fic: Letting Go, 16/18
Title: Letting Go, 16/18 "Acceptance"
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 5,232 for this part
Warnings: this fic will involve character death
Story Summary: Letting go of someone you care deeply about is a very difficult thing.
A/N: This story is a sequel to " Holding On," which is in turn a follow-up to Skye's "Just Don't Have the Heart to End It" and Aemilia Rose's "Always There Beyond the Touch of Darkness." It's been in the works pretty much since I posted "Holding On" in June 2003, though obviously it took a while for me to get up the nerve to go through with it. ;)
A/N P.S.: The medical-type stuff in this fic has not been run by those who know more about such things than I do, so no guarantees that it is realistic despite the research I did.
Warning: We have progressed to the point in which Frodo's death is openly discussed. Also, there are bodily functions and other such things present (but you could probably guess that).
Chapter 1, "Story-telling"
Chapter 2, "A Birthday"
Chapter 3, "Recovery"
Chapter 4, "Old Troubles"
Chapter 5, "Winter Blues"
Chapter 6, "An Understanding"
Chapter 7, "Routines"
Chapter 8, "Compromises"
Chapter 9, "Despair"
Chapter 10, "Reconciliation"
Chapter 11, "Resignation"
Chapter 12, "Two Visits"
Chapter 13, "Memories"
Chapter 14, "Anniversary"
Chapter 15, "Comfort"
Chapter Summary: Frodo and Rosie try to talk sense into Sam; Sam comes to a new conclusion.
Elanor settled into the caregiving routine as easily as if she'd been there the entire time. Frodo found he enjoyed her company -she and Frodo-lad had always been his favorites, as they were the only ones he'd known before his madness took hold- and he especially enjoyed it when she and someone else were both in his room, talking, since it meant he could enjoy listening to a conversation without the exertion of having to participate in it. It did take a day or two for him to be rid of the embarrassment of having her see and touch his body; though he was sure she had helped care for him before, he hadn't been aware of it, so it wasn't the same. And he knew he looked very different now, and he couldn't help being somewhat ashamed of the wreck he had become.
Also distressing were the daily reminders of his worsening illness and growing weakness. The day after Elanor arrived, Frodo convinced Sam and Rosie to let him have another go at shuffling to his privy seat. This time he made it as far as sitting on the edge of the bed before his back flared with agony, his left foot went numb (he still couldn't feel the right one; perhaps it was for the best, to judge by the large, colorful bruise he'd developed), and his chest felt tight, which made it difficult to breathe and resulted in considerable light-headedness. It didn't take long for him to admit defeat and ask for the chamberpot, consoling himself that at least he didn't need a diaper.
Then there was the cough. If he'd thought it was bad before -it already plagued him most of the times he spoke, sighed, or tried to breathe normally- he soon realized how easy he'd had it. When he breathed, no matter how shallowly, he coughed. When he swallowed, he coughed. If he moved, he coughed. Sometimes he woke up coughing, even, and Frodo didn't like that at all. Admittedly, most of the coughs were of a wheezy variety and didn't last long, but those coughs could easily turn into the other kind, the ones that came from somewhere so deep inside that he shook with them, his face turning red as the spasm continued seemingly without end, his vision acquiring spots, then becoming grey as he struggled to breathe.
Sometimes the coughing ended in retching, the blood he'd brought up from his lungs mingling with whatever was in his stomach at the time to make a pink-tinged mess (after the first time he'd stained a quilt in that manner, they always had a basin on hand). Sometimes the coughing ended in blissful darkness as he passed out -Frodo preferred this over the other, though he would have dispensed with the coughing entirely if it were up to him. The aftermath of such fits often made him wish he could be put out of his misery like a pony with a broken leg; it hurt to breathe, to talk, to move a hand or even a finger. Rosie always gave him something cool afterward, to ease his throat, and fussed over him until he fell into an exhausted sleep.
Within two days, Rosie had tried using all of the tonics Merry had sent, with mixed results. The salves for his sores and the tincture for his joints -including his back- worked, well, at least until Mr. Frodo had a coughing fit that made the pain resurface. The herbs for his cough and his breathing, tried both in a tea and as a steam he breathed, didn't seem to work at all, especially since the steam just seemed to make him cough more.
Then there were the ones for pain . . . they seemed to work, in that they put him straight to sleep, but Frodo didn't like taking them because he felt like he couldn't wake up. Rosie understood, but hated to see him so miserable, so she experimented with slipping small amounts in his tea to see if there was a way to compromise between helping his pain and keeping him as awake as he wanted to be. Frodo only sometimes noticed what she'd done, and he slept often enough that it wasn't always obvious when she'd intervened. For a time she'd been concerned about how often he seemed to be sleeping compared to before, but then, his rest was often interrupted by coughing, so it didn't seem unreasonable for him to be sleeping when he could.
Frodo found he didn't quite mind spending a bit more time asleep every day, for his dreams were calm and comforting: he dreamt of Bilbo, his parents, and the Sea, and felt a reassuring sense of peace that they would be there to greet him in the hereafter. The waking world with its agony didn't have much to offer in comparison, and if it weren't for the lingering anxiety of Sam, he would have more quickly been beyond the reach of physical pain. But there was Sam, his Sam, who wasn't ready to let him go just yet, so he steadfastly endured.
With an eye to acquaint Sam with the realities of his illness, Frodo often requested him to sit at the bedside and talk to him while he was awake, and hold his hand when he wasn't. Sam tried to keep a cheerful mien, but Frodo could tell he was discomfited by his master's situation and was not willing to accept that nothing more could be done. So Frodo resolved to talk to him about it.
An opportunity presented itself in the evening four days after Elanor's arrival when Frodo-lad offered to take his supper tray back to the kitchen. Sam had been sitting with Frodo since his bath, so Frodo gestured for Frodo-lad to lean close and whispered a request that he find other pursuits to occupy him until his father came to look for him. Frodo-lad nodded and made himself scarce.
After the lad's departure, a well-timed coughing fit seized him, one of the deep kind, though he managed not to throw up or pass out. But it did draw Sam's attention to him, and he took one of Frodo's hands in his. Frodo saw his chance and he took it.
"Sam," he wheezed, gripping the other hobbit's hand tightly as he fought for breath. "It will soon be time."
"No," Sam stubbornly insisted, shaking his head emphatically. "You'll get better, you will!"
A small smile flitted across Frodo's face before he wearily opened his eyes to glance at Sam. "My dear Sam," he said fondly. "I have lived my life . . . and a bit more, thanks to you." He choked and fought to swallow for a minute. Sam hurriedly grabbed the glass of water from the bedside stand, easing onto the edge of the bed to help Frodo drink. Frodo nodded slightly when he'd had enough, and added, "I've finished my time." He had to close his eyes as he caught his breath in shallow, painful gasps.
