He knew it would happen, and there was no way he could stop it. This time he was afraid. Very afraid. Not for himself. No. Not for himself. He was afraid for her.

Frodo trembled in the dark, desperately hoping Iris would not be awakened with his tossing and turning. She had come in late from an emergency and was exhausted. He was startled out of troubled sleep with the old, familiar pain in his shoulder and neck.

Frodo tossed off the quilt and slid out of bed, almost collapsing on the floor when his leg tried to buckle. ‘Must be raining,’ he thought. The wound in his thigh from Ted Sandyman’s attack still bothered him when it rained. He steadied himself and gently pulled the blankets back up around Iris. She murmured a little hum in her sleep, turned over and was still.

The room felt freezing to him, but he knew it was only an illusion. Never the less, he could not help himself as he added fresh kindling to the banked fireplace coals. Cold. He was so cold. He could hear the rain sporadically spattering against the window panes. A chilling, relentless rain left over from the previous evening. He quietly placed a large log upon the small fire, then wrapped himself in one of the extra quilts they kept in the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, grimacing as the chest squeaked shut. He sat as close to the fire as he could without setting his wrap ablaze.

Cold. The only time he felt truly warm was after he and Iris made love.

“Frodo?”

He could see as clearly as a cat in the darkness. She sat up in bed, stray curls hanging loose across her white forehead. She was looking at him from across the room. “Come back to bed. It’s not even daylight. I miss you.”

“What day is it?” he mumbled through chattering teeth.

“Um…I guess it’s the sixth by now,” Iris muttered as she lay her heavy head back into the pillow. “The sixth of Octo…” She bolted upright. “Shiest! It’s the sixth! Frodo? Are you all right?” Iris threw off the bed clothes and ran across the rug to him. He shrank back from her sudden movement.

“Iris?” He looked intently at her face. “It is happening again. This one is going to be rough.” He curled up inside himself and hugged the quilt tighter to his shaking body.

“All right,” Iris said. “We knew it would be. But you are still here with me. It isn’t as bad as last time, is it?”

“No,” he said, not looking up. “I am here, but I am so cold.”

Iris added another log onto the fire. “Come back to bed, love. I’ll get the extra blankets and brew you some medicine for the pain.” She persuaded him back into their four-poster bed and added two thick comforters to the quilts. He sighed, curling into a fetal position on his right side. “I’ll be right back,” she said, quickly putting on her robe and disappearing into the kitchen.

In a few minutes she reappeared, bearing strong pain tea and a bowl of steaming water and dried athelas. Frodo sat up in bed and swallowed the tea in one gulp. He was quite cooperative and let her bathe the old wound in the warm athelas water.

As the grey light of dawn finally spilled into the bedroom through the misty rain, Frodo’s shaking subsided and he drifted off into a deep sleep. Iris dressed during the quiet; taking a little time to brew herself some calming chamomile tea and eat a little breakfast.

What to do? She was expected at the physician’s offices in Hobbiton for some scheduled surgery this morning, followed by an afternoon trip to a home-bound patient in West Hobbiton. Perhaps she could get Sam to go into town and let Opal reschedule. Or Opal could take the afternoon visit while she did the surgery and then came home? Or maybe Rose and Elanor could spend the day here looking after Frodo? Her internal deliberations were interrupted.

“That smells good. May I join you?”

Frodo stood in the doorframe, fully dressed and quite calm. He was leaning onto a small carved wooden cane in his right hand, his left arm swaddled in a dark blue sling brought back from Rivendell. Typical of the Elves, even something as functional as a sling was of exquisite material and design accent. Threads of finest silver glinted in the soft morning light. Iris noted that the buttons on his shirt were off by one.

“Oh, honey, let me fix that for you.” Iris came out of her chair.

“Fix what?” He blinked rather lethargically.

“The shirt buttons are misaligned,” she replied as she kissed his cheek and unfastened the brass buttons of the vest to reach the shirt. She couldn’t resist running her fingernails over his exposed, smooth chest. After all was made straight, Frodo kissed her back. He limped over to his chair and sat at the kitchen table.

“You must be feeling better,” Iris said, relieved that the recurring nightmare episode had passed so quickly. She poured him a cup of strong black tea and sliced off some bread. She knew he would be slow and subdued from the effects of the pain medication.

