Sand-Pictures: Bathtime

He'd been in bed for two days now, gazing up at her or Sam with those mournful blue eyes and merely shaking his head in response to questions of how he was feeling or offers to carry him into the parlor to lie on the sofa, tucked up in blankets. When one of them offered a rubdown, he would turn onto his still-hollow belly, allowing them access to his skeleton-thin form. She'd succeeded in coaxing him to eat a bit, to let her feed him small spoonfuls of nourishing soups and broths, sometimes soft-cooked eggs or mashed vegetables. . .but even at that, he ate less in a day or two than most hobbits did in a single meal, and that made her heart hurt. It wasn't her cooking, that she knew. Sam had tried too, and she knew that the two of them were outstanding cooks even by hobbit standards.

But she had an idea.

A package had arrived. There were all sorts of lovely things inside: a soft, cuddly doll for baby Elanor; a special assortment of seeds and small tools for Sam; hair-combs and ribbons for her, and two bolts of fabric softer even than silk. For Frodo there was a soft lamb-skin, large enough to cover the bed, and small packages of dried herbs, including the kingsfoil she'd become so familiar with these past few years. There were a few books as well. . .but also a large, carefully wrapped jar of herb-laced salts for the bath. In the letter addressed to them all, explaining which gifts were for each member of the family, the Queen noted that they were a healing mixture, prepared especially to ease the spirit and body.

It was then that Rose knew just what she'd do.

The kettle put on and a pot of soup set to cooking, she bustled into the bedroom. Frodo lay tangled in the covers, gazing listlessly out of the window. . .yet not looking at his surroundings, a distant stare she'd become all too accustomed to. Quietly she came to the bed, taking a seat beside him, putting an arm about his waist as she spoke softly.

"Frodo-dear, you should see what just arrived. . .soothing bath salts all the way from Gondor, sent by the Queen herself. . .and something nice and soft for your bed; she said it'd be good for you to rest on with your being so thin and all. . . . And herbs for tea: the kettle's on. . . . Come now; Rosie will draw you a nice hot bath, get some warmth into those bones. I'll change the bed while you're in the tub, and then you can lie on clean sheets and that nice lamb-skin, with fresh blankets, and have some soup. . .and tea made with herbs sent 'specially by the King and Queen. . . ."

One fragile hand stirred, the delicate fingers brushing the gemstone on its chain about his neck.

"Queen Arwen. . .and Strider. . .sent them?"

"Aye, that they did, and I suppose they'd be mighty pleased to know you were enjoying those presents instead of letting them sit in a box."

He said nothing, but that in itself was something. He wasn't fighting her, at least, and she chose to take that as a win. Rising, she set about preparing the bath, filling the tub with hot water and adding the recommended amount of the bath mixture. Swishing the water with her hand, she tested it until it was the right temperature, just as she tested Elanor's bath. Then she turned back to the bed.

Frodo had hardly moved, still lying tangled in his covers. As she approached, kneeling to brush back his curls and coax him up so she could help him, he shook his head.

"Rose. . .I'm sorry. I don't think I can. . .not today. I'm sorry. . . ."

"Oh, no, you don't, Master Baggins. You're not about to let me go to all that trouble, all that work, and then lie abed because you're too sorry to get up and walk the few steps to that tub. Now, we'd not have done something so silly as put a bath-tub in the bedroom, but you were that frail, and Sam and I don't want you hurting a bit more than you have to. The least you can do is let me get you out of bed and into that good hot water." The words stung her lips. Poor thing, he looked like next to nothing lying there, weak as a newborn kitten. . .but she forced herself to hold fast. She'd never held with nonsense, and she wasn't about to start now.

Reluctantly Frodo sighed, slipping a slender hand into hers.

"There's a good lad." Gently she slid her other arm behind him, easing him up as she might her baby, finally allowing him to rest against her while she rubbed his back. She could count every rib, and that took her breath. Nonetheless, she managed to smile a little, easing the two of them out of the knot of blankets, taking her hand from his to help him set his legs over the edge of the bed. He faltered as they stood, and she caught his slight weight against her sturdy frame, supporting him.

"I'm sorry - "

"No. . .no, it's all right, sweetheart. There now. Just like we're dancing, see? Step. . .and pause. And step. . .and pause."

He laughed, but the sound was hollow. Yet it was not without a trace of its music, and Rose breathed easier to hear it. . .especially as he moved with her, complying with her instructions. At last they reached the tub, and she eased him onto the chair beside it, bending to unbutton his night-shirt. He offered no protest, allowing her to undress him before helping him rise once more and step into the waiting bath.

Even in the dim light of late autumn afternoon - and an overcast day at that - he took her breath. Such delicate features, fair and fine as the most expensive porcelain. . .yet at the same time, frighteningly spectral, a haunting mingling of beauty and trapped pain. The small white mark on his left shoulder seemed the worst: he guarded that side fiercely much of the time. There was the scar at the base of his neck. . .the spider's sting, she knew by now.

There was so much of him that she didn't know, though, she felt at times. It was like another person. And yet. . . .

"Rose. . .is there some soap?" He leaned back in the tub, resting his dark curls on the folded towel she'd laid there as a pillow for him.