"No," Sam repeated numbly, tears pooling in his eyes.
With effort, Frodo lifted his hand, the other was still clasped in Sam's, and gently touched Sam's face, wiping away a few stray tears with his thumb. Sam could not help shivering at the touch -Frodo's hand was so cold despite the fever that afflicted him- but leaned into it just the same. "Sam," Frodo said gently. "You have done all you could and more even than I would have asked. There is nothing more you can do but let me go."
"But I can't follow," Sam said miserably and dropped his head to stare sadly at the quilt.
"No, not yet," Frodo agreed. "But you will, in many years, after you've lived and done many more things. Until then, you will be happy -more happy than you could be with an old, broken hobbit taking your attention from your family." Bitterness tinged these words and Frodo had to drop his arm as he fought for enough strength to say what needed to be said. "Don't cling to me, Sam, cling to your family. They need you, Sam. They need you whole."
"You- you're doing this a-purpose," Sam said, desperately grasping for anything to explain Frodo's insistence on this matter. "You're giving in, letting it take you. You can still fight it!"
"Sam," Frodo said commandingly, with more strength than he seemed to possess. "Sam, I have been fighting it -I would have been gone already if I weren't. And believe me, if I had to choose how to leave this life, it would not have been so lingering," he coughed a bit, "or so painful. No, Sam, I did not choose this. I have merely accepted my fate." His eyes slid shut for a moment, Frodo being too weary to keep them open.
"I can't believe that," Sam insisted, tears still trickling down his cheeks.
"Your refusal to believe doesn't change what is," Frodo whispered. "Promise me you'll think about it, Sam."
"I will," Sam replied, helpless to refuse his master.
"Good. Now I need to rest," Frodo said faintly before falling silent.
He became so still that Sam watched with fear until he saw that his chest was still moving, just a bit. Sam rose and went to find Frodo-lad for the next watch -it had grown quite late without him realizing it, and he desperately needed sleep . . . and time to think. Definitely time to think.
~~~~
The next morning, Sam sent for the healer. When Rosie returned to the kitchen from waking Frodo and giving him his breakfast, Sam was talking to Merry at the door, then the lad ran off. Rosie thought nothing of it until Sam started and flushed guiltily when he turned and saw her. "Where's he off to?" she asked suspiciously.
Sam slowly closed the door, then admitted, "To fetch the healer."
"And just what are you about, Samwise Gamgee?" Rosie demanded sharply. "Why are you askin' him to waste his time coming up here?"
Sam shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "I thought maybe he could help."
Rosie snorted. "He didn't know enough to tell us what was wrong with Mr. Frodo in the first place! He ain't able to help and you know it." She softened her tone and added, "Even that Lord Elrond couldn't help 'im now."
"Don't say that!" Sam said wildly.
Rosie looked at him reproachfully. "You're blind as a bat when it comes to Mr. Frodo, Samwise Gamgee. He ain't getting better."
"He'll get better!" Sam insisted stubbornly.
"When your Gaffer was ill that last time, you knew he weren't going to recover. Mr. Frodo has been very ill for far longer, and you still don't accept that he won't be getting better. Why is he different than your Gaffer? It is not to us to say who lives or dies."
Sam buried his face in his hands. "Me Gaffer was much older, Rose. Mr. Frodo still has plenty of years left in 'im."
Rosie touched one of his arms lightly. "I don't think he does, Sam," she said softly. "Even before he was ill, he moved about like a gaffer twice his age. Don't tell me you didn't notice! With all he's been through, he's aged beyond his years . . . and neither you nor I can fix that, no matter how we wish to."
"I know," Sam sighed. "But I don't want to give up on him!"
"You're not giving up," Rosie soothed. "If there's nothing you can do to help, accepting that ain't giving up -giving up is only when you could still do something and don't."
Sam dropped into a chair at the table and buried his face in his hands, but did not answer.
Rosie patted his shoulder. "How about I clean up from breakfast, and you go sit with him a while? Rose is there now; have her come help Elanor with the laundry."
Sam nodded silently and wandered down the hall, looking lost. Rose watched him go and could only hope he would come around soon. Mr. Frodo couldn't hold on much longer -he hadn't said so, but her intuition was rarely wrong- he was only holding on until he knew Sam understood, and Sam was holding out on the belief Frodo would recover . . . stubborn menfolk.
Toby Mugwort arrived within an hour. Rosie met him at the door. "I do hope we aren't taking you from more urgent business."
"No, no, I haven't had more than a sore throat or a painful ear for three days," he assured her, hanging up his cloak. "Your lad said Mr. Baggins has the consumption? I don't expect I'll be able to do much."
"Aye. I didn't think you'd be able to help, but Sam wanted to make sure," Rosie said neutrally, trying not to reveal that it was a point of contention between them.
Mr. Frodo was awake but just barely. Toby greeted him, then said, "Do you mind if I examine you rather thoroughly? I've never seen a case of the consumption before, and it would be most helpful for my understanding."
Frodo chuckled soundlessly. "Do your worst," he invited. "You won't be able to make me worse off, that's for certain."
Rosie watched from the second chair; Sam still occupied the other, but said nothing as the examination moved forward. Toby was indeed thorough, listening carefully to Frodo's lungs, peering at his throat, and asking for more detail about the symptoms and their progression. Rosie answered his questions patiently, resisting the urge to hover protectively over Frodo until Toby's ministrations provoked a terrible coughing fit. Young Mugwort had his listening device pressed to Frodo's back as he sat curled forward in agony; Rosie pushed him out of the way and had Frodo lean against her. "You are finished here," she told him. "Sam, take him to the kitchen and give him some tea. I'll be there in a few minutes."
Frodo clutched her sleeve as he fought for control; she held the basin and waited. When the fit passed, she set the unused basin aside and held his trembling form gently. "Maybe I could use that diaper after all," he whispered.
"What do you mean?"
"The coughing . . . I'm wet again," he confessed. "I'm sorry."
"That's easy enough to fix."
Frodo-lad was getting dressed when he heard the coughing. He glanced into the kitchen on his way to Mr. Frodo's room and was puzzled to see the healer. He lurked in the doorway for a few moments to listen to the conversation between the healer and his father, but they were talking of the weather and planting, so it wasn't worth staying for. He continued to Mr. Frodo's room, where he saw his mother awkwardly trying to get Mr. Frodo's nightshirt off of him while Mr. Frodo was leaning heavily against her. He quickly moved to assist her, sliding his arms around Mr. Frodo to hold him upright.
