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, thank you all SO much for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e-mails, and reviews! :) As an aside, Chapter 14 of "Shadows in the Darkness" should be going up in the next couple of hours after this posting.
As an aside. . .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! :) It IS in the adult section of fanfiction, but only because that's where the LOTR material was: I absolutely assure you, on my highest honour as a writer and as a Tolkien devotee, that the group is slash-free and profanity-free, and will NOT have graphic sexual content or similarly adult material: it's basically PG to PG-13, like the movie, but with less violence. PLEASE feel safe in joining; I wanted it to be with the other LOTR groups, but I assure you, it's no worse than the books or the movies themselves are. :)
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 Six: Cold Comfort
Why is it so hot?
I struggle to open my eyes. . .so exhausted. . .even that much is an effort. What have I been doing to make myself so tired?
Yet the scene that greets me is not my room at Bag End: there is white. Solid white. Snow dotted with the outline of trees and a few rocks. Snow- covered landscape.
And I remember.
"Little one?"
Someone is holding me. . .I feel arms shift a little behind my back, cradling me close. At once I recognise the lithe movements of slender limbs, the musical voice. . .Legolas bends over me, silky hair pushed back behind his ears as he bends over me, his touch warm and reassuring. Vaguely I recall being moved to his arms. . .but back since. . .Aragorn holding medicine to my lips. . .and ice. . .Sam's hands at my forehead. . .Pippin's voice. . .Aragorn pressing a spoonful of something to my mouth, urging me to swallow. . . .
"Wh. . .what's happening? Are the others all right?"
Legolas nods, still keeping me cradled against his warmth. "Yes, all are fine. Worried about you, but they are all right beyond that." He lays a hand over my brow, and the touch feels. . .calming. Very reassuring somehow. Steadying. "Little one. . .we are all very concerned that you are not eating. Aragorn is warming some milk for you. . .will you try and take a little of that for us? It is sweetened with honey. . . ."
Even the thought of swallowing something makes me feel ill. But he is right. I remember as a tweenager being urged by Bilbo and the doctor to drink the cupfuls of warm milk or hot tea or chilled juice that were brought to me and held to my lips. . .they said that the liquid would help me feel better. . .and that I needed those good things that water didn't have. . .and as soon as I could swallow more than broth and medicines they pressed me to eat, liquids at first, then soft foods especially prepared by Bilbo. . .mashed pumpkin and squash, carefully cooked mashed potatoes, carrot puff, milk toast, applesauce, porridge, coddled eggs, bread pudding. . . .
How I wish I were home.
*********************************************************************
Honey. Truly, I still have no idea how the jars survived the journey, but I have never been so grateful. Shaking my head, I stir a spoonful into the warm mixture of reconstituted milk, hoping it will go down more easily this time.
Looking toward Frodo, whom I gave to Legolas to tend while I prepare the next dose of nourishment while the others sleep (Sam only at my absolute insistence), I find my fears growing darker. He is flushed nearly scarlet at the cheekbones, and his lips are chapped and cracking. He will take the broken bits of ice, but barely, and I fear we have reached the point where I must insist: he continues to take very little nourishment, and that only with considerable coaxing from Sam, Merry, Gandalf, and myself. I find this exceedingly discouraging: though I do not want to worry the hobbits further by mentioning the fact, while Frodo took little between Weathertop and Rivendell, I found that far less worrisome. Sickness caused by a Morgul-knife is not the sort that responds to care, save insofar as it may sustain the person long enough for them to reach such aid as Elrond. If Frodo were to survive, it would be thanks to the hands of Elrond, whether he could eat and drink or no; these things served mainly to help keep him warm. If he survived, there would be opportunity enough in Rivendell to nurse him back to health, to tempt his appetite with interesting dishes and strengthen him with wholesome food and drink. Indeed, I was right: though his progression from spoonfuls of broth (given while he was still drifting in and out of slumber) to rich, nourishing liquids as he woke to solid foods as he began showing interest in something more substantial was slow, it was quite steady, for the most part.
This, however, is another matter entirely.
I cannot help but worry. Pneumonia is something we cannot simply cure: the best treatment is purely good nursing. . .keeping the patient warm and quiet; ensuring he stays in bed, resting; giving spoonfuls of warm liquid nourishment to keep the body working properly, to give it a chance to heal itself. . . . I can do so little for Frodo here that it infuriates me at times. Thinking back, I try to reassure myself with thoughts of the many dishes I coaxed into the little mouth. . .hobbit though he is, he has not Bilbo's appetite, nor the others', and, like many people, his interest in food was slow to return following such severe illness. Stubborn, both of us, but every opportunity I had, I prodded him to eat, and now I am glad, musing over all those faraway moments.
That mug of potato soup, smooth and thick with milk and butter.
A sandwich made with thick honey-wheat bread, filled with mushrooms and sliced chicken and tomatoes. We'd finally gotten up into the pine-woods Frodo wanted to explore, and had taken a picnic-lunch. The hobbits seemed to feel quite at home. Even Frodo ate without too much pressing, though he was so tired that on the way back I carried him.
