“Frodo? Frodo!” The magisterial voice insisted upon being heard. “Come to the light. Come to the sound of my voice. Peace and healing are here. Come back, Frodo Baggins. Come to the light. Come back.”

He ignored its melodious sounds. He had heard it before, somewhere in his dim memory. It was familiar. Once he had followed it out to pain and forgetfulness. The voice was now too bright. Too much light. Too white and clear and shining. Like summer sunshine. Like mountain air after a refreshing rain. Too pure for the likes of his wretched self.

“No. Go away. I do not seek your light. Leave me alone in the shadows. I am corrupt. I failed. I belong here.”

“Frodo? Frodo!” The frightfully powerful voice continued. “Come back to us.”

A second, even more powerful voice joined in the singing. This voice was a painfully bright mix of deep watery blue and pale gold. “Come back to your life, Ringbearer. Listen to the song of Arda. Hear the music of creation. Come back to the light. Peace and healing are within your grasp. Forgiveness lies within yourself.”

“No. Leave me alone. You are too bright. You are hurting me. Please stop. I cannot abide your brightness. You are piercing me. Ah, my heart! It hurts so. Stop the singing. Please. I am weary. I am too dirty for you. Leave me alone.”

Another fainter voice joined in the singing. “Frodo? My love.” This also sounded familiar, but in a different way. The voice was a soothing soft green. Not a harsh, blazing pure white or blue. Green as in the grass around Bag End in the early spring. New leaves on willow trees. He could tolerate this voice easier than the others. It sang a faint descant to the overpowering bright voices, but was distinguishable from it. Like the sound of a nightingale heard above the din of funeral drums and trumpets. He decided to concentrate on this voice. “Frodo? Take my hand, love. Come back to me. It is easy. Gently. Slowly. Listen to my voice and take my hand. Come back to me, my love.”

He was curious about this voice. It seemed fresh and young and not too overpowering. Perhaps even timid. This one did not hurt. Perhaps he would turn towards this voice. It was compelling like the white voice, and supported with the terrible strength of the blue voice, but it was different. Smaller. Safer. More ‘right’ if that word could be used. More like himself. He didn’t feel threatened by the green voice. He was afraid he would be burned in the white voice’s song. Or drowned in the vastness of the blue. But if he joined in with the green voice, perhaps it would stop the hurt. He decided to trust the green voice.

“Yes. I come, but I am afraid. Don’t let the shadows hurt me any more, please? Don’t let me be swallowed into the brightness. I am so tired of the cold and pain. So tired…”

“Frodo!” The three voices sang in unison. “The shadows depart and are gone. Come into our light. Come back. Join in singing the praises of Eru and of love.” The green voice became solo, carrying him along upwards towards a dim, golden haze. It was warm there. He could finally be warm again. He surrendered at last to the green voice.

Frodo opened his eyes to find himself in his bed in Rivendell. It was late evening, judging by the blackness outside the window and the golden-red glow from the well-stoked fire. Frodo sighed. It had happened again. He knew it in his aching bones and in his phantom finger. His jaw and neck hurt and his left side felt numb, but at least he was awake.

“Welcome back, Frodo Baggins.” The white voice was talking. Frodo turned his head to his left and saw Lord Elrond standing beside his bed. The tall, stately Elf stood revealed in a bright white blaze to Frodo’s enhanced vision. He had both his hands upon Frodo’s bare left shoulder, his ring of power imparting its own warmth into the old scar. He smiled briefly at the tired hobbit, then returned his concentration upon the treatment.

The Lady Galadriel stood behind Lord Elrond, her slender hands upon the stately Elf lord’s shoulders, her ring of power blazing a bright blue. She appeared to Frodo as if he were looking at her from underwater – her very form wavering and shifting inside a mantle of power. It was disquieting and comforting all at the same time. The melancholy sweet promise of drowning. Of giving up to elements beyond his control. Drowning would be so easy. So familiar. So sweet and final. She would relish his acquiescence, he was sure. She would eat his soul.

Frodo turned his head to the right and was rewarded with a vision of Iris. She was sitting on his bed, holding his right hand, clothed in a soft green aura. He recognized her as the green voice. She bent down and kissed his feverish cheek, her soft brown curls brushing his naked chest.