"Ah, lad, thank you," Rosie said when she noticed him. She easily removed the nightshirt. "Would you pick him up for a moment?"
Frodo-lad carefully lifted Mr. Frodo clear of the damp pieces of flannel, which Rosie moved. She checked the oilcloth for wetness, then fetched and placed new flannel on the bed. Mr. Frodo shivered in Frodo-lad's arms, and Frodo-lad tried to soothe him. "Just a minute, Mr. Frodo, and we'll have you back in your nice, warm bed."
"His hands were so cold," Frodo murmured as if he hadn't heard. "I'm so cold."
"We'll get you warm again, don't worry," Frodo-lad said confidently, setting him back down on the bed.
Frodo focused on Rosie again as she started to pull the sheet and blankets over him. "Please. I don't want to make any more extra work for you," he said, sounding desperate, clinging to her like a weak kitten.
Rosie patted his hand and thought for a moment. "Don't you worry, Mr. Frodo. Will this make you feel better?" She pulled out another strip of flannel and laid it over his hips and groin to help protect the sheet from any accidents.
"That's a little better," Frodo conceded, and let them finish tucking him in. Still he shivered, so Rosie added another quilt and directed Frodo-lad to build up the fire.
"Why no nightshirt?" Frodo-lad asked her in a low voice when she joined him by the fire after Frodo was comfortable.
"He's got none clean at the moment," Rosie said with a sigh. "But it will be easier, this way. The less we have to be moving him around, the better."
Frodo-lad nodded. "Why is the healer here?"
Rosie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Your father thought he could be of use. What use, I don't know, but I'm going to go talk to them. Stay with him."
Frodo-lad didn't need to be told. He pulled the chair a little closer to the bed and held Mr. Frodo's hand tenderly.
Rosie found Toby and Sam discussing the winter rye harvest. She noisily pulled out a chair to disrupt the conversation and sat down next to Sam. "What did you think?" she asked without preamble. "Tell me straight."
Toby looked between her and Sam, then focused on her. "To be frank, looking at him it's a wonder he still lives. By rights, with as ill as he's been, he should've passed on by now." He saw Sam's face darken, and he turned to him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor, but that's how I see it."
"Thank you for your honesty," Rosie said, drawing his attention back to her. "Please don't let us keep you if you need to be elsewhere."
"There was one thing I wished to ask," Toby ventured hesitantly. "Would you allow me to borrow the instructions you were sent by the Master's healer? I should like to have a copy for future use."
"You can have them to keep once we're done with them," Rosie said.
"Really? Oh, thank you, Mistress Gamgee! I don't wish to be so helpless should another such case come my way."
"But this time you'll just let him die," Sam said bitterly.
Rosie grabbed his arm and squeezed, hard, and hissed in his ear for him to be quiet. Toby spoke. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor, but there's truly nothing I can do."
"Then get out," Sam growled.
"Sam!" Rosie cried, alarmed.
"No, no, it's all right. I do need to be going," he said, rising from his seat and collecting his things.
When Sam didn't move, Rosie let go of his arm and escorted the healer out. He stopped in the doorway and said earnestly, "I do hope Mr. Baggins didn't suffer more than he should have as a result of my failure to recognize the ailment."
"He's suffered no more than he would have anyway, I think," Rosie said slowly, then smiled at him. "Good day."
He tipped his hat and left, swinging his bag as he whistled a merry tune.
Sam was still sitting at the table when Rosie returned to the kitchen, his elbows on the table and his face buried in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. "He was actually being reasonable, and you were unaccountably rude for it," she scolded.
"He's an idiot," Sam retorted.
"Sometimes, yes. But even he can recognize a deathly ill hobbit when he sees one. Unlike a certain hobbit I could mention," she shot back, aware that she was being cruel.
Sam hit the table with his fist; with his hands away from his face, Rosie could see he'd been weeping. "Rose Cotton, you stop this right now," he commanded threateningly.
"Stop what?" she demanded. "Stop trying to tell you that your dearest friend needs you desperately? Your refusal to see reason is hurting him, you know."
Sam stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. "Don't-!" he cried in dismay, then his shoulders slumped. "Just . . . leave me be, for a while," he said numbly, pushing past her to rush from the kitchen.
Rosie shook her head and righted the chair.
~~~~
Fatty paid them a visit that afternoon. When Rosie opened the front door to see him on the stoop, she gestured for him to come in and asked wearily, "Which one are you here for?"
"I'd intended to see Frodo. I heard at the Ivy Bush that the healer was here this morning," he replied, hanging his cloak by the door and abruptly hugging her. "Is Sam still, ah, in denial?" he asked gently.
Rosie nodded against his shoulder. "He might be coming around; he was weeping earlier. But he's shut himself in the study and won't come out, so I don't know what's going on in that head of his." She stepped out of his embrace. "Mr. Frodo is sleeping, but you're welcome to go on in. Elanor's with him right now."
"Ah, Elanor's back in town? Good, good," Fatty said briskly. "I'll pop on in, then, and say hullo."
Elanor was pleased to see him, and Frodo seemed to wake up at hearing his voice. "Fatty?" he said weakly. "It's been a while."
"Yes, I'm sorry, Frodo. I wanted to make sure you'd not get tired of me," he joked.
Frodo chuckled and coughed. "I'm afraid I'm not very good company today."
"I don't expect you to entertain me, Frodo," Fatty chided, squeezing his hand. "As long as you're glad to see me, I'm satisfied."
"I'm glad to see you," Frodo replied obediently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Has that grandbabe of yours been born yet?"
"No, not yet. I'm told it could be any time now. My wife will be leaving tomorrow to stay with them and help out with the grand event," Fatty said, easily settling in and entertaining Frodo with stories of what he'd been up to of late. After a while he leaned over to Elanor and said, "I think he's asleep. What do you think?"
They both watched him for a moment, but there was no reaction to Fatty's words. "I think you're right," Elanor replied.
"Then I think I shall go find out what your father is up to in that study of his," he said, rising. He pressed a kiss to Frodo's forehead, then turned to Elanor again. "I've told your mother this, but I'll tell you as well: please send for me if you need anything, or if it seems he's near the end. The Post-office will know where to find me if I'm not at home."
"We will certainly send for you," Elanor promised.
Fatty patted her shoulder and wandered down the hall to the study. He tapped on the door a few times, with no answer. He tried to open it, but it was locked. "Sam?" he called softly. "It's me. Do you need to talk?"
"I've had quite enough talk, thank you," came Sam's muffled response. "Unless there's business you need me for, I'd rather you left me be."
