CHAPTER 9: FEAR and PITY

The smell of cooking breakfast filled the kitchen as Rosie busied herself over the range; this was the second, and most substantial, breakfast of the day. Her father and brothers, Tom, Jolly, Nick and Nibs, had taken first breakfast before sunrise. As the sky lightened, in prelude to the sun appearing, they had checked the weather signs, and got started on the day’s work. Nick and Nibs had led the plough teams up to High Field, while Jolly had taken the swill bucket out to the pigs, grabbing the pitch fork in passing. Mr. Cotton and Tom had headed for the store room to do some repairs on the harrow, Tom having hit a large flint the day before and bent some of the tines.

Mrs. Cotton and Rosie had busied themselves with keeping the men supplied with tea and toast, and then sat in peace to enjoy breaking their own fast. Jena, who doubled as milk maid and general help, had come and gone, taking milking stool and pails out to the pasture. The only inhabitant not yet seen was the Baggins, but Rosie wasn’t surprised. First breakfast in such a busy household was too early for the likes of him. Sam had often taken him second breakfast in his room, but now Sam had gone, the Baggins appeared to join them in the kitchen without fail. Her mother had offered to take him a tray, but he had refused on the grounds that they were all busy enough without running after him. Rosie remembered her relief at this; she had a good idea who would have been asked to take the tray to his room. At the time he had given polite thanks and smiled, and her mother had simpered and adjusted her mobcap in a way that made Rosie roll her eyes.

Remembering this, Rosie jabbed at the sausages she was frying so the oil hissed and spat. She’d caught Jena blushing like a tween when the Baggins had thanked her for some small service. Was everybody blind? Why didn’t they see there was nothing special about him, apart from the fact he was rich? She transferred the sausages to the warming oven, and banged the pan back onto the hot plate to fry some bread. Bother! Now she’d started thinking about him again. Thinking about him made her angry, and then she was even angrier because he made her angry.

Loud voices out in the yard announced the return of her father, Tom and Jolly. Nick and Nibs would not bother to walk the horses back so soon, and Jena would be sent to take them sausages and bacon in thick new bread, along with a can of sweet tea. She set eggs to fry, and realised her whole body was tense; the Baggins might arrive any time now. He never failed to greet her politely, and she never failed to ignore him. Her mother could be relied upon to be fussing over him like an old hen, and he never seemed to notice her rudeness. She wished he were gone, or even better dead. Yes, she wished he were dead.

The bustle of hungry hobbits arriving gave her something else to think about. Well “think” wasn’t quite the right word. She was busy and that, thankfully, left little room for thinking. She sent Jolly out to ring the hand bell in the hallway, and set more eggs to fry as she dished up sausages, bacon, mushrooms and fried bread.

Her brothers had already started eating, and her father was just sitting down, when her mother came in, carrying a pile of washing to take through to the scullery.

‘Where’s Mr. Baggins?’ she asked, looking around. Rosie suspected no one else had even noticed he wasn’t there. At the evening meal, he often talked softly to her father, asking about the day’s events, but at breakfast he was usually quiet and withdrawn. He answered when spoken to, but that was all. Her mother worried about the blue shadows under his eyes and his haggard looks, but Rosie thought that if he slept badly, it was no more than he deserved.

Her father straightened in the act of sitting down. ‘I’ll just be giving a knock on his door, Lily,’ he said.

Tom and Jolly turned back to the argument they were having about the best way to drain the grazing marsh, so the sheep didn’t get so many foot problems, and their mother squeezed past them, on her way to dump her load ready for washing later. She caught Rosie’s eye and looked ceiling-ward. Rosie laughed back; it was an old argument. She pushed back her chair and went to get her mother a plate from the warming oven. Just as she was reaching up for a cloth to protect her hand, her father opened the door and leaned his head in.

‘Lily, can you come?’ he said, and the tenseness in his voice made them all look round.

‘Whatever’s the matter, Tom?’ asked Lily in surprise. ‘You look as though you’ve seen a...’ She didn’t finish her sentence; her mouth dropped open, and she rushed to follow her husband as he turned away. The others looked at each other with wide eyes.

‘Dead?’ mouthed Jolly, eyebrows raised in question. They reached the door together and jostled to get through to follow their mother. She must have run, because she had already disappeared from the long corridor that ran back into the farm house.

