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.
As always, the herbal treatments mentioned (with the exception, of course, of Tolkien's own athelas) 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. While there is some debate over the use of dairy products, such as milk, in respiratory ailments (some people feel they increase mucus production and thus make things worse), in Middle-Earth milk would likely still be considered a good form of nourishment for someone too ill to eat solid food. . .and under the circumstances, the means of getting much-needed energy into the small patient are fairly limited, hence Aragorn's use of what they have. . . . For anyone blinking in confusion at my inclusion of powdered milk, there is evidence that the Mongolian peoples were doing this in the 13th century, so I suspect the elves probably weren't ignorant of how to prepare such a trail item. ;)
FYI - I suspect Pippin fans will LOVE the next chapter, so plese consider yourself alerted. The Fellowship's only tweenager will indeed be making a major appearance. :)
As always, thank you all SO much for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e-mails, and reviews! :) I hope to get the Yahoo! group for Ailing-Frodo creativity set up some time late on Monday, April 8, and will include joining information in both my profile setting and my next chapters of "Caradhras" and "Shadows in the Darkness."
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 Four: Bitter Medicine
After a thorough examination of our supplies and a talk with Gandalf, I have at least settled on a course of treatment. Were we in Rivendell or even Bree, I would put Frodo to bed at once and give him something hot to drink every two hours: something soothing made with eggs or warm milk or broth. However, we are far from anywhere, though my dismay at the situation is admittedly somewhat abated by the discovery of some unexpected additions to our baggage, courtesy of Samwise Gamgee. Sam has agreed to manage the cooking, with some aid from Merry: Frodo must have something warm and nourishing every two hours, and we will alternate a thin mushroom soup with heated milk prepared from the powder in our supplies, occasionally giving some warm applesauce as well. I knew of the dried mushrooms and powdered milk, but how Sam packed canned applesauce without the jar shattering is beyond my understanding. It matters little, for I am exceedingly glad of it. The herbal infusions I will administer between doses of nourishment; we cannot risk the omission of either.
Returning to the place where Legolas sits, singing softly to Frodo, I kneel. The little hobbit sleeps, his face flushed red across the cheekbones. At first it might appear to be an effect of the cold air, but a single touch confirms that he remains feverish, his temperature frighteningly high despite the chills causing his tiny body to shiver uncontrollably.
"How has he been?"
Legolas shakes his head, his face grim. "I know little of the Secondborn and their sicknesses, Aragorn. But he seems very weak, though he did drink a good deal of water, which seemed to help a little. Nonetheless, I fear for him. That cough bodes ill: I do hope your medicine works."
Carefully I put out my arms to take him once more. He begins to grow restless, the chills easing only to give way to the uneasy fretfulness caused by feeling too hot: I remember it well from having had fever once, long ago, when quite young, though it was swiftly cured in Rivendell. Taking him in my arms, I test, sliding my hand inside the blankets, beneath his shirt, to feel his back.
Burning hot.
Legolas catches my look, pausing in the process of rising. "Is there anything we can do? Anything I can guide the younger ones in to occupy their minds and hands so that they may feel helpful?"
I ponder a moment. . .yes, that will work. "Please. Get them to gather all the icicles they can find; they must take Boromir or you along, and one of Sam's pans. They should return here as quickly as possible and break the icicles into small pieces, the right size for holding in the mouth."
He nods, and is gone as silently as he came. Anxiously I study Frodo, debating. The fever must not be allowed to go too high, and yet I fear further chilling him here. It would be easy enough to pack him in snow, but with no easy means of rewarming him should the need arise, I feel reluctant to risk doing so. Suddenly an idea comes to mind, though, and as Sam ventures over with a cup, I motion for him to sit beside me.
"Here's the tea for Mr. Frodo, sir. . .I made it just like you said, twenty minutes of sitting, though it still smells a mite bitter."