“Hello, love,” she tenderly said, gently caressing his own sweat-soaked greying curls. “I am so glad you’re back with us.” Her soothing voice was a balm for his weary soul. “What hurts right now, love?”

Frodo couldn’t speak at first, his jaw ached so much. He swallowed painfully and Iris gathered some pillows to prop his head up. After drinking a weak medicinal tea of some sort, he was finally able to mumble, “Neck. Jaw.”

“Can you move your left hand for me?” Iris inquired. Frodo was able to comply, much to his surprise. Elrond and Galadriel stopped their ministrations. Galadriel seemed to retract her power back into the ring, then retreated to the foot of the bed. Elrond had Frodo lean forward slightly so that he could examine the back of Frodo’s neck. The stately elf’s touch was immediately soothing. Frodo let out an involuntary sigh and closed his eyes. Iris brought over a fragrant cool compress and placed it against his aching jaw. It smelled of fresh clover and apples. “Better?”

He nodded. It did feel better. At least he knew where he was and who they were. It was better than last time. Frodo opened his eyes and looked about the room. Much to his chagrin, they were not alone. Bilbo sat in a hobbit-sized chair in the corner, smoking his pipe and creating a series of small grey smoke rings which disappeared up the chimney. He winked at Frodo and smiled. Frodo managed a weak smile back at his Uncle. Gandalf was sitting in a Elf-sized chair next to Bilbo, also smoking. He blew an elaborate blue smoke ring in the shape of a dragon and sent it chasing off after Bilbo’s smaller smoke rings. Gandalf also smiled and winked at Frodo.

Galadriel was standing at the foot of the bed, intently watching Frodo. For some unaccountable reason he suddenly wished to be released from her gaze. He had never felt uncomfortable around the Elf Queen before. But there was something she wanted from him now. Something so important to her that she was willing to even give up what little power remained in her ring to help in his healing. But what could he possibly have which she craved? He no longer had the One Ring. He could think of nothing he had which she could possibly want. Frodo’s lips tightened slightly as he shook his head.

Time stood still. Galadriel continued to stand at his feet; silent, immovable, and as unfathomable as a sapphire statue. Staring at him with an unreadable expression. Frodo felt as if she was holding a debate within herself on whether to attempt to get back inside his head or not. But her blue aura was faltering as he continued to gaze at her. He blinked and saw her as a slender elf-maiden fair as dew on the dawn of the world - not as the commanding Ringbearer of Ninya, the element of Water. The room was ominously quiet as everyone waited for the growing tension between the two to be broken. Finally, Frodo closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows. Galadriel abruptly turned and departed without saying a word.

“May I have a moment alone with Iris, please?” Frodo asked. He hoped he was understood, as his voice sounded more like the croaking of frogs than a normal voice to his sensitive ears. Elrond released his neck and bowed slightly.

“Come Gandalf. Bilbo,” the Elf-lord intoned. “We shall return when you are ready, Frodo. For now, sleep and recover. You have had a long afternoon, but you are safe here.” They left the room to the two hobbits.

“Iris?” Frodo asked, “did I … did I do … um… anything bad or strange this time? Did I insult Galadriel or anyone else? I do not remember anything after coming back to bed following my visit with Bilbo in the morning.” Her aura was fading, as was his headache.

“No, my love,” she replied, wiping his brow. “This time you only stayed in the shadow land while unconscious. You were never in danger and never presented a danger to others. You have nothing to worry about or fear.” She kissed his cheek again. “And I have learned a lot from Lord Elrond about your illness. I feel much more confident in treating you from now on.” Iris smiled. “It was an excellent idea to come here at this time, even if I am the one who suggested it. And even if I can never use this technique ever again.”

“You seem terribly smug for some reason,” Frodo blinked and tried to smile, but only managed to look slightly less pained. “I do not feel much better than last time, to be quite honest.”

“Ah, but you are much improved,” she said. “You have control over your left arm. You did not loose yourself to your memories this time. Your breathing and pulse remained steady and strong throughout the episode. And you responded to my calls while you were in the echo of the shadow world.”

