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.
FYI - It's ready! Please see my bio settings for information on the promised Yahoo! group for ailing Frodo fiction: the group is called FrodoHealers, and I'm the moderator (FrodoAtBagEnd@yahoo.com). Anyone may join, and I hope to see lots of fanfiction.net readers there! :)
I assure you all that I *am* working on the next chapter of "Shadows in the Dark" - that piece is moving a bit more slowly these days, and I'm taking advantage of a brainstorm-heavy series of thoughts on "Caradhras," but I have not abandoned the piece and will be continuing as soon as I finish that chapter. Thank you very much for your patience!
As always, thank you all SO much for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e-mails, and reviews, which are so appreciated! :)
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 Five: The Dark Beneath The Stars
"He's going to die, isn't he?"
Looking up, I find Pippin standing in front of me, clutching a pan containing several icicles, each snapped into smaller pieces. It has been a very long day: Sam spent some time assisting me with Frodo's compresses, then went to prepare a bit of soup for his master. He has remained at Frodo's side much of the day, and Merry has brought Pippin by very briefly in between their icicle-gathering errands. We are all worried: Frodo has taken little, though he reluctantly drinks down the medicinal teas I prepare with Sam's help, he had to be coaxed through even a few spoonfuls of mushroom soup and of warm milk. The cough has grown progressively worse: his breathing rattles in his chest, and his cough sounds like a death-knell, though the administration of a spoonful of honey from the jars of fruit, given every hour or two, seems to have soothed his throat enough for him to rest a little. Nonetheless, he looks worse. . .I have managed to at least ease his breathing slightly, thanks to the athelas, but have accomplished little else: he remains feverish, his heart beating far too quickly, the pulse almost like the flutter of birds' wings beneath my fingers. The requested ice is indeed a welcome sight, for this seems to be the only thing that eases Frodo's fever and thirst at all, and at once I motion the youngest hobbit to sit facing me.
"I do not know, Pippin. I hope not, and we are all doing our best. But it is possible."
He sniffles, watching Frodo anxiously while taking a seat, and I notice that he is wearing his pack. "I brought the ice. . .Merry and I found a nice little branch with lots of icicles; it was in the shade enough they hadn't melted at all. Boromir took us searching again this time."
"Thank you. That will help." Taking a bit of ice between my fingers, I hold it to Frodo's chapped lips, moistening them carefully in an effort to get him to take the ice chip into his mouth. After a moment, he does, though his eyes remain closed. "There. . .just hold that beneath your tongue, Frodo, or let it run down your throat. . .as we did before. . .all right?"
A weak nod: he complies, holding it in his mouth without choking.
Pippin shifts uneasily, his bright eyes tense with fright. "I wish Margery were here. *She'd* know just what to do."
"Margery?" This is a name I've heard mentioned by the hobbits before, but not often, and not in any context I can identify.
He nods, curls bobbing. "My. . .nurse. Mine and 'Vinca's really - I mean Pervinca, my youngest elder sister; she's not much older than I am. Mamma had a nurse specially hired before we were born, after Pearl and Pimpernel. Of course we're both far too old for that now, really, but you don't just turn out someone who's almost family. And she's still terribly nice to have around. She knows what to do about anything. . .she took care of me when I had measles. . .and mumps. . .and some really horrid colds at times. . .and the same with 'Vinca. . . . She makes the best gingerhobbits of anyone in the world. And jam thumbprints, too."
Continuing to feed Frodo bits of ice, I listen, nodding. Sometimes I forget how young he is, how young they all are. . .but he especially is different for it, still a boy in their world. I cannot help thinking that Elrond was right: he should have been sent back to the Shire, with warnings, back to Nurse Margery and his parents and sisters. To safety. But our irrevocable decisions were made nearly a fortnight ago, when we set out, and though Elrond gave all leave to turn aside at need, we all know the truth: for the hobbits especially, there is no turning back. Not now.
"It isn't that I don't think you know what to do," Pippin adds quickly, perhaps mistaking my look for one of annoyance. "It's only. . .well, Margery thinks of everything, and can make something out of anything you give her, and. . .she's awfully good at making people feel better." Blushing a little, he slips his pack off, pulling it into his lap and eyeing me nervously. "Strider. . .will you promise not to tell the others? Or laugh at me?"
