After Frodo's nap -which lasted well into the evening- and his dinner, Aragorn brought him the book he'd been reading -Tales of Men, Aragorn noted- and Frodo read contentedly until he nearly dropped the book when he drifted off for a moment. This time he needed no encouragement from Aragorn to put the book away and sleep.

When Frodo next awoke, he almost immediately reached for the book without even opening his eyes. Empty table met his hand, so he blearily dragged his eyes open to find where the book had gotten to. It was no longer on the table beside the bed. He then peered across the room and thought he saw the edge of the book on the table beside the chair. Frodo sighed.

"You should be sleeping," said Halbarad's soft voice from beside the fire.

"What is the time?"

"Not yet dawn. Even Aragorn is sleeping."

Then Frodo noticed the soft snores from the other side of the room and resisted the urge to laugh. He yawned instead and snuggled deeper into his pillow. "Oh. All right." He fell silent and, truth be told, he was asleep again before he acknowledged to himself that he was still rather tired . . .

When the hobbit did not speak again, Halbarad rose and stood beside the bed, watching him slumber. As Aragorn had warned him, Frodo became restless and agitated after a time, so Halbarad fetched their next gift and tucked it into bed beside the small sleeper. Frodo almost immediately sensed the addition, his expression changing from concerned to curious as he latched on to the stuffed dog that was at least half as tall as he was. Upon feeling that this new presence was not a threat -if a stuffed toy ever could be a threat!- Frodo calmed and hugged it as his movements stilled and he descended deeper into sleep, seeming to rest far easier than before.

Aragorn joined him at the bedside. "Does it seem to be helping?"

"It does," Halbarad answered softly. "Truthfully, I had not noticed before now that his rest was disturbed."

"I cannot claim to have noticed much, either -I had only an inkling that something was not entirely at rights. Part of me only assumed he was having recurring dreams of his attack."

"He still could be," Halbarad replied. "But I would assume none of the ruffians were soft and stuffed, so the dog should be able to pull him from those memories to happier times."

"True."

Frodo woke again late in the morning, this time more than ready to brave the trek to the chair in order to continue his book. A lovely smell greeted his nose and he sniffed appreciatively. Mulled cider. His mouth watered in anticipation. He opened his eyes and sat up, only to realize he was clutching something stuffed that he'd never seen before. He held it out for inspection; it appeared to be a dog, its body made of a soft brown crushed velvet with long, floppy ears, button eyes and nose, and a mouth stitched on to the lighter coloured-fabric that formed its snout. "Why . . . ?" he asked aloud to no one in particular.

Aragorn answered. "You sometimes become upset in your sleep, so we thought it might help you to have something to hold on to. It seemed to do the trick earlier this morning, at least."

"I see," Frodo looked wonderingly at the stuffed toy; he did vaguely remember a bad dream that dissipated into fond memories of his parents.

"If you don't think it suitable for a hobbit your age, we will not be offended. Quite honestly, we are not certain what is appropriate for hobbits at any age," Aragorn admitted.

"No, no, I like it," Frodo said shyly. "My cousins would think it childish of me, but I do like it."

Aragorn was more relieved than words could say. "I am truly glad. Now, if you eat as much porridge as you are given without complaining, we have one last surprise for you."

Frodo looked unconvinced.

"And we will allow you to have some of the cider I'm sure you can smell."

"Deal," Frodo said instantly. He was handed a bowl that contained more porridge than he would have liked, but he supposed he could manage. A few bites in and he concluded it wouldn't be too unpleasant -it was suitably sweetened, and the top was dusted with something he couldn't identify but liked all the same. A little past halfway through, he had to slow down considerably -he was beginning to feel rather full- but the enticing smell of the cider spurred him on. When he finally finished, he flopped back against his pillow and heaved a sigh. "I don't think I shall eat again for a week," he groaned.

Aragorn eyed him with some concern as he took the empty bowl. "If finishing was that difficult, you should have mentioned it. I freely admit I could only estimate how much you were capable of eating. It would seem I overestimated."