Rosie lost way in the pushing and shoving in the door, and - as her brothers ran ahead of her - she struggled with a mix of emotions, her heart pounding. Surely not dead! She had wished it, but that was just words. She would never truly wish another hobbit dead. And what if he were, and somehow her wish had been made true? As she ran, images whirled through her head: Sam grief-stricken, Sam gradually turning to her for comfort, Sam taking her hand and asking her to marry him. She was brought up short by Tom and Jolly standing in the doorway of the Baggins’ room. She put her hands on their shoulders and stood on tiptoe, to peer between them.

Their mother was sitting on the bed, her fingers at the Baggins’ neck. She was turned away from the door, and Rosie couldn’t see her face. The Baggins she could see. He was on his back rigidly still. His head was tilted back, and his hands clenched at his side. His eyes were open and staring fixedly at the ceiling. He looked lost, lying on the big double bed.

‘He seemed like he were dreaming, Lily,’ said her father, his face drawn and anxious. ‘He didn’t answer my knock, so I looked in, like. He were lying there, clutching that gemstone o’ his. I spoke his name, and he said something about it being gone for ever, and that everything were dark and empty. Very dreary he sounded. So I came to shake him awake, and he just cried out and went like this here.’

Her mother frowned at him to shut up. The bright quilted bed cover and the white sheets had been pulled back, and Rosie could see no sign of movement of his chest.

‘Dead it is, then,’ she thought, and suddenly she knew that Sam’s grief would be terrible to witness, and no passing storm. The Baggins might not deserve Sam, but Sam thought of him as “everything.” If the Baggins died before Sam could find out he was mistaken in him, then chances were he would forever be “everything.” Not only that, but forever might not be very long. Her cousin Rory had pined away and died after the loss of his young wife, although the healer had insisted there was nothing ailing him. What had Sam said? “Love of someone you can’t imagine the sun rising without.” Yes, he had said that. He might even blame her for not taking more care of his precious Baggins.

Rosie watched anxiously as her mother still didn’t speak. Still feeling at his neck, she was leaning her cheek over his parted lips. He looked so pale against her mother’s ruddy complexion that Rosie couldn’t understand why she was taking so long to say the obvious.

‘Bring me a small mirror, Rosie,’ her mother ordered in a voice that brooked no delay, and reluctantly Rosie ran to fetch one. At least it gave her the excuse she needed to push past her brothers and get a close look. She handed the small round mirror to her mother, who held it over his mouth. They both clearly saw a haze of water droplets briefly form on its surface.

‘Tom! Get some apple brandy, double quick!’ cried her mother looking at her husband. ‘He’s not dead yet, but what ails him, I don’t know. Little Tom! Jolly! Out of the doorway! You’re being naught but a nuisance there.’ Rosie’s brothers moved sheepishly into the room, to let their father out.

‘Rosie! Shut the window! He’s that cold already.’

Rosie hurried to obey, pulling the round window closed. The room faced East, and the sun was shining in, picking out motes of dust dancing in the bright light, but failing to give any touch of colour to the rigid form. His pupils were widely dilated, despite the fact the sun was shining directly onto his face.

Her father returned with bottle and small glass. He carefully poured out a small tot and handed it to his wife. Rosie saw what was needed, and rushed forward to help her mother by lifting his shoulders a little.

‘Here, let me, Rosie,’ said her twin, and took the weight from her. She gave him a quick, tight smile. The dead weight of the Baggins had been surprisingly heavy, and she wished the phrase “dead weight” did not keep repeating in her mind. She realised she was holding her breath as her mother raised the lolling head and poured a little of the dark-golden liquid between his unresisting lips.

The result was more dramatic than any of them had expected, although they all knew the fiery potency of the fruit of their father’s apple still. The patient snapped forward in Jolly’s arms, gagging and retching. His arm flew out, knocking the glass from her mother’s hand, and his eyes were no longer fixed. They darted here and there, and he looked terrified. Suddenly, he was vomiting and vomiting, and yellow liquid soaked into his night-shirt . Her mother hastily pulled back the bed cover out of harm’s way with one hand, and held his head forward to stop him choking, with the other. The acid stench caught at the back of Rosie’s throat and made her gag in sympathy. She wished the window was still open.

