"What does it say?" Frodo growls.

"The Queen requests the pleasure of your company, my lord, at tea time today.  What shall I tell the messenger, lord?"

Frodo curses and scratches his backside frantically.  He cannot see the Queen in the state he is in.  The thought of putting on clothes alone irks him and thinking of walking the short distance to the palace on his itching soles mortifies him.  And what if he cannot help scratching in front of the Queen! 

But there is no way out of the situation.  If he begs the Queen to excuse him, he is sure that she will come herself to see if he is all right—especially since she knows that none of his companions are around.   Better to see her all prepared than to have her come into his room unannounced and catch him scratching a very intimate part of his anatomy, which at the moment is itching dreadfully.

He sighs wearily.  "Tell the messenger to thank the Queen for me.  I shall certainly come."

Maybe if he takes another hot bath it will pass.  Or maybe he can just drown himself in the bath and spare himself the embarrassment.

He scratches his nose in exasperation.

***

While the lady-in-waiting turns her back on him, he takes advantage of the situation by scratching his backside.

"Your Majesty," calls the woman reverently.  "The Halfling Frodo Baggins."

She opens the door wider and Frodo walks out into one of the more private terraces where the King and Queen entertain their closest friends. 

"My lady."  Frodo bows low, furtively scratching his breast.

"My dear Frodo," greets the Queen sweetly, her voice like chimes in gentle wind.  "Come and sit here beside me."

He walks to the white wooden swing where the Queen sits, and climbs onto it, sitting back and self-consciously folding his hands on his lap to keep himself from scratching.  He stares at the Queen.

She is, as always, the perfect picture of loveliness.  But now Frodo senses a shadow of sadness in her bright, grey eyes.  More than that, he believes he sees evidence of a recent bout of crying on the Queen's smooth, white cheeks.  And on the table next to the swing, there are two slender bottles—one empty and the other nearly so—of what is unmistakably Lorien-made wine.  Frodo had tasted it while the company sojourned in Caras Galadhon, and while nothing he has ever drunk can ever hope to vie with the delightful sensation of the light golden liquid washing down his throat, he also remembers that it took mere sips to send him careering into oblivion, and that the morning after he had begged Sam to tie him down to his bed because he was mortally afraid he might float up to the sky and burst into a million bubbles.

"My Lady," he ventures carefully.  "Has anything happened?  You have been weeping."

The Queen gazes at Frodo, trying unsuccessfully to put up a brave smile, and a drop of crystalline tear slides down her cheek.   "It is naught but loneliness, dear Frodo," she says in a low-tone.  Another rivulet trails its way down the lovely face, catching the rays of the afternoon sun, and Frodo scoots forward and offers her his handkerchief.

"Thank you," whispers Arwen, dabbing her face with the white cloth.  "I do not wish you to think that I have invited you only to while away the time until my lord returns from his journey, nay.  I meant to speak to you of Bilbo.  But a shadow has been growing on my mind since last night and though I have struggled to stay the tears, it was to no avail.  I am sorry, Frodo."

For a while Frodo forgets about the burning itch in his lower back and behind his ears.  He wants so much to reach out and pat the Queen's hand, but he wonders if it is proper. 

"He shall return shortly, my lady," he says gently.  "I will not say I understand what you feel.  But my Pippin is with the King's host and I miss him too.  But we both know that they are much more needed where they are now."

"Indeed, you are right, Frodo," says the Queen with a very soft, elvish hiccup.  "I know my lord Estel carries a heavy burden on his shoulders.  He is needed everywhere at once, to heal and to rebuild.  I should have been stronger for him, giving him the support and aid that he needs.  But…  But…"

The tears fall more freely now, dripping onto the Queen's mauve dress.  Frodo reaches out tentatively and softly pats the Queen on her arm.  He heaves a sigh of relief when the Queen's face does not emerge looking outraged from behind his sodden handkerchief. 

"The wait has been so long, Frodo, and full of uncertainties and fear.  I have sacrificed so much to be with Estel," the Queen sobs.  "Can he not spare me more of his thought and his time?  We have only been wedded for less than a week and already he has left me alone.  Cannot the affairs of the realm wait?"

Frodo's eyes grow wider as he stares with incredulity at the Queen.  If he had less tact and were not overfond of the Queen, he might have laughed at the situation.  There he is, his whole body buzzing with itchy rash, listening to the woes of the newly-wed Queen of Gondor and Arnor.  But he realizes that to her the separation is hardly laughable, otherwise she would not sit forlornly in the terrace of her magnificent palace, attempting to drown her misery in Lorien wine.  Frodo is tempted to tell the Queen that wine is a poor diversion from sorrow, but he does not have the heart.  Instead he softly touches the Queen's hand and speaks.