By now Frodo was curled up on the bed, clutching his dog in an effort to forestall the need to retch. "It did not seem bad until after I was done," he said weakly. "But I will be all right with some time."

Aragorn nodded. "If you need anything, just say so. I will be nearby."

It took between a half hour and an hour of digesting -and dozing- before Frodo felt he could move without immediately bringing up his breakfast. He sat up slowly and rummaged through the treat sock until he found the ginger candies; he tried one, remembering that ginger was frequently used for stomach complaints, and found it did ease the remaining discomfort somewhat. At least, it was enough that he should be able to read.

Frodo ventured out of bed and, still clutching the dog, crossed over to his chair -he had commenced calling it 'his chair' upon noticing that he was the only one who ever sat in it. Aragorn watched him and obligingly brought the step over, and Frodo clambered into the chair without issue. He started to read, but found he was still uncomfortable enough that his concentration frequently strayed from the words on the page. He closed the book with a sigh and stared disconsolately at the fire.

Then a canvas bag with a drawstring dropped into his lap from above. He looked up to find Aragorn leaning on the back of the chair, grinning. "You might have better luck with this if you're having trouble reading," was all he said.

Puzzled, Frodo pulled the bag open and peered inside. There were wooden blocks in various shapes and a smaller cloth bag tucked along the side. He pulled this out first; it held pieces of stiffened parchment with outlines drawn on each side and marks on the upper right corner. The top cards had one mark, while the ones on the very bottom had five marks.

"It's a puzzle," Aragorn explained from above his head. "The cards have the shape to make using the blocks, and the marks are how hard that shape is, from easy to difficult."

This was promising. He tucked the book along the side of the chair, then kneeled up and dumped the blocks onto the side table. Peering at the top card, he slowly began moving the blocks into position. He almost had it once, but there was an extra piece sticking out one side, so he started over and got it the second time. After a moment of satisfaction, Frodo flipped the card over and started on the next image.

He'd worked his way through a half dozen when Aragorn interrupted his train of thought. "It's about time for luncheon; are you up to eating something?"

Frodo looked at him uncomprehendingly for a moment before his mind understood that this was discussion now, not puzzles, and he should be answering. "Oh. Ummm..." he said eloquently. He really hadn't paid any attention to his stomach in quite a while, but since he no longer felt like retching and didn't even feel uncomfortable in the slightest, he must be fine. "I think so."

"Promise me this time you'll stop if it gets to be too much?"

Frodo nodded absentmindedly, mentally back with the puzzle and the stubborn piece that refused to fit where he thought it should go. A bowl of chunky stew appeared between him and the blocks with an admonishment, "Eat."

Frodo did so automatically, not really noticing the taste or smell of what he was putting into his mouth. As he was scraping the last bit of meat and potato from the sides and bottom of the bowl, suddenly all became clear. "Aha!" he cried with enthusiasm, pushing the bowl hurriedly aside and rearranging all of the blocks, starting with the one he'd been stuck on earlier. He clapped his hands in triumph when the outline on the page obediently took shape in the blocks before him.

Aragorn picked up Frodo's bowl lest he knock it on the floor in his glee and said, "So you like the puzzle."

"Oh, yes," Frodo enthused, then rubbed his forehead with a slight grimace. "But thinking this hard makes my head hurt, and I'm still on the easiest shapes! I don't know how I'll manage the hard ones."

"Just work your way up to it, and you'll be fine," Aragorn encouraged, patting his back reassuringly. "Perhaps a break is in order? You've been out of bed for several hours already."

"No, I'm all right," Frodo insisted, sitting back in the chair. "I'll just read for a while."

"I'll allow it, but try not to overdo it. You still have much recovering to do, and a relapse would be most disheartening."

"Yes, yes," Frodo said dismissively, already deep into the pages of his book. He read for quite a while, losing all track of time and disregarding anything happening around him until the lovely smell of that cider was suddenly coming from next to him. He lowered the book to see Aragorn carefully setting a sizable mug on the table next to him after moving aside some of the puzzle pieces.

"I thought I'd keep my promise that you could have some cider," Aragorn explained.

