Poison in the Citadel by Kathryn Ramage

Frodo woke the next morning to a dark haze that grew steadily over his mind. He rose to have his bath, but never got so far. As he crossed the bedroom toward the door, his feet seemed numbed and distant, so far away that they couldn't be his own, and his fingers were just as numbed and clumsy as he tried to put on his dressing gown. He couldn't knot the belt at his waist. Before he'd washed or dressed, he turned to go back to bed.

He was lying hidden beneath the blankets, curled with his head in his arms, when Merry came back into the room to see why he hadn't come to breakfast.

"What's wrong, Frodo? Are you ill?"

In reply, Frodo groaned, "Awful." He didn't want any breakfast. The thought of food made him sick. Yes, something was very wrong. He knew what this felt like, but surely it couldn't be that. Not yet. "What's the date, Merry?" By his count, his worst day was still half a week away.

"It's New Year's Day in Gondor," Merry answered.

"But it can't be! It isn't March 25."

"Not by the Shire calendar, no. The days are different here."

"Then it is today. Oh, no..." Frodo saw that he'd made a very stupid mistake. Hobbits had reorganized their calendar over a century ago so that each of the twelve months was evenly allotted thirty days, and the leftover days were placed outside the months for the holidays at Lithe and Yule. A neat and sensible scheme that suited them very well, but one that caused confusion when hobbits ventured out of the Shire, which was one of the reasons why most hobbits preferred to stay put in their own country. He'd lost track of the days during his travels and had miscalculated since. Because his dark day fell on March 25 in the Shire, Frodo had assumed it would occur on the same date here, but the days of the Gondorian calendar were different. He'd seen all the New Year's preparations in the city this past week, but hadn't realized how close the day actually was. Now, unexpectedly, it was upon him.

"Is it your bad spell?" Merry asked with increasing alarm. "What can I do?"

"Get Gandalf," Frodo begged, "or the Master Healer. Quickly, please!"

The rest of the morning was a waking nightmare--memories he could never escape. He saw the Ring as a wheel of red fire before him more clearly than the bedroom around him, which receded into a dim gloom. He relived that most terrible day when he and Sam had reached the Crack of Doom, and the Ring had entirely taken him into its power. He'd belonged to it utterly. When it had been destroyed, he felt as if part of himself had been torn away at the same time. He could feel that missing part like a raw and gaping wound torn in his flesh, still bleeding and consuming him with a fiery pain after all this time. Was it worse this year because he was nearer to the place where it had all happened?

Shadow-shapes appeared out of the dimness, but they seemed less solid and real than his visions of Mordor. A hand touched his brow and Gandalf's face suddenly loomed close to peer at him with a worried frown. But Gandalf was dead--fallen into the pits of Moria! Voices murmured above him:

"Is he like this every year on this day, Merry?"

"I wouldn't know. I've never been with him during one of his bad spells before. Sam sits by him and looks after him. He could tell you, if he weren't a thousand miles away."

Sam? Frodo listened for Sam's voice, but didn't hear it. That was wrong. Where was he? Sam should be here, holding his hand. Sam had always been here, at his side, protecting him from dangers and leading him every step of the way into the burning heart of Mordor. He couldn't go on without Sam.

"Sam!"

"Sam isn't here, Frodo," Merry answered. "We've sent a note to the Houses of Healing." His hand closed around Frodo's. "Hold on--it's going to be all right."

Then Merry was gone, and he lay swathed in yards of billowing white cloth, rougher than the bed-sheets. The surface he lay upon was more firm and lumpy than a feather-stuffed mattress, and his cheek rested on something harder than a pillow. He heard Gandalf's voice again, strangely echoed against his ear, murmuring words in a language he didn't recognize. They must both be dead. Was this what being dead was like--wrapped in shrouds?

When Gandalf's fingers ran lightly over his temple, Frodo realized in a brief moment of lucidity that the wizard was holding him in his lap.

Gandalf was speaking, but not to him, "I'm relieved you're here. The Master Healer hasn't answered the message we sent, asking for his aid, and I can do nothing to bring Frodo out of this state."

"Merry's told me something of it." The voice that answered sounded like Strider's, even though Frodo knew they had left him far behind, doing battle with orcs at Amon Hen. "Frodo has some sort of 'bad spell' on this day every year."

"Yes, but I've never seen anything like this 'spell' before. There are dark powers still at work within him. He doesn't seem aware of where he is, or that we are here. From what he's said in his delirium, he believes he's in Mordor, as he was on this day three years ago."

"Can you help him, Strider?" Merry pleaded.

"I'll do what I can. I've brought something that might help. Here, let me take him."

Aragorn lifted him from Gandalf's lap. Frodo felt himself cradled in the curve of one strong arm; his head fell back while Aragorn stroked the tangled hair from his brow. He curled up and gripped the soft material of the King's tunic in his fists to cling as tightly as he could: the rich, crimson velvet seemed to ooze between his clenched fingers and over the blunted top of the missing one like welling blood... or molten lava as the mountain crumbled to pieces around him and the liquid fire flowed up to drown him and Sam.

"It's gone!" He hid his face in the hollow of Aragorn's shoulder and sobbed. "Gone forever."

Aragorn spoke soothing words to quiet him, and paced the floor. Another, even more absurd thought flickered in Frodo's mind--of Sam cradling and comforting his newborn child--and he sobbed again. "Gone..."

"Is there any hot water, Merry?" Aragorn asked.

"Yes, in the kitchen. How much do you need?"

"Bring me a small pot, and some towels."

Some time later, minutes or hours, Frodo smelled a fresh, pungent scent that was strangely familiar. Athelas? The scent was not unpleasant, but it brought back terrible memories of old wounds and illnesses, and of the first time this darkness had spread through him, threatening to overtake him...

"Hush, Frodo." The corner of a warm and wet cloth that smelled of athelas gently patted on his brow. He breathed in the scent, and it soothed him.

Aragorn lay him down on the bed and continued to bathe his face with the athelas-soaked cloth. The darkness still clung to his mind, but the Wheel of Fire had faded and the vision of Mordor was gone. He was in his room. He could see it now, and see the people gathered around him--Aragorn bending over him, Merry sitting at his side, holding his hand, and Gandalf a little farther away, all watching him with grave concern. As his pain diminished, he shut his eyes and began to breathe more easily.

Another voice, one not so familiar, spoke. "Your pardon, my lord. I did not know you were here. The Master Healer sent me. He's received your message that the little one has been taken ill and regrets he is unable to come himself. He thought that this potion might offer some ease."

"Leave it there on the table, I pray you. He's sleeping now. I will give it to him later, if he needs it."

I'm not asleep, Frodo was about to protest, but before he could speak the words, he was.
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