"I am sure you are never far from his thought, my lady and he only parts with you with great unwillingness."      

The Queen let loose another dainty hiccup.  "Our time shall end soon," she says softly, gazing sadly beyond the white walls that surround the palatial garden and Frodo wonders what her elvish sight discerns in the distance.  "Every day, nay, every minute that he is far from me weighs heavy on my thought.  Would that we never have to be away from each other anymore…"

She sobs again, shielding her face behind Frodo's handkerchief and the hobbit makes use of the moment by scratching his groin feverishly, cursing under his breath. 

The radiant and shocked face of the Queen appears from behind the handkerchief.  "What did you say, Frodo?"

Frodo crimsons and rebukes himself severely for forgetting the keen hearing of the Queen's kind.  "I am sorry.  I was…"

"Oh, Frodo," the Queen exclaims, "what happened?  Your face…"  She lays the back of her fingers on the hobbit's cheek, while Frodo concentrates on not closing his eyes and sighing in pleasure at the cool, soothing touch.  "And your neck…"  The hand moves to trace Frodo's neck and the hobbit shudders faintly.  "And your hands…"  The Queen takes Frodo's hands in hers, examining the angry red spots.  "You should have the healers see this."

"I thank you, my lady, for your concern," Frodo protests.  "But really, it is naught but a trifle discomfort because of something I ate for elevenses.  I am sure it will soon pass."

"But I cannot let you suffer from this any longer," says the Queen, rising swiftly.  She sways a little and has to hold on to the swing for a while before she is steady on her feet.  "I will see that you are relieved of this ailment immediately."

Frodo slides down from the swing in alarm.  "There is no need to trouble the healers, my lady," he says quickly.  "They are busy as it is, tending to the sick and wounded from the war.  I will not have them taken away from those who need their care more than I do."

To his horror, the Queen slumps back weakly to the swing, her sobbing resuming its earlier fervor. 

"My lady," Frodo begins gingerly, his hand on the Queen's arm.  "I did not mean to offend you by refusing your kind offer, but…"

The Queen is fairly wailing now and Frodo looks around desperately for help.  But the terrace is deserted.  Not even the lady-in-waiting is there. 

He goes to the table and pours half a goblet of the Lorien wine and, patting the Queen's elbow gently, says placatingly, "There, there, your majesty.  If you wish me to see the healers, I shall go then.  But I will not have you weep, my lady, over so commonplace a thing as rashes.  Here, my lady.  Please drink this.  I shall do as you bid.  But please do not cry."

The Queen blows her nose gracefully and takes the goblet from Frodo in her trembling hand.  "Thank you, Frodo," she whispers and takes several delicate sips.  "What a terrible queen you must think I am.  Here you are, hurting terribly, and yet I oblige you to listen to my troubles.  Then you remind me of the heavy weight that our healers are carrying now.  How can I fail to notice that?  How can I dwell in my own sorrow while others are suffering far more grievous losses?  O Elbereth, what would Estel think of me when he learns of this?"

The Queen succumbs to another fit of sobbing and Frodo stands in front of her, bewildered and itching horribly.  "My lady," he starts several times, but the Queen seems to be oblivious of his presence.  Frodo waits until the sniffing dwindles to occasional broken sighs, while scratching his elbow, his neck and between his fingers.

Finally the Queen removes the drenched handkerchief from her face and sits up straight.  "Very well," she says in an uneven voice.  "I will tend to your hurt myself.  It is the least I can do to atone for the thoughtless behavior you beheld today."

Frodo steps back in panic.  An image of the Queen presiding over his bath and administering all manners of lotions and powder over his body flits alarmingly across his mind and he shivers.  "My lady," he appeals fervently.  "My little discomfort hardly warrants…"

But the Queen has stood up.  Frodo looks up at her sorrowful face.  Even after having a sodden handkerchief pressed against her face for so long her looks are breathtaking still.  The remains of her tears glimmered gem-like in the fading sun.  Frodo's words die in his throat.

"Allow me to ease your affliction, dear Frodo," the Queen says softly.  "It will help me forget my misery."

Frodo can only nod mutely. 

"Come," says the Queen, beaming at him.  "I know what you need."

She strides gracefully, if not precisely straight, toward the gate half hidden from view by a mass of flowering vines.  Frodo follows her, trying to think of a way to escape her, his hands busily scratching.

