Frodo stared in amazement at the tub sunk four feet deep into the floor in front of him.  Like the entire bathroom, it was of smooth, white marble, edged in gold.  At the foot of the tub there were two faucets, in the shape of fish heads, with silver chains to pull to turn them on.  Purple and yellow scented candles flickered within rounded slots on the wall.  The bathroom smelled pleasantly of flowers from the roses in the porcelain vases arrayed along the window, hiding the bathroom from the prying eyes of …

Frodo chuckled and shook his head.  This was too much.  Who would have even considered peeking into the bathroom in one of the royal pavilions of the king's palace on the seventh tier of Minas Tirith?  Inquisitive eagles?  Frodo laughed.  He stepped to the window and looked out. 

The city spread itself magnificently before his eyes.  Tier upon tier of grey-white masonry, crawling with the bustle of the people of Gondor.  Tiny dots of light from windows and street lanterns, people milling about in the streets lined with shops and eateries, wains and carts making their way through the crowd.  Even at night the city was alive and Frodo could almost feel its energy surging through him, his heart beating to its rhythm, almost singing to its music of gladness. 

Almost.

Far to the east, beyond the grassy plains of Pelennor, beyond the ruin of Osgiliath now being resurrected, beyond the silver ribbon that was the Anduin, beyond the jagged peaks of Ephel Duath, lay … his fate.  His eyes strayed to the distant darkness, even as his heart cried out and writhed in agonized protest. 

When first he woke in green Ithilien, all he had felt was relief and joy.  It was all over and they were triumphant; life, peace, and freedom, had won.  But then the nightmares started.  He was again in the red chamber in Minas Morgul, but Sam could not save him, the orcs slew him as he came up the trap door on the floor, laughing as they did.  Frodo watched in horror as Sam's blood splashed to the floor, a darker shade of red.  He woke up screaming, calling for Sam; and when he saw Sam by his bed, alive and hale, his eyes welling with fear and love, he could not help weeping in stark, painful relief.  But it was only the beginning.  The dreams came more often afterwards, and sleeping became well nigh impossible, even after Aragorn asked the healers in the Houses of Healing to concoct potions to help Frodo sleep.

They were always the same, his dreams, whispering darkly of failure and betrayal.  Aragorn said they were a delayed response to the torment Frodo had endured in his arduous trail towards doom.  Frodo tried to believe it, wanted to believe it.  He never had bad dreams in Mordor after all.  It was true that his waking moments were worse than nightmares for his tortured, maimed soul.  But there had also been that soothing grace, that radiant void where he could truly rest—the worries and pain drained from his mind, his will slackened its rigid stance, and he could wallow in nothingness, free from cares, free even from the blazing, searching, commanding Eye.  He always woke feeling slightly refreshed, somewhat renewed in strength to take on another stretch of the horrific journey.  Sleep had always felt like a blessing in Mordor, a respite, a haven.  In Minas Tirith, it was an agony.

Frodo lowered his eyes to his right hand that was resting on the windowsill, and he shuddered in shame and anguish.  They had taken it away, he thought, the special benediction of sleep, when he succumbed at last to the Ring.  When his will was conquered, his reasons defeated and his mind let itself be engulfed in the intense powers and fiery strength It promised.  When he declared his betrayal; when he lost his faith.  They, the Powers that bestowed mercy and benevolence on his long journey in Mordor, had now abandoned him in disgust, because he had been weak enough to yield to the Ring.  Because he was not true to his words, because in the end, he claimed It, It claimed him. 

Shaking in humiliation, Frodo collapsed on the floor, futilely fighting a sob. 

But he dropped onto a stack of little boxes neatly piled under the window.  As he gasped in distress, the boxes scattered, some flung open, revealing their contents.

Soap bars.

Little round ones, clear square ones, soft soap that squished between his fingers when he held it, brittle soap that crumbled in his palm—in all the colors of the rainbow.  Oh, dear, what did I do, Frodo sighed as he looked helplessly at the mess.  I would never get these stacked as neatly as before, he fretted anxiously.  Especially now that the white soap had been squashed flat, the blue one broken to pieces, and the yellow one turned slightly orange from the collision with the pink, sticky one.  And what were these speckles on the lilac-scented soap?  Fungus?  Oh, no…just some dried flower bits.  Why would anyone need so many soap bars anyway?  Especially one with "Velvet Kisses" written in runes all over it.  He paused and smiled in surprise.  He never expected to have the darkness that was Mordor, that was The Ring and his lust and horror of It, could ever be washed away, even for a brief moment, by his incredulity over so mundane a thing as soap.

Soap that smelled like freshly-baked cheese cookies…how did they do that?

This was grand, he chuckled inwardly.  He never suspected the people of Gondor to be so well versed in the art of self-indulgent ablution.  Certainly Aragorn was never one to be fastidious about his toilet; he usually contented himself with splashing water on his face before raking his wet fingers through his grimy hair.  There was never any hint of soap scents around him; nor around Boromir and Faramir for that matter, even though they were obviously reared in just this kind of opulence.  But then, thought Frodo soberly, there was the war.  Soap would be very low in anyone's priority when the main concern was ducking poisoned arrows.

