Sam glanced up at the sun through Bag End's round kitchen window and frowned slightly, laying down the shears he had been rinsing on the draining board. Absently he turned off the single iron tap, the steady stream of cold water into the stone basin slowing to a gentle succession of drips. It was nearly noon by Sam's reckoning, and Frodo was still in bed.

Not that it was Sam's place to dictate Frodo's sleeping habits, but this was quite unusual: Frodo was usually awake when Sam went in to draw the bedroom curtains upon his arrival at half past eight. Sam was beginning to wonder, as he stood there chewing his lip in contemplation, whether his master was perhaps ill.

Even as he thought it he knew it was a foolish thing to have allowed himself to ponder. The possibility forced itself immediately to the forefront of his mind and, although he tried to distract himself by drying his shears on a nearby piece of rag, he knew by the time the water was gone that it was futile. The growing worry would gnaw at his mind like a tumour until he had reassured himself that it was not so.

He heaved a sigh of resignation and, cursing his own fretful nature, he set down his shears once again and stomped off down the corridor, muttering under his breath. I tell 'ee, Sam Gamgee, he'll be lying there right as rain while you're workin' yourself up into a fret again, sure as turnips is turnips.

He pushed open Frodo's bedroom door fully prepared to find his master merely having a bit of a lie-in; indeed the derisive voice in his mind had drawn breath to say I told 'ee so, Sam, when his eye fell on the bed.

The normally smooth counterpane had been wrenched by the force of a restless sleeper from where it had been tucked beneath the bottom of the mattress to be drawn up, drumskin-tight, under Frodo's chin. Frodo was curled foetus-like on his side, sheets in shocking disarray so that there were several yards of linen swathed about his shoulders while his legs were bare. His arms were clasped to his stomach and Sam could see that the bed was damp with sweat.

"Frodo!" Panic caused Sam to drop the formal prefix. There was no reply, but Frodo shifted a little and uttered a tiny whimper like that of a wounded animal. Sam immediately hurried to the bedside.

Frodo's eyes were open, their blue dull and glazed. As Sam approached they flickered to his face in recognition. Sam bent over the pitiful figure on the bed and gently passed a hand through dark curls now sweat-damp. "What's the matter, Mr Frodo?"

Frodo tried to smile, but it was a poor effort. "I think I'm going to be sick, Sam," he said quietly.

Sam grimaced in sympathy. Too often he'd woken up feeling like that early in the morning, and tossed about in a damp, muddled bed, shifting to ease the indefinable pain in the depths of his stomach. In fact, to Sam's mind that painful anticipation was the worst part of being ill, when the churning in one's stomach sends a paralysing ache flooding down to the ankles to tingle and fork back up and down the calves at every twitch. Better to throw it up and have it over with.

"Oh, sir," he chided softly, "And I didn't know! How long've you been lying there?"

"Feels like forever," Frodo muttered.

Sam detached a damp curl from Frodo's forehead with a deft flick of his finger. "Well, don't you worry none, Mr Frodo, your Sam'll sort it."

"You don't have to -" Frodo began, but Sam cut in.

"Beggin' your pardon," he said, in a tone too firm to suggest any actual begging of anything, "But I won't have you stewing in the damp. You've got to have it all up, sir, I'm afraid, and then we can get you settled." Heedless of Frodo's protests Sam dashed off to the kitchen and returned in mere moments with a large earthenware basin, which he laid on the bed.

"Now," he continued, "Up with you, sir." He began to raise Frodo by the arms, but stopped when his master retched. "Thought that might do it," Sam said, smiling slightly. "Here you are, sir." He moved the basin to within easy reach and held it still while Frodo threw up what seemed to Sam far more than what his stomach could possibly contain. It sent pangs of remorse skimming through Sam to see his master's delicate frame convulse and shake like that, but really it was the only way.

When Frodo was quite finished, Sam gently removed the bowl and mopped at his master's face with a handkerchief like an anxious mother.

"Better?" he asked, smiling as Frodo raised himself on an elbow. Frodo smiled.

"Much, thank you."

"Going to be sick again?"

Frodo glanced at the basin for a moment, thinking, and then shook his head. Sam moved to take the basin out to the privy. "Well, I know the throwing-up of it's nasty, sir, but I always say you're better with it all up."

"You are that," Frodo agreed, smiling wanly. Sam regarded him pensively for a moment, and then hurried off to empty the basin.

When he returned, Frodo had pulled himself into a sitting position. His damp nightshirt was half-off one shoulder, and the sheets were ruched up about his legs. Sam clicked his tongue. "No good doin' that, sir," he chided gently, and tugged the coverlet off onto the floor in one motion.

Frodo wiggled his toes appreciatively. "The air's lovely and cool," he said absently. Sam smiled.

"I'll have to strip this bed, sir, which means you'll have to get out of it," he said half-apologetically. "And I daresay you'll be wanting a bath, and then I can have that nightshirt to wash as well."

Frodo obligingly stood, and then abruptly sat back down again.

"Are you all right?" Sam asked, startled.

Frodo smiled. "I am. My legs aren't."

"Here, I'll help you," Sam offered. Frodo obediently hooked an arm round his neck and together they moved like some odd, three legged beast of legend to the bathroom. "There's water drawn," Sam continued, "And there's some more heating, but I don't know if you'll want it cold?" He looked at Frodo inquiringly as he pushed open the bathroom door with the outside of his foot.