"That's all right. We'll use the licorice next time; it's sweet and won't be so unpleasant for him." Taking the cup, I settle Frodo a bit more securely in the crook of one arm. "Sam, I need you to get something from my pack: take a little athelas, a few leaves only, and some of the soft cloths with them. Bring them here, and fetch some boiling water."
He nods dutifully. "All right, sir - only - " Gesturing helplessly to Frodo, he chews his lip. "You - sir, you will get him to drink the medicine down, won't you? Sometimes it takes some doing when he's real sick; when he doesn't feel good he doesn't want to eat or drink anything, usually, except somethin' to keep him from bein' so thirsty, so he may not take it all first try. . . ."
I cannot help smiling. . .but I nod as reassuringly as I can. "I'll do what I can, Sam, and if I have any trouble, I'll seek your assistance."
The young hobbit fairly beams at this, save for the sadness lingering in his eyes, and trudges over to my pack, beginning to work. Holding the cup carefully, I attempt to coax Frodo into sipping a little of the contents: honeysuckle and ginger, to ease his cough and chills and bring down the fever. "Frodo," I offer, tipping the cup to his lips, "take a few sips. . .come, now. . .it's nice and warm, and it will help make you feel better. . . ."
Slowly the blue eyes open - he blinks at me for a moment, but then begins to sip obediently, though he makes a slight face.
"It's so. . .strong. . . ."
"Yes, I'm afraid so. Strong to help you get better. The next one will taste much better; I promise. It's licorice. . .and in a while I want you to take a little soup for me. . .mushroom. . .and later some warm applesauce. . .doesn't that sound good?"
He blinks, looking a bit confused. "Applesauce?"
I can't help laughing as I nod, despite the gravity of our situation. "Yes - it seems your friend Samwise has more ingenuity than the rest of us. There is applesauce, and milk. . .I know the powdered tastes quite different from fresh, but you must drink it if you can; I doubt I need to tell you how ill you are, and how important it is that you take some nourishment."
Weakly he nods, then continues to drink the tea. After a few moments, though, he pauses, shuddering. "I don't know if I can. . .it's awfully strong. . . ."
"It's very important, Frodo. Just a few sips more, at least. . .try, please."
He sighs, beginning to cough again: a thick, dark sound, tight and disconcerting. But once the fit passes, he yields, sipping slowly once more. By the time Sam returns with the requested items, he has finished the cupful and seems to be growing drowsy once more.
"All right, Sam. . .set the cloths in the athelas-water to soak. . .wring one out thoroughly and hand it to me." He obeys, while I begin attempting to create enough of an opening to apply the cloth without chilling Frodo. The ice would have to do to bring down the fever, and perhaps this might ease his troubled breathing a little. He is, though, wearing a small coat of mail beneath his shirt, and as much as I hate to move the poor hobbit, I cannot see any way but to take it off for now, for I must have easy access to his chest, both to apply medicines and to try warmth for soothing his cough. Still, metal though it is, that is an extra layer: exquisite mithril, enough to take one's breath. "Actually, Sam - leave the cloths soaking a moment, and fetch Frodo's pack if you would. I believe he has an extra shirt I'd like to put over this, to try and keep him from getting chilled while we work."
Again the little gardener obeys, giving me time to ease a drowsy Frodo out of his mail, removing his tunic and shirt long enough to do so, then quickly sliding them back on. Even the effort of being undressed by another seems to tax his strength, and he moans softly with pain, looking relieved when I allow him to lie back in my arms, holding him carefully against my shoulder. Quickly Sam returns, and I slide the shirt on over the rest, rewrapping him in blankets and arranging just an opening to reach his chest. Kneeling, Sam begins wringing out the compress.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I've a bit of news you might want - "
Pressing the athelas compress to Frodo's chest, the pungent scent of herb filling our little shelter, I look over at him curiously.
