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, I cannot thank you all enough for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e-mails, and reviews! :)
As a note regarding the maple syrup, potatoes, and tomatoes issues. . .that is a point of heated contention among hobbit roleplayers and writers. :) I base my approach on this principle: Potatoes, as well as pipeweed, while "New World" items, are integral pieces in Tolkien's tale. (For those confused about the potatoes, read _The Two Towers_ chapter entitled "Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit." :) ) Consequently, I like to think that the Shire's climate was sufficiently mixed that these "New World" foods - including not only potatoes, which obviously existed in Tolkien's Shire, but corn, tomatoes, and a variety of other foods - do indeed exist in the setting in which I'm writing. This is something I've held to since long before PJ's movies. :) So. . .thank you all for forgiving that little matter. :)
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 Seven: Burning Up
Jerking my head up, I scarcely manage to avoid spilling the contents of the cup. The expression on the elven prince's face is like nothing I have yet seen: he is extremely concerned, and glances up to me for only half a second before returning his attention to Frodo, whom he cradles more tightly, speaking softly to him in Sindarin. I rise, hurrying back to them. . .and find my worst fears confirmed. Frodo's eyes are closed, and while he seems conscious, he clearly has no idea where he is or what is happening, and he struggles weakly in the elf's arms, whimpering.
"Aragorn, we're losing him. We must do something more; he cannot continue as things are."
Frodo murmurs deliriously, words I could not make out