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Slipping swiftly down the river, each tended his own thoughts. Frodo lay bundled in the bow, eyes closed against the blur of movement. His congested head ached and he felt alternately hot and cold as the illness raged. *It's my fault... Gandalf...* the mantra persistently echoed through his mind, prevailing over all other thoughts. They were worried, troubled by his unresisting submission to their remedies. He did not fight them because he did not care. *I'm tired of struggling... just leave me alone...* As he weakened before their eyes, they wondered: What could rekindle the dying embers of his will? |
