Frodo slowly awoke to a growing sense of discomfort. Something just didn't feel right, but he didn't know what. He heard the creaking and groaning of timbers and remembered being on the Elven ship sailing West. Opening his eyes, Frodo tried to figure out why he felt so uncomfortable. His somewhat hobbit-scaled sleeping quarters were very dimly lit by a small oil lamp, a lamp that was swinging crazily as the ship rocked back and forth. Watching the lamp's undulations for a moment, Frodo swallowed hard against steadily-increasing waves of dizziness and tried to turn his mind to something other than the desire to get rid of what little he'd eaten before going to bed. He closed his eyes and brought to mind the Shire's green rolling hills . . . firm ground . . . rich earth . . .

But his envisionings of solid footing only made his mind more acutely aware that his body was not on stable ground. This difference of opinion between mind and body only made the nausea worse, stressing the need for him to find some vessel to contain what he was certain would be forthcoming.

He lurched from bed, trying to locate something, anything, that would serve. The room continued its dizzying movements; Frodo stumbled to his knees in front of the chamber pot just in time. He was rather thankful he'd only had a small repast; in almost no time at all, there was nothing left in his stomach to expel.

If he'd hoped the dizziness would pass once he'd retched, he was soon proven wrong. He tried to stand up to return to bed, but his wobbly legs refused to support him on the shifting deck. He was forced to resort to crawling on hands and knees back over to his bed, pushing the chamber pot ahead of him, just in case he needed it again.

It took him several tries to climb into bed without being thrown to the ground by an unexpected tilt of the floor. Once successfully in bed, Frodo closed his eyes and tried to find equilibrium, but he just felt as if he was spinning off into numerous different directions. Clutching the edges of his mattress lest the bed betray him to the floor yet again, Frodo tried desperately to fall asleep.

As the hour grew late, the mournful melodies of the Hall gave way to contemplative silence. The fire burned low and elves began to trickle away, bound for their cabins or the upper deck to gaze upon the innumerable stars of the now-clear night. Elrond remained in his place of honor near the fire long after the Hall had emptied, considering all he had left behind and weighing it against that to which he was bound. Eventually he decided to retire to his cabin; staring at the stars, however appealing the idea may sound, would only serve to remind him of the Evenstar that remained in Middle-Earth, now doomed to die as human rather than elven-kind. As Elrond stood, a small, forgotten flask tumbled to the floor from where it had lain in his lap. He picked it up, remembering as he did so what he had intended to do with it.

Elrond swept quickly down the stairs, the movement of air in his passing extinguishing many of the candles. The elf lord paid them no heed, intent on his destination. As he strode down the corridor of the third deck, he stretched out his senses and inwardly berated himself when he felt queasy misery radiating from the hobbit. Reaching the door he carefully opened it and closed it behind him, so as not to awaken the seemingly sleeping occupant.

Frodo was curled on his side, facing the door, both hands tightly gripping the edge of the mattress. His eyes opened as Elrond approached, though he did not appear to be fully awake or aware. Elrond noted the contents of the chamber pot and felt ashamed, knowing he could have -and indeed should have- prevented this. He laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder and bent down so his eyes were closer to the hobbit's. "Forgive me, Frodo. I neglected to give you this," he held up the flask, "before you retired."

"Wha' is i'?" Frodo mumbled as Elrond's hand guided him onto his back and helped him sit up slightly so he could swallow without choking.

"A remedy for you and Bilbo- I anticipated the sea journey would not agree with you at first. I gave some to Bilbo soon after we departed, but you were still on deck and I did not wish to disturb you."

Frodo nodded and, more awake now, assured him, "I'm all right. It's not that bad."

Though these words contradicted what Elrond knew to be the case, he said nothing and handed Frodo the flask. Frodo cautiously sipped at first, afraid it would be quite bitter or otherwise disagreeable, but when he was greeted by the familiar taste of ginger -though spiced with something he could not identify- he drank more readily. Elrond reclaimed the flask after a few swallows and Frodo started to lie back down.

Frodo was not quite sure how it happened, but the next thing he was aware of was Elrond supporting him with one arm and holding the chamber pot with the other. When Frodo finished bringing the tea back up, Elrond stepped away for a moment and returned with a glass of water, which Frodo sipped as Elrond wiped his face with cool, damp fabric -Lord Elrond's sleeve, dipped into the water for want of any other cloth. Elrond pressed Frodo to again sip from the flask, confident it would have a chance to work this time. He gently helped the hobbit get comfortable, and soon Frodo was fast asleep.