Warm pancakes with butter and hot maple syrup, breakfast on an early winter morning.
Rich, healthy soups: the cooks had made those with an eye to enticing his interests while building him back into the more confident and more rounded little hobbit I'd met in Bree what seemed like ages ago. Chicken soup with tiny bits of chopped carrots and celery. Smoothly stirred cream of chicken and mushroom soup. A tomato-laden beef broth-based soup of chunkier vegetables: mushrooms and barley, sliced carrots and potatoes, chopped celery and stewed tomatoes. These were among his favourites, and on the days when he wasn't feeling well, mostly in the week immediately following the Council, I'd often taken a tray of that to his room, enticing him to take at least that. And he would: these dishes seemed to comfort him when he otherwise refused much-needed meals.
I try to reassure myself that he will recover, that he will grow strong again. When I last spoke with Elrond before leaving Rivendell, he reminded me that Frodo had grown stronger and wiser in those two months, that the health and strength returning to him would compensate for the residual effects of the Morgul-wound, that the little hobbit is far stronger than meets the eye.
Precious little reassurance it is, all the same.
*********************************************************************
I try shaking my head, but the refusal does not settle well with Legolas, who gives me one of those looks only elves can give: firm and stern and filled with. . .I'm not sure what to call it exactly. . .something regal and imperious, a certain degree of insistence. Yet his eyes betray him: he looks at me sorrowfully despite it all, and the hand which rises to stroke my bangs back from my face is exceedingly gentle.
"I am sorry we must be so firm about it, little one. If we were in the house of Elrond. . .or my father's halls. . .it would be different."
Legolas has rarely spoken of his home, so the mention piques my interest: I remember Bilbo's tales of Mirkwood and the Wood-Elves, but he had been with the dwarves, and admittedly, bad blood between elves and dwarves aside, the thirteen were really not the most enchanting of guests at times. "What's. . .it like? I. . .heard Bilbo. . .but. . .it was. . .long ago. . .and. . .you know. . .how. . .things go. . .with. . . that. . . ."
He laughs softly, the sound like bells upon the wind.
"It is very beautiful, Frodo. Despite the Shadow that dims the glory of the Greenwood, my father's court is still a lovely place. . . ."
He continues speaking, but somehow I have difficulty concentrating. My head swims, and I feel as if I am listening through thick layers of cotton- wool. . .and from a great distance. . .I have difficulty making sense of the words, though I don't know why.
Through the haze of dark fog I hear Legolas calling sharply for Aragorn. . .but I cannot speak. . .too exhausting, and it makes me cough. . . .
~To Be Continued~
As always, thank you all SO much for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e-mails, and reviews! :) As an aside, Chapter 14 of "Shadows in the Darkness" should be going up in the next couple of hours after this posting.
As an aside. . .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! :) It IS in the adult section of fanfiction, but only because that's where the LOTR material was: I absolutely assure you, on my highest honour as a writer and as a Tolkien devotee, that the group is slash-free and profanity-free, and will NOT have graphic sexual content or similarly adult material: it's basically PG to PG-13, like the movie, but with less violence. PLEASE feel safe in joining; I wanted it to be with the other LOTR groups, but I assure you, it's no worse than the books or the movies themselves are. :)
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 Six: Cold Comfort
Why is it so hot?
I struggle to open my eyes. . .so exhausted. . .even that much is an effort. What have I been doing to make myself so tired?
Yet the scene that greets me is not my room at Bag End: there is white. Solid white. Snow dotted with the outline of trees and a few rocks. Snow- covered landscape.
And I remember.
"Little one?"
Someone is holding me. . .I feel arms shift a little behind my back, cradling me close. At once I recognise the lithe movements of slender limbs, the musical voice. . .Legolas bends over me, silky hair pushed back behind his ears as he bends over me, his touch warm and reassuring. Vaguely I recall being moved to his arms. . .but back since. . .Aragorn holding medicine to my lips. . .and ice. . .Sam's hands at my forehead. . .Pippin's voice. . .Aragorn pressing a spoonful of something to my mouth, urging me to swallow. . . .
"Wh. . .what's happening? Are the others all right?"
Legolas nods, still keeping me cradled against his warmth. "Yes, all are fine. Worried about you, but they are all right beyond that." He lays a hand over my brow, and the touch feels. . .calming. Very reassuring somehow. Steadying. "Little one. . .we are all very concerned that you are not eating. Aragorn is warming some milk for you. . .will you try and take a little of that for us? It is sweetened with honey. . . ."
Even the thought of swallowing something makes me feel ill. But he is right. I remember as a tweenager being urged by Bilbo and the doctor to drink the cupfuls of warm milk or hot tea or chilled juice that were brought to me and held to my lips. . .they said that the liquid would help me feel better. . .and that I needed those good things that water didn't have. . .and as soon as I could swallow more than broth and medicines they pressed me to eat, liquids at first, then soft foods especially prepared by Bilbo. . .mashed pumpkin and squash, carefully cooked mashed potatoes, carrot puff, milk toast, applesauce, porridge, coddled eggs, bread pudding. . . .
How I wish I were home.
