Series Title: Sand-Pictures

Section: Pretty Good Year (PGY)

Vignette Title: Another Year
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd)

E-mail: frodoatbagend@yahoo.com
Characters: Frodo, Rose, Elanor, Sam
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A series of vignettes following the War of the Ring and the Ringbearer's return to the Shire: Sam, Rose, and Frodo settle into life together, sharing a loving home overshadowed by Frodo's failing health.
Feedback: Welcomed. Constructive only, please. . .no flaming.
Story Notes: Inspired by "Pretty Good Year" - just a series of vignettes based thereupon, with a debt to Mary Borsellino as the creator of the PGY fanfiction set. Pure angst-filled fluff written for its own sake. It's not intended to have a grand plot; it's not intended to be impressive, serious fanfic. Just a little set inspired by PGY and written episodically for the fun of it and nothing more. Lots of Frodo h/c in these, though, so if you like that, you'll enjoy this. If you don't. . .my apologies; to each her (or his) own taste. :)

DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom.

Sand-Pictures: Another Year

The warm glow of autumn sunset felt at once comforting and unsettling. A reminder. Had it been only a few short years? Sometimes it seemed ages ago. . .and at other moments, only yesterday. . .time flowing like liquid glass in his mind.

It was a fairly good day. One of his first in some time. The bad days came with disturbingly increasing frequency now, consuming entire weeks, sometimes months, with their darkness. He'd been in bed the better part of a fortnight this time, lying staring at the ceiling except when Rose or Sam curled beside him, clasping his hand and kissing him, their light golden and warm in the darkness of the bedroom.

That was how he saw most things on the worst days. . .shades of light and dark, shadows about him. It recalled memories of the desperate journey from Weathertop to Rivendell, and he hated the thoughts that trapped him unbidden.

They did their best to hold back the darkness. Rose fussed over every dish, making puffets in tea-cups and miniature puddings to tempt him into eating, preparing things easy for him to swallow without much effort in chewing. Nothing dry. . .always moist and delicately arranged, with plenty to drink. . .milk or tea with honey, sometimes apple juice, other times plain chilled water or white wine as he wished. Sam helped him from one location to another, giving a supportive shoulder and arm or simply carrying him. . .it was a rare occasion when he would leave the bedroom while feeling unwell, but now and then they would coax him into going outside, wrapped up in warm quilts. . .or to the parlor, where he could lie on the sofa or sit in his arm-chair, feet propped on the over-sized footstool he used to sit upon as a tweenager newly arrived at Bag End. Sometimes he would take Elanor, cradling her against him while she napped. That seemed to keep away the shadows best of all.

Tonight was better, though. They had come outside for a picnic in the garden, Sam spreading a thick layer of blankets on the ground before assisting Frodo, the two followed by Rosie, carrying a picnic-basket on one hip and little Elanor on the other, gladly settling the babe to play next to Frodo while she and Sam set out the meal. Playing pat-a-cake, Frodo had been startled to find himself hungry at the sights laid out before him. He lived mainly on custard, soup, and eggs these days, with the occasional bit of toast or some mushrooms. Thankfully, Rose didn't complain, though she was forever trying to coax him into a bit of regular food. But she never failed to make something he could manage. . .hearty vegetable soup or creamy chicken and mushroom soup, delicate cup custard, egg toast or toast-points with jam and marmalade. But tonight's fare was a bit different. . .sandwiches cut into small triangles: mushroom or chicken or roast beef, and plenty of mushroom and cranberry catsups to spread on them. . .apple turnovers still warm from the oven. . .cream of pumpkin soup with cinnamon, served in mugs. . .a layer-cake covered with frosting. . . .

"Elanor, STOP that!"

Frodo laughed, watching as Elanor again poked her fingers into the frosted cake, swirling the icing around delightedly despite her mother's protests and her father's best efforts to stop her. "It's all right, Rosie, really! I prefer my cake finger-painted. . .makes it taste better."

"Well, I don't prefer her dresses finger-painted, or your shirts, and we all know that's how it'll end up!" Despite her severe tone, Rosie laughed as she retrieved the child. "Well, Master Frodo, another year and you'll have her so spoilt I'll not be able to do a thing with her. She only does this because she knows you'd let her get away with jolly well anything. And don't think you aren't half as bad, though only half!" she added, offering Sam an amused glare.

Another year.

He hadn't the heart to say it, any more than he knew Rose or Sam would have the heart to hear it.

There would be no other year. He was dying.

Arwen's gift. . .perhaps. Part of him wanted to remain here, to take his last breaths with their arms around him, with Sam's dear voice in his ears and Rose's soft scent of ginger and nutmeg close and comforting. Elves were wonderful, but they were not hobbits. Even in Minas Tirith and Rivendell, with the finest healers in the world dedicated to his care, it was Sam who knew how to comfort him best, generally, finding things he could eat when nothing else would stay down, chasing away his nightmares with strong hands rubbing his back. He knew they would make him as comfortable as possible, and stay with him till the very last.

He could see Elanor take her first steps, perhaps.

But then, too. . .something like him. . .dying, full of darkness and shadow, hollow inside. . .something like him belonged elsewhere. He had no right to poison their lives with his fading. There would be other children: did he really want the first of them to spend their earliest days in the shadow of his slow dissolution?

The thought made him feel sick.

