Author's Note: Set as slightly AU during the approach and ascent of
Caradhras, this story is written in alternating viewpoint, shifting between
Aragorn and Frodo; it should be fairly easy to tell which is which.
Chapter One included both Aragorn and Frodo; Chapter Two is told by
Aragorn, and Chapter Three will be from Frodo's viewpoint.
As always, the herbal treatments mentioned are indeed listed for such uses in our world as well: all of the treatments Aragorn considers are used for pneumonia and bronchitis, and you may see some more about those particular items in future chapters.
Again, thank you all SO much for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e- mails, and reviews! :)
For permission to reproduce, please contact frodobaggins@frodo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. This is a non-slash fiction: no slash or sexual connotations are implied or intended.
CARADHRAS
Chapter Two: Dry Vines
It is as I feared: Frodo is indeed very ill, and I silently curse repeatedly over how far we are from Rivendell. He needs a warm bed, thick pillows and warmed quilts, hot soup and heated medicines, warm poultices to ease his breathing. . .but the best I can offer here is the warmth of my own body, holding him wrapped in blankets against my chest.
As the light of dawn nears, Gandalf comes to join us, his worn face anxious in expression as he kneels beside us. "Legolas told me. How is he?"
I shake my head, glancing back at the tiny bundle of dark curls and pale features, the little face just visible from the nest of blankets I've wrapped him in. "He grows worse. Gandalf. . .we cannot continue. Not at present. He is too ill."
The wizard sighs, nodding. "No. . .no, we cannot. I will tell the others at first light." He glances about tensely. "I had not wanted to risk it, but. . .it seems we must have a fire. The longer we must stay here, the more we risk discovery, even without fire. Merry and Pippin can help Gimli gather some wood. Boromir can stand guard; Legolas will assist you. Sam will help get the fire going. And if there is anything I can do. . ."
"The fire will help. I can make a hot drink for him; I have herbs which may help ease the cough and fever, at least, and perhaps warm him a little."
Gandalf nods, lifting a wrinkled hand to Frodo's brow, gently brushing back the damp curls. "All right. I will return soon." With that, he rises and is gone, leaving me to return my attention to the tiny Ringbearer cradled in my arms.
I have trained long enough in the healing arts, under Elrond's guidance, that I have treated all sorts of patients and conditions, and though I know Frodo is no child, it is that part of my learning which I try to remember, for a small body needs different care than a large one, and medicines that would heal a man the size of Boromir or an elf the size of Legolas would kill a very small hobbit, even one a little taller than most, like Frodo. When he began to recover from his wound, it was children's dosing that we used to administer tonics and soothing mixtures, once he no longer needed the powerful concoctions required in treating a Morgul-knife's poison. I try to shut out of my mind the truth of the children I have treated with pneumonia: of adults and children alike, many do not survive, but I have seen more children die than live, and a part of me fears greatly that this trial will be too much. He survived a wound that would have killed many a strong warrior, and so I suspect he is stronger than one would think, stronger by far, but the experience has not been without lasting harm, and at best he has a long, miserable path ahead.
Reaching carefully into my pack, I begin sorting the herbs packed under Elrond's guidance. Ginger. Good. He likes ginger, that much I recall, and it will help the fever and chills as well as any sense of nausea. Now, for some mullein or something of the sort. . .there, elecampagne root. . .he won't like how thick the resulting tea is, I'm sure, but I don't like how difficult his cough is: tight and dry, despite the fact that I can hear thick rattling in his chest, the heavy sound of congestion. Dried licorice root. . .there, that's good. . . .
Frodo stirs in my arms, his eyelashes flickering as if he might wake. At once I abandon the pack and turn my attention back to him entirely, stroking back the curls and shushing softly. Slowly he opens his eyes, blinking in the hints of dawn sunshine.
"Aragorn? What. . .why aren't we. . .packing to go?"
I uncap the flask of water beside us, bringing it to his lips and pressing him to drink. "We cannot risk continuing until you are at least a little better, Frodo. We will rest here until you are well enough for us to continue."
His eyes widen, and at once he shakes his head frantically. "No. . .no, it's too dangerous, and there isn't time. . . ."