"I did a bit of checking, and it seems that applesauce weren't the only bit of canning that did last the trip up; I knew I'd packed more, but I didn't know how it'd travel." He grins sheepishly. "There's blackberries. . .and some peaches, too, right pretty ones. And I think some pears as well. I'd plumb forgotten about those till today, but I'm mighty glad I packed 'em now. Do you think those might help?"
"Yes. . .thank you, Sam, I think they may indeed." I cannot help but feel relieved: there is nothing so good for a cough as honey, and I know from Rivendell that Frodo will take fruit when he will eat little else: after Weathertop, one of the first things he began eating again was the bit of fruit put on his tray, which we rapidly increased upon realising that it was this he was most willing to get down. And we can use some of the honey to sweeten tea for him: the bitterness may be an obstacle if I have to give further doses of some remedies, and this will help. "Thank you. . .it shows. . .ingenuity."
Sam reddens, smiling a bit. "'Tweren't nothin', Strider, sir. It's only that I know what Mr. Frodo likes and don't, and they - the elves, I mean - were willing to set me up a bit with things. . . . I'd a-thought that glass would have frozen through and busted by now, but they said it was specially strong, and I suppose this does prove that, don't it?"
Nodding, I remove the rapidly cooling compress, returning it to him and holding out my hand for another, watching tensely for Frodo's breathing to ease. He does not seem to be sleeping, but lies with his eyes closed, and that concerns me: I fear that the fever is what keeps him from resting well, and that is a bad sign. Suddenly he murmurs faintly, and I lean closer to hear.
"No. . .no, I want Bilbo. . .please. . .he'd come. . .if he knew. . . ."
It is the delirium which worries me most. . .and I try to comfort him as best I can, cradling and shushing him gently.
"Ssssshhh, little one. It's all right. I know. But you must rest now. . . ."
A weak nod. . .and he goes quiet. I sigh, knowing that he misses Bilbo, and home. I would give him that if I could.
The best I have to offer, however, is a warm compress and a few sips of medicine that I can only hope will help.
~To Be Continued~
As always, the herbal treatments mentioned (with the exception, of course, of Tolkien's own athelas) 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. While there is some debate over the use of dairy products, such as milk, in respiratory ailments (some people feel they increase mucus production and thus make things worse), in Middle-Earth milk would likely still be considered a good form of nourishment for someone too ill to eat solid food. . .and under the circumstances, the means of getting much-needed energy into the small patient are fairly limited, hence Aragorn's use of what they have. . . . For anyone blinking in confusion at my inclusion of powdered milk, there is evidence that the Mongolian peoples were doing this in the 13th century, so I suspect the elves probably weren't ignorant of how to prepare such a trail item. ;)
FYI - I suspect Pippin fans will LOVE the next chapter, so plese consider yourself alerted. The Fellowship's only tweenager will indeed be making a major appearance. :)
As always, thank you all SO much for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e-mails, and reviews! :) I hope to get the Yahoo! group for Ailing-Frodo creativity set up some time late on Monday, April 8, and will include joining information in both my profile setting and my next chapters of "Caradhras" and "Shadows in the Darkness."
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 Four: Bitter Medicine
After a thorough examination of our supplies and a talk with Gandalf, I have at least settled on a course of treatment. Were we in Rivendell or even Bree, I would put Frodo to bed at once and give him something hot to drink every two hours: something soothing made with eggs or warm milk or broth. However, we are far from anywhere, though my dismay at the situation is admittedly somewhat abated by the discovery of some unexpected additions to our baggage, courtesy of Samwise Gamgee. Sam has agreed to manage the cooking, with some aid from Merry: Frodo must have something warm and nourishing every two hours, and we will alternate a thin mushroom soup with heated milk prepared from the powder in our supplies, occasionally giving some warm applesauce as well. I knew of the dried mushrooms and powdered milk, but how Sam packed canned applesauce without the jar shattering is beyond my understanding. It matters little, for I am exceedingly glad of it. The herbal infusions I will administer between doses of nourishment; we cannot risk the omission of either.