Elrond did not leave immediately, preferring instead to watch over his small charge for a time. Frodo slept peacefully, but peaceful were not Elrond's thoughts. 'He will be forced to endure much more than a touch of sea illness before his journey is over.' This he had foreseen. But hidden from him was that journey's destination: peace and healing in the uttermost West . . . or rest through the gift of Iluvatar.

When Frodo next awoke, the grey light seeping in the small porthole was lighter, the small oil lamp hung docilely, and Elrond was no longer there. He climbed unsteadily down from the bed, crossed the room, and poured some water from the pitcher into the basin, splashing the refreshing liquid on his face with a sigh. Feeling a bit better after the wash, he dug through the chest for a set of clothes.

He had just finished dressing when there was a knock upon the door. "Are you awake, my lad?" Bilbo's familiar voice inquired from his side of their shared door. Frodo smiled to himself -it seemed some things never changed- before opening the door to see Bilbo beaming at him. "Ah, there you are! I hope you slept well."

Stifling a yawn, Frodo answered, "Well enough, Bilbo. Did you want to get some breakfast?" He did, so the pair went in search of food. Bilbo ate quite happily from his loaded plate, but Frodo took only some bread and tea. While his stomach had improved from the night before, it was still uneasy and he had no desire to repeat the experience.

Elves came and went as they ate, and some of them Frodo thought he recognized from the night before. Gandalf came to join them after a bit, and the day passed most pleasantly, but for Frodo's continuing trouble with keeping his stomach where it belonged. Elrond assured him it was to be expected, and as Frodo retired to bed that night, the elven lord promised they would try a few additional remedies on the morrow.

However, contrary to traditional sea-faring wisdom, remaining on deck with an eye on the horizon did nothing to curb Frodo's nausea, and the cold drizzle and brooding grey clouds made time out-of-doors unpleasant at best for all but the adventurous. Instead, he preferred to sit in the Hall of Fire where the songs and other entertainment could provide some distraction from his persistent discomfort. Bilbo too spent his waking hours there, though he had a tendency to nod off every so often.

And so they spent their days as the Elves settled into a routine of their own, passing time in song or standing deep in thought, gazing Westward in spite of the rain. Some conversed with the two hobbits out of friendliness and curiosity about the privileged Secondborn accompanying them to the Blessed Realm. Elrond paid close heed to the hobbits, administering careful doses of the remedy, just enough to be mostly effective without wasting any of the precious mixture, ever mindful of his limited supplies and the unknown duration of their voyage.

Thus it was most fortunate that the elder hobbit, passing much time in sleep, did not require much aid, leaving it to be consumed by the other, who proved to need it desperately. Even with such aid he could barely stomach the thought of food, and eagerly sought all possible diversions from the maddening malady. He spent much time conversing with Gandalf, coaxing the wizard to tell of his visit to Tom Bombadil and the fair Lady Goldberry, and many other tales besides.

When the wizard grew weary of speaking, both would instead listen to the Elves' fair speech and song, and speak with Bilbo when he roused. Frodo heard many songs in that manner; some he recognized from Rivendell or Lothlorien, but the majority were unfamiliar. Mostly unbeknownst to him, Lord Elrond and Gandalf were keeping close watch on him as the days began to pass and their first week at sea drew toward its close. To their relief, the sea illness remained his only complaint, though the elven lord remained concerned about the hobbit's growing weakness and its implications if what he feared came to pass.

By the fifth day Frodo was restless and growing weary of the journey. He prowled about the ship, going from top to bottom and back again. Spotting Gandalf on the top deck about mid-afternoon, the hobbit joined the wizard at the rail. "How much longer will it be?" he asked without preamble.

Gandalf looked down at him. "I could not say, for I do not know."

Puzzled, Frodo asked, "But didn't you sail to Middle-Earth in the first place?"

The wizard chuckled. "I did, indeed. But that was many years ago, and time passes differently on the Road than what you are accustomed to."

The hobbit sighed and gazed out over the choppy waves. "Will I ever get used to this? I can't eat, I can barely sleep... I might as well be back in Mordor for all the good this is doing me."

