t like it,” he pleaded. “And uncover his face, I beg you. You’ll frighten him, doing that.”
The elven maid pulled the sheet down at once, and held the stretcher still as Sam watched Frodo’s quiet face. His eyes were sunken. His face was whiter than ever. “Oh, dear. Your Sam is here, darling. Your Sam’ll look after you. Don’t be scared.”
“Samwise…” Gandalf looked upon Sam with tears in his eyes. “Frodo did not make it through the night,” he muttered, his voice cracking with an incredible sadness.
“What? What do you mean?” Sam shivered, backing himself against the sickbed where Frodo had previously lain.
“We weren’t able to save him in time,” a healer whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, no, that ain’t right. He was sleeping. We were all waiting for him to wake up. What’s changed now? He’s not gotten no sicker. He can’t have gotten sicker, can he?” Sam felt himself sinking, his heart wringing in his chest. “He was getting better. He *was* getting better. I swear it.”
Gandalf wept, placing a hand upon Frodo’s. The remains of his poor, severed finger had now been wrapped in fresh bandages since the night before. The thought of it made Sam’s gut churn, although he wasn’t sure why.
The healer gave a pitying look. “He took a bad turn this morning. I’m so sorry.”
“No, no, no. Frodo-love, show them that you’re still in there, darling…” Sam squeezed his hand. Frodo had quite often responded involuntarily to Sam’s touch- twitching or blinking, or letting out small, breathy groans when in pain, although still unconscious, with no sign of waking.
This time, he did not move.
“Sweetheart? You know how to open your eyes, now. You’ve done this before. For me. Show them, darling,” he let out a small, frustrated laugh. “Come on- listen to me.”
The room around him started to grow larger and larger. He became very small, as those around him seemed to watch with great worry, towering upon him, not with judgment, but with anguish.
“Please, oh, please…” he begged, falling to his knees, Frodo’s delicate face now right by his side. “He’s getting better. The ring made him sicker than this.”
Gandalf sighed softly. “There are forces beyond the ring, young Samwise. Sicknesses of the blood- of wounds that cannot mend without the aid of a healer. He hasn’t been well for a very long time. Long before we could reach the two of you.”
Sam touched his forehead and brushed his hair back to how he liked it. It felt cold against his skin. “There, there, Mister Frodo. You’re nice and safe with me. Don’t listen to any of them.”
“Come, now, little Master,” Gandalf placed a hand on his shoulder. “We mustn’t linger here. He will still need tending to before the burial.”
Sam could only choke on his words now. “Don’t talk like that. You’re upsetting him,” he sobbed, clutching at the gown Frodo wore- the gown that the healers so tenderly dressed him in, upon his sickbed. The gown that had always seemed too big on him.
“He’s already been through enough. He’s scared.”
“Samwise…” Gandalf murmured. “He’s dead.”
“Leave him alone. Please leave him alone,” he begged. “He’s going to wake up. I know he will. He always does.”
Yet, when Sam looked up, Frodo was gone, already carried away by the healers, down to the mortuary, where they would lay him in his finest clothes and bury him in his own little spot in the sunshine- where Sam could lie against his grave and weep.
The Ring-Bearer, finally receiving the rest he so desperately tried to seek, taken too soon from Sam’s cradling arms.
He found himself screaming, screaming for mercy, for his own dignity, for a sign of hope. He screamed for his poor dear Frodo, whose soul had wasted away amidst such a terrible, terrible burden.
His eyes opened as he screamed himself awake. Not at an empty sickbed, or lay at the foot of a marble headstone, but in his own room, safe in his bed at Bag End, resting in the confines of home.
The bedroom was dark. His heart raced, grasping at the pillows around him, grabbing the bedsheets for comfort. “Oh, Frodo, oh dear, dear me,” he reached to the left side of him, expecting the tender arms of his dearest, dearest hobbit to wrap themselves around him.
There lay nothing.
“Frodo?” He cried out, noticing the spot beside him on the bed was now empty- no trace of his darling Frodo, who had been sleeping peacefully just hours ago, his body wrapped up in as many blankets as he could stack
“Sweetheart?” Sam called once more, knowing the bedroom door must always be left open these days. If he were near, his voice would echo down the corridor and coax him back to bed.
No response could be heard from beneath the quiet hum of the smial. Sam slid out of bed and got on his feet, slowly making his way out of the room. He tried to ensure his footsteps were light, but the lump in his throat that had quickly formed was proving to be a distraction.
His body still shuddered. His quickened heartbeat still rang in his head, his memory now drawn to the great terrors of the quest, and the long illness that followed straight after.
“Frodo?” He traipsed on, wandering through dark, thinning hallways. “Frodo-love?”
Sam’s stomach turned as he walked the wide corridors of Bag End, hearing no noise or cry from behind each doorway.
Tears formed in his eyes, still heavy with sleep and with great worry. “Darling, please come out,” he said, shivering. “Please don’t leave your Sam.”
As he made his way to the kitchen, he heard the patter of footsteps against the stone flooring. His heart lifted slightly with relief, peering across the door to see his dearest, huddled in blankets.
He looked so, so tired.
“Oh, dear. There you are,” he panted.
Frodo stood at the table, staring blankly at the floor. His hand sat upon his chest, clutching frantically at the fabric of his nightshirt. “I can’t do this anymore, Sam,” he muttered slowly, his tone unchanging and quiet. “It’s choking me.”
Sam could only watch his poor love. To touch him would be to startle him further. He was far too delicate for that during times like these. It would only do him harm.
“Please help me. I’m so tired,” he maundered, before his gaze shifted, and he began speaking words Sam could no longer understand.
“Frodo, darling…” he beckoned softly. “It’s a nightmare you’re having. We need to get you back into bed.” He moved a little closer, ensuring he wouldn’t touch him.
Frodo failed to respond, now stumbling around the kitchen, his eyes failing to make out his surroundings. They had grown pale and glassy, glossed over by sleeplessness and by terrible, terrible fear.
“Walk towards me now, my love…” Sam took a step backwards and motioned for him to move to the door, though he did not seem to notice.
“It’s such a weight.”
He could still see Frodo lay dead on the stretcher, his head rolled to one side, burns from the ring still scarring over upon his shoulder. His darling, so pale, so thin.
“You’re having a bad dream, my lovely. We both get them, don’t we? Come here, come to your Sam.” He spoke very gently, as if talking to a wee faunt. “Time for bed, mhm?”
Slowly, Frodo made his way towards the door, although Sam was not sure he really understood where he was. He followed behind Frodo, ensuring he did not fall or run into anything that could hurt him, or scare him awake, at the very least.
“Have I done something horrible? Is that why I have the ring?” He asked, his voice shaky with confusion. Frodo’s eyes darted across the room, yet blind to his surroundings, dazed with sleep.
“No, no, no, darling.” he sobbed, trying his best to resist the urge to place a hand upon his back to guide him. He knew it would only frighten him. “Please, let’s rest. Let me hold you, brave little hobbit.” Sam begged, although the latter felt as if it was for his own comfort.
It took a good while of coaxing Frodo back into the bedroom until he finally reached his bed. He began to stir from his sleep as he sat down, realising he was not, in fact, trapped within his own nightmare.
“Sam?” He mumbled, confused.
“Frodo-love?” Sam kneeled in front of him, watching eagerly.
“Are we home?” Frodo blinked slowly, dazed by the candlelight of his own bedroom. “I want to go to bed.”
He nodded. “We’re home. You’re safe. You’re with me now.”