"Ooh," was all Frodo could say at first. "But could you give it to me? I don't want to spill it trying to pick it up." He gently placed the book onto the other chair, well out of reach of any errant drops.

"Of course," the Man replied, picking it up and easing it into Frodo's waiting hands, then remained nearby until he was sure Frodo would not lose his grip and burn himself.

He had to use both hands to support the warm weight, but he did not mind one bit. He held it just below his nose for a moment, deeply inhaling the aroma of cloves and spice, before tentatively venturing a sip. Definitely very warm, he would have to be careful not to burn his tongue. Though of all the things he could possibly burn his tongue on, mulled cider certainly wasn't a bad choice! Frodo closed his eyes in bliss and slowly enjoyed his cider. By the time he reached the dregs, the liquid was almost cool, but he savored the last sharp flavors of the cider before finally admitting the cup was, alas, empty.

Frodo set the cup aside with something akin to regret. But the reading so absorbed him again that he was startled and dropped the book when there was a knock at the door. Gently righting the book and re-finding his page, Frodo listened carefully as Halbarad answered the door. He heard the innkeeper's voice and the rattling of dishes; curious, he peered around the edge of the back of the chair to see the innkeep holding a crowded tray and being escorted by Halbarad to the larger table. While he couldn't quite see what was upon the various dishes, the scents were beginning to waft in his direction, and oh, the delights those smells portended!

The innkeep bustled from the room -no doubt he had plenty to do, it being a holiday- and Frodo shifted so he could kneel on the chair cushion and peer over the back in an effort to glimpse what Aragorn probably wouldn't let him have. He tried not to sigh woefully but must not have succeeded, for Aragorn turned and spied him. The man smiled and said invitingly, "Would you like to come over and see what he brought for us?"

Frodo's eyes widened and he nodded. Aragorn had said 'us' -could that mean he would be allowed to partake? It was almost too much to hope after everything else the man had given him. He slowly crept over to the table; Aragorn pulled out one of the chairs and helped him climb upon it so he could see better. The sight that met his hungry eyes was more impressive even than the smells had led him to believe.

Then Aragorn spoke. "If you would like to partake, I will allow you at least a taste of most anything on this tray. Though," he said thoughtfully, "there are a few dishes that might cause you stomach upset, so it would be best to avoid them for now."

Frodo scanned the tray again, this time with an eye to choose what he wished to have. Some of the dishes he knew, like the shepherd's pie and oh! were those mushrooms in cream?, but others he did not recognize. He slowly began to point out what he wished, and in what quantities, with Aragorn explaining which dishes to avoid -evidently the sweet peas with mint and yule goose (and its stuffing) would be too taxing on his stomach right now- and telling him what the strange items were -like the stoved tatties that looked somewhat questionable but sounded rather good. Of everything brought to them, Frodo ended up with bits of milk punch, baked apples, chamomile wine, stoved tatties, shortbread, stew, shepherd's pie, mushrooms in cream (a triple serving, naturally), and some yule cake. Then he knelt down on the chair after Aragorn brought a pillow so he could reach the table, and watched as Aragorn put the last few things onto the crowded plate.

As Frodo surveyed the plate Aragorn set before him, he had to seriously consider how he would embark upon this effort. While the portions Aragorn provided were reasonably small, Frodo was fairly certain he would not be able to finish everything on the plate. Which left the question of if he should go slowly, savoring every bite, without caring whether he finished it all or not, or if he should gulp it down in hopes of eating it all before his stomach had a chance to object.

Upon further consideration, Frodo decided that, while the food would undoubtedly be quite tasty going down, it was highly unlikely to be so if it came back up, so the slow approach was to be preferred. Perhaps if he took long enough, the first bits would have already left his stomach to make room for more . . .

After the better part of an hour, Frodo conceded defeat. He'd drunk all of his beverages -slowly- and gradually consumed the majority of the foodstuffs set before him, and while he really wished he could finish the yule cake and the shortbread, he just couldn't stomach even the idea of eating anything for at least a day. Well, maybe half a day. Or a few hours . . . but he certainly wasn't willing to try more now. All he felt like doing now was curling up in bed in a contented heap and sleeping. Except that his legs from the knee down were completely numb from kneeling on them for nearly an hour.