As the retching and vomiting eased, her mother started issuing instructions.

‘Tom, go get some clean night-shirts for me. Rosie, get clean sheets and a blanket, and that oil cloth we used when grandma was poorly last year. Little Tom, bring me a chair in here, the more comfortable the better. Jolly, lay him back down, and go and get some warm water and a sponge.’

They all hurried to obey. Rose hunted through the tall press at the end of the corridor until she found the oil cloth and a blanket, and then ran to the scullery. Here, an airing cupboard had been built around the chimney flue from the range. She took out a set of crisp, pressed sheets, and then hesitated a moment before taking out a second set. She ran past Jolly, who was waiting for the kettle to boil, and back to the Baggins’ room. She dumped her load on the chest of drawers.

The Baggins was tossing his head from side to side, eyes closed and sweat beading his forehead and upper lip. He was moaning, ‘No... no... no... no.’ An endless repetition.

Jolly was the last back. Her mother took the bowl from him and placed it on the bedside table. She gently bathed the Baggins’ face, and called his name.

‘Mr. Baggins? Can you hear me?’ He opened his eyes, but gave no other sign of having heard anything. The tossing and cries of ‘No’ continued.

‘Little Tom, Jolly, come here and help me lift him again. Let’s get this night-shirt off of him first,’ said her mother.

Tom and Jolly rushed to obey, but as they reached the bed the Baggins reacted violently again. He screamed and backed up the bed, until he was pressed against the headboard, trembling violently. He reminded Rosie of a trapped wild animal. He threw one hand up, palm outwards as though to ward off their approach. Tom and Jolly looked at each other, and then at their mother, unsure what to do. She was trying to soothe him, talking to him as though he were a child. The smell of urine added itself to the smell of vomit, and disgusted, Rosie noticed his night-shirt was soaking wet.

‘Hush now, hush now,’ her mother was saying. ‘There’s only friends here, sir. Let us get you into something dry.’ She reached out and gently took the hand in front of his face, and held it between her own, chaffing it. ‘Hush now, hush.’

Without warning the Baggins’ eyes rolled up into his head, and he went limp. He toppled sideways, folding like a rag doll. Her mother caught him in her arms, and Little Tom and Jolly both rushed to help. She worked quickly, pulling the soiled night-shirt over his head, removing the white gem that hung around his neck, and lightly sponging his body. She wrapped the blanket around him and directed Little Tom to lift him off the bed.

‘Sit yourself on the chair, Tom, and hold him in your lap, but don’t go letting his head loll about too much.’

While Tom sat cradling the limp form in his arms, Rosie helped her mother strip the bed and cover the mattress with the oil cloth. Luckily, his night-shirt seemed to have borne the brunt of the soiling. They spread a sheet over the top, and her mother laid a towel on that.

‘Let’s be having him back on the bed, Tom,’ she said. ‘Leave the blanket wrapped around him for now. He needs a better wash before anything else. Now Rosie, stay and help. The rest of you get some breakfast and back to work. And if I hears you’ve been agossiping about this, I’ll have you cleaning out the cess pit as punishment. Understood? He has enough talk about him, as it is. He don’t need no more.’

The men folk nodded meekly and headed back to work, thankful to be let out of the sickroom.

‘What about fetching Sam?’ asked little Tom as he turned to go. Their mother shook her head,

‘We’ll wait and see if he makes a quick recovery first, now be off with you.’ As they left she turned her attention back to Rosie.

‘Now don’t go pursing your lips like that. I know you’ve taken against Mr. Baggins, though I don’t know what he’s ever done to you, except take your Sam away, and maybe that‘s it, but,’ and here she held Rosie’s gaze, ‘he’s our guest, so come and help. I can’t begin to imagine what Samwise would have to say to us if Mr. Baggins didn’t get the best of care while under our roof. Help me get him stripped of this blanket , and if he’ll just lay quiet awhile, we can get him washed.’

Rosie must have let the shock show on her face. Bath him? Naked?

‘You’ve run around in your birthday suit enough times with your brothers, when you was a little lass,’ said her mother, ‘and Samwise too, I seem to recall, so don’t go looking at me with that tone of voice, my girl.’