Frodo stirred a spoonful of honey into the black tea. “A little left-over headache and the usual shoulder pain, but much better.” He smiled with resignation written all over his face. “You said it would take a year for my stab wound to fully heal. Seems like every time it rains it aches. Oh well. No heavy lifting for me today, but I think I can occupy myself with a little correspondence.”

“Are you sure?” Iris asked. The clock chimed nine bells. If she left now she would get to the offices only a little late for the surgery. Opal would have opened the reception area and would have everything for surgery ready to go. Everyone would be waiting for her.

Frodo again smiled faintly. “Certainly. Go on. I shall stay here and rest. I will see you tonight.”

Iris was so proud of him. He was doing SO much better than last spring. She kissed him on top of his head as he continued to mechanically stir his tea. “I’ll see you when I’m through with this morning’s surgery. If you start feeling poorly again, make yourself some of the medicine tea. I’ll leave it out on the countertop. And don’t forget that Sam and Rose and Elanor are down the hallway if you need someone to talk to.” She grabbed her keys and cloak and departed.

The tea tasted bland. The bread, dry. The raspberry jam, unappealing. His taste buds were off. Consequently, nothing was satisfying. He mechanically ate; grateful for food of any sort. After his ordeal in the wastes of Gorgoroth, Frodo never took food or water for granted, even if he was unable to enjoy their taste. It was a quirk he shared with Sam. Neither hobbit ever let any food or drink go to waste. Rose dealt with Sam’s food obsession by keeping dried fruits always available. Sam secretly kept a handkerchief of dried fruits in the inside pocket of his waistcoat, just in case.

Frodo didn’t remember moving into the little front parlor after breakfast, but found himself at his desk staring out the window at the drip, drip, drip falling from the withered grass blades over the eaves. ‘Such a sad sound,’ he thought. ‘Yet it is the sound of life. I wonder if it is raining in Mordor. I wonder if it will ever rain there again. It must rain there occasionally, for we found thorns and bracken growing. Painful, twisted life, but life never the less. Life is tenacious. It continues long after all logical thought says it should give up and die.’

His thoughts were interrupted by a tentative knock at the front door. The unusual sound startled Frodo, causing him to knock over the tea cup perched precariously on the edge of the desk. It bounced on the hardwood floor; the saucer breaking in two and cold tea splashing across his feet. ‘Oh, bother,’ Frodo sourly thought. “Just a minute,” he yelled at the unexpected visitor. He threw his handkerchief over the puddle, found his cane, and hurriedly limped to the circular entranceway.

“Good morning, Mister Baggins, sir.” Dibble Culvert whipped off his soggy hat and bowed slightly, shifting his weight back and forth as he stood in the doorway. The wet hobbit wouldn’t quite meet Frodo’s gaze.

“Do we know each other?” Frodo quizzed. He didn’t think he had ever been introduced to this hobbit who evidently knew his name and where he lived.

“Uh, no sir; not rightly anyways,” Dibble stammered. “Me name’s Dibble Culvert and I work over at Sandyman’s mill down Bywater way.”

“Oh,” Frodo said, still puzzled. “Goodness. Where are my manners? Please come in.”

Frodo held open the door with his good hand as Dibble shuffled nervously inside. “Please, come on back into my study,” Frodo said, leading the way into the first room off the entranceway. Frodo went to pick up the broken saucer and teacup, but Dibble intercepted.

“Uh, let me get that for you, Mr. Baggins, sir.” Dibble scooped up the broken china and put the sodden handkerchief inside the cup.

“Thank you, Mr. Culvert,” Frodo smiled. Dibble kept twisting his hat in his hands, even after he sat down in the chair proffered. Frodo eased himself into his leather chair by the fire and set his cane aside, careful to not bump the left arm in its sling against the armrest. Dibble watched the motion, and frowned slightly.

“Now, what may I do for you?” Frodo asked.

“Shiriff Bolger sent me over,” Dibble said. “He said you’d be the one to help me out in buying the mill.”

“I cannot see how you could possibly purchase Mr. Sandyman’s mill, Mr. Culvert. A year has not yet passed since his disappearance, and his estate cannot be disposed of until he is declared legally deceased after that time.”