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“Do you remember having a nightmare?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “Bilbo had the Ring and was taunting me with it. The Nazgul were after me again, and again I was stabbed. I heard voices calling me. I could not bear to look at the white or the blue voice, so I decided to go with the green voice.”

Iris caressed his curls, gently wrapping a lock around his finely-pointed ear. “You would have come out of your nightmare by yourself, given time. Lord Elrond, the Lady Galadriel and I only helped guide you today. He has taught me so much in these last few days. I feel confident that we can weather whatever illnesses you have, no matter where in Middle Earth we live.”

Frodo closed his eyes and sighed in contentment. “Um… . My mother used to do that after reading a bedtime story.”

“Twisted a lock of hair around your ear?” she asked, continuing the gentle, smooth motion.

“Yes,” he sighed. “It’s so soothing. So calming. Like you.”

Iris continued to caress his curls until she was certain he was asleep. Tucking the covers about his frame, she quietly left the room, only to bump into Elrond awaiting her in the hallway.

“Please come with me, Doctor. We need to discuss further treatments for Frodo.” They walked down the hallway and entered the elf-lord’s private study. Iris seated herself on the low carved wooden stool she had been using for the past few days. Elrond sat at his desk, one hand supporting his chin as he gazed through the intricately-carved wooden latticework; the other lightly tapping rhythm on the polished desktop. He finally spoke.

“You know we only treated the symptoms this time?”

Iris nodded and folded her hands in her lap.

“There is no cure for this illness in Middle Earth,” he continued. “The poison has fully infiltrated his body and cannot be removed.” He sat back into his carved chair. “Frodo will suffer relapses for the rest of his life and they cannot be predicted.”

Iris frowned. “But… but he did better this time.”

“Only because the Lady Galadriel and I were here and were able to use what little power remains in our Rings. This will never happen again.”

The Elf-lord watched as the magnitude of what he said registered on Iris’s face. “The poison has affected some of his internal organs, doctor,” he continued. “Frodo will probably experience pain not only in his joints, but also in his stomach.” Elrond’s normally serene face darkened into a look or utter regret. “And I am sorry to say this, as I know you are to marry him, but the poison has also affected his ability to father children.”

Iris could feel a rush of blood spreading across her cheeks. She looked down into her hands. Her empty hands. “There’s no hope for children?” she quietly asked.

“There is always hope, my dear,” Elrond smiled. “But it might be best for you to not even attempt to become pregnant.”

Iris sighed and then straightened an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt. Frodo was her patient and she would do whatever was in her power to alleviate his distress.

“Frodo may not have long to live,” Elrond continued. “I want you to fully know what you are getting into, Doctor. His health will always be precarious at best. There is no cure for him here.”

Iris’s secret hopes for a cure crumpled into bitter dust upon hearing the final diagnosis. “We must discuss this with him,” she finally said. “I left him sleeping.”

“Go back to him, my dear,” Elrond said, his heart going out in sympathy to the obviously-distressed hobbitess. “Frodo needs you more than ever, and your presence brings him more comfort and rest than all the Elvish medicine in Rivendell.”

“Come with me, please,” she asked. “He needs to hear what you have to say. And I… well… I am reluctant to be the one to tell him.”

Frodo was awake when they returned. He had climbed out of bed and was dressing himself as they entered. Sometime during his ordeal, his clothes had been removed and he found himself in nothing save his nightshirt.

“I found you in bed at about eleven bells, fully-clothed, cold, and tossing about a bit,” Iris said as she handed Frodo a pair of his breeches. “When you didn’t fully awake, I went and brought Lord Elrond in. We managed to get you to undress yourself and put on your nightshirt. You were quite cooperative, even if not fully aware.”

This upset him, knowing that he was unconscious for so long. “Iris, I do not remember a thing about that,” he said. “I really do not remember anything after leaving Bilbo’s study.” He rubbed his still-sore neck and settled into a chair beside the fireplace.

“Don’t worry too much about it, love,” Iris said as she came over and started massaging his tight muscles. “You were asleep most of the time. Lord Elrond sedated you with a rather strong spell. You probably will not remember much. Rest assured, you mostly slept the afternoon away. You did not wander about or get up or even talk in your sleep much this time.”