I have no idea what he might be referring to, or planning, but there is an urgency in his clear voice, and I nod. "You have my word, Pippin."
Slowly he opens the pack, pulling out something red. . .a hot water-bottle, of all things, sealed and apparently full, which he holds out to me, glancing about furtively as if trying to make certain no one else is in earshot.
"Margery knew I was going to visit Frodo, and walk to Crickhollow with him, but of course she didn't know I was. . .really leaving. She put this in even though she knows I don't like fussing with it, and I've just sort of kept it in my pack. I forgot about it on the way to Rivendell; I had it shoved down under everything else and didn't ever see it in there. Tonight while I was looking for an extra scarf, I found it. I asked Sam to fill it and not tell anyone - for Frodo - "
He looks up at me anxiously, holding out the offering with both tiny hands. . .and I cannot help but smile, taking the item in one hand. It is indeed quite warm, comfortably hot, so I fold back the blankets just long enough to lay it gently over Frodo's small stomach. Despite his fever, the chills still concern me, and I am very grateful for anything that helps keep him from becoming too cold.
"Thank you, Pippin. . .that's very thoughtful of you. I promise I won't say a word."
"Good." Looking partly relieved, the little hobbit settles back, watching his cousin quietly. At last he looks up at me, his expression nothing short of mournful.
"Strider?"
"Yes?"
"I. . .I didn't mean to hurt Frodo's feelings. The other night, when we were talking. . .I didn't mean to upset him." Pippin looks close to tears, blinking.
"I know you didn't. And I'm sure Frodo knows. In other days, the meaning would have been lighter."
He nods. For a few minutes, he is silent again, but at last he looks up at me. "May I talk to him?"
I glance down, sliding a hand into the covers, feeling Frodo's back to check his temperature (with the wind, I cannot trust to his brow). Still burning hot. From his rapid breathing and restlessness, I know he is not asleep, though he seems to drift between sleep and waking. Hoping the voice of someone close to him may offer some aid in getting him to sleep, I nod. "Of course."
He looks up at the night sky, where only a few stars sparkle through the cloudy darkness, and scoots a little closer, leaning forward and lowering his voice, his tone strangely soft and soothing, though still with its characteristic clarity and exuberance. I feel almost like an eavesdropper as I listen.
"Frodo. . .I do wish you could have had supper with us, and sat up to watch the sky. . .not that there's much to see, anyhow. . .but. . .remember when Bilbo took us out into the garden, your thirty-first birthday? I was awfully little then, but you both let me stay anyhow, and Merry minded me so I didn't have to have my sisters or Mamma or Margery, and you let me lick the bowl while you helped Bilbo by making the apple spice cake."
The image is one too delightful and amusing for me to avoid a smile, though I manage to contain it. Frodo seems to stir a little. . .and his breathing eases a tiny bit, as if the comfort of old memories were some medicine in its own right.
"And it was late by then, after supper, and I was sleepy, but I wanted so much to stay up. . . . And Bilbo told us that story, remember? About the goblins in the mountains - " (I cringe at this: Pippin, did you really have to mention that while we are ascending the Redhorn Pass?) "and how dangerous and dark and scary it was in the caves. . . . But then he escaped, and caught up with the dwarves, and he said what was the most remarkable was that it wasn't the sunlight he missed quite so much as the stars: the light of the Moon and everything in the night sky. . . ."
Pippin smiles at the memory, his voice growing more lyrical as he chatters.
"And he pointed out how high they were. . .and how the sky was all darker and plain lower down. . . . He said that the dark beneath the stars is there so we can really see how bright and beautiful they all are. Without that, we wouldn't know what we were missing, most of us. . .we'd go our whole lives and never even realise. . . ."
Looking up at the sky, I ponder this bit of wisdom for a moment. Indeed, the pattern is just so: a dark band of inky night below the sprinkling of little gold and silver lights.
The dark beneath the stars.
I shift position slightly, settling Frodo a bit more comfortably and pulling an extra blanket over him.
No. . .indeed we would not appreciate the stars without the darkest hues of night. And all the more beautiful do they shine above the glimmering snow.
