Frodo's hands were so cold. He held them stiffly, twined together on the desk; the space where his finger had once been gaped starkly and defiantly. Of course, it was March, and his hands were always cold in March.
Night seemed to have descended unnoticed, for Bag-End was swathed now in a dusky half-light like the cloak of a wraith and still Frodo sat in his study, rocking awkwardly and absently in his chair, the perspiration of an endured pain lightly dusting his white forehead.
His left shoulder throbbed; he could feel the blood pulsing there as if an icicle had lodged itself in the artery, blocking the circulation. The side of his chest where once, seemingly so long ago, a spear had forced his chainmail into his skin burned with the memory of that b ruise. The back of his neck was cold and aching where the spider had stung him; all over again he felt the poison streaming into his body, already saturated with darkness.
He shut his eyes, screwing them tight against so much pain, and his hands sought li ke a blind man's the white jewel that hung about his neck on its chain. He grasped it tightly, swinging it to and fro as if for comfort, murmuring soft, incoherent nonsense to himself. Mustn't let Sam know. Mustn't worry Sam.
"Mr Frodo?" Frodo saw the shadowy outline of Sam in the doorway as if etched on the inside of his eyelids. The slight movement of his head sparked waves of nausea and with one hand he loosed the Evenstar to press cold fingers to his temple as if to stem the pain.
"Frodo, it's late, you oughtn't to be here still, with you not well and all. Come on, sir, up with you, now." Sam's strong hands were warm and sure, and Frodo tried to follow them, but the effort of standing was too much and then he found that Sam was carrying him. He had not the strength to protest.
As if through a thick mist he saw Sam's features contorted in anxiety, white teeth chewing his bottom lip. "You're so cold, Frodo," he said softly. "Come on now, I'll put you to bed."
Frodo lifted his eyes with an effort and Sam caught a glimpse of dulled blue irises, clouded slightly with fever. He forced a smile and began moving off down the corridor, stepping lightly so as not to jolt his master, but still Frodo felt every heartbeat vibrating through his very being, causing every ache to multiply. He closed his eyes once more but pain was beating in tides of blood on every side of him and when the blackness came he did not fight.
He awoke to find himself tucked carefully into his own bed, the sheets folded in perfect right-angles. The grey light of a new dawn was just beginning to creep over The Hill, but Frodo knew that for him, there could be no dawn. Sam was sitting, asleep, in the chair by the bed, and the newly-formed lines on his face pained Frodo. It oughtn' t to be like this. Sam and Rosie shouldn't have to live their lives around an invalid.
He sighed. The wounds would never really heal, that much he knew, but their pain was diminished to nothing in contrast to the pain he felt at the thought of what he was putting Sam through. He had thought, months before, when Arwen had bequeathed to him the Evenstar, that he could not take what she offered; that he loved Sam too much to go. Now he knew that he loved him too much to stay.
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