***

 This is what comes from staying in bed too long, Frodo thinks glumly, staggering behind the Queen.  He still remembers the endless walking he seemed to be doing in … in Mordor.  How did he ever find the strength to do it?  He was wretched, starved and exhausted, but he distinctly recalls covering many leagues on every darkened day.  But now he cannot even walk the shortcut from the palace garden to the back gate of the seventh tier without panting.  He gulps frantically for air and stops, holding on to a tall pillar, waiting for the world to stop whirling and the darkness to be lifted from his eyes.

The Queen turns and her face registers concern as she glides back and kneels beside Frodo.  "Forgive me, Frodo," she whispers as she cradles his cheek in one cool hand, her eyes brimming with sympathy.  "I am truly sorry.  I forget that you are still recuperating.  Come and sit here awhile."

She takes his hand and guides him to a stone bench just inside the stone wall.  Frodo climbs onto the bench with difficulty and sits back, breathing deeply.  "My apologies, your majesty," he gasps.  "I seem to have been lax in my exercise and…"

The Queen holds his hand and strokes it.  "Do not say that.  We know that your body needs time to fully heal and reclaim its vigor.  Do not be too harsh on yourself."

They sit side by side in silence for sometime.  Frodo wishes he could scratch his progressively maddening itch, but he dares not pull his hand from the Queen's.  He squirms surreptitiously, rubbing his back against the wall, and stops abruptly when the Queen suddenly heaves a trembling sigh and begins to weep again.

Frodo watches helplessly as the Queen launches into another episode of sobbing.  Secretly he feels grateful for the distraction, because while the Queen fumbles with his silk handkerchief, Frodo can scratch anywhere he wants, hastily and blissfully.

But when the tears show no sign of ceasing after a very long while, he becomes worried.  "My lady," he calls softly.  "Maybe we had better return to the palace.  You might benefit from a deep, long sleep.  Things always look brighter after a good night's rest."  And, Frodo privately thinks, he can return to his own chamber and have another long soak in hot water, accompanied by a long, stiff brush and maybe a goblet of that Lorien wine.  Maybe he will forget the itch in his sleep.

"Oh, Frodo, I am sorry," says the Queen huskily.  "I cannot seem to look beyond those gates to the domed vaults of the beds of the kings of old without thinking that someday my Estel will lay him down in one of those chambers and leave me alone.  I cannot bear the thought.  So brief will be the joy and bliss that we shall share.  All too soon I must face that doom that I have chosen."

Frodo looks uncertainly toward the outside of the gate.  In the gathering dusk he can barely descry the shapes of the stately tombs of past kings, and his heart goes out to the Queen.  He springs to his feet and takes the Queen's hand.

"I feel so much better already," he says.  "Perhaps it is time we continue our walk.  Where are we going, my lady?"

The Queen lifts her tear-stained face from her hand and stares at Frodo with a slight smile on her lips.  "We are going to a very pleasant place, my dear Frodo," she says.  Frodo thinks she might have giggled a bit but he is not certain.  Surely Elves do not giggle?  Even one who has chosen to forego deathlessness.  "Estel took me there on the night of our wedding.  A fairer and more wonderful place I cannot imagine, unless it be the green hills of Cerin Amroth where Estel kissed me first, those dark long days ago, when our troth was plighted."

Frodo's eyes open wider as he listens, mortified, to the Queen.  Inwardly he rues reminding her of their destination.  He should have insisted on going back to the palace at once, judging by the Queen's deteriorating state of lucidity, as evinced by her throatily slurred speech and her uncharacteristic plunges into melancholy.  But before he can say another word, the Queen rises and, taking his hand, leads him down a stone path cut into the side of Mount Mindolluin. 

Frodo soon finds himself walking along narrow flights of steps that wind their way down the side of the mountain.  Above him is an arched roof with unlit lamps, but the Queen seems oblivious of the deepening twilight.  Walking sedately to allow Frodo to follow without imposing undue strain on his still frail frame, she is humming a slow elvish song and looking pleased with herself.  Scratching furtively, fretfully and fruitlessly, Frodo tries to see what lies await at the end of the staircase, but not even his sharp hobbit eyes can pierce the thickening shadows.

Yet his nostrils pick up the scent long before he reaches the end of the long path of stairs.  He can only detect the faintest whiff, but it is enough to undo his reasoning and shatter the fragile wall of reality that he is struggling to build.  He stops abruptly, letting go of the Queen's hand, and whirls around frantically with a hitching moan in his throat, scrambling in the opposite direction.