The stately Elf pulled another chair up to the fire and settled into it.

“I talked in my sleep again?” he asked, letting her strong fingers kneed the kinks and pain out of his old wound. “What did I talk about this time?”

“Oh, I think you thought you were back at Brandy Hall in Buckland,” she said. “You must have been reliving something from your past a long time ago, since you mentioned your mother.” Iris kissed him on the neck. “I went ahead and let you think that I was your mother at one point, since that seemed to bring you great comfort. You went back to sleep after that, and rested for quite a long time.”

“I think I have had quite enough rest for now,” Frodo said. He glanced from Elrond to Iris and did not like what he saw. Iris was avoiding direct eye contact. Frodo stilled her fingers from their massage and brought her around to face him. “Go ahead,” he quietly said. “Give me the bad news.”

Iris looked down into her empty hands. Frodo held Elrond’s steady gaze.

“Today’s treatment was unique,” the elf-lord said. “It will never be accomplished again. As apt a pupil as your dear physician is,” he turned to smile at Iris, then looked back at Frodo, “the gifts given to the First Born are not those given to those who follow. When the Elves depart, this type of treatment will also depart. You will have to rely on herblore and mortal medical practices. Such is your fate, Frodo Baggins, unless you decide to go with us to the Undying Lands.”

Frodo nodded in understanding. “I do have a question. Will these episodes become worse over time? What can I expect?”

“I cannot tell,” Elrond said. “Your body might somehow process the poison through the years. If that happens, the symptoms will lessen. But I must warn you. I have seen one other mortal who survived a Morgul-blade and lived to tell the tale. He was a Gondorian Prince and lived many years in constant pain after the wounding. It eventually wore him away to nothing.”

“But… But you said Frodo is not responding like that patient!” Iris angrily interjected. “Frodo came back! He recovered. He only gets these outbursts twice a year.”

“I have had them at other time too, Iris,” Frodo quietly corrected.

“When?” Iris asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It happened during the Quest.” Frodo became extremely still and introspective. He rubbed his left shoulder as a reflex to the memory. “When the Nazgul were nearby. But they are destroyed now. I did not think it necessary to tell you.”

“Oh, Frodo,” Iris sighed, sank down to the floor and patted him on the knee. “You need to tell your physicians everything. Who knows. Some little snippet of information may be the key to your recovery.”

“The only place where Frodo might find true recovery is in Tol Erassea,” Elrond softly said. “This wound will never fully heal here in Middle Earth. Of this, I am certain.”

The look of hurt which crossed Iris’s face was almost too much for Frodo to bear. “Lord Elrond? Would you please give Iris and me some time alone?”

The Master of Rivendell stood looked knowingly at Iris. She scowled and nodded slightly. Elrond bowed to the Ringbearer. “Whatever your decision, you are welcome to remain here in Rivendell for as long as you need.” He departed with a swirl of dark grey robes.

“Iris?” Frodo took her hand. “I fear Lord Elrond is correct. I shall not improve over time. I can feel it in my bones. In my blood. In my heart. I will suffer from this illness the rest of my life.”

He looked at her down turned face. “Tell me the rest of it.”

She couldn’t bring herself to meet his quiet gaze. She couldn’t. It was too painful. But her duty as a physician to tell her patient the truth forced her to speak. “We…. We can’t have children,” she finally managed to say. Another silent tear escaped.

“I know,” he whispered. “I have known for at least a year now. If it bothers you, we can call off the wedding.” A look of infinite sadness came to his blue eyes. “I do not wish to burden you as a husband who has such an illness. I will not hold you to your vow, if you decide against marrying me. I will understand.”

“Oh, sweet Eru, Frodo,” she sighed. “I cannot imagine what you lived through, nor what pain you continue to suffer. But I swear I will be there for you, no matter what. I love you, Frodo Baggins. And if you will have me, I shall be your wife. In sickness and in health. Wherever in Middle Earth you are, there I desire to remain.” She placed her head in his lap, a silent tear escaping from her tightly shut eyes.

Frodo sighed and began to wrap one of her long brown curls around her exposed ear. “Then we shall marry, my love. Day after tomorrow.”