Frodo wondered what Aragorn thought of the soap.  And bath oils.

They were lined-up in neat rows of phials on a wooden rack by the wall next to the pile of soaps.   Under the glow of the candles, the bath oils gleamed like so many colorful jewels.  Out of curiosity Frodo took one of the phials, unstoppered it and sniffed.  A strong smell of lemon assaulted his nostrils and he sneezed.  Chortling softly, he checked the other phials, one by one, before finally settling for some pine scented oil, which he took to the tub.

No wonder Aragorn looked ten times as kingly as Strider, Frodo chuckled to himself as he poured the content of the phial into the empty tub.  And smelled a hundred times better, he added privately, smiling broadly.  He went to the end of the tub and pulled the chains of the fish head faucets.  Water gushed forth: cold from one of the faucets, steaming hot from the other.  Frodo stared in dismay at the bottom of the tub, swirling now with water and a thin mist of vapor.  It would take a long time to fill the tub, he thought.  Oh, well….

He turned his attention to the other side of the bathroom.  A full-length—human-sized—mirror stood between two sets of shelves.  The shelves on the left held a neat pile of towels.  Frodo took one and once again laughed.  It was as big as his window curtain in Bag End.  It would not be a bad idea to use it as a blanket in bed, Frodo mused, especially since it was so thick and downy soft.  And fragrant.  On closer inspection Frodo realized that dried flower petals had been sprinkled between the folds.  He shook his head in amazement. 

The other shelves stored all manner of brushes and sponges.  There were coarse sponges, very soft ones that looked like lumps of cheese; another that looked like a mass of straw-colored curls.  The brushes too, came in all shapes and sizes.  Frodo picked a small one up and bent to brush his foot hair with it.  He stood and examined the result critically.  Passable, he thought, before putting the brush back on the shelf.  He was trying another brush on his hair when he felt warmth seeping into his soles.  He looked down and cried in alarm.

The tub was full and water was now spilling over the brim, spreading on the marble floor.  Frodo made for the faucet chains, but he slipped on the wet floor and fell with a mighty splash into the tub. 

He sank into warm water, legs flailing for purchase before finally settling on the bottom.  His face was barely above the surface when he came up, spluttering and ashamed.  But it felt marvelous, the buoyant warmth.  Frodo heaved a sigh of resignation and proceeded to take off his waterlogged clothes.  He flung them carelessly out of the tub and only when he heard the spatter they made on the pools of water on the floor did he remember that he had to turn the faucets off. 

Swim, he taught gleefully.  I could swim in this tub.  He kicked against the smooth wall of the tub and slithered forward, a wake of steaming water tailing him.  He was about to give the faucet chain a tug when his mouth flew open in pleasant surprise.

The shower felt heavenly.  Water poured over his head, running down his shoulders, hot and cold, giving delightful pressure to his muscles, rippling like satin against his skin.  Oh, this was delicious, he thought blissfully. 

Soap, he thought as he hunched his shoulders under the stream of water, all I needed now was soap.  He tore himself from the fountains and swam across the tub to where the soap boxes still lay scattered.  Some of them were soaked already and soapy water seeped out of the boxes, giving the curls of steam an odd mixture of blended scents.  Guiltily, Frodo tried to save those boxes the water had not broached yet by throwing them into the vases by the window.  Some reached their destination safely; some went too far and were hurled outside the window.  Frodo cursed his unsteady hand, but then decided to not worry about the evicted soap bars.  He scooped a handful of the watery bars and went on to lather himself thoroughly.  Soon, the water—which was now emanating a wondrous scent—turned a pinkish shade of milky white, and the soap were gone.  Frodo reached behind him and found several more boxes.  The biggest of them, and the only one made of wood, which explained how it had escaped getting wet despite being at the bottom of the stack, contained a dozen clear greenish spheres that did not look anything like soap.  Frodo took one experimentally and felt it fizz in his palm.  He dropped it into the water.

For a moment nothing happened.  Then suddenly there was an explosion of tiny air bubbles rushing upward, enveloping his body in the oddest, yet most pleasant tickling and caressing sensation.  Frodo groaned in pleasure and let himself float in the water, wrapped in millions of bubbles.  When he felt their number diminishing, he tossed another green ball into the water and sighed happily with the result.

This was nice.  This was nice.

He did not know how long the bubbles held him in rapture, but when he reached for another green sphere, he found that there were only two left in the wooden box.  Oh, dear, he thought, frowning in embarrassment, have I exhausted a whole month's supply of these wonderful balls?  Were they difficult to come by?  He looked longingly at the remaining two green orbs in the box before shutting the lid resolutely. 