Returning to the place where Legolas sits, singing softly to Frodo, I kneel. The little hobbit sleeps, his face flushed red across the cheekbones. At first it might appear to be an effect of the cold air, but a single touch confirms that he remains feverish, his temperature frighteningly high despite the chills causing his tiny body to shiver uncontrollably.
"How has he been?"
Legolas shakes his head, his face grim. "I know little of the Secondborn and their sicknesses, Aragorn. But he seems very weak, though he did drink a good deal of water, which seemed to help a little. Nonetheless, I fear for him. That cough bodes ill: I do hope your medicine works."
Carefully I put out my arms to take him once more. He begins to grow restless, the chills easing only to give way to the uneasy fretfulness caused by feeling too hot: I remember it well from having had fever once, long ago, when quite young, though it was swiftly cured in Rivendell. Taking him in my arms, I test, sliding my hand inside the blankets, beneath his shirt, to feel his back.
Burning hot.
Legolas catches my look, pausing in the process of rising. "Is there anything we can do? Anything I can guide the younger ones in to occupy their minds and hands so that they may feel helpful?"
I ponder a moment. . .yes, that will work. "Please. Get them to gather all the icicles they can find; they must take Boromir or you along, and one of Sam's pans. They should return here as quickly as possible and break the icicles into small pieces, the right size for holding in the mouth."
He nods, and is gone as silently as he came. Anxiously I study Frodo, debating. The fever must not be allowed to go too high, and yet I fear further chilling him here. It would be easy enough to pack him in snow, but with no easy means of rewarming him should the need arise, I feel reluctant to risk doing so. Suddenly an idea comes to mind, though, and as Sam ventures over with a cup, I motion for him to sit beside me.
"Here's the tea for Mr. Frodo, sir. . .I made it just like you said, twenty minutes of sitting, though it still smells a mite bitter."
"That's all right. We'll use the licorice next time; it's sweet and won't be so unpleasant for him." Taking the cup, I settle Frodo a bit more securely in the crook of one arm. "Sam, I need you to get something from my pack: take a little athelas, a few leaves only, and some of the soft cloths with them. Bring them here, and fetch some boiling water."
He nods dutifully. "All right, sir - only - " Gesturing helplessly to Frodo, he chews his lip. "You - sir, you will get him to drink the medicine down, won't you? Sometimes it takes some doing when he's real sick; when he doesn't feel good he doesn't want to eat or drink anything, usually, except somethin' to keep him from bein' so thirsty, so he may not take it all first try. . . ."
I cannot help smiling. . .but I nod as reassuringly as I can. "I'll do what I can, Sam, and if I have any trouble, I'll seek your assistance."
The young hobbit fairly beams at this, save for the sadness lingering in his eyes, and trudges over to my pack, beginning to work. Holding the cup carefully, I attempt to coax Frodo into sipping a little of the contents: honeysuckle and ginger, to ease his cough and chills and bring down the fever. "Frodo," I offer, tipping the cup to his lips, "take a few sips. . .come, now. . .it's nice and warm, and it will help make you feel better. . . ."
Slowly the blue eyes open - he blinks at me for a moment, but then begins to sip obediently, though he makes a slight face.
"It's so. . .strong. . . ."
"Yes, I'm afraid so. Strong to help you get better. The next one will taste much better; I promise. It's licorice. . .and in a while I want you to take a little soup for me. . .mushroom. . .and later some warm applesauce. . .doesn't that sound good?"
He blinks, looking a bit confused. "Applesauce?"
I can't help laughing as I nod, despite the gravity of our situation. "Yes - it seems your friend Samwise has more ingenuity than the rest of us. There is applesauce, and milk. . .I know the powdered tastes quite different from fresh, but you must drink it if you can; I doubt I need to tell you how ill you are, and how important it is that you take some nourishment."