Following her mother’s instructions, Rosie helped roll the Baggins out of the blanket so he was lying on the towel. She looked down, and felt a pang of pity despite herself. He was thin and pale and looked so vulnerable. She gasped as she saw the scars, and heard her mother hiss at the same moment.

‘Merciful heavens, what happened to him?’ her mother whispered. She reached out and touched two raised puckered scars low on his neck and then ran her hand over his shoulder. Here was a large scar, white and disfiguring. Winding across his body was a long, narrow scar, that could only have followed a welt from a whip. With pursed lips she traced the outline as it disappeared out of site underneath him. Finally she picked up his hand to inspect the scar between the second and fourth fingers.

‘That’s a nasty wound, too,’ she said. ‘I’ve not had a proper look before. Have you noticed he tries to hide it. Sam said it was bitten off, when I asked him ‘bout it.’

‘Bitten!’ exclaimed Rosie. ‘Urgh, that’s horrible.’

‘This won’t do though,’ said her mother, suddenly. ‘It’s clear he’s been through the wars, but he’s cold to touch. We need to get him bathed and wrapped up again.’

She washed his face and body, and between his legs. Rosie helped move him as necessary and otherwise watched, fascinated. The male body was rather ridiculous, she thought.

‘Roll him on his side, now, and hold him there for me so I can wash his back.’ Rosie did as she was bid, and then helped her mother get a clean night-shirt on him. They wrapped him in the blanket again and pulled the quilted cover over him.

Her mother looked at her approvingly and gave her a kiss.

‘Good girl! We’ll make a sick nurse of you, yet. Now never mind the rest of the day’s chores, but get some lunch and dinner prepared, so they just need heating up, then go and have a rest. We may have to sit up with him all night, and we’ll share it, turn and turn about. If he gets worse, or is no better tomorrow, we’ll send for the healer, and see if any can be spared to search for Sam. Mr. Baggins told me he’s gone to the Northfarthing for a few days.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘To my mind, Mr. Baggins’ do seem even more withdrawn since Sam moved down to New Row. When he’s writing away in his study, he looks at me sometimes like he’s not in our world at all. I speaks to him, over and over, and then he just snaps out of it, and smiles in that sweet way he has, and answers whatever I needs to know. I told your father it weren’t healthy and no good would come of it. Even when he’s needed as Mayor, he writes away ‘til the last moment. His heart don’t seem to be in anything but writing, somehow.’

Rosie wasn’t really listening to her mother rattling on. She was, however, annoyed at the implication that the Baggins was worse, and now ill, because Sam had gone. It was nonsense. Neither was she best pleased to find she had to sit through the evening and part of the night alone with him. She shut her mouth on the retort that rose to her lips.

‘I’ll bring you some breakfast, Ma,’ was all she said.

‘Thank you, Rosie. And ask Jena to bring me some lunch. Just say he’s got a bit of a fever, like. No need to go into details.’

Rosie worked through the morning, getting the washing done as well as the cooking. She heated up water in the big old copper tub in the scullery, while Jena worked at tough stains. The maid laid the shirts on the draining board of the big, deep sink, sprinkled washing flakes over the collar and cuffs, and worked at them with a small scrubbing brush. Together they dumped the washing in the copper, and then Rosie left Jena to add the washing flakes and stir the washing round, while she got started getting meals ready for later. After a while, she went back to help Jena squeeze and wring the washing though. Rosie rinsed it in the sink, while Jena went back and forth to the pump, bringing fresh water.

It was mindless work, and didn’t stop Rosie thinking. She pounded the washing, and found the wringing and squeezing were very therapeutic. Time was, she would have have imagined the washing was the Baggins, and enjoyed pounding it on that account, but now she was wringing and squeezing all the mean thoughts that she couldn’t quite dispel. He might die! He might. And maybe she could bring Sam through his grief. Instead of hating the Baggins, she hated herself for wanting Sam so badly that she was hoping for her rival to die. It made her feel small and mean.

Terrible things had befallen him. That much was clear from the wounds on his body. His fever-driven terror seemed likely to be the result of real events, graphically remembered. She shivered in the warm, steamy room. She hoped she would never know such terror. And bitten off! She had been bitten down to the bone by the tinker’s ferret when she was small, poking her finger through the bars when no one was looking. The pain had been terrible. What would it have been like if the finger had been bitten right off. What could do that?

