Disclaimers: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Notes: This is something that has been niggling at the back of my mind ever since I read an article about the effects of the Ring on Frodo, especially with respect to survivor guilt. Also, I'm sure I would never have written it without the inspiration of Mary Borsellino's Pretty Good Year before me in all its happy, sad chapters. Mine is a pale emulation.
Tell Me
"Tell him to come to the table. Dinner’s getting cold."
"I don’t think he’ll be hungry."
Rosie stood facing Sam with her hands on her hips. Blowing a little on damp curls straying around her face, she fixed him with her best "I know what’s best here" look, but it did no good. Sam stared her down.
"Don’t you remember what day it is?" he asked.
"Washing day to me. And a hot one at that--too hot for March."
"It was two years ago that we were on Mount Doom. He’s taking it bad today."
"Sitting shut up in that stuffy study would make anyone feel bad any day. The way he locks himself up there day after day scribbling away in that book … it’s a wonder he’s not stark raving mad at this point."
"He has to … to write it all down."
"Who for?"
Sam sputtered a bit. "Well, to finish what Bilbo started, I reckon. It helps him to get it out."
Rosie laughed and sat down on his lap, draping her arms around his strong neck. "Oh, Sam, I do love you, but you’re such a ninny about him sometimes."
"Whaaat?"
"How can it help him if he just writes it down but doesn’t tell anyone direct? The way I see it, the poison goes out his fingers and then comes right back in through his eyes. Do you see him getting stronger? Do you see him getting well? If you do, you’ve better eyes than mine. Looks to me like he’s wasting away more every day. Missing another dinner isn’t going to help that."
Sam sighed and stroked Rose’s head, brown fingers kneading her tired neck. "I know. But what can I do? I can’t make him come out, can’t make him stop working at his book. It wouldn’t be right."
Rosie looked down at her Sam, a shrewd light in her eyes. "Does he tell you? You spend enough hours locked up with him in that room."
"Tell me what?"
She shrugged. "Tell you what happened."
"Why would he? I was there too, you know, every step of the way."
"I know that, and I know every step you took with him like I walked them with you. Makes me shiver when I think of it, of all you went through."
"Then what do you mean?"
"I don’t know, I guess I mean does he tell it from his side? Tell you how it felt to him?"
Sam rested his cheek on Rose’s head, spoke softly against her curls. "No, not much. I asked him once or twice when I was in a remembering mood, but he didn’t want to. Said it was better to leave it be. I can’t force him, can I?"
"No, Sam, you can’t. Not you of all people."
Rosie slid off Sam’s lap and sat down at the table. "Come on, dinner’s not going to improve if we sit here all evening."
She was quiet and thoughtful the rest of the evening. In the middle of the night, as she was walking Elanor up and down, she saw a flickering light under the door of the study but didn’t go in.
The next day dawned hot and fine. Sam rose early to work in the garden, meaning to check on some of his plantings near Bywater in the afternoon.
Rosie puttered around Bag End--washing up the breakfast dishes, bathing Elanor. There was no sight or sound of Frodo.
Around noon, she went to his room, but it was empty, his bed unslept in. Sighing, she moved to the study and went in.
Frodo sat asleep at his desk, his head pillowed on a sheaf of papers, fingers curled around Arwen’s crystal.
Rose felt a stab of regret that she had not come in to the study the night before and made him go to bed. She stood behind him and took him by the shoulder, shaking him lightly.
Frodo started awake. He looked up at her, violet smudges beneath his eyes that seemed to grow darker every day.
"Rose. What time is it?"
"About noon. That was bad of you not to go to bed last night." She kneaded the tight muscles around his neck, listening with satisfaction to his groans of relief.
"That feels good."
"And well it should. That desk is no proper pillow for your head, you know. Come into the kitchen for some food. You missed dinner again last night."
"In a little while. I’m not hungry."
Rose let go and moved aimlessly around the room, picking up a dropped book and putting it back on a shelf, straightening disordered papers. She kept her back to Frodo so he wouldn’t see her pursed lips.
Her voice was soft when she spoke. "I missed your anniversary yesterday. Sorry."
She turned around and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sight of Frodo sitting bolt upright with his eyes shifting from side to side. ‘He looks like a coney ready to bolt. Well, here’s one coney who’ll not get away from me,’ she thought.
"Truly, I meant to say something to you yesterday. Guess I missed my chance when you didn’t come in to dinner."
Frodo stared at her, his mouth working. Finally, he breathed out hard. "That’s all right. It was just another day."
"Ah, another day. Another day of locking yourself up in here and torturing yourself with those memories you tell to no one but that damned book."
He said nothing, just looked at Rosie with his impossibly wide eyes pleading for her to go away and leave him to his book. ‘He uses that look a little too often. It’ll not work on me today.’
She said, "You know, I really should apologize to you."
"For what?"
"For not asking you about your adventures. Lord knows I’ve heard it all time and again from Sam, there’s a little of the braggart in even the most humble hobbit. But I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a peep from your own lips, Master Frodo. I reckon I’ve missed the most important stuff."
Frodo tilted his head like a hypnotized bird. "No … no. Sam will have told you everything important."
"Oh, I doubt that."
Rose drew a chair close up to Frodo and sat on it. Leaning forward, she pressed her hand to his heart and felt it beating wildly.
Frodo whispered, "Please … it doesn’t matter … not important."
"I think it is. It matters to me. How do you think I feel seeing you getting thinner and paler every day? Not much of a compliment to my cooking."
Rosie smiled at Frodo, wincing inside at the pinched look on his pale face. ‘Has to be done. It’ll come right in the end even though it hurts now.’
She took his hands into hers, gently rubbing his stump with her thumb.
"You can’t get well if you don’t tell anyone but that blasted book."
"You wouldn’t understand."
"How do you know unless you try? My, you’re not exactly bowling me over with your compliments today."
"It wouldn’t be right for you to hear such things. You shouldn’t have to hear them. No one should."
"That’s right. No one should, not even you."
Frodo tried the pleading look again.
"And that’s not going to work, either. You’ve used that sad, soft look on me for the last time."
Frodo blinked. Rosie laughed (it was laugh or cry and she couldn’t afford to cry right now) and stroked his cheek, feeling sharp bones under paper thin skin.
She said tenderly, "Tell me your story."
Frodo slumped into his chair and looked at Rosie with a resignation that made her crow inside a little. "Well, I … I ..." He laughed and said, "I don’t know where to start. Where do you want me to start?"
"Well, most people start at the beginning. But seeing as you’re not like most people, you just start anywhere you like and I’ll ask you if I don’t understand."
Frodo nodded gravely and began, his soft voice eventually growing a little hoarse from lack of use. He closed his eyes first, and then Rosie closed her eyes as the gentle voice went on and on and on, telling her things she could not have imagined even from the darkest nightmare.
‘So much pain.’
And his voice went on in the dim little room while outside birds sang in the bright sunlight of a Shire afternoon.
~