"Frodo!" calls the Queen, taken aback by the sudden flight.  "Where are you going?"

But Frodo can hardly hear her as he runs blindly up the stairs, gasping and staggering, before finally collapsing in one of the landings, retching uncontrollably.  The world spins around him and his head throbs furiously.  His hand gropes involuntarily at his chest, seeking for the familiar shape and feel of the perished Ring, and when he is aware of the move he gasps in horror, and crawls back whimpering, huddling into a tight, trembling ball in one corner of the marble landing, his face hidden behind his hands and knees. 

The beautiful carved railing that runs the length of the stairs disappears from his eyes.  The cooling breeze ceases.  He sees only an expanse of parched earth, cracked and lifeless, strewn with sharp pebbles and rocks.  The air roils around him, a thick mist reeking of sulphur and the foul stench of decay.  He suddenly feels again the utter weariness that seems to clot and freeze his blood; he feels his muscles cry out in pain as they strive to move, as his will battles a growing darkness that obliterates all that he is.  The pain tears a haunting wail from the depths of his searing lungs and his eyes burn as he watches in helpless silence the columns of flame that rise restlessly to lick the shadowy roof of the chamber of doom. 

No.  No. 

"It's over, over, over," he chants hoarsely, rocking back and forth.  "Saved, we are saved.  Saved.  A memory.  Nothing more.   It's over, over, over."

He leans back on the wall, still gasping, and only then feels the hot tears on his face.  He feels weak and shaky, and frustrated rage pounds a mighty ache in his head.  A whiff of sulphurous gust, he reflects bitterly, and he is helplessly transported to the moments when the scant remnant of his defense evaporated, leaving him naked and prey at last to the merciless deceit of the Ring.  The slightest tug on his memory and he re-lives that spinning, breathless sensation of the blackest shame and despair mingling with utter exhilaration and barely contained joy, when he finally surrendered to the triumph of the Ring.  Reeling from the shock, he runs his hand over the smooth wall behind him, wondering if Minas Tirith—safe, majestic Minas Tirith—is real.  Maybe he never left the Chamber of Fire and all that surrounds him now is nothing more than illusions; for him there is no more beauty and joy, only the blackened lips of a fathomless gorge, spewing flames and foul smoke. 

He stares silently at the curved walls of the seventh tier before him, weakened by the knowledge that he is trapped in the Ring and no path shall be able bring him home.  Darkness descends all around him, hiding his tears.  He sniffs and fumbles in his pocket for his handkerchief and finds none.

The Queen!

With a suddenness that makes him momentarily dizzy, Frodo stands and looks frantically around.  He does not remember seeing the Queen walk past him and he is certain that the Queen would never leave him alone and suffering in the dark.  But her mind is impaired by wine, he reminds himself apprehensively, and she might injure herself unwittingly…

He rushes down the flights of step, trying to ignore the sharp protests of his body at the sudden action.  "My lady, my lady!" he calls, but his voice sounds reedy and hoarse.  Another faint trace of sulphur in the air brings him to a standstill, his fingers digging into his arms as he curls whimpering, shaking his head to rid the assault of memories of fire, hissing breath and razor teeth, despair, shame and horror…

A shrill cry rends the night air and Frodo's head snaps up.  He forces himself to walk, lurching and stumbling, to where he thinks the sound comes from; his mind reeling from visions of the Queen wounded and the King grieving for her.  The air makes him sick and all his instinct implores him to run away.  In the dark he chooses his path by touch alone.  He finds the entrance to a cave at the end of stairs and, shaking and gasping, makes his way in.

***

The stone corridor is dark, but Frodo can see a soft glow at the end of the passage.  He inches his way in, his hand on the wall to steady his step, his feet burdened by the reluctance to go deeper into the tunnel.  It feels and looks so much like….  Like ….    He swallows with difficulty, struggles to shake the memory of Sammath Naur, and repeats mechanically to himself that he has to make sure the Queen has not suffered any harm.

The tunnel ends in a large vaulted chamber.  At the far end, water falls in sinuous layers over stones rounded and smoothed by countless years of running stream.  The water splashes into a circular pool that is almost completely hidden by thick, swirling steam.  Almost.  Because for a very mortifying second Frodo finds himself looking straight at the Queen's naked back. 

Her sensitive elven ears must have caught his involuntary squeak, because she turns and calls him gaily.  "Come, Frodo.  This is what you need to cure those nasty rashes."