"No, I have no business," Fatty replied reluctantly. "I'll be back again in a few days, but you know where to find me." There was no reply to this offer, so he gave up and went to the kitchen, where he found Rosie beating bread dough. "I'm off," he told her. "I'll be back in a day or two, but if you need me . . ."
Rosie nodded and continued manhandling the dough. "Sam . . ?"
"Didn't want to talk. Didn't even open the door."
Rosie sighed and slapped the dough back in its bowl. "It don't know what I'm going to do with him."
"If I may, I would suggest leaving him be, just as he asks. He's seen and heard enough by now, I'd warrant, that he doesn't need anyone trying to rub it in. You have enough help, yes?"
"Aye, that's one thing I've got," she confirmed. "Good thing we had so many bairns, eh?" She wiped her hands on a towel.
Fatty chuckled. "I don't think that quite makes up for all the trouble they've put you through," he said with a wink. "But it's useful at the moment."
Rosie hugged him. "All right, be off with you. The package by the door is for your grandbabe." She had finally finished her embroidery the night before, and quickly wrapped it in paper while Fatty was visiting with Mr. Frodo.
"Thank you. Good luck."
~~~~
Sam stayed in the study until nearly midnight, aimlessly going through old papers with Frodo's handwriting on them and trying not to succumb to a profound feeling of melancholy. He crept out into the darkened hallway and tiptoed to Frodo's room, standing in the doorway and watching him sleep. "Da?" Frodo-lad asked from the chair beside Mr. Frodo. Sam shook his head and waved away any questions his son may have asked, and stumbled to the kitchen. He was famished, but ate guiltily, somehow feeling that he was wrong to enjoy eating when poor Mr. Frodo could hardly manage a few bites at each meal. It made no sense, he knew, but no one ever said feelings had to make sense.
After he ate, he felt drawn back to Frodo's room. He stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, then ventured in. Frodo-lad was idly paging through the Red Book, and Frodo was sleeping quietly, his breath a quiet wheeze, and a hint of a smile on his pallid face. Frodo-lad saw his Da watching, spell-bound, and said softly, "He's dreaming of the Sea, most like."
Startled, Sam turned to his son. "How do you know?"
"That's the look he gets when I read him the last chapter," he replied, turning to the well-worn page and offering the book to Sam.
Sam took it gingerly, knowing before he looked which part Frodo-lad referred to. "Do you mind if I borrow this for a spell?" he asked.
Frodo-lad shrugged. "Not at all. It's time for me to be waking Goldi and heading to bed anyway."
"I thought she's usually awake by now?"
"Aye, but sometimes she grabs a nap on the sofa while I'm in here. Being up nights is hard for her."
"I didn't realize . . ." Sam murmured to himself. He wandered out of the room again, the Red Book still open in his hands, and was torn between returning to his haven and going in to Rosie, who must be worried sick about him by now. His feet decided for him, depositing him back at the study, so he shuffled in and locked the door again. After carefully setting the Book on his cluttered desk, he sighed and sank onto the settee, quickly succumbing to a restless sleep.
Sam secluded himself for the entire next day, tiredly going over the same train of thoughts over and over in his head. Rosie left food for him outside the door, knocking and calling to him before turning away; at lunchtime she realized, a knot of fear forming in her stomach, that she used to do the same for Mr. Frodo when he was working so feverishly on his book. She said a prayer to whatever power might be listening that her Sam would come back to her, hale and sound of mind.
Late in the day Sam's eyes fell on the open book and he remembered what Frodo-lad had said the night before. Reverently he picked up the book and sat down to read that strange last chapter, the only part of the entire book that Sam didn't understand. He read and re-read it, weeping as the words spoke to him that Frodo had always intended to leave him behind, one way or another. His heart clenched and he wondered how he could possibly stand it.
On a whim, he turned to the passage where he thought Mr. Frodo was dead after the attack of Shelob. He read almost breathlessly, those words written so long ago reassuring him that Frodo could die and he could continue on, just as was the case in that dark pass. It's just that this time, there would be no finding out that Mr. Frodo was miraculously alive after all. And that was the sticking point: if Frodo died, he would be gone forever.
Sam heard Rosie's voice in his head, telling him he was being absurd, thinking he could somehow keep Frodo from dying simply by not accepting that he was dying. He had to admit it then; he was being quite absurd, and causing Frodo worry for it. Frodo, who had suffered more than any hobbit deserved, and his Sam was making it worse by clinging to him, insisting that he could, and would, recover.
But how could he let him go? Frodo had been a fact of life for so long, the mere idea of his absence produced such a profound empty feeling in Sam's heart that he didn't think he could bear it.
.
.
Goldi was startled from a doze by her Da suddenly appearing in the room. "Da?" she asked drowsily. "Are you all right?"
Sam looked haggard and weary, but he moved purposefully to Frodo's bedside and stood there, watching. "I just needed to look at him," he said.
Frodo stirred. "Sam," he sighed, and moved his hand searchingly over the coverlet.
Sam grasped the trembling fingers. "How is he?" he asked his daughter, acutely aware that he'd been absent for the better part of a day and a half.
"Fro called it 'declining,'" she said. "He's been shivering since the healer came, so today they started putting hot water bottles along his sides. Don't seem to be helping, though. His headaches are worse so he can't stand much light, but he won't let us give 'im much of the strong stuff for the pain. All else is as it's been, or so I figure. That's all Fro told me, at any rate."
Sam nodded dazedly. "Would you . . . leave us alone for a few minutes?"
"Sure, Da. I'll be in the kitchen getting a bite to eat." She kissed his cheek on her way out the door.
Sam sank onto the edge of the bed, still clutching Frodo's hand. He sighed. "I don't know where to begin, Mr. Frodo," he said, his voice cracking. "I've been a right fool and made you fret about me. I'm that sorry, I can't even say." He took a deep breath, then continued, his voice wavering, "If you need to leave us, please don't let me keep you here . . . you won't be hurtin' so bad then, though I'll sure miss you."
He couldn't continue, and the tears coursed down his cheeks. Frodo never woke during his confession; Sam felt better for saying it, though he knew he'd have to say something like it again when Frodo could hear him.
Sam had been sitting, weeping, for several minutes when Frodo murmured, "Mama?" Sam froze and watched Frodo's face. Frodo frowned, then mumbled, "No, no, Mama. Not yet. I can't come yet . . ." He fell silent again, and Sam felt himself able to breathe again, though his tears started anew.
He stumbled out of the bedroom, pausing long enough at the kitchen to gesture somehow to Goldi that she'd better go back to him, and ended up in his own bedroom. Rosie was sound asleep and did not stir when he crawled in beside her. He kissed the nape of her neck, then collapsed onto his pillow, falling asleep fully clothed.