"Frodo." The wizard's voice was stern as he knelt and turned the hobbit to face him. "Do not say such a thing. You know very well you would not want to return there."

Frodo hung his head. "I know. This is just... very difficult."

"Nothing worth having is easy to gain," he answered kindly. A small smile ghosted across Frodo's face as he met Gandalf's eyes again. Gandalf gazed carefully into the hobbit's face, seeing many warring emotions there: discomfort, despair, confusion, hope... fear.

"Gandalf? Will this be worth it?" the timid voice ventured at length.

I hope so, for your sake. He swallowed his first thought and said instead, "I cannot imagine that the Valar would grant you passage and fail to grant you that which you seek." The smile reappeared, slightly more confident. "Now, let's go back belowdecks, shall we? I do believe the rain is getting heavier."

That evening Frodo sat, listening to the ever-present songs of the Elves, with a greater measure of peace and assurance than before. His conversation with Gandalf, though short, put to rest some of the overriding fears that arose as he cynically mused about the journey thus far. His inability to rest here led into the dread that the same would be true when they reached their destination -and then this would have been for naught.

Firmly reigning in his wandering thoughts, Frodo turned his full attention to simply appreciating the music. Closing his eyes, he rested his head on Bilbo's shoulder. Bilbo chuckled a bit and patted his knee comfortingly, and he opened his eyes briefly to smile at his uncle. Settling down, he sat back and opened his ears to truly listen to that which was sung.

*The beauty of the melodies and of the interwoven words in elven-tongues, even though he understood them little, held him in a spell, as soon as he began to attend to them. Almost it seemed that the words took shape, and visions of far lands and bright things that he had never yet imagined opened out before him; the firelit hall became like a golden mist above seas of foam that sighed upon the margins of the world. Then the enchantment became more and more dreamlike; it became part of the throbbing air around him, and it drenched and drowned him. Swiftly he sank under its shining weight into a deep realm of sleep.*

The hour was growing late when Bilbo's eyelids also became heavy and he allowed them to drop closed, resting his head against Frodo's as he too sank into sleep. When he next became aware, there was a figure seated before him. "'ullo, Elrond," he said sleepily, starting to stretch but then stopping when he remembered his predicament. Instead, he reached up to brush a few stray locks from his nephew's peacefully sleeping face.

"How are you faring, my friend?" Elrond inquired quietly.

"Well enough," the old hobbit replied. "But the sea doesn't seem to agree with Frodo."

"No, indeed, but I have been tending him carefully," the elf assured him.

"Good." He regarded Frodo with sadness as he lightly stroked his face. "He's been through so much already," he murmured, mostly to himself. Pulling himself from his reverie, he asked, "Elrond, would you move him so I can get up? I've been sitting in one place for far too long."

"Of course." Elrond gently and carefully lifted the sleeping hobbit, embracing him close as he stood with his burden. Bilbo pulled himself to his feet with a grunt and the popping of joints. "And now to bed?" the elf lord mildly asked the hobbit.

"Yes, yes, now to bed," he replied briskly as he stiffly walked toward the stairs. Upon reaching the hallway below, Bilbo scratched his head and commented, "I could use a bath."

Elrond caught the hint. "Shall I have a tub put in your room in the morning?"

"That would be lovely." He paused, then added, "I'm sure Frodo-lad will want one, too."

"Two tubs it is," Elrond confirmed.

"Thank you. Good night!" Bilbo called as he disappeared into his cabin and closed the door.

Elrond suppressed a chuckle as he carried Frodo into his room, using one arm to pull down the sheet and quilts before laying the hobbit down. As he divested Frodo of his waistcoat and braces, he was displeased by the dehydrated appearance of the hobbit's skin. He would need to stress once again the importance of water, from the looks of it.

But for now he would allow him his much-needed rest. The elf lord tucked the hobbit under the coverings and stepped back, stowing the waistcoat and braces in the trunk before closing the door softly behind him.

Frodo sat up with a lurch, his head pounding and his mouth dry. He had to close his eyes against the dizziness that motion evoked, moaning a bit as he put one hand to his face, as if keeping the pain from spilling forth. His other hand wound itself in the covers to keep himself balanced as he fought to regain his equilibrium. When he ventured to open his eyes again, he made the mistake of looking at the lamp, which was once again swinging merrily. This brought two realizations: he had somehow been returned to his room, and he badly needed to find the chamberpot. Mercifully it was still under the edge of the bed, so he did not have to hold back long.