He would still die, wherever he went. That much he knew: Arwen had come to his room one night, carried him off to her chambers as if he were a child, laid him between herself and Aragorn in their grand bed and talked to him for hours, speaking of the possibilities. . .how they would care for him should he choose to remain in Minas Tirith, how Elrond would welcome him in Rivendell until he himself sailed West, what little they knew of what would lie ahead should Frodo choose to accept that gift and sail West as well. . .and how they would help him return to the Shire, should he choose. He had chosen the last, and was glad of it, despite all the sorrow he had faced in the return. But Arwen had reminded him that night, as he was about to fall asleep, that he could still sail West if he wished, regardless of where he chose to live. Her gift could not prevent death, no. . .but perhaps it could give him somewhere to find peace and comfort before that time.

He had hoped to have more time to make this decision.

Much more time.

But there was nothing for it. He had already noticed a change. . .as had they. Now he no longer really recovered from the illnesses that troubled him. They were more like a darker point on the same continuum. Even Arwen had suspected something, from afar, with her Firstborn sensitivities: she had written, sending gifts particularly calculated to help comfort an invalid. . .mixtures of herbs for tea and for seasoning soups, specially prepared creams and lotions, special oils like those she had rubbed him down with when caring for him both in Rivendell and Minas Tirith.

He knew it would be like that where he might go. Not Arwen herself, of course. . .but other elves; Elrond and Arwen and Gandalf had taken pains to reassure him that no matter what, he would be cared for in the Blessed Realm. Mortals would still die there, Gandalf said: that was inevitable. But there Frodo could be healed, and would be taken care of until his death, and buried with honour.

The thought was more than he wanted at the moment, and he forced himself to take a sip of tea from the cup Rose had just refilled, adding honey and a touch of milk for him.

Would elves know how to make chicken and mushroom soup?

He'd no doubt they could learn. Probably they had it in a book somewhere already. But would they know how to add just the extra pinch of this and that which Rose always added?

Pillows.

Sam knew just how Frodo liked his, and kept them properly arranged no matter how Frodo tossed and turned. He and Rose never complained, though sometimes Rose would tease a little about sleeping with a restless oliphaunt. Never on his bad days, though. . .when those came, she'd let him sleep as late as he could, then come back in when he woke and creep into bed beside him, putting her arms about him and letting him snuggle into her warmth. Sometimes Sam would slip back in and join them, the three of them curling up in a comfortable tangle of limbs in the middle of the day. And then he would feel warmer, less chilled, sandwiched between them.

Come to that, perhaps there were some things he didn't really *want* the elves to do.

The thought brought a slight smile to his lips, and he saw Sam smile with relief, watching him closely. Rose's smile, though, didn't reach her eyes. She knew what he was thinking about, always knew, with that frightening way ladyhobbits had of always knowing just what one might be thinking. At first he'd thought it was only his mother who'd been that way, but his aunt Dora was like that, as was Sam's mother, both of whom had always seemed to know just what was on his mind.

Sunset faded to gloaming twilight, and Rose handed Elanor to Sam, rising and going to bend over Frodo where he sat close by them on the blanket.

"Time for a good warm bath, I think, and cake inside before bed. I aired out an extra quilt for the bed for tonight, thought we might be wanting it dear enough, cold as the nights are turning."

He knew she and Sam slept with few covers, layering quilts on the bed only because he was always so cold, always needing extra warmth.

"Aye. Let me just take Elly on in, and I'll be back to help." Sam lifted the giggling babe high in his arms, pulling her down for a kiss before rising and heading inside the warm glow of Bag End, leaving Frodo with Rose, who began quietly packing up the picnic-things.

"You know, I think night always comes on too soon." Sighing, she set the cake, still Elanor-finger-swirled, aside carefully. "But there's nothing half so lovely as watching every last bit of light one can get in a day."

Elves certainly wouldn't leave finger-swirls in cake-icing.

The thought made him smile again, somewhat suddenly, though Rose seemed to notice that it didn't go all the way through his eyes.

He might have more time there. If he were healed. . .a normal hobbit lifetime would give him another forty years, or even more. . .perhaps as much as sixty years. More time over again than he'd already lived.

But there was no guarantee of that.

And though Sam could come too, it would not be for many years. And only Sam. No more of Rose's soft singing to Elanor in the mornings, or the smell of her blue-ribbon pumpkin bread baking, or blackberry cobbler bubbling as she took it out of the stove. No more of her way with arching an eyebrow at him and glaring until he had to eat a bite. . .or lie down and rest. . .or whatever she was trying to coerce for his health at the moment. No more of Elanor's burbling smiles as Frodo picked her up. No more pat-a-cake games.

"You don't have to decide the fate of the world tonight, Frodo Baggins, and I don't want you deciding anything right now except what you want with your cake. . .milk or coffee or more tea, but I won't be sitting up with you all night if the coffee keeps you awake."

Involuntarily he laughed, bringing a pretty smile to Rose's face.

"All right, then! A cup of milk, after I've had a little more tea."

"Good." She rose, smoothing her skirts. "I wouldn't want to wake up and find it just Sam and me in our bed tonight."

Neither would I, Frodo mused suddenly. Neither would I.

"You won't. I promise. I'm not going anywhere. . .not tonight."

~

Pretty Good Year | email Frodo