“Oh. Guess you haven’t heard the news then, sir,” Dibble nervously said. “Some of the Big Folk round Bree found Ted’s body ‘bout a week ago. His Breeland cousins identified it, even though it were missing its head and left hand.” Dibble looked at his feet. “Poor Teddy.” He suddenly sat bolt upright. “Oh, forgive me, Mr. Baggins, sir. I know you probably hate Ted, and I have no right to talk about him like that in front of you. And in your own house, too! It’s just…well, Teddy was my friend at one time. He brought the trouble to himself, make no mistake about that. What he did was unforgivable. And I’m so sorry about him attacking you. I’m so sorry, Mr. Baggins.” The hobbit twisted the poor hat into a band of useless cloth.

Frodo sighed quietly. “Mr. Culvert, you might not believe this, but I never hated Ted Sandyman, even after the attack. I have experienced so much hatred and evil in my travels, that I have no room for such in my heart. I only wish Ted had repented of his evil. I am sorry to hear of his terrible demise, and feel sympathy towards his family and friends.”

“Friend,” Dibble corrected. “I think I was Ted’s only friend. But he wouldn’t listen to me, and now he’s dead.” Dibble sighed.

“Have the Shiriffs or the Bree Patrol identified the killers?” Frodo quietly asked.

“No sir,” Dibble replied. “But Shiriff Bolger tells me Captain Brandybuck thinks it was a group of Big Folk in some army out there in the Wild, and we wouldn’t be hearing no more from them anyway. Can’t say as anyone thought it unusual that Ted ended up dead, but to have his head and hand cut off…” Dibble shivered.

“Anyways, Teddy’s closest relatives are his cousins,” Dibble continued. “They got together and decided none of ‘em knew anything about running a mill. So they’re gonna sell it. They offered it to me, and I’d sure like to buy it, but I don’t have enough copper, you see. I got about half what I need.”

“And how did you get my name?” Frodo asked.

“Shiriff Bolger’s wife is one of Ted’s cousins,” Dibble said. “Mrs. Bolger is representing the Sandyman family in the selling of the mill. She and Shiriff Bolger said you would have the answer.”

A sudden pain shot through Frodo’s aching shoulder. He couldn’t help but close his eyes in an attempt to control the pain while in front of his guest.

“Is..is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Baggins?” Dibble asked. “I feel so guilty about you getting injured and all.”

Frodo mastered himself and sank back further into the easy chair. “I shall be all right in a moment or so.” He opened his eyes and looked at the concerned hobbit sitting across the rug from him. “Why should you feel guilty about my injuries?”

Dibble blushed a deep red. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Baggins. Really I am. You see, Teddy told me he was gonna attack you the day before he did it. He tried to get me in on it, but I told him to take a hike. I didn’t want no part in it. But I didn’t think he would actually go do it. I didn’t think he had enough guts to do it himself. If I had known…I should have warned you or the Shiriff or someone. Then you wouldn’t be injured and Teddy might still be alive.”

Dibble stood and bowed stiffly. “It was wrong of me to come here and bother you like this, Mr. Baggins, sir. I don’t know what I was thinkin’. I’ll leave now and bother you no more.”

“Sit down, please, Mr. Culvert.” Frodo’s voice could not be questioned. Dibble sat immediately.

“I do not hold a grudge against Mr. Sandyman or against you,” Frodo continued. “The injury I received from Ted is healing. This current pain is from another wound I suffered while on my travels. It has nothing to do with either you or Mr. Sandyman. Now, please, shall we continue our discussions about the mill?”

For the next hour Frodo and Dibble discussed how the mill was being run, what it needed in the future, and financing for the mill’s purchase from the Sandyman heirs. Dibble was a shrewd analyst of the needs of the area’s families. He had millwork projections for the rest of the year, and had taken into account the small population increase which had happened after the “Troubles” of 1419. In the end, Frodo decided to trust the mill worker and invest in him. Frodo was the one who suggested commissioning a new, second millstone from the Scary Quarries, with delivery as soon as possible. The purchase date was set, and the miller departed in a much happier mood than when he arrived.

Frodo was also in a better mood. His shoulder wound still ached and his left arm was cold, but the pain in his thigh had receded with the rain. The early afternoon sun shone upon the wet landscape out his window. Frodo made himself a meager late lunch, then went back to work on the mill finances.

He didn’t hear Iris arrive a little after fourteen bells.