Seeing dinner a second time was getting to be normal, he reflected wryly while he crouched, hunched over the pot. All attempts at humor vanished when it began, and by the end he was shaking and unable to raise his head from where his forehead rested on the pot's edge. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, belatedly realizing he was still in his day clothes, and he wondered why the person who'd brought him to his room didn't change his clothes as well.

'Oh, that's a good one,' he inwardly berated himself. 'It's not enough that they bring you to your bed, but they have to dress you as well? You're not a child, though you seem to enjoy acting like one. Elrond and Gandalf have had to care for you like a faunt ever since you set sail, minding you rather than enjoying the voyage they've waited so long to take!' The roiling in his stomach seemed to echo the uneasiness in his thoughts and he retched repeatedly. He gasped for breath as he clutched the pot closer, willing the world to stop its infernal rocking, and yearning for someone, anyone, to come put him out of his misery.

Sam. The thought rose unbidden to his mind. Sam always knew exactly what to do to make him feel better. 'Ah, but you've gone and left him behind, and who's to say he isn't relieved? He doesn't have to care for an unappreciative, selfish hobbit anymore and can look to his family as he should have been doing all along. But instead, he and Rose always saw to your needs first, even before those of their own babe.' The voice was taunting, mocking now. He could only moan in response, wishing to cover his ears but fearful of loosening his grip on the pot he used as his support. The accusations continued unabated as he huddled under the weight of them, feeling years of unspoken grief and guilt dropping upon his head all at once, and bringing the walls in upon him as well. His nausea multiplied tenfold and his head throbbed until he felt he would come apart from the strain.

Whether he passed out or fell into an uneasy slumber he wasn't sure, but he was brought out of his stupor by the sound of gentle knocking on ... his? -no, Bilbo's- door. He stood unsteadily and had made it over to the washstand before there was a knock on his door. "Come in," he called hoarsely and, to his bewilderment, an elf entered, bearing a washtub, followed by several more elves carrying steaming jugs of water. They carried out their tasks mutely and exited just as silently, leaving a warm tub of water, some soaps, and towels on his floor. He wasn't going to question why it appeared, for he certainly needed to bathe -even he could tell he stank of sweat and other things- so he peeled off his stiff clothes and sank into the water with a grateful sigh. The tub was small, so he'd have to get out in order to wash his hair, but the warm water was most delightful.

It was with reluctance that he finally climbed out, wrapped a towel around himself, and knelt beside the tub to wash his hair. He tried not to notice how much the water sloshed even without him in it, but once he saw that, he could not keep his eyes away. And going almost upside down to put his head underwater did not help matters. He vowed not to let himself get sick again, and was only successful at it by focusing his thoughts on getting a cup of tea... or miruvor... or anything that would help.

When he went up to the first deck, he found Bilbo, Gandalf, Elrond, and only a few other elves. After he fetched that warm cup of tea he'd thought about, he joined Bilbo, Gandalf, and Elrond in sitting on the floor along the side. Gandalf greeted him, "You're looking rather pale this morning, my dear hobbit. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he gritted out between gulps of tea. "The waves just seem rougher today." As if to agree with his statement, the deck abruptly titled steeply, then evened out again.

"The sea is more turbulent this morning," Gandalf agreed. "It seems we are coming up on a storm, so I fear it will grow worse before it becomes better."

"W-worse?" Frodo gasped, tightly closing his eyes and turning almost green at the thought. How could it be worse than this?

When he opened his eyes again, Elrond handed him a mug. "You need to drink more water. You have not been getting enough."

Frodo accepted the mug in exchange for his empty teacup even as he retorted, "Forgive me, Lord Elrond, but it is difficult to get enough when everything insists on coming back up."

Elrond raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. But you should still try."

As the morning passed by, the sea did indeed beome more turbulent and Frodo grew more uncomfortable in spite of further doses from Elrond's depleted flask. Around midday he finally begged his leave, saying, "I'm not feeling well."

The other three silently watched him go belowdecks. "You'll look in on him later, won't you?" Bilbo asked Elrond worriedly.

"Of course."

Acknowledgments: Many thanks to Tangelian, who virtually co-wrote this chapter, and Febobe, who assisted with some word-choice issues. The passage enclosed in asterisks is from Fellowship of the Ring, page 227.