How could Sam love such a fragile, broken thing? Pity, yes. Even she had been stirred by pity for him. But love?

Rosie realised she had come to a complete stop and was standing with her arms immersed in water, gazing at, but not seeing, the tiled wall in front of her. She turned her head and found Jena staring at her.

‘Come and help me with the mangle, Jena,’ she said, rather brusquely, and Jena jumped forward to help, turning the handle as Rosie fed the washing between the heavy rollers.

All those wounds! And what about Sam’s body? Did he carry such scars? Well she wasn’t going to find out, but if he did, he had more sense than to dwell on them like the Baggins seemed to do. Sam was as busy and outgoing as his master was inactive and withdrawn. Her mother was right; it wasn’t healthy. He ought to make more effort. Even when he was being Mayor he did the minimum necessary. She had seen others trying to make polite conversation with him only to turn away, disheartened, or offended, by his short replies.

She caught the shirt deftly as it was released by the rollers and laid it in the wash basket, then fed the next one in to be seized by the hungry rollers. She had seen him talking to Sam, to the Captains, and to her father a little, but anyone else met with a wall of polite resistance. She had heard and seen it several times.

‘How are you, Mr. Baggins?’ This was at a feast, to welcome back those imprisoned in the Lockholes, soon after the Travellers' return.

‘Well, thank you.’ The voice was flat, the answer rather curt.

‘That’s quite an adventure you went on. Rivalled Mr. Bilbo’s I hear.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you bring back much treasure?’

‘No, none.’

‘And there’s a king now, I hear?’

‘King Elessar, yes.’ His eyes were roaming over the crowded room, never resting anywhere, searching for something.

‘Master Samwise was saying as how you crowned him.’

‘No, Gandalf crowned him.’

‘But Master Samwise said...’

‘You misunderstood, I think. I was asked to carry the crown to Gandalf for the coronation. No more.’

‘Even so, that seems a mighty high honour for a hobbit from the Shire.’

‘Yes. I was very honoured. Will you excuse me? I need to speak to Captain Meriadoc.’

He laid a hand on the Captain’s shoulder and spoke low into his ear. Captain Meriadoc laughed and hugged him, and answered him earnestly and at length. It gave Rose the impression the Baggins wanted to leave.

Suddenly the Baggins’ face lit up with a smile, so that Rosie was reminded of the handsome gentlehobbit, who had inherited Bag End when she was a teen.

‘Here’s Sam,’ the Captain said. ‘I’ll leave you in his capable hands now, shall I?’

Sam clapped the Baggins on the shoulder in a familiar way, raising a few eyebrows, and leaned in to say something, quiet like. Frodo’s mouth quirked in a half smile, and the Captain laughed again much louder, so that heads turned. He put his arms around both of them, and said quite clear for all the room to hear, ‘I love you both. Do you know that?’

That was before she had known where Sam’s heart was given. She realised that it was little things like that, all the other Travellers treating Sam as though he were equal, that had made Hobbiton sit up and take notice of him. Sam’s easy air of command had completed the process, and hobbits looked to him to tell them what to do, just as much as to the Captains. She sniffed. No one looked for leadership from the Baggins, and not surprising was it. No one... except, she realised with a jolt, the other three Travellers. Why?

Suddenly in the midst of her reverie she yelped, and snatched her hand back. No longer concentrating on the task in hand, she had let her fingers get nipped in the mangle.

‘Oh! I’m sorry, Miss!’ cried Jena.

‘Not your fault,’ said Rosie, sucking her fingers. ‘I’ll take more care. Let’s get finished.’

While Jena hung out the washing to billow and snap in the brisk breeze, Rosie finished preparing the two meals. She ate an early lunch herself, and gave Jena instructions for the rest of the day, before heading to her room to try and rest before she relieved her mother.

She slipped off her work-dress and lay down in her shift, but sleep at this early hour was slow to come. She thought of all the times she had seen Sam with the Baggins, and she had to admit she wasn’t justified in saying he had no feeling for Sam. Sam just had to walk into a room, like at that feast, and the Baggins became more - what? More a person? Why was Sam so unhappy then? Was it, as he said, because the Baggins was ill? Gossips in the market had him dying these weeks past, because he looked so pale and thin. Well, dying he might in truth be. And her mother was right. How could they face Sam with the news the Baggins had died in their care? There was only one thing to do, and that was to make sure he got the best nursing, and never mind how she felt towards him.