Continued here.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 5,232 for this part
Warnings: this fic will involve character death
Story Summary: Letting go of someone you care deeply about is a very difficult thing.
A/N: This story is a sequel to " Holding On," which is in turn a follow-up to Skye's "Just Don't Have the Heart to End It" and Aemilia Rose's "Always There Beyond the Touch of Darkness." It's been in the works pretty much since I posted "Holding On" in June 2003, though obviously it took a while for me to get up the nerve to go through with it. ;)
A/N P.S.: The medical-type stuff in this fic has not been run by those who know more about such things than I do, so no guarantees that it is realistic despite the research I did.
Warning: We have progressed to the point in which Frodo's death is openly discussed. Also, there are bodily functions and other such things present (but you could probably guess that).
Chapter 1, "Story-telling"
Chapter 2, "A Birthday"
Chapter 3, "Recovery"
Chapter 4, "Old Troubles"
Chapter 5, "Winter Blues"
Chapter 6, "An Understanding"
Chapter 7, "Routines"
Chapter 8, "Compromises"
Chapter 9, "Despair"
Chapter 10, "Reconciliation"
Chapter 11, "Resignation"
Chapter 12, "Two Visits"
Chapter 13, "Memories"
Chapter 14, "Anniversary"
Chapter 15, "Comfort"
Chapter Summary: Frodo and Rosie try to talk sense into Sam; Sam comes to a new conclusion.
Elanor settled into the caregiving routine as easily as if she'd been there the entire time. Frodo found he enjoyed her company -she and Frodo-lad had always been his favorites, as they were the only ones he'd known before his madness took hold- and he especially enjoyed it when she and someone else were both in his room, talking, since it meant he could enjoy listening to a conversation without the exertion of having to participate in it. It did take a day or two for him to be rid of the embarrassment of having her see and touch his body; though he was sure she had helped care for him before, he hadn't been aware of it, so it wasn't the same. And he knew he looked very different now, and he couldn't help being somewhat ashamed of the wreck he had become.
Also distressing were the daily reminders of his worsening illness and growing weakness. The day after Elanor arrived, Frodo convinced Sam and Rosie to let him have another go at shuffling to his privy seat. This time he made it as far as sitting on the edge of the bed before his back flared with agony, his left foot went numb (he still couldn't feel the right one; perhaps it was for the best, to judge by the large, colorful bruise he'd developed), and his chest felt tight, which made it difficult to breathe and resulted in considerable light-headedness. It didn't take long for him to admit defeat and ask for the chamberpot, consoling himself that at least he didn't need a diaper.
Then there was the cough. If he'd thought it was bad before -it already plagued him most of the times he spoke, sighed, or tried to breathe normally- he soon realized how easy he'd had it. When he breathed, no matter how shallowly, he coughed. When he swallowed, he coughed. If he moved, he coughed. Sometimes he woke up coughing, even, and Frodo didn't like that at all. Admittedly, most of the coughs were of a wheezy variety and didn't last long, but those coughs could easily turn into the other kind, the ones that came from somewhere so deep inside that he shook with them, his face turning red as the spasm continued seemingly without end, his vision acquiring spots, then becoming grey as he struggled to breathe.
Sometimes the coughing ended in retching, the blood he'd brought up from his lungs mingling with whatever was in his stomach at the time to make a pink-tinged mess (after the first time he'd stained a quilt in that manner, they always had a basin on hand). Sometimes the coughing ended in blissful darkness as he passed out -Frodo preferred this over the other, though he would have dispensed with the coughing entirely if it were up to him. The aftermath of such fits often made him wish he could be put out of his misery like a pony with a broken leg; it hurt to breathe, to talk, to move a hand or even a finger. Rosie always gave him something cool afterward, to ease his throat, and fussed over him until he fell into an exhausted sleep.
Within two days, Rosie had tried using all of the tonics Merry had sent, with mixed results. The salves for his sores and the tincture for his joints -including his back- worked, well, at least until Mr. Frodo had a coughing fit that made the pain resurface. The herbs for his cough and his breathing, tried both in a tea and as a steam he breathed, didn't seem to work at all, especially since the steam just seemed to make him cough more.
Then there were the ones for pain . . . they seemed to work, in that they put him straight to sleep, but Frodo didn't like taking them because he felt like he couldn't wake up. Rosie understood, but hated to see him so miserable, so she experimented with slipping small amounts in his tea to see if there was a way to compromise between helping his pain and keeping him as awake as he wanted to be. Frodo only sometimes noticed what she'd done, and he slept often enough that it wasn't always obvious when she'd intervened. For a time she'd been concerned about how often he seemed to be sleeping compared to before, but then, his rest was often interrupted by coughing, so it didn't seem unreasonable for him to be sleeping when he could.
Frodo found he didn't quite mind spending a bit more time asleep every day, for his dreams were calm and comforting: he dreamt of Bilbo, his parents, and the Sea, and felt a reassuring sense of peace that they would be there to greet him in the hereafter. The waking world with its agony didn't have much to offer in comparison, and if it weren't for the lingering anxiety of Sam, he would have more quickly been beyond the reach of physical pain. But there was Sam, his Sam, who wasn't ready to let him go just yet, so he steadfastly endured.
With an eye to acquaint Sam with the realities of his illness, Frodo often requested him to sit at the bedside and talk to him while he was awake, and hold his hand when he wasn't. Sam tried to keep a cheerful mien, but Frodo could tell he was discomfited by his master's situation and was not willing to accept that nothing more could be done. So Frodo resolved to talk to him about it.
An opportunity presented itself in the evening four days after Elanor's arrival when Frodo-lad offered to take his supper tray back to the kitchen. Sam had been sitting with Frodo since his bath, so Frodo gestured for Frodo-lad to lean close and whispered a request that he find other pursuits to occupy him until his father came to look for him. Frodo-lad nodded and made himself scarce.
After the lad's departure, a well-timed coughing fit seized him, one of the deep kind, though he managed not to throw up or pass out. But it did draw Sam's attention to him, and he took one of Frodo's hands in his. Frodo saw his chance and he took it.
"Sam," he wheezed, gripping the other hobbit's hand tightly as he fought for breath. "It will soon be time."
"No," Sam stubbornly insisted, shaking his head emphatically. "You'll get better, you will!"
A small smile flitted across Frodo's face before he wearily opened his eyes to glance at Sam. "My dear Sam," he said fondly. "I have lived my life . . . and a bit more, thanks to you." He choked and fought to swallow for a minute. Sam hurriedly grabbed the glass of water from the bedside stand, easing onto the edge of the bed to help Frodo drink. Frodo nodded slightly when he'd had enough, and added, "I've finished my time." He had to close his eyes as he caught his breath in shallow, painful gasps.