Frodo swallows hard and stares at the water.  "I heard you cry out, my lady, a while ago.  Are you hurt?"

"Hurt?" the Queen repeats with a laugh.  "Nay.  It was indeed a cry of bliss.  This water has the virtue of washing away the weariness of the limbs and the mind.  I do not know why I did not think of coming here before when I began to miss my lord Estel.  Come, Frodo.  A good soak should help ease your discomfort."

"T-thank you, my lady," says Frodo, staring fixedly at the water rolling down the sleek, white rock face.  "I believe the water will be too deep for me."

"No need to fear, Frodo," the Queen says laughingly, as she wades toward where Frodo is standing.  "You can sit on the steps yonder.  You will find that the water will only be chest-high there.  Your chest-high, Frodo."  And she laughs again. 

"I…I fear the water is too hot, my lady," says Frodo lamely.

"It is not, Frodo dear.  'Tis true that the water bubbling from deep inside the mountain is near to boiling.  But the water falling along that cave wall is icy cold from the summit of Mindolluin, and together they make the most pleasant warm bath," says the Queen reassuringly. 

"I…I thank you, my lady," says Frodo weakly.  "Perhaps I will some other time.  I do not feel inclined to have a bath now."

The Queen now floats right before him, gracefully bobbing in the steamy water.  She reaches out and seizes Frodo's hand.  Frodo jolts back with a gasp, but the Queen's wet hand is firm around his.    

"Is it so disagreeable a thing, my dear Frodo, to bathe with me?"  There is a sorrowful pleading note in her dulcet voice, punctuated by elegant elvish hiccups.  "Do I not deserve your company?"

"I…" Frodo stammers, trying to determine whether it will be more polite to stare at the marble statue near the steps to the pool, or to meet the Queen's mournful eyes, which also means getting a disrespectful glimpse of her bare torso.  He opts for the statue.  "I am honored to have your company and thankful for your concerns about my health.  But… but I fear it is hardly proper for me to take a bath with you."

The Queen contemplates this for a moment.  "You are right," she says softly afterwards.  "Forgive me."

Then with a gleeful shriek she tugs at Frodo's hand.  The hobbit hovers ridiculously over the rim of the pool, flapping both hands in a futile attempt to regain balance, then with a great splash, tumbles into the water.  The Queen whoops merrily and swims away laughing.

After an initial shock of a sudden plunge into hot water, Frodo's instinct kicks in and he surfaces, spluttering and gasping, to see the Queen looking at him with a mischievous smile from across the expanse of steaming flurry of water.  He scowls at her—privately grateful for the fact that he can only see her from the neck up—but his look of intense annoyance seems to amuse her instead and she laughs.

"O, the halfling swims!" she declares with the air of someone who has just made a very important discovery. 

 "I do indeed, my lady," says Frodo testily  "But I would much prefer to show this particular skill in quite different circumstances, if you please."

"But you cannot swim with your clothes on, can you, Frodo?  They hinder your motions," the Queen says meekly.  "And I do not think the water can work its full virtue on your ailing skin if it has to struggle through layers of thick clothing."

I am not going to remove my clothes in front of the Queen, Frodo thinks vehemently, gritting his teeth.  What would anyone think if they should stumble into the chamber and see the Queen and the celebrated halfling with nothing but their skins on?  He is suddenly fiercely glad that the King will not be returning any time soon.  What would Aragorn do if he should find his wife in the company of a naked, scratching hobbit?

That last thought reminds him painfully of his malady.  He still feels that dreadful urge to scratch everywhere.  And the water does feel wonderful lapping against his bare feet and neck.  If he were with any other company but the Queen, he would have jumped at the opportunity to take off his clothes and let the water caress his burning skin.  But as it is…

"Do you want me to help you with your clothes, Frodo?" the Queen asks solicitously.  "Perhaps you find it difficult to undress while staying afloat?"

"No, no, my lady!" comes Frodo's panicked reply.  "Thank you.  But I am perfectly capable of undressing myself."  He blushes profusely as he says it.

"Very well then.  Go on," the Queen smiles encouragingly. 

"I will thank you if you could look elsewhere while I take off my clothes, my lady," says Frodo weakly, feeling immensely foolish.

"Oh, forgive me!" the Queen giggles.  "Appalling manner, is it not, to stare so."  She turns around to face the waterfall, laughing merrily.

Frodo shakes his head and tries to see if he can still get out of the unspeakable embarrassment of having to swim naked before the Queen.

Yet the water does feel heavenly against his skin.