This decision gave her a respite from the whirl of her thoughts, and she closed her eyes and slept soundly until she was shaken awake by Jena.

‘Wake up, Miss,’ Jena said apologetically. ‘I’ve brought you some tea and cake, and it’s time you was taking over from your ma.’

When Rosie entered the sick room her mother was sitting on the bed, cradling the Baggins in her arms. He looked as though he was sleeping quietly. In one hand he was clutching the white gem. Her mother put a finger to her lips, and very carefully laid her sleeping charge down on the bed. He stirred and murmured something, but did not wake. Daylight was failing, although no candles had yet been lit, but the room seemed to be bathed in a soft glow of light. Rosie gasped.

‘Ma, he’s... there’s...! Ma!’ She swallowed and tried again. ’The light, it’s coming from him!’

‘Aye, well, I’m glad you can see that, too, my girl. Because I thought I were imagining it. It’s good to know I’m not going as mad as all that.’

Rosie stared at him with her mouth open. It was faint, and in daylight, or even in candle light, would never have shown - no more than the stars showed when the sun was in the sky. Starlight! Yes, it was like starlight on a clear moonless night.

It was, she suddenly realised, the first time she had seen his face in rest. Not drawn and guarded as it was when awake, nor transformed by terror, as earlier in the day. She stared at the softly glowing features, and saw a beauty there for the first time.

‘How is he?’ she asked.

‘The fits come and go,’ sighed her mother. She looked tired. ‘He’s never woken to know me, but sometimes he sleeps like this, quite peaceful, and sometimes he’s crying out, or muttering and restless.’ To Rosie’s surprise she was enfolded in her mother’s arms and hugged tight.

‘I’m sorry to have to ask you to sit with him, my dear. If there were anyone else I could ask, I would. But there’s no good wishing it. We’re that busy, as you know well. Jena must be up at dawn to milk the cows, and she’s not to be trusted here. You knows what a gossip that girl is.’

Rosie looked at her mother, not sure why she was apologising.

‘He’s been talking, my Rosie Posie. Atalking in his fits. Crying out for Sam, amongst other things, and the only way as will quiet him then is to take him in your arms. I couldn’t understand as how you had such an anger ‘gainst him, but listening to his ravings, it’s not hard to see the plain truth. I thought maybe Samwise had left his heart to some lass on his travels. I didn’t begin to guess the rights of it.’

Rosie laid her head on her mother’s shoulder and burst into tears. It was such a relief to know that her misery was understood. She hadn’t realised how much she needed her mother’s comfort over this.

‘Hush, my lovely, hush now,’ her mother whispered, stroking Rosie’s back as she shook in her arms. Rosie fought to get her tears under control. She wouldn’t let her mother think she couldn’t cope, or she’d be offering to stay up with the Baggins all night, as well as all day. She pulled away from her mother, and lifted her apron to wipe her eyes.

‘It’s all right, Ma,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand how Sam could love him as he does, but...’ She paused it seemed rather a stupid thing to say.

‘Yes? But what?’ coaxed her mother.

Rosie hung her head. ‘I’ll look after him for Sam’s sake.’ There. She’d said it out loud, and her mother would think her quite pathetic to be worrying over Sam after he’d rejected her for that. She glanced at the bed.

‘That’s my girl,’ said her mother approvingly, and kissed her on the forehead. ‘I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: Sam don’t know what he’s turning away from. Now, let’s see, I’ve tried giving him a little water, but it’s hard to get him to swallow anything. He’s like one of them weakly lambs we’ll be having in the kitchen next month, but you know how to coax ‘em, and not let ‘em choke. There’s a heap of towels, and they makes good baby-napkins. Best to check if you needs to change it after he’s had a fit, but he’s not got enough water going into him at the moment, and that’s a fact.

‘Try talking to him quietly when he’s took bad. Seems he’s locked in bad memories, and they’re powerful bad. In between, you can snooze in the chair, like. I’ll send one o’ the lads in with some supper, and I’ll come and take over again before dawn, when the men get up.’

