* * *
Frodo thought he could have easily died on the spot. All the strength had left him, even breathing seemed the most difficult of tasks.
He had never felt so horribly sick in all his life. It was as if both his body and mind were rejecting that awful reality.
He had avoided Sam, not talking to him for days, with the conviction that it was the best for them both. But Frodo had always taken Sam’s presence for granted. He simply knew that Sam was there, always to be found in the garden of Bag End. Now that the young gardener was going to leave, Frodo realized that he couldn’t do without him.
He had already experienced loss and separations, he knew how painful it was to be parted from the people he cherished most. He had to say farewell to his beloved parents when he was twelve, and had suffered from being far from Merry and Pippin, his young cousins, whom he loved with all his heart.
And now Sam. It seemed like a cruel joke.
Warm tears started to streak Frodo’s face, soaking into the pillow. He let them fall freely, surrendering to the sharp pain that was tearing his soul and the guilt that was threatening to suffocate him. Sam, dearest Sam. Unable to do anything else, Frodo gave in to his desperation, and cried until he was asleep again.
Hours later, a gentle knock on the door awoke him. The sun was already sinking, her last rays warming the room in a red-gold glow.
“Frodo, my lad, you’ve been in bed all day! Are you feeling sick?”
Bilbo sounded quite worried, and his hand began to gently stroke Frodo’s slightly sweaty forehead.
Slowly, Frodo opened his swollen eyes and tried to focus on Bilbo. The old hobbit was gazing at him, barely hiding a genuine concern with his fond smile.
“Don’t worry Uncle, I’m afraid I drank too much last night. I’m feeling better now.” His head had relented its merciless throbbing, and Frodo got out of the bed. But as he tried to stand, his legs failed him and he had to sit again.
Bilbo steadied him, holding his shoulders.
“Here, Frodo, you definitely have a huge hangover. Dear lad, this will not do. You are almost of age, you have to learn when to stop.” The master of Bag End sighed at the careless behaviour of his young nephew. “Now, if you put some clothes on, I will help you out in the garden. A bit of fresh air will do you some good.”
Frodo muttered something unintelligible, dressed up, and leaning on Bilbo, made it outside to the wooden bench beside the green door.
“Now, stay here, and I will fetch you a mug of my old remedy. It never fails putting a hobbit’s stomach right again”.
After he had finished Bilbo’s awful draught and breathed deeply in the fresh evening breeze, Frodo had to admit that he felt decidedly better. Some strength had returned to his legs, so he ventured to the well to pump a bucket of cold water so he could wash his face.
When he returned to the bench, Bilbo was puffing smoke circles from his pipe.
“You know about Sam, Frodo?”
“I know, Bilbo. I heard him and the Gaffer talking to you.” He sighed and felt his stomach turn upside down again.
“It’s strange, really strange to me,” said Bilbo. “Do you think there is a reason for this?”