"No," Sam repeated numbly, tears pooling in his eyes.
With effort, Frodo lifted his hand, the other was still clasped in Sam's, and gently touched Sam's face, wiping away a few stray tears with his thumb. Sam could not help shivering at the touch -Frodo's hand was so cold despite the fever that afflicted him- but leaned into it just the same. "Sam," Frodo said gently. "You have done all you could and more even than I would have asked. There is nothing more you can do but let me go."
"But I can't follow," Sam said miserably and dropped his head to stare sadly at the quilt.
"No, not yet," Frodo agreed. "But you will, in many years, after you've lived and done many more things. Until then, you will be happy -more happy than you could be with an old, broken hobbit taking your attention from your family." Bitterness tinged these words and Frodo had to drop his arm as he fought for enough strength to say what needed to be said. "Don't cling to me, Sam, cling to your family. They need you, Sam. They need you whole."
"You- you're doing this a-purpose," Sam said, desperately grasping for anything to explain Frodo's insistence on this matter. "You're giving in, letting it take you. You can still fight it!"
"Sam," Frodo said commandingly, with more strength than he seemed to possess. "Sam, I have been fighting it -I would have been gone already if I weren't. And believe me, if I had to choose how to leave this life, it would not have been so lingering," he coughed a bit, "or so painful. No, Sam, I did not choose this. I have merely accepted my fate." His eyes slid shut for a moment, Frodo being too weary to keep them open.
"I can't believe that," Sam insisted, tears still trickling down his cheeks.
"Your refusal to believe doesn't change what is," Frodo whispered. "Promise me you'll think about it, Sam."
"I will," Sam replied, helpless to refuse his master.
"Good. Now I need to rest," Frodo said faintly before falling silent.
He became so still that Sam watched with fear until he saw that his chest was still moving, just a bit. Sam rose and went to find Frodo-lad for the next watch -it had grown quite late without him realizing it, and he desperately needed sleep . . . and time to think. Definitely time to think.
~~~~
The next morning, Sam sent for the healer. When Rosie returned to the kitchen from waking Frodo and giving him his breakfast, Sam was talking to Merry at the door, then the lad ran off. Rosie thought nothing of it until Sam started and flushed guiltily when he turned and saw her. "Where's he off to?" she asked suspiciously.
Sam slowly closed the door, then admitted, "To fetch the healer."
"And just what are you about, Samwise Gamgee?" Rosie demanded sharply. "Why are you askin' him to waste his time coming up here?"
Sam shrugged, avoiding her gaze. "I thought maybe he could help."
Rosie snorted. "He didn't know enough to tell us what was wrong with Mr. Frodo in the first place! He ain't able to help and you know it." She softened her tone and added, "Even that Lord Elrond couldn't help 'im now."
"Don't say that!" Sam said wildly.
Rosie looked at him reproachfully. "You're blind as a bat when it comes to Mr. Frodo, Samwise Gamgee. He ain't getting better."
"He'll get better!" Sam insisted stubbornly.
"When your Gaffer was ill that last time, you knew he weren't going to recover. Mr. Frodo has been very ill for far longer, and you still don't accept that he won't be getting better. Why is he different than your Gaffer? It is not to us to say who lives or dies."
Sam buried his face in his hands. "Me Gaffer was much older, Rose. Mr. Frodo still has plenty of years left in 'im."
Rosie touched one of his arms lightly. "I don't think he does, Sam," she said softly. "Even before he was ill, he moved about like a gaffer twice his age. Don't tell me you didn't notice! With all he's been through, he's aged beyond his years . . . and neither you nor I can fix that, no matter how we wish to."
"I know," Sam sighed. "But I don't want to give up on him!"
"You're not giving up," Rosie soothed. "If there's nothing you can do to help, accepting that ain't giving up -giving up is only when you could still do something and don't."
Sam dropped into a chair at the table and buried his face in his hands, but did not answer.
Rosie patted his shoulder. "How about I clean up from breakfast, and you go sit with him a while? Rose is there now; have her come help Elanor with the laundry."
Sam nodded silently and wandered down the hall, looking lost. Rose watched him go and could only hope he would come around soon. Mr. Frodo couldn't hold on much longer -he hadn't said so, but her intuition was rarely wrong- he was only holding on until he knew Sam understood, and Sam was holding out on the belief Frodo would recover . . . stubborn menfolk.
Toby Mugwort arrived within an hour. Rosie met him at the door. "I do hope we aren't taking you from more urgent business."
"No, no, I haven't had more than a sore throat or a painful ear for three days," he assured her, hanging up his cloak. "Your lad said Mr. Baggins has the consumption? I don't expect I'll be able to do much."
"Aye. I didn't think you'd be able to help, but Sam wanted to make sure," Rosie said neutrally, trying not to reveal that it was a point of contention between them.
Mr. Frodo was awake but just barely. Toby greeted him, then said, "Do you mind if I examine you rather thoroughly? I've never seen a case of the consumption before, and it would be most helpful for my understanding."
Frodo chuckled soundlessly. "Do your worst," he invited. "You won't be able to make me worse off, that's for certain."
Rosie watched from the second chair; Sam still occupied the other, but said nothing as the examination moved forward. Toby was indeed thorough, listening carefully to Frodo's lungs, peering at his throat, and asking for more detail about the symptoms and their progression. Rosie answered his questions patiently, resisting the urge to hover protectively over Frodo until Toby's ministrations provoked a terrible coughing fit. Young Mugwort had his listening device pressed to Frodo's back as he sat curled forward in agony; Rosie pushed him out of the way and had Frodo lean against her. "You are finished here," she told him. "Sam, take him to the kitchen and give him some tea. I'll be there in a few minutes."
Frodo clutched her sleeve as he fought for control; she held the basin and waited. When the fit passed, she set the unused basin aside and held his trembling form gently. "Maybe I could use that diaper after all," he whispered.
"What do you mean?"
"The coughing . . . I'm wet again," he confessed. "I'm sorry."
"That's easy enough to fix."
Frodo-lad was getting dressed when he heard the coughing. He glanced into the kitchen on his way to Mr. Frodo's room and was puzzled to see the healer. He lurked in the doorway for a few moments to listen to the conversation between the healer and his father, but they were talking of the weather and planting, so it wasn't worth staying for. He continued to Mr. Frodo's room, where he saw his mother awkwardly trying to get Mr. Frodo's nightshirt off of him while Mr. Frodo was leaning heavily against her. He quickly moved to assist her, sliding his arms around Mr. Frodo to hold him upright.