‘What about the light, Ma? How can any one glow like that?’ Rosie asked. She couldn’t stop looking at his face. There was such beauty there.

‘I’ve no idea, He don’t seem quite of this world, though, do he? Maybe that’s why he’s having so much trouble settling back here.’

‘Not of this world?’ cried Rosie. ‘Whatever do you mean?’ She turned to stare at her mother.

‘Now, don’t go minding me. I’m naught but an old fool, and I’ve no idea what I means by it, so it’s no good asking me. But it’s hardly natural to go glowing in the twilight, is it? Let’s have some candles lit, it’s past time, and that’ll put a stop to any glowing nonsense.’ Her mother busied herself with lighting all the candles and closing the curtains.

‘Now, if you’re sure you’ll be all right, I’ll leave you with him. If you gets into difficulties with him, come and get me or shout out.’ She hesitated at the door, and Rosie shooed her out.

‘Go on with you, mother. I’ll be fine.’

‘I’ll wish you a good night, then, my dear.’

‘Goodnight, Ma.’

After her mother had gone, Rosie blew out all the candles bar one, and sat down by the bed to look carefully at her patient in the half light. The faint luminescence shone from all the skin she could see. He moved restlessly, maybe missing the arms around him, and murmured something she could not understand. His night-shirt fell away from his left shoulder and she shivered involuntarily. The scar was a black stain against the light. She looked quickly at his maimed hand, clutching the jewel to his chest, but there was no darkness there. True the scar tissue didn’t glow as the surrounding skin did, but the light was still there. The shoulder wound, on the other hand, seemed to suck the light into it.

She turned again to his face, struck afresh by the difference between the drawn wariness of his waking expression and the childlike softness now. Waking, his eyebrows would be drawn together in a slight frown that marred his features. She had only seen the frown disappear, briefly, when one of the Travellers drew a laugh from him.

She got up hurriedly and lit the candles again. She hadn’t realised how closely she’d watched him over the weeks, despite avoiding all eye contact with him. She sat in the chair, next to the bed, and noticed the darning basket for the first time. Her mother had obviously not spent her day idle. She picked up a half-darned sweater. The wooden darning mushroom was sitting snug inside the sleeve, and a large needle, threaded with wool, was poked into the neat darn, to keep it safe. She picked it up and carefully carried on with the work. It was something to concentrate on other than picturing Sam stroking that face, kissing those parted lips...

She was on her third elbow before a cry or whimper made her look up. He had gone rigid again, eyes open, pupils dark and wild in the candlelight. His hands were clutching at his bedclothes, and as she watched, his whole body arched up away from the bed and then collapsed with a cry. Hurriedly Rose jabbed the needle back into the sleeve and leapt to her feet, spilling mending onto the floor. Her sudden movement was unwise, she realised, as her patient scrabbled his way up the bed and pressed himself against the headboard. He was staring at her madly. Yes, that was about it: he looked quite mad. She wondered what she would do if he became violent.

She slowed her movements and held out her hands in an open gesture, to reassure him that she meant no harm.

‘It’s me, Mr. Baggins,’ she said quietly. ‘Rosie Cotton. There’s naught to harm you here.’

‘NO, no, please, no more!’ he gasped. ‘You’ve taken everything. Oh, Elbereth, help me.’

His body whiplashed, as though under a blow, and he folded forward onto the bedding, clutching his abdomen and retching. Rosie grabbed a towel just in time as he vomited onto the bed. There was only a thin stream of yellow liquid, but the towel caught it all. She touched his night-shirt, it was damp with sweat, but thankfully he had not wet himself.

‘It’s all right, Mr. Baggins, you’re in a bad dream. Can you hear me?’

He made no sign that he could hear her, and curled into a tight ball, rocking himself and sobbing.

‘Sam,’ he whispered. ‘Sam, where are you? Sam, help me. Are you dead, my Sam? Are you dead? They will kill me soon. Will you be waiting for me? Sam!’

Rosie swallowed and reached out to touch and soothe. Remembering her mother’s words, she climbed onto the bed. There was so much agony in his voice that she ignored her own pain, and half lifted him into her arms. She tried to sound as cheerful as possible.

‘Sam is fine. We’ll fetch him tomorrow, soon as we can. There’s nothing to fear here. Hush now, hush.’ She cradled him like a small child, and he responded to her touch, if not her voice, and quietened.