"We have no choice, Frodo." Insisting gently, I tuck the blankets a bit more closely around him. "The best thing for us to do now is wait. Try to rest and let us take care of you. I will see to you; if I have to leave you for even a few minutes, Gandalf or Legolas will take you, and we will have your friends close by your side. All right?" He nods weakly, and I try coaxing a little more water into him, hoping that plenty to drink will help control the fever, which seems to be rising further.
"How is the little one?"
Legolas drops to a crouch beside me, studying Frodo with concern, though he offers a reassuring smile to Frodo as the hobbit turns to see who speaks.
I discovered already in Rivendell that Frodo knows more than one would expect; speaking in Sindarin to avoid upsetting him is of limited value, since he reads expressions well and can make out snatches of conversation decently enough. . .so I answer in Westron, allowing Frodo to hear me without the trouble of trying to translate in his head. "He needs medicine. . .we are going to try risking a fire, but I wish I had brought dried ivy or honeysuckle from Rivendell; a tea from that might help his breathing. I have some things that will help, but that would do a great deal of good."
The elf nods. "Actually, Aragorn, you may find yourself in better spirits if you go and look at the nearest trees. . .you would not have seen last night; it was already darkening." He smiles wryly, putting out his arms. "Shall I take Frodo while you see them?"
Looking down at the bundle in my arms, I arch an eyebrow, awaiting his approval. . .and he responds with a weak nod, allowing me to ease him gently into the elf's arms. Legolas takes the hobbit as gently as he might lift a babe from its cradle, supporting Frodo's back and head with great care, settling into a sitting position himself. He begins to talk gently to the little Ringbearer, and I rise carefully, stretching out the cramps of so many hours spent in the same posture, before walking over to the nearest trees.
I would not have thought it. Never. Yet there it is: a dried vine, an old honeysuckle creeper trailing along one of the trees. Eagerly I strip the leaves and twigs, gathering them into the folds of my cloak. The others stand a little apart, Gandalf talking with them; the hobbits are beginning to look very anxious, and Gimli's expression is grim. I glance back at Legolas, who cradles Frodo, talking softly to him. . .and suddenly, still stripping dead twigs and dried leaves into the makeshift pouch, I envy the Firstborn's ability to comfort, the keen sense of presence that they have.
There is so little I can do for the Ringbearer.
So little that it frightens me.
~To Be Continued~
As always, the herbal treatments mentioned are indeed listed for such uses in our world as well: all of the treatments Aragorn considers are used for pneumonia and bronchitis, and you may see some more about those particular items in future chapters.
Again, thank you all SO much for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e- mails, and reviews! :)
For permission to reproduce, please contact frodobaggins@frodo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. This is a non-slash fiction: no slash or sexual connotations are implied or intended.
CARADHRAS
Chapter Two: Dry Vines
It is as I feared: Frodo is indeed very ill, and I silently curse repeatedly over how far we are from Rivendell. He needs a warm bed, thick pillows and warmed quilts, hot soup and heated medicines, warm poultices to ease his breathing. . .but the best I can offer here is the warmth of my own body, holding him wrapped in blankets against my chest.
As the light of dawn nears, Gandalf comes to join us, his worn face anxious in expression as he kneels beside us. "Legolas told me. How is he?"
I shake my head, glancing back at the tiny bundle of dark curls and pale features, the little face just visible from the nest of blankets I've wrapped him in. "He grows worse. Gandalf. . .we cannot continue. Not at present. He is too ill."
The wizard sighs, nodding. "No. . .no, we cannot. I will tell the others at first light." He glances about tensely. "I had not wanted to risk it, but. . .it seems we must have a fire. The longer we must stay here, the more we risk discovery, even without fire. Merry and Pippin can help Gimli gather some wood. Boromir can stand guard; Legolas will assist you. Sam will help get the fire going. And if there is anything I can do. . ."
"The fire will help. I can make a hot drink for him; I have herbs which may help ease the cough and fever, at least, and perhaps warm him a little."
Gandalf nods, lifting a wrinkled hand to Frodo's brow, gently brushing back the damp curls. "All right. I will return soon." With that, he rises and is gone, leaving me to return my attention to the tiny Ringbearer cradled in my arms.
I have trained long enough in the healing arts, under Elrond's guidance, that I have treated all sorts of patients and conditions, and though I know Frodo is no child, it is that part of my learning which I try to remember, for a small body needs different care than a large one, and medicines that would heal a man the size of Boromir or an elf the size of Legolas would kill a very small hobbit, even one a little taller than most, like Frodo. When he began to recover from his wound, it was children's dosing that we used to administer tonics and soothing mixtures, once he no longer needed the powerful concoctions required in treating a Morgul-knife's poison. I try to shut out of my mind the truth of the children I have treated with pneumonia: of adults and children alike, many do not survive, but I have seen more children die than live, and a part of me fears greatly that this trial will be too much. He survived a wound that would have killed many a strong warrior, and so I suspect he is stronger than one would think, stronger by far, but the experience has not been without lasting harm, and at best he has a long, miserable path ahead.
Reaching carefully into my pack, I begin sorting the herbs packed under Elrond's guidance. Ginger. Good. He likes ginger, that much I recall, and it will help the fever and chills as well as any sense of nausea. Now, for some mullein or something of the sort. . .there, elecampagne root. . .he won't like how thick the resulting tea is, I'm sure, but I don't like how difficult his cough is: tight and dry, despite the fact that I can hear thick rattling in his chest, the heavy sound of congestion. Dried licorice root. . .there, that's good. . . .
Frodo stirs in my arms, his eyelashes flickering as if he might wake. At once I abandon the pack and turn my attention back to him entirely, stroking back the curls and shushing softly. Slowly he opens his eyes, blinking in the hints of dawn sunshine.
"Aragorn? What. . .why aren't we. . .packing to go?"
I uncap the flask of water beside us, bringing it to his lips and pressing him to drink. "We cannot risk continuing until you are at least a little better, Frodo. We will rest here until you are well enough for us to continue."
His eyes widen, and at once he shakes his head frantically. "No. . .no, it's too dangerous, and there isn't time. . . ."
"We have no choice, Frodo." Insisting gently, I tuck the blankets a bit more closely around him. "The best thing for us to do now is wait. Try to rest and let us take care of you. I will see to you; if I have to leave you for even a few minutes, Gandalf or Legolas will take you, and we will have your friends close by your side. All right?" He nods weakly, and I try coaxing a little more water into him, hoping that plenty to drink will help control the fever, which seems to be rising further.
"How is the little one?"
Legolas drops to a crouch beside me, studying Frodo with concern, though he offers a reassuring smile to Frodo as the hobbit turns to see who speaks.
I discovered already in Rivendell that Frodo knows more than one would expect; speaking in Sindarin to avoid upsetting him is of limited value, since he reads expressions well and can make out snatches of conversation decently enough. . .so I answer in Westron, allowing Frodo to hear me without the trouble of trying to translate in his head. "He needs medicine. . .we are going to try risking a fire, but I wish I had brought dried ivy or honeysuckle from Rivendell; a tea from that might help his breathing. I have some things that will help, but that would do a great deal of good."
The elf nods. "Actually, Aragorn, you may find yourself in better spirits if you go and look at the nearest trees. . .you would not have seen last night; it was already darkening." He smiles wryly, putting out his arms. "Shall I take Frodo while you see them?"
Looking down at the bundle in my arms, I arch an eyebrow, awaiting his approval. . .and he responds with a weak nod, allowing me to ease him gently into the elf's arms. Legolas takes the hobbit as gently as he might lift a babe from its cradle, supporting Frodo's back and head with great care, settling into a sitting position himself. He begins to talk gently to the little Ringbearer, and I rise carefully, stretching out the cramps of so many hours spent in the same posture, before walking over to the nearest trees.
I would not have thought it. Never. Yet there it is: a dried vine, an old honeysuckle creeper trailing along one of the trees. Eagerly I strip the leaves and twigs, gathering them into the folds of my cloak. The others stand a little apart, Gandalf talking with them; the hobbits are beginning to look very anxious, and Gimli's expression is grim. I glance back at Legolas, who cradles Frodo, talking softly to him. . .and suddenly, still stripping dead twigs and dried leaves into the makeshift pouch, I envy the Firstborn's ability to comfort, the keen sense of presence that they have.
There is so little I can do for the Ringbearer.
So little that it frightens me.
~To Be Continued~