~To Be Continued~
FYI - It's ready! Please see my bio settings for information on the promised Yahoo! group for ailing Frodo fiction: the group is called FrodoHealers, and I'm the moderator (FrodoAtBagEnd@yahoo.com). Anyone may join, and I hope to see lots of fanfiction.net readers there! :)
I assure you all that I *am* working on the next chapter of "Shadows in the Dark" - that piece is moving a bit more slowly these days, and I'm taking advantage of a brainstorm-heavy series of thoughts on "Caradhras," but I have not abandoned the piece and will be continuing as soon as I finish that chapter. Thank you very much for your patience!
As always, thank you all SO much for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e-mails, and reviews, which are so appreciated! :)
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 Five: The Dark Beneath The Stars
"He's going to die, isn't he?"
Looking up, I find Pippin standing in front of me, clutching a pan containing several icicles, each snapped into smaller pieces. It has been a very long day: Sam spent some time assisting me with Frodo's compresses, then went to prepare a bit of soup for his master. He has remained at Frodo's side much of the day, and Merry has brought Pippin by very briefly in between their icicle-gathering errands. We are all worried: Frodo has taken little, though he reluctantly drinks down the medicinal teas I prepare with Sam's help, he had to be coaxed through even a few spoonfuls of mushroom soup and of warm milk. The cough has grown progressively worse: his breathing rattles in his chest, and his cough sounds like a death-knell, though the administration of a spoonful of honey from the jars of fruit, given every hour or two, seems to have soothed his throat enough for him to rest a little. Nonetheless, he looks worse. . .I have managed to at least ease his breathing slightly, thanks to the athelas, but have accomplished little else: he remains feverish, his heart beating far too quickly, the pulse almost like the flutter of birds' wings beneath my fingers. The requested ice is indeed a welcome sight, for this seems to be the only thing that eases Frodo's fever and thirst at all, and at once I motion the youngest hobbit to sit facing me.
"I do not know, Pippin. I hope not, and we are all doing our best. But it is possible."
He sniffles, watching Frodo anxiously while taking a seat, and I notice that he is wearing his pack. "I brought the ice. . .Merry and I found a nice little branch with lots of icicles; it was in the shade enough they hadn't melted at all. Boromir took us searching again this time."
"Thank you. That will help." Taking a bit of ice between my fingers, I hold it to Frodo's chapped lips, moistening them carefully in an effort to get him to take the ice chip into his mouth. After a moment, he does, though his eyes remain closed. "There. . .just hold that beneath your tongue, Frodo, or let it run down your throat. . .as we did before. . .all right?"
A weak nod: he complies, holding it in his mouth without choking.
Pippin shifts uneasily, his bright eyes tense with fright. "I wish Margery were here. *She'd* know just what to do."
"Margery?" This is a name I've heard mentioned by the hobbits before, but not often, and not in any context I can identify.
He nods, curls bobbing. "My. . .nurse. Mine and 'Vinca's really - I mean Pervinca, my youngest elder sister; she's not much older than I am. Mamma had a nurse specially hired before we were born, after Pearl and Pimpernel. Of course we're both far too old for that now, really, but you don't just turn out someone who's almost family. And she's still terribly nice to have around. She knows what to do about anything. . .she took care of me when I had measles. . .and mumps. . .and some really horrid colds at times. . .and the same with 'Vinca. . . . She makes the best gingerhobbits of anyone in the world. And jam thumbprints, too."
Continuing to feed Frodo bits of ice, I listen, nodding. Sometimes I forget how young he is, how young they all are. . .but he especially is different for it, still a boy in their world. I cannot help thinking that Elrond was right: he should have been sent back to the Shire, with warnings, back to Nurse Margery and his parents and sisters. To safety. But our irrevocable decisions were made nearly a fortnight ago, when we set out, and though Elrond gave all leave to turn aside at need, we all know the truth: for the hobbits especially, there is no turning back. Not now.
"It isn't that I don't think you know what to do," Pippin adds quickly, perhaps mistaking my look for one of annoyance. "It's only. . .well, Margery thinks of everything, and can make something out of anything you give her, and. . .she's awfully good at making people feel better." Blushing a little, he slips his pack off, pulling it into his lap and eyeing me nervously. "Strider. . .will you promise not to tell the others? Or laugh at me?"
