I thought it would be enough to bring you home, my dear, and then our beloved Shire would heal your wounds.
But day-by-day you grow pale and thin as some sun-loving plant long deprived of light, and I can’t do aught to stop it. The Lady didn’t give me no magic dust I can sprinkle on you, Frodo.
All around us I see the promise of new life: in the buds that are forming on the mallorn-tree, in your tiny namesake growing inside my Rosie. But you’re withering before my very eyes.
I don’t deserve to be called a gardener.