"Aye. . .let me get it." Catching herself out of the reverie, she took a fresh cake from the basket on a nearby table. Honey and chamomile, just the thing to soothe jangled nerves without clashing with anything in the special bath salts. She dipped it into the water, dampening it before placing it gently into his left hand. "Let me get the bed changed, and I'll help with your hair. . .just say the word if you need me sooner."

"All right." He soaked the wash-cloth in the water, releasing it at last to bob lazily through the water while he bathed. Taking fresh sheets from the closet, Rose set herself to changing the bed, removing sweat-dampened sheets and fluffing the feather mattress and pillows, keeping them still in proper order: Sam's on one end, flat as griddle-cakes from being squashed steadily all night; Frodo's in the middle, never quite flat enough, for he was so light and tossed and turned so often that his head never really made a good dent in the pillows, for all he was near surrounded by them in their efforts to prop his limbs in comfortable positions; her own at his other side, just a bit less squished than Sam's, for there was the getting up with Elanor, not to mention that she made chamomile tea with more success than Sam, and as such was generally the one to get up with Frodo first, Sam waking to comfort him when she went to make the warm drink, mixing it with milk and honey to try and get a little nourishment into him any way she could. The blanket-layers, too, had their tales: Sam's left as the sheet and one quilt-layer over the light blanket, the upper layers folded over to be double covering for Frodo; Frodo's covers not only the sheet and cotton blanket, but several layers of soft blankets topped with two quilts, as if he could never quite get warm enough, even when feverish; again hers, folded back to only the sheet and a light blanket for her - she could never abide over-warmth. Spreading the soft lamb-skin out, she glanced back at the tub to see how he was doing.

In the soft glow of the candle-light and the dim lamps, he seemed to have almost an otherworldly glow. Dark eyelashes rested against his face, brushing the high cheekbones - too thin, she'd have to make certain he got every drop of that soup down - and accentuating the shadows about his eyes. She was relieved to see a bit of tension easing from the alabaster features as he soaked, the scent of fragrant healing herbs still strong in the room. She'd better take advantage of the situation and hurry up a bit. Finishing the bed quickly but carefully, she returned to the tub.

"Ready to let me help with your hair?"

"Mmm." He nodded faintly, reluctantly sitting up a little, allowing her to help him scoot forward a little, sliding further toward the front of the tub so she could pour warm water over his curls. The effort of staying in the semi-reclining position seemed too much for him today, causing her to promptly put out an arm, cradling him carefully.

"There now. Just you rest."

She was soaking her sleeve, but that didn't matter. The warm water seemed to do him so much good, and as she lathered his hair, he sighed contentedly. Pouring fresh water over his locks until that ran clean, she finally guided him back to rest his head upon the folded towel once more.

"Would you like to soak a bit longer, or come back to bed now? Either's fine. You're good and clean, and I don't want you catching a chill."

"Bed's fine. . .thank you, Rose. . .that's a little better now. . . ."

He sounded drowsy. . .and as Rose helped him out, sliding arms heedlessly around his wet body, she could hardly help feeling relieved. He would rest, not merely lie there staring into the darkness like some small ghost. Gently she wrapped him in a freshly warmed towel, again easing him to the chair before taking another and rubbing him dry, even fluffing his heavy curls to reduce their soppiness to mere damp before slipping a fresh night-shirt over his head.

"There now. . .if you don't look a proper gentlehobbit all cleaned up."

Frodo smiled wanly as they ventured their cautious dance back to the bed. "I'd hate to hear what my aunts would have to say about that assessment. . . ."

"Well, you do! Better, at any rate. Now, easy there. . . ." She helped him sit, then lie down, ensuring that his gown was pulled smooth beneath his angular body, settling him on the soft lamb-skin before tucking him in. As much as a part of her still hoped he'd be well again, she knew: knew that no amount of wishing would change anything, and on days like this, the best thing was to get through it the best she could. "I'll go and fetch our lunch, and with any luck, Elly won't want hers till we're done."

But he was already gone again, staring absently in the direction of the window. . .and though he did seem a little more comfortable, it made chills creep down her back.

She hurried to fetch the tray, and sat beside him on the bed, between him and that blasted window, stroking his curls and trying to coax a bite into the bow-shaped mouth. Chicken soup with plenty of vegetables, the special tea sent for him, a bit of cinnamon custard. Yet after a few bites in near-silence, he shook his head.

"Thank you. . .but that's all I could manage just now. . . ."

It was then that she realised.

It couldn't be stopped, that eerie gaze. But distraction. . .that was another story, and perhaps there she could help.

"And you'd let a busy mother slave in the kitchen for two bites of everything? Surely you can do better than that. . .unless you want to come and finish the dishes."

It worked. He smiled faintly, blinking up at her.

"I suppose it's the frying-pan or the fire, then, Rosie-lass? Very well, then! A bit more. I'll. . .I'll try."

She smiled. It might not be the war, but a few battles she could still win. And this one she was beginning to cherish even in its bittersweet stubbornness.

'Some things are worth fighting for,' Frodo had said to her once.

He was right.

Some things were very much worth fighting for.

~

Pretty Good Year | email Frodo