‘Sam,’ he whispered, ‘it’s gone. I’ve failed.’ He clutched at his chest, and his hand closed over the jewel. He sighed and went limp in her arms.

She laid him down. It seemed as though he had swooned, rather than slipped into sleep. She bathed the sweat from his face, but only used a little water. He was cold to touch, and she didn’t want to make him any colder. She pulled the blankets over him, and stretched to ease her back. A tap on the door made her jump, and Jolly entered with a tray.

‘Is everything all right, Posie?’ he asked, setting the tray down. ‘You look rather pale.’

Rosie brushed the hair back from her eyes, and smiled wanly at her twin. ‘He had another terror attack, Wil,’ she said, her voice shaking a little. ‘They seem like real memories, not just bad dreams.’

Jolly looked at her carefully, it was so rare for her to use his real name, and it usually meant she was very upset.

‘I’ll go and get my supper and eat it here, with you,’ he said, and was gone before she could protest. She didn’t want him hearing Sam’s name spoken with such need, but she was grateful for Jolly’s company for a while.

The long night wore on. Jolly had come and gone, taking the soiled towel with him, and come again to bring her hot water and a mug of tea. He would have stayed again, but she sent him to bed. He would be up and working before dawn, and he needed his sleep.

She washed her patient’s face, hands and feet. His hands were very different from her family’s, or Sam’s for that matter. These hands were slender and soft-skinned, with no calluses apart from one on the second finger of his right hand. Very unlike the horny, rough hands of her father and brothers. She had to gently prise his right hand away from the jewel to wash the sweat from his palm, and he whimpered. She dried it quickly, dabbing over the scar, and placed it straight back over the jewel. His fingers folded over the cold, white stone, and he sighed.

His feet were another matter, criss-crossed as they were with a network of scars.

Carefully she combed out his hair to stop it getting too tangled. She tried lifting his head and dribbling a little water between his lips, but she couldn’t get him to swallow. The liquid trickled from the corner of his mouth in a thin stream. She dozed and darned and trimmed the guttering candles. After a while, he became more restless, tossing and turning, and muttering words she either could not hear or could not understand. When she felt his forehead, he was no longer cold, but burning with a fever.

The water had cooled, and she made cold compresses and pulled back his covers, so that he wouldn’t overheat. The room felt oppressive, and she drew back the curtains and threw open the window. She took several deep breaths, and the cold night air refreshed her. By the position of the stars, she judged it to be about midnight. She gazed at them for a while, then closed the window again, lest it cause a draught over the bed.

With no warning, he was in the grip of one of his terror attacks again, and she moved to help him. She didn’t hesitate this time, but - careful to avoid sudden movements - sat on the bed and cradled him in her arms. He clung to her and buried his head against her, trembling.

‘Is it really you, Sam? he whispered, so quiet she could hardly hear him. She tightened her arms around him, deciding it was best not to answer, even though he didn’t appear to hear anything she said. This time he didn’t go limp, but held tightly to her. It was difficult to disentangle herself from his grip to enable her to lay him down. She worked her way down the bed until she could lie down herself, and hooked the quilt up with her foot to keep them warm. Eventually she fell asleep with him twitching and muttering in her arms.

Her mother woke her, shaking her gently. She was disorientated at first, but flushed when she realised she was lying under the covers with a now quiet hobbit in her arms. The room was dark apart from the candle her mother carried.

‘I couldn’t get him to let go of me, Ma,’ she said, confused.

‘Don’t I know it, lass,’ her mother laughed, quietly. ‘He clung to me like a leech. How’s he been?’

‘He had two more terror attacks, and a fever took him in the night, but that seems to have gone now.’ She tried to move. ‘Can you help me get up?’

Her mother uncurled his fingers until Rosie could move her arm away, and she slid out from his grasp. She stretched her arms and wiggled her fingers.

‘What time is it?’

‘About half an hour off sunrise. Your father and brothers are having breakfast. Off you go to have a bite and a drink, and then get a sleep in your own bed. I’ve left a message for Jena to wake you later.’

‘Ma, if he’s no better we must send for Sam!’

‘I know it lass, now off you go.’

As Rosie left the room, she had no idea what the coming day was to bring.