"Lukewarm, if you please, Sam," Frodo said, sinking onto the wooden bench just inside the door.

"I wonder what brought that on," Sam said half to himself, as he pattered to and fro filling the bath.

"I don't know," Frodo said disinterestedly. Sam noted the tone and laughed.

"There I go again, spouting nonsense. I'm sorry, sir." He stood up and wiped his wet hands on his breeches. "Bath's ready, sir. Towels are by the fire. I'd be obliged if you'd drop that shirt outside the door, sir." He regarded Frodo for a moment before adding, "If you need me, shout." With a parting smile he slid out and shut the door. Frodo smiled whimsically and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Sam had dumped all the bedclothes in the laundry basket and spread a fresh sheet when he heard Frodo calling. Quickly he smoothed a final crease in the sheet before scurrying down the corridor to Frodo's aid. Outside the bathroom door he stopped. tentatively he rapped his knuckles against the panelling. "Are you all right in there, Mr Frodo?"

"Please, Sam, come in," was the weak reply. Sam obediently pushed open the door. Frodo was sitting there in his rapidly-cooling bathwater, knees drawn up to his chin and arms wrapped about them. He smiled apologetically at Sam, raising his eyes to the gardener's face.

"My legs aren't working," he announced. "So if you'd help me up..." He threw Sam a half-pleading look, the incredulous blueness of his eyes half-shaded by the line of his brows.

"Why, of course, sir!" Sam said brusquely, scooping a towel from the fireguard. "You only had to ask, you know that." Moving to stand behind Frodo he braced his hands under his master's arms. "Up you get, now." He dragged Frodo half up and out of th bath with ease before enveloping him in the towel and pulling him fully upright.

His arms tightly about Frodo's slender waist, Sam lifted his master and set him upon the flagstones with a care amounting almost to reverence. Frodo shifted about in Sam's arms to face him and smiled. "Thank you, Sam."

"It was no trouble." Sam brushed the thanks away with a dip of his head and dropped his arms awkwardly. Frodo slid an arm around Sam's neck as he had before, clutching the towel with the other hand as if it were a toga. His slender fingers on the nape of Sam's neck stroked gently through the curls there, and he smiled at Sam. "Aren't you going to escort me?"

Sam smiled abashedly. "Yes, sir." At the door he realised he'd forgotten to pick up Frodo's shirt - which, consequently, Frodo had neglected to drop outside. With a glance at Frodo he bent to pick up the crumpled garment, never releasing his master until the last possible instant.

"I'm sorry I forgot that, Sam," Frodo said as they progressed down the corridor.

"It's all right," Sam said, "I'd forgotten it myself, sir."

He pushed the bedroom door open with his shoulder and leaned Frodo against the wall as one might a clothes-prop while he ran to toss the pillows onto the half-made bed. Frodo smiled as Sam threw a coverlet from the cupboard onto the bed and proceeded to tuck it in, the muscles in his back shifting and stretching under his shirt. Sam saw him looking and smiled as he folded back a neat triangle of the bedclothes to allow Frodo access.

Frodo smiled back, discarded the towel onto an armchair that stood in the corner and struggled into a nightshirt Sam had thoughtfully laid out on top of the chest of drawers. Sam coughed and stared at the floor as Frodo climbed back into the bed, sheets cool and clean now against his skin that still prickled feverishly. There was a short silence, and then Frodo said, "Sam?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You didn't have to do all this for me, you know. You should have just left me."

Sam looked horrified. "It was no trouble, sir. I couldn't have left you there like that."

Why not?" Frodo smiled up at Sam, who averted his eyes and fell to tucking his master in, but Frodo saw the tips of his ears redden.

"Well, sir, it was only right."

"I don't expect you to do it, Sam," Frodo said gently.

"I didn't do it because I thought it was expected of me, sir," Sam said firmly, smoothing the sheet, "I did it because you - well, you mean a lot to me, Mr Frodo. I mean - I hold you dear to me, if you follow me."" His eyes flickered to Frodo's face and then strayed back to the sheet where his hands now clasped nervously, strong fingers twined together in a knot of embarrassment.

Frodo only laughed softly. "I know, Sam." He caught Sam's eyes and smiled fondly. Sam permitted himself an abashed smile back.

Frodo took Sam's hand and patted it gently. "Thank you for your help, Sam. I shall be all right now."

Sam nodded. "I'll check on you before I leave, sir."

"I shall probably be asleep then. It can't have been much later than four o' clock when that wretched stomachache woke me."

"Well, I'll check back anyway." Sam stroked the curls back from Frodo's forehead, turned to go, and then on impulse bent to kiss his cheek. Frodo watched him depart, smiling slightly to himself, the gently pressure of Sam's lips still tingling warm on his cheek. He raised a hand to it, gently, warily, as if to capture a butterfly.

The tingles painted delicate, intricate pictures on his fingertips, lines of many beautiful colours, idyllic scenes of warms summer days and new-mown grass and Sam. Frodo dropped his hand reluctantly, and the tingles stopped, but the paintings were still there, glowing in a haze of colour.

He shifted onto his side in the bed and brought his fingertips to his lips to lay there, not moving, just touching. The light of a summer afternoon filtered brightly through the window, casting dappled patterns of yellow light on the covers, and in the garden Frodo could hear the clip of shears while Sam sang softly to himself of summer days in the hayfields.