The day comes too quickly, far too quickly, even though any day would have been too soon. The day that Rosie and Sam meet tear-filled eyes over the too oft-used sickbed and know that this time there would not be a getting better.
Frodo's body is racked with fever, his sunken eyes unseeing. He does not know them, which hurts the worst, and Rosie often cries over this fallen gentle-hobbit, once so learned and wise, left a shriveled, ghostly husk.
The children visit, hollow-eyed and pale, false smiles painted on their faces. Sometimes he stirs enough to squeeze hands in response to gentle hugs, drift in and out of quiet conversations for a minute or two. Sammie's birthday comes and he spends the entire day caring for him, his uncle, his father, his Fo. At one point Frodo is coherent enough to mumble a very happy birthday and many returns, and it is all little Sammie can do to hide his tears and trembling and kiss him on his pale-skinned brow.
One afternoon Rosie comes in with freshly steamed towels to find Frodo with his too-thin arms stretched towards the sun-lit window, his expression wanting and his speech reduced to baby mewls for a long dead mother. She does all that she can, holding him and rocking him like she did with her children, most of whom are grown now and gone, and sings him gentle songs. He calms a little and curls against her breast, instinctively seeking out her comfort and warmth. Sam enters softly and wraps his strong brown arms about the both of them, settling into the bed and adding his own low, quiet voice to the melody.
Frodo's sobs calm into little hitches and hiccups and soon even out, leaving him limp and washed out and soaked in fresh tears. Rosie and Sam continue their singing, not knowing the exact words but singing them just the same, subtly swaying with the ebb and flow of the song. Outside it is a beautifully sun-filled day and the seasonal plants are blooming with all their might in the windowsill, as if light and flowers could counteract this deadly poison that worms its way through their love.
If he were to leave us now, she thinks, with the light striking his eyes, the scent of the season filling the room, the feel of strong arms and gentle rocking, the sound of gentle singing, the world washed in salt-water, would he think that the elves had returned at last to carry him over the sea?
There is a pause in his breath, and Sam and Rosie both freeze in fearful anticipation until he begins to breathe again.
And if he thought they had returned, would he go gladly, or leap back into the waters and attempt to reach the shore until the waves took him?
~