Weakly he nods, then continues to drink the tea. After a few moments, though, he pauses, shuddering. "I don't know if I can. . .it's awfully strong. . . ."
"It's very important, Frodo. Just a few sips more, at least. . .try, please."
He sighs, beginning to cough again: a thick, dark sound, tight and disconcerting. But once the fit passes, he yields, sipping slowly once more. By the time Sam returns with the requested items, he has finished the cupful and seems to be growing drowsy once more.
"All right, Sam. . .set the cloths in the athelas-water to soak. . .wring one out thoroughly and hand it to me." He obeys, while I begin attempting to create enough of an opening to apply the cloth without chilling Frodo. The ice would have to do to bring down the fever, and perhaps this might ease his troubled breathing a little. He is, though, wearing a small coat of mail beneath his shirt, and as much as I hate to move the poor hobbit, I cannot see any way but to take it off for now, for I must have easy access to his chest, both to apply medicines and to try warmth for soothing his cough. Still, metal though it is, that is an extra layer: exquisite mithril, enough to take one's breath. "Actually, Sam - leave the cloths soaking a moment, and fetch Frodo's pack if you would. I believe he has an extra shirt I'd like to put over this, to try and keep him from getting chilled while we work."
Again the little gardener obeys, giving me time to ease a drowsy Frodo out of his mail, removing his tunic and shirt long enough to do so, then quickly sliding them back on. Even the effort of being undressed by another seems to tax his strength, and he moans softly with pain, looking relieved when I allow him to lie back in my arms, holding him carefully against my shoulder. Quickly Sam returns, and I slide the shirt on over the rest, rewrapping him in blankets and arranging just an opening to reach his chest. Kneeling, Sam begins wringing out the compress.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I've a bit of news you might want - "
Pressing the athelas compress to Frodo's chest, the pungent scent of herb filling our little shelter, I look over at him curiously.
"I did a bit of checking, and it seems that applesauce weren't the only bit of canning that did last the trip up; I knew I'd packed more, but I didn't know how it'd travel." He grins sheepishly. "There's blackberries. . .and some peaches, too, right pretty ones. And I think some pears as well. I'd plumb forgotten about those till today, but I'm mighty glad I packed 'em now. Do you think those might help?"
"Yes. . .thank you, Sam, I think they may indeed." I cannot help but feel relieved: there is nothing so good for a cough as honey, and I know from Rivendell that Frodo will take fruit when he will eat little else: after Weathertop, one of the first things he began eating again was the bit of fruit put on his tray, which we rapidly increased upon realising that it was this he was most willing to get down. And we can use some of the honey to sweeten tea for him: the bitterness may be an obstacle if I have to give further doses of some remedies, and this will help. "Thank you. . .it shows. . .ingenuity."
Sam reddens, smiling a bit. "'Tweren't nothin', Strider, sir. It's only that I know what Mr. Frodo likes and don't, and they - the elves, I mean - were willing to set me up a bit with things. . . . I'd a-thought that glass would have frozen through and busted by now, but they said it was specially strong, and I suppose this does prove that, don't it?"
Nodding, I remove the rapidly cooling compress, returning it to him and holding out my hand for another, watching tensely for Frodo's breathing to ease. He does not seem to be sleeping, but lies with his eyes closed, and that concerns me: I fear that the fever is what keeps him from resting well, and that is a bad sign. Suddenly he murmurs faintly, and I lean closer to hear.
"No. . .no, I want Bilbo. . .please. . .he'd come. . .if he knew. . . ."
It is the delirium which worries me most. . .and I try to comfort him as best I can, cradling and shushing him gently.
"Ssssshhh, little one. It's all right. I know. But you must rest now. . . ."
A weak nod. . .and he goes quiet. I sigh, knowing that he misses Bilbo, and home. I would give him that if I could.
The best I have to offer, however, is a warm compress and a few sips of medicine that I can only hope will help.
~To Be Continued~