He felt comfortable, as though the warm water had untangled his knotted nerves and eased his taut muscles.  But as much as he enjoyed swimming in the tub, the exertion had taken its toll and now he felt tired and drowsy.  Time to get out, he thought, pushing to the edge.  Then his eyes caught what he had failed to notice: the floor, inundated now with milky white bath water.  Frodo gasped in dismay and chastised himself for neglecting to turn off the water spouts.  He swam to the foot of the bath and jerked at the chains to stop the water from pouring.  But when he turned, he realized that the fish heads were not the only ones responsible for the flood.  His swim strokes had sent a fair supply of water sloshing over the rim. 

He stared in despair at the disaster and wondered how he could extricate himself with his dignity intact.  What would Sam say when he found the bath in such a state of disarray: water all over the floor, most of the soap and green balls gone….  If it had been Pippin, Sam would have probably muttered darkly in exasperation, but he would understand.  He did not, could not expect more from the ever-exuberant tween.  But it was his—Frodo's—clothes that lay in a drenched heap on the floor.  Oh, the shame….

Oh, well.  There was only one way out of this.  Out. 

Frodo tried to climb out of the tub, but it was so deep that he could hardly swing his leg over the brim.  The smooth, slippery marble did not help either: Frodo kept slithering back into the water as he tried to get a grip on the floor beyond the tub rim, and scramble upward and out.  He swore privately.  For the tall, regal Men of the West, it probably took nothing but a single, graceful motion of their long legs to step out of the bath.  But really, thought Frodo angrily, should they not show some consideration for children?  Or soapy, tired hobbits?  The least they could do was put steps along one side of the tub.  Yes.  Aragorn should think about this.  He would think about this. 

If I could get out of this tub alive, thought Frodo glumly.  How ironic.  To out-live Mordor against all odds, only to be done in by a single bath in Minas Tirith..   Frodo could not help but laugh at his misery.

"Mr. Frodo, are you all right, sir?" Sam's voice came from behind the tall wooden door. "Would you be needing anything?"

Frodo snapped alert at the voice.  No, he thought.  Sam should not, will not see me like this.  He bent his knees, sinking into the water until he could touch the bottom with his toes.  Then he kicked as hard as he could and his body surged upward on the impact.  Half of his torso was out of the water when he reached out, planted his palms on the bathroom floor as firmly as the slippery marble allowed them, and heaved himself out, landing on his chest with a crash that drove the air from his lungs.  Then he lay in the pool of cooled bath water, dizzy and breathless, wondering if he had broken any of his ribs, chuckling wryly at his success.

"Mr. Frodo?" queried Sam anxiously.  "You've been in there for ages.  Is something the matter, sir?  Would you like me to…?"

"No, Sam!" Frodo shouted.  He giggled when he saw the water rippled at the whiff of his breath.  "I am fine; just taking my time with the bath.  I'll be along in a moment."

"Are you sure, sir?" pursued Sam. 

"Yes, Sam, go fuss over someone else for a change," he laughed lightly.  Slowly, carefully, he set about rising from the watery floor.  The bathroom whirled dizzyingly for a moment and his legs were unsteady, and for a disconcerting moment he wondered if it would be wiser to let Sam in.  But he finally staggered to his feet, lurched to the towel shelves and stood there, shaking, holding on to the rack. 

"Pardon me, sir, but I…."  Sam pushed the door, went in, paused and coughed.  The bathroom was very warm, humid and extremely fragrant.  The floor was swimming in about half an inch of soapy water.  Near the window, a heap of soap packaging lay empty and sodden.  On the feet of the marble lady-with-the-water-pitcher, which constituted the shower, Frodo's clothes were piled untidily as though he had cast them carelessly there.  Sam frowned and whirled to find Frodo by the towel rack, wrapping a towel the size of a rug around him. 

Frodo looked up and smiled at Sam.  "Ah, Sam," he said.  "Couldn't wait to get your bath, could you?  I am afraid it is rather in a poor shape.  Could you get someone to clean it before you use it?"

"I…I…"  Sam looked around once more, as Frodo picked a smaller towel and started drying his hair.  He looked fine, thought Sam.  A little wobbly on his feet, but otherwise fine.  "I'll do that, sir."

"Good," said Frodo.  He walked slowly, carefully, outside the bathroom.  His legs felt weak and he did not trust them on the slippery floor. 

"Will you be wanting anything, sir, for supper?" said Sam, following his master out. 

Frodo leaned thankfully on his bed and wearily took the nightshirt Sam had laid ready for him.  He slipped it on and stepped out of the towel before climbing on to his bed, pulling the covers around him and closing his eyes blissfully.  "No, thank you, Sam," he said drowsily.  "I think I am going to retire early tonight.  I am a bit tired.  Good night, Sam."

Sam gawked at his master.  He walked around the bed and stood near the headboard watching Frodo's sleeping face.

Bless him, thought Sam.  He never—not since Mount Doom—looked this peaceful in sleep before.  Nor smelled as sweet, thought Sam, smiling fondly.  He blew out the candles on the table and made his way quietly out of the room.  He left the door ajar as usual, but that night, there was no nightmare to chase away.

***