"Ah, lad, thank you," Rosie said when she noticed him. She easily removed the nightshirt. "Would you pick him up for a moment?"
Frodo-lad carefully lifted Mr. Frodo clear of the damp pieces of flannel, which Rosie moved. She checked the oilcloth for wetness, then fetched and placed new flannel on the bed. Mr. Frodo shivered in Frodo-lad's arms, and Frodo-lad tried to soothe him. "Just a minute, Mr. Frodo, and we'll have you back in your nice, warm bed."
"His hands were so cold," Frodo murmured as if he hadn't heard. "I'm so cold."
"We'll get you warm again, don't worry," Frodo-lad said confidently, setting him back down on the bed.
Frodo focused on Rosie again as she started to pull the sheet and blankets over him. "Please. I don't want to make any more extra work for you," he said, sounding desperate, clinging to her like a weak kitten.
Rosie patted his hand and thought for a moment. "Don't you worry, Mr. Frodo. Will this make you feel better?" She pulled out another strip of flannel and laid it over his hips and groin to help protect the sheet from any accidents.
"That's a little better," Frodo conceded, and let them finish tucking him in. Still he shivered, so Rosie added another quilt and directed Frodo-lad to build up the fire.
"Why no nightshirt?" Frodo-lad asked her in a low voice when she joined him by the fire after Frodo was comfortable.
"He's got none clean at the moment," Rosie said with a sigh. "But it will be easier, this way. The less we have to be moving him around, the better."
Frodo-lad nodded. "Why is the healer here?"
Rosie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Your father thought he could be of use. What use, I don't know, but I'm going to go talk to them. Stay with him."
Frodo-lad didn't need to be told. He pulled the chair a little closer to the bed and held Mr. Frodo's hand tenderly.
Rosie found Toby and Sam discussing the winter rye harvest. She noisily pulled out a chair to disrupt the conversation and sat down next to Sam. "What did you think?" she asked without preamble. "Tell me straight."
Toby looked between her and Sam, then focused on her. "To be frank, looking at him it's a wonder he still lives. By rights, with as ill as he's been, he should've passed on by now." He saw Sam's face darken, and he turned to him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor, but that's how I see it."
"Thank you for your honesty," Rosie said, drawing his attention back to her. "Please don't let us keep you if you need to be elsewhere."
"There was one thing I wished to ask," Toby ventured hesitantly. "Would you allow me to borrow the instructions you were sent by the Master's healer? I should like to have a copy for future use."
"You can have them to keep once we're done with them," Rosie said.
"Really? Oh, thank you, Mistress Gamgee! I don't wish to be so helpless should another such case come my way."
"But this time you'll just let him die," Sam said bitterly.
Rosie grabbed his arm and squeezed, hard, and hissed in his ear for him to be quiet. Toby spoke. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor, but there's truly nothing I can do."
"Then get out," Sam growled.
"Sam!" Rosie cried, alarmed.
"No, no, it's all right. I do need to be going," he said, rising from his seat and collecting his things.
When Sam didn't move, Rosie let go of his arm and escorted the healer out. He stopped in the doorway and said earnestly, "I do hope Mr. Baggins didn't suffer more than he should have as a result of my failure to recognize the ailment."
"He's suffered no more than he would have anyway, I think," Rosie said slowly, then smiled at him. "Good day."
He tipped his hat and left, swinging his bag as he whistled a merry tune.
Sam was still sitting at the table when Rosie returned to the kitchen, his elbows on the table and his face buried in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. "He was actually being reasonable, and you were unaccountably rude for it," she scolded.
"He's an idiot," Sam retorted.
"Sometimes, yes. But even he can recognize a deathly ill hobbit when he sees one. Unlike a certain hobbit I could mention," she shot back, aware that she was being cruel.
Sam hit the table with his fist; with his hands away from his face, Rosie could see he'd been weeping. "Rose Cotton, you stop this right now," he commanded threateningly.
"Stop what?" she demanded. "Stop trying to tell you that your dearest friend needs you desperately? Your refusal to see reason is hurting him, you know."
Sam stood abruptly, knocking over his chair. "Don't-!" he cried in dismay, then his shoulders slumped. "Just . . . leave me be, for a while," he said numbly, pushing past her to rush from the kitchen.
Rosie shook her head and righted the chair.
~~~~
Fatty paid them a visit that afternoon. When Rosie opened the front door to see him on the stoop, she gestured for him to come in and asked wearily, "Which one are you here for?"
"I'd intended to see Frodo. I heard at the Ivy Bush that the healer was here this morning," he replied, hanging his cloak by the door and abruptly hugging her. "Is Sam still, ah, in denial?" he asked gently.
Rosie nodded against his shoulder. "He might be coming around; he was weeping earlier. But he's shut himself in the study and won't come out, so I don't know what's going on in that head of his." She stepped out of his embrace. "Mr. Frodo is sleeping, but you're welcome to go on in. Elanor's with him right now."
"Ah, Elanor's back in town? Good, good," Fatty said briskly. "I'll pop on in, then, and say hullo."
Elanor was pleased to see him, and Frodo seemed to wake up at hearing his voice. "Fatty?" he said weakly. "It's been a while."
"Yes, I'm sorry, Frodo. I wanted to make sure you'd not get tired of me," he joked.
Frodo chuckled and coughed. "I'm afraid I'm not very good company today."
"I don't expect you to entertain me, Frodo," Fatty chided, squeezing his hand. "As long as you're glad to see me, I'm satisfied."
"I'm glad to see you," Frodo replied obediently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Has that grandbabe of yours been born yet?"
"No, not yet. I'm told it could be any time now. My wife will be leaving tomorrow to stay with them and help out with the grand event," Fatty said, easily settling in and entertaining Frodo with stories of what he'd been up to of late. After a while he leaned over to Elanor and said, "I think he's asleep. What do you think?"
They both watched him for a moment, but there was no reaction to Fatty's words. "I think you're right," Elanor replied.
"Then I think I shall go find out what your father is up to in that study of his," he said, rising. He pressed a kiss to Frodo's forehead, then turned to Elanor again. "I've told your mother this, but I'll tell you as well: please send for me if you need anything, or if it seems he's near the end. The Post-office will know where to find me if I'm not at home."
"We will certainly send for you," Elanor promised.
Fatty patted her shoulder and wandered down the hall to the study. He tapped on the door a few times, with no answer. He tried to open it, but it was locked. "Sam?" he called softly. "It's me. Do you need to talk?"
"I've had quite enough talk, thank you," came Sam's muffled response. "Unless there's business you need me for, I'd rather you left me be."