*********************************************************************
Honey. Truly, I still have no idea how the jars survived the journey, but I have never been so grateful. Shaking my head, I stir a spoonful into the warm mixture of reconstituted milk, hoping it will go down more easily this time.
Looking toward Frodo, whom I gave to Legolas to tend while I prepare the next dose of nourishment while the others sleep (Sam only at my absolute insistence), I find my fears growing darker. He is flushed nearly scarlet at the cheekbones, and his lips are chapped and cracking. He will take the broken bits of ice, but barely, and I fear we have reached the point where I must insist: he continues to take very little nourishment, and that only with considerable coaxing from Sam, Merry, Gandalf, and myself. I find this exceedingly discouraging: though I do not want to worry the hobbits further by mentioning the fact, while Frodo took little between Weathertop and Rivendell, I found that far less worrisome. Sickness caused by a Morgul-knife is not the sort that responds to care, save insofar as it may sustain the person long enough for them to reach such aid as Elrond. If Frodo were to survive, it would be thanks to the hands of Elrond, whether he could eat and drink or no; these things served mainly to help keep him warm. If he survived, there would be opportunity enough in Rivendell to nurse him back to health, to tempt his appetite with interesting dishes and strengthen him with wholesome food and drink. Indeed, I was right: though his progression from spoonfuls of broth (given while he was still drifting in and out of slumber) to rich, nourishing liquids as he woke to solid foods as he began showing interest in something more substantial was slow, it was quite steady, for the most part.
This, however, is another matter entirely.
I cannot help but worry. Pneumonia is something we cannot simply cure: the best treatment is purely good nursing. . .keeping the patient warm and quiet; ensuring he stays in bed, resting; giving spoonfuls of warm liquid nourishment to keep the body working properly, to give it a chance to heal itself. . . . I can do so little for Frodo here that it infuriates me at times. Thinking back, I try to reassure myself with thoughts of the many dishes I coaxed into the little mouth. . .hobbit though he is, he has not Bilbo's appetite, nor the others', and, like many people, his interest in food was slow to return following such severe illness. Stubborn, both of us, but every opportunity I had, I prodded him to eat, and now I am glad, musing over all those faraway moments.
That mug of potato soup, smooth and thick with milk and butter.
A sandwich made with thick honey-wheat bread, filled with mushrooms and sliced chicken and tomatoes. We'd finally gotten up into the pine-woods Frodo wanted to explore, and had taken a picnic-lunch. The hobbits seemed to feel quite at home. Even Frodo ate without too much pressing, though he was so tired that on the way back I carried him.
Warm pancakes with butter and hot maple syrup, breakfast on an early winter morning.
Rich, healthy soups: the cooks had made those with an eye to enticing his interests while building him back into the more confident and more rounded little hobbit I'd met in Bree what seemed like ages ago. Chicken soup with tiny bits of chopped carrots and celery. Smoothly stirred cream of chicken and mushroom soup. A tomato-laden beef broth-based soup of chunkier vegetables: mushrooms and barley, sliced carrots and potatoes, chopped celery and stewed tomatoes. These were among his favourites, and on the days when he wasn't feeling well, mostly in the week immediately following the Council, I'd often taken a tray of that to his room, enticing him to take at least that. And he would: these dishes seemed to comfort him when he otherwise refused much-needed meals.
I try to reassure myself that he will recover, that he will grow strong again. When I last spoke with Elrond before leaving Rivendell, he reminded me that Frodo had grown stronger and wiser in those two months, that the health and strength returning to him would compensate for the residual effects of the Morgul-wound, that the little hobbit is far stronger than meets the eye.
Precious little reassurance it is, all the same.
*********************************************************************
I try shaking my head, but the refusal does not settle well with Legolas, who gives me one of those looks only elves can give: firm and stern and filled with. . .I'm not sure what to call it exactly. . .something regal and imperious, a certain degree of insistence. Yet his eyes betray him: he looks at me sorrowfully despite it all, and the hand which rises to stroke my bangs back from my face is exceedingly gentle.
"I am sorry we must be so firm about it, little one. If we were in the house of Elrond. . .or my father's halls. . .it would be different."
Legolas has rarely spoken of his home, so the mention piques my interest: I remember Bilbo's tales of Mirkwood and the Wood-Elves, but he had been with the dwarves, and admittedly, bad blood between elves and dwarves aside, the thirteen were really not the most enchanting of guests at times. "What's. . .it like? I. . .heard Bilbo. . .but. . .it was. . .long ago. . .and. . .you know. . .how. . .things go. . .with. . . that. . . ."
He laughs softly, the sound like bells upon the wind.
"It is very beautiful, Frodo. Despite the Shadow that dims the glory of the Greenwood, my father's court is still a lovely place. . . ."
He continues speaking, but somehow I have difficulty concentrating. My head swims, and I feel as if I am listening through thick layers of cotton- wool. . .and from a great distance. . .I have difficulty making sense of the words, though I don't know why.
Through the haze of dark fog I hear Legolas calling sharply for Aragorn. . .but I cannot speak. . .too exhausting, and it makes me cough. . . .
~To Be Continued~