I have no idea what he might be referring to, or planning, but there is an urgency in his clear voice, and I nod. "You have my word, Pippin."
Slowly he opens the pack, pulling out something red. . .a hot water-bottle, of all things, sealed and apparently full, which he holds out to me, glancing about furtively as if trying to make certain no one else is in earshot.
"Margery knew I was going to visit Frodo, and walk to Crickhollow with him, but of course she didn't know I was. . .really leaving. She put this in even though she knows I don't like fussing with it, and I've just sort of kept it in my pack. I forgot about it on the way to Rivendell; I had it shoved down under everything else and didn't ever see it in there. Tonight while I was looking for an extra scarf, I found it. I asked Sam to fill it and not tell anyone - for Frodo - "
He looks up at me anxiously, holding out the offering with both tiny hands. . .and I cannot help but smile, taking the item in one hand. It is indeed quite warm, comfortably hot, so I fold back the blankets just long enough to lay it gently over Frodo's small stomach. Despite his fever, the chills still concern me, and I am very grateful for anything that helps keep him from becoming too cold.
"Thank you, Pippin. . .that's very thoughtful of you. I promise I won't say a word."
"Good." Looking partly relieved, the little hobbit settles back, watching his cousin quietly. At last he looks up at me, his expression nothing short of mournful.
"Strider?"
"Yes?"
"I. . .I didn't mean to hurt Frodo's feelings. The other night, when we were talking. . .I didn't mean to upset him." Pippin looks close to tears, blinking.
"I know you didn't. And I'm sure Frodo knows. In other days, the meaning would have been lighter."
He nods. For a few minutes, he is silent again, but at last he looks up at me. "May I talk to him?"
I glance down, sliding a hand into the covers, feeling Frodo's back to check his temperature (with the wind, I cannot trust to his brow). Still burning hot. From his rapid breathing and restlessness, I know he is not asleep, though he seems to drift between sleep and waking. Hoping the voice of someone close to him may offer some aid in getting him to sleep, I nod. "Of course."
He looks up at the night sky, where only a few stars sparkle through the cloudy darkness, and scoots a little closer, leaning forward and lowering his voice, his tone strangely soft and soothing, though still with its characteristic clarity and exuberance. I feel almost like an eavesdropper as I listen.
"Frodo. . .I do wish you could have had supper with us, and sat up to watch the sky. . .not that there's much to see, anyhow. . .but. . .remember when Bilbo took us out into the garden, your thirty-first birthday? I was awfully little then, but you both let me stay anyhow, and Merry minded me so I didn't have to have my sisters or Mamma or Margery, and you let me lick the bowl while you helped Bilbo by making the apple spice cake."
The image is one too delightful and amusing for me to avoid a smile, though I manage to contain it. Frodo seems to stir a little. . .and his breathing eases a tiny bit, as if the comfort of old memories were some medicine in its own right.
"And it was late by then, after supper, and I was sleepy, but I wanted so much to stay up. . . . And Bilbo told us that story, remember? About the goblins in the mountains - " (I cringe at this: Pippin, did you really have to mention that while we are ascending the Redhorn Pass?) "and how dangerous and dark and scary it was in the caves. . . . But then he escaped, and caught up with the dwarves, and he said what was the most remarkable was that it wasn't the sunlight he missed quite so much as the stars: the light of the Moon and everything in the night sky. . . ."
Pippin smiles at the memory, his voice growing more lyrical as he chatters.
"And he pointed out how high they were. . .and how the sky was all darker and plain lower down. . . . He said that the dark beneath the stars is there so we can really see how bright and beautiful they all are. Without that, we wouldn't know what we were missing, most of us. . .we'd go our whole lives and never even realise. . . ."
Looking up at the sky, I ponder this bit of wisdom for a moment. Indeed, the pattern is just so: a dark band of inky night below the sprinkling of little gold and silver lights.
The dark beneath the stars.
I shift position slightly, settling Frodo a bit more comfortably and pulling an extra blanket over him.
No. . .indeed we would not appreciate the stars without the darkest hues of night. And all the more beautiful do they shine above the glimmering snow.
~To Be Continued~