"No, I have no business," Fatty replied reluctantly. "I'll be back again in a few days, but you know where to find me." There was no reply to this offer, so he gave up and went to the kitchen, where he found Rosie beating bread dough. "I'm off," he told her. "I'll be back in a day or two, but if you need me . . ."
Rosie nodded and continued manhandling the dough. "Sam . . ?"
"Didn't want to talk. Didn't even open the door."
Rosie sighed and slapped the dough back in its bowl. "It don't know what I'm going to do with him."
"If I may, I would suggest leaving him be, just as he asks. He's seen and heard enough by now, I'd warrant, that he doesn't need anyone trying to rub it in. You have enough help, yes?"
"Aye, that's one thing I've got," she confirmed. "Good thing we had so many bairns, eh?" She wiped her hands on a towel.
Fatty chuckled. "I don't think that quite makes up for all the trouble they've put you through," he said with a wink. "But it's useful at the moment."
Rosie hugged him. "All right, be off with you. The package by the door is for your grandbabe." She had finally finished her embroidery the night before, and quickly wrapped it in paper while Fatty was visiting with Mr. Frodo.
"Thank you. Good luck."
~~~~
Sam stayed in the study until nearly midnight, aimlessly going through old papers with Frodo's handwriting on them and trying not to succumb to a profound feeling of melancholy. He crept out into the darkened hallway and tiptoed to Frodo's room, standing in the doorway and watching him sleep. "Da?" Frodo-lad asked from the chair beside Mr. Frodo. Sam shook his head and waved away any questions his son may have asked, and stumbled to the kitchen. He was famished, but ate guiltily, somehow feeling that he was wrong to enjoy eating when poor Mr. Frodo could hardly manage a few bites at each meal. It made no sense, he knew, but no one ever said feelings had to make sense.
After he ate, he felt drawn back to Frodo's room. He stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, then ventured in. Frodo-lad was idly paging through the Red Book, and Frodo was sleeping quietly, his breath a quiet wheeze, and a hint of a smile on his pallid face. Frodo-lad saw his Da watching, spell-bound, and said softly, "He's dreaming of the Sea, most like."
Startled, Sam turned to his son. "How do you know?"
"That's the look he gets when I read him the last chapter," he replied, turning to the well-worn page and offering the book to Sam.
Sam took it gingerly, knowing before he looked which part Frodo-lad referred to. "Do you mind if I borrow this for a spell?" he asked.
Frodo-lad shrugged. "Not at all. It's time for me to be waking Goldi and heading to bed anyway."
"I thought she's usually awake by now?"
"Aye, but sometimes she grabs a nap on the sofa while I'm in here. Being up nights is hard for her."
"I didn't realize . . ." Sam murmured to himself. He wandered out of the room again, the Red Book still open in his hands, and was torn between returning to his haven and going in to Rosie, who must be worried sick about him by now. His feet decided for him, depositing him back at the study, so he shuffled in and locked the door again. After carefully setting the Book on his cluttered desk, he sighed and sank onto the settee, quickly succumbing to a restless sleep.
Sam secluded himself for the entire next day, tiredly going over the same train of thoughts over and over in his head. Rosie left food for him outside the door, knocking and calling to him before turning away; at lunchtime she realized, a knot of fear forming in her stomach, that she used to do the same for Mr. Frodo when he was working so feverishly on his book. She said a prayer to whatever power might be listening that her Sam would come back to her, hale and sound of mind.
Late in the day Sam's eyes fell on the open book and he remembered what Frodo-lad had said the night before. Reverently he picked up the book and sat down to read that strange last chapter, the only part of the entire book that Sam didn't understand. He read and re-read it, weeping as the words spoke to him that Frodo had always intended to leave him behind, one way or another. His heart clenched and he wondered how he could possibly stand it.
On a whim, he turned to the passage where he thought Mr. Frodo was dead after the attack of Shelob. He read almost breathlessly, those words written so long ago reassuring him that Frodo could die and he could continue on, just as was the case in that dark pass. It's just that this time, there would be no finding out that Mr. Frodo was miraculously alive after all. And that was the sticking point: if Frodo died, he would be gone forever.
Sam heard Rosie's voice in his head, telling him he was being absurd, thinking he could somehow keep Frodo from dying simply by not accepting that he was dying. He had to admit it then; he was being quite absurd, and causing Frodo worry for it. Frodo, who had suffered more than any hobbit deserved, and his Sam was making it worse by clinging to him, insisting that he could, and would, recover.
But how could he let him go? Frodo had been a fact of life for so long, the mere idea of his absence produced such a profound empty feeling in Sam's heart that he didn't think he could bear it.
.
.
Goldi was startled from a doze by her Da suddenly appearing in the room. "Da?" she asked drowsily. "Are you all right?"
Sam looked haggard and weary, but he moved purposefully to Frodo's bedside and stood there, watching. "I just needed to look at him," he said.
Frodo stirred. "Sam," he sighed, and moved his hand searchingly over the coverlet.
Sam grasped the trembling fingers. "How is he?" he asked his daughter, acutely aware that he'd been absent for the better part of a day and a half.
"Fro called it 'declining,'" she said. "He's been shivering since the healer came, so today they started putting hot water bottles along his sides. Don't seem to be helping, though. His headaches are worse so he can't stand much light, but he won't let us give 'im much of the strong stuff for the pain. All else is as it's been, or so I figure. That's all Fro told me, at any rate."
Sam nodded dazedly. "Would you . . . leave us alone for a few minutes?"
"Sure, Da. I'll be in the kitchen getting a bite to eat." She kissed his cheek on her way out the door.
Sam sank onto the edge of the bed, still clutching Frodo's hand. He sighed. "I don't know where to begin, Mr. Frodo," he said, his voice cracking. "I've been a right fool and made you fret about me. I'm that sorry, I can't even say." He took a deep breath, then continued, his voice wavering, "If you need to leave us, please don't let me keep you here . . . you won't be hurtin' so bad then, though I'll sure miss you."
He couldn't continue, and the tears coursed down his cheeks. Frodo never woke during his confession; Sam felt better for saying it, though he knew he'd have to say something like it again when Frodo could hear him.
Sam had been sitting, weeping, for several minutes when Frodo murmured, "Mama?" Sam froze and watched Frodo's face. Frodo frowned, then mumbled, "No, no, Mama. Not yet. I can't come yet . . ." He fell silent again, and Sam felt himself able to breathe again, though his tears started anew.
He stumbled out of the bedroom, pausing long enough at the kitchen to gesture somehow to Goldi that she'd better go back to him, and ended up in his own bedroom. Rosie was sound asleep and did not stir when he crawled in beside her. He kissed the nape of her neck, then collapsed onto his pillow, falling asleep fully clothed.
Continued here.