So first he had to get off them and let them return to his control. Too bad that meant enduring the horrible prickling sensation; he sat on his hands and tried not to move or touch his legs for fear of making the feeling worse. Aragorn came for his plate, then eyed him with some confusion as he made a face to keep from vocalizing his discomfort. "My legs were numb, and now they're not anymore," Frodo briefly explained, and the Man's expression turned to understanding.

"That's never a good feeling," he said sympathetically. "When you're ready to stand on them again, I can help you down. Or I can carry you over to the bed now."

By that point the prickling and tingling was considerably reduced, but not so much that he'd risk standing. "Being carried would be fine," Frodo said, his desire for bed winning out over his desire to be as independent as possible.

Aragorn carefully lifted him, touching his legs as little as he could, and soon had him tucked cozily into bed. "Just let me know when you're hungry again and you can have more. We still have quite a bit left."

More? Oh, he couldn't possibly . . . oh, but the baked apples were very good, and the mushrooms were absolutely delightful . . . yes, he would definitely want more. Later. And so, after a short nap, he had more. And it was delicious.

Frodo remained quite content with his puzzle and his books and almost always brought the stuffed dog with him to the chair when he got up for the day. He periodically snacked on what remained in the sock -a tally that decreased daily- while Aragorn and Halbarad ensured he consumed enough to satisfy them during the three main meals. Each day he tried to stay out of bed longer and walk just a bit more about the room, so that by the third day after Yule, Frodo could walk all the way around the perimeter of the room -well, the parts that weren't blocked by furnishings, at least, though he steered around those as best he could.

Quite pleased with himself, he settled in to his chair (with his dog, of course) to read. He made decent headway and lasted until after luncheon before the slight headache that had been nagging him reminded him of its presence, only today it was throbbing instead of just aching. He felt pressure gathering behind his eyes, and he rubbed at them impatiently.

"Are you all right?" came Aragorn's voice from across the room. He always seemed to sense the instant Frodo felt even the slightest bit of distress -a most annoying trait.

"Yes, just tired," Frodo responded, yawning. It wasn't a lie -he was tired, as the yawn would bear witness to- but it wasn't the whole truth, either. Frodo decided what Aragorn didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and curled up in the chair for a little nap, the faithful stuffed dog serving as his pillow.

When he woke, he had a distinctly bad feeling about the situation. He was still tired, perhaps even more tired than before, and his head felt hot and stuffed with cotton that pounded on the inside of his skull. He put a hand to his forehead and nearly jumped out of his skin when his hand felt very cold against his face. Oh, dear, this could not be good. The last time he remembered this happening, he'd been ill with a fever and . . . what else was it? A cold? His clogged brain refused to process the memory further, but at any rate, the important part was that he'd had a fever. A relatively high one. Oh, no, not good at all.

He pushed himself up to sitting, and his vision swam until the room seemed to spin lazily around him. He tried very hard to hold back the nausea. Gradually the room stilled, but the nausea worsened as Frodo realized something: this was likely the relapse Aragorn had sternly warned him about if he pushed himself too hard. What would the Man do when he realized Frodo had gone and gotten himself sick again? Oh, it was all his fault! If only he hadn't been so absorbed in the book or in the puzzle, perhaps he would have been better about resting as he should have been . . .

Well, there's no time like the present to rectify that part of the situation. Frodo shakily slid down from the chair, holding on to its arm longer than strictly necessary to be certain he would not fall flat on his face, and he unsteadily went to the bed by the shortest route possible. Not waiting for the Men to notice he needed the stop -by some miracle, they didn't seem to notice he'd moved, so intent were they on whatever they were discussing at the table in the opposite corner of the room- Frodo tossed the dog onto the bed, then gingerly used the frame and mattress edge to scale it like a ladder.

His heart was pounding and he was panting when he finally flopped onto the bed, but he'd made it and without drawing the Men's attention. Perhaps if he just went to sleep, he'd be better by the time he woke and they would never know the difference . . .