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 Three is told from Frodo's viewpoint; Chapter Four will be either
Aragorn or alternating between the two.
Thank you all so very 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 Three: Homesick
I shudder at the moment of chill as Aragorn slid me from his arms to Legolas, welcoming the warmth as the elf pulls me close, his touch at once like Aragorn's and yet so different. . .the brush of his fingers along my forehead seems to infuse some sense of comfort, easing my aching head and limbs, calming the sense of freezing cold a bit. . . .
"There now, little one. . .Aragorn will prepare some medicine for you; we are going to start a fire so you can have something hot to drink."
"Thank you. . . ."
Legolas smiles, settling back as if at complete ease: he always seems quite natural no matter where we are, whether in Rivendell or Hollin, surrounded by other elves or surrounded by snow. It still amazes me, though by now I should be accustomed to it. He tips a water-bottle to my lips: despite the coldness, it tastes wonderful, and I sip several mouthfuls before allowing him to set it aside once more.
His tone is reassuring, and I feel a little better. . .though my chest still aches, and a fit of coughing seizes me. It hurts. . . . I feel grateful when he eases me up a bit; breathing is so difficult, and this position seems better. . . .
"There, there, Frodo. . .try and rest. . . ."
I nod, though the gesture seems a matter of great effort. Everything hurts. I recognise the feeling, unfortunately. . .when I was much younger, not long after my parents died, I fell very ill - with a chill at first, then a horrible cough and a high fever. One of my aunts came to check on me during the night since I had eaten little at supper and complained of a headache; she sent for the doctor, then gave me a warm bath and put me to bed with heated flannels for my chest. It was then Bilbo and I began to grow closer, actually, for he visited Brandy Hall less than days after I first became sick, and sat for hours on end telling me stories and coaxing me to take sips of broth or juice. Years later, when I was a tweenager living at Bag End, I came down with it again, and this time it was Bilbo who nursed me, pressing cold cloths to my aching forehead and changing my sheets, tucking hot water-bottles in against my chest and stomach to soothe the aches, holding me and rubbing my back through the painful coughing fits.
How I long to be back there, back in the comfort of my room at Bag End, with my fireplace and feather bed, fluffy pillows and the soft down counterpane Bilbo had had made just for me, with the warm smells of honey- cooked vegetables and chicken soup with mushrooms filling the air. More than anything, I wish I would awaken, finding this all a nightmare from beginning to end, and feel Bilbo's soft hand against my brow, hear him saying, "Sssshhh now, my boy. . .it's all right. . .only a bad dream; that's all!" He would reassure me until I felt safe, then offer something to ease the chills: warmed milk with honey and nutmeg, or ginger-cinnamon tea. He would tell me stories until I fell asleep, then sit beside me, watching over me and changing the cool compresses, giving me sips of warm tea or apple juice when I would wake, talking softly and telling me stories if I could not sleep. . . .
"Frodo?"
The voice of Legolas pulls me from reverie, and I blink for a few minutes, trying to steady myself in the present, which is all too real: it is snowy and freezing cold, and the smell in the air is one of. . .I dare not say it lest someone think me out of my head with fever, though I think I am not: death. The air smells of death and fear.
"Yes?" I manage in a whisper.
The elven prince tucks a blanket more securely around me, his hands gentle as he slips one into the blankets to rub my back, for which I am very grateful: it makes me feel warmer and more comfortable, less exhausted and achy and ill. "How are you feeling, little one? Try and sleep or stay with us. . .you need rest, but we must be sure the fever does not hinder your thinking ."
"I. . .I don't. . .feel at all well. . . . Achy, and. . .cold and. . .hot. . .all at once. . . ."
He nods pityingly - I cannot say sympathetically, for I know that he does not understand; elves do not fall ill. "
I know what is wrong with me. Pneumonia.
If I weren't frightened already, that alone would be enough. . .but here. . . . Even Rivendell sounds so delightful right now, even though what I really want is *home*. . .hobbit-size furnishings and hobbit food and drink, hobbit medicine and hobbit care. . . . Everyone is so kind, but. . .it is not the same, not the same at all. . . . It's comforting being held by the Big People, but it would feel more comfortable to be home in my own warm bed, with my familiar things. . .the quilts my mother and aunt made me. . .pillows plumped and fluffed just so. . .simple hobbit-medicines, not so different from what it sounds as if Aragorn's making, but some put into syrups made with honey and candied pastilles for the throat to help coughs and colds. . . .
I cannot remember feeling so terribly sick since I left home. Not even after Weathertop, for even then, although the Morgul-wound made me more ill than I have ever been in my entire life, I maintained some hint of hope that if we could only reach Rivendell, I would get better, and I could be safe and comfortable for a time, then go home. . . . But now I know that my fears of last spring and summer were true. It is a good thing that I said my good-byes, for I know that I will most likely never see the Shire again. Even if I survive this, the road ahead is so very long. I have not Sam's optimism that we should be seeing the end soon: it is a long and difficult journey to Mordor, and Mount Doom is well inside its borders. The thought alone makes me feel so unbearably homesick.
I want to go home. I wish this had never happened, that I could still be home and Bilbo there with me.
What if I had hidden the Ring and told Gandalf I'd lost it?
What if I had refused?
It is futile to think of such things now, and I know better than to imagine it could be any other way. All the same, I wish it were over.
I wish I could go home.
I miss Bag End.
~To Be Continued~
Thank you all so very 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 Three: Homesick
I shudder at the moment of chill as Aragorn slid me from his arms to Legolas, welcoming the warmth as the elf pulls me close, his touch at once like Aragorn's and yet so different. . .the brush of his fingers along my forehead seems to infuse some sense of comfort, easing my aching head and limbs, calming the sense of freezing cold a bit. . . .
"There now, little one. . .Aragorn will prepare some medicine for you; we are going to start a fire so you can have something hot to drink."
"Thank you. . . ."
Legolas smiles, settling back as if at complete ease: he always seems quite natural no matter where we are, whether in Rivendell or Hollin, surrounded by other elves or surrounded by snow. It still amazes me, though by now I should be accustomed to it. He tips a water-bottle to my lips: despite the coldness, it tastes wonderful, and I sip several mouthfuls before allowing him to set it aside once more.
His tone is reassuring, and I feel a little better. . .though my chest still aches, and a fit of coughing seizes me. It hurts. . . . I feel grateful when he eases me up a bit; breathing is so difficult, and this position seems better. . . .
"There, there, Frodo. . .try and rest. . . ."
I nod, though the gesture seems a matter of great effort. Everything hurts. I recognise the feeling, unfortunately. . .when I was much younger, not long after my parents died, I fell very ill - with a chill at first, then a horrible cough and a high fever. One of my aunts came to check on me during the night since I had eaten little at supper and complained of a headache; she sent for the doctor, then gave me a warm bath and put me to bed with heated flannels for my chest. It was then Bilbo and I began to grow closer, actually, for he visited Brandy Hall less than days after I first became sick, and sat for hours on end telling me stories and coaxing me to take sips of broth or juice. Years later, when I was a tweenager living at Bag End, I came down with it again, and this time it was Bilbo who nursed me, pressing cold cloths to my aching forehead and changing my sheets, tucking hot water-bottles in against my chest and stomach to soothe the aches, holding me and rubbing my back through the painful coughing fits.
How I long to be back there, back in the comfort of my room at Bag End, with my fireplace and feather bed, fluffy pillows and the soft down counterpane Bilbo had had made just for me, with the warm smells of honey- cooked vegetables and chicken soup with mushrooms filling the air. More than anything, I wish I would awaken, finding this all a nightmare from beginning to end, and feel Bilbo's soft hand against my brow, hear him saying, "Sssshhh now, my boy. . .it's all right. . .only a bad dream; that's all!" He would reassure me until I felt safe, then offer something to ease the chills: warmed milk with honey and nutmeg, or ginger-cinnamon tea. He would tell me stories until I fell asleep, then sit beside me, watching over me and changing the cool compresses, giving me sips of warm tea or apple juice when I would wake, talking softly and telling me stories if I could not sleep. . . .
"Frodo?"
The voice of Legolas pulls me from reverie, and I blink for a few minutes, trying to steady myself in the present, which is all too real: it is snowy and freezing cold, and the smell in the air is one of. . .I dare not say it lest someone think me out of my head with fever, though I think I am not: death. The air smells of death and fear.
"Yes?" I manage in a whisper.
The elven prince tucks a blanket more securely around me, his hands gentle as he slips one into the blankets to rub my back, for which I am very grateful: it makes me feel warmer and more comfortable, less exhausted and achy and ill. "How are you feeling, little one? Try and sleep or stay with us. . .you need rest, but we must be sure the fever does not hinder your thinking ."
"I. . .I don't. . .feel at all well. . . . Achy, and. . .cold and. . .hot. . .all at once. . . ."
He nods pityingly - I cannot say sympathetically, for I know that he does not understand; elves do not fall ill. "
I know what is wrong with me. Pneumonia.
If I weren't frightened already, that alone would be enough. . .but here. . . . Even Rivendell sounds so delightful right now, even though what I really want is *home*. . .hobbit-size furnishings and hobbit food and drink, hobbit medicine and hobbit care. . . . Everyone is so kind, but. . .it is not the same, not the same at all. . . . It's comforting being held by the Big People, but it would feel more comfortable to be home in my own warm bed, with my familiar things. . .the quilts my mother and aunt made me. . .pillows plumped and fluffed just so. . .simple hobbit-medicines, not so different from what it sounds as if Aragorn's making, but some put into syrups made with honey and candied pastilles for the throat to help coughs and colds. . . .
I cannot remember feeling so terribly sick since I left home. Not even after Weathertop, for even then, although the Morgul-wound made me more ill than I have ever been in my entire life, I maintained some hint of hope that if we could only reach Rivendell, I would get better, and I could be safe and comfortable for a time, then go home. . . . But now I know that my fears of last spring and summer were true. It is a good thing that I said my good-byes, for I know that I will most likely never see the Shire again. Even if I survive this, the road ahead is so very long. I have not Sam's optimism that we should be seeing the end soon: it is a long and difficult journey to Mordor, and Mount Doom is well inside its borders. The thought alone makes me feel so unbearably homesick.
I want to go home. I wish this had never happened, that I could still be home and Bilbo there with me.
What if I had hidden the Ring and told Gandalf I'd lost it?
What if I had refused?
It is futile to think of such things now, and I know better than to imagine it could be any other way. All the same, I wish it were over.
I wish I could go home.
I miss Bag End.
~To Be Continued~