Samwise Gamgee looked anxiously at his master as the walked among the trees. “Mr. Frodo, you ought never to have gone in that water after me. I’d rather be drowned a hundred times than see you shiverin’ the way you are.”

“Don’t worry, Sam, I’m just tired. You gave me quite a fright, you know, and then all this walking we’ve done…” Frodo trailed off, trying to think of a way to change the focus of the conversation from himself.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I know shiverin’ when I see it. An’ I’ll bet you my own wheelbarrow that you ain’t tired just from walkin’.”

“Sam, I’m fine,” Frodo insisted. An uncomfortable silence followed. Suddenly, Frodo felt something he hadn’t felt since springtime in the Shire– a peculiar sensation welling up in the back of his nose. He’d sneezed since the spring, of course, but this was a different sort of foreboding feeling. When this feeling came up, he would almost invariably have what Sam called a “fit” or a “spell”. Frodo remembered the spring in which Samwise had first introduced the marigolds to Bag End’s soil. When the first one had sprung from the ground, it had set Frodo’s nasal passages on fire. But the gardener had been so infatuated with them that Frodo had endured every spring with a case of the sniffles.

The nostalgia was broken when the feeling worked its way forward. Frodo sniffled and rubbed his nose. He then gave his head a good, vigorous shake his wet curls falling out of his elven cloak. Perhaps if he could stave off the first sneeze, he would be all right. He swallowed and the burning sensation seemed to dissipate. He took a breath to sigh in relief, and it proved to be his undoing. The feeling returned with a vengeance. His eyes tearing, his breath caught. He took a few shuddering gasps and frantically brought the elven cloak to his nose to catch the massive sneezes.

“Huh, hut-choo! Uh-ISHoo!” The force of the last sneeze caused Frodo to double over. “I am sorry, Sam,” he said, embarrassed, as he wiped his eyes and nose on his waterlogged handkerchief.

“Oh, bless you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam cried in dismay, “You’ve gone and caught a chill! Sit yourself down for a while. A bit of rest will do you good…”

“No, Sam, it won’t do to stop before nightfall. Besides, I’m sure it’s just the sunlight.” But as the sun sank into the west, Frodo’s excuse would hold up no longer. The burning in his sinuses simply would not stop, and in a desperate attempt to relieve it he allowed himself a stifled sneeze. Sam turned in worry. Frodo opened his mouth to calm his friend, and the irritation flared up immensely. Frodo closed his eyes; he knew this feeling. There would be many, and they wouldn’t be stopped. Again he grasped at the elven cloak. “Sam,” Frodo tried in vain to warn the other hobbit, “I… Huh-choo! Uh-Ishoo! Hmp-Choo! Shoo! Huh… uh-ishish! Oh…” Frodo realised Sam’s arm was around him.

Sam had seen this kind of fit from his master before in times of illness, and sometimes in the spring without apparent cause. “More?” Sam asked, though he already knew the answer. Frodo nodded, unable to speak before being assaulted with another wave.

“Hut-choo! Choo! UshIsh! Huh… hupt-choo! sniff Oh, thank the stars,” Frodo pulled his sodden handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. Sam patted Frodo on the back, his concern deepening though not apparent in his comforting tone.

“There now, it’s passed. Now let your Sam build you a good warm fire and we’ll rest here tonight.”

“No, Sam, I’m fine. We’ll just keep going for a little while longer…”

-TBC

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All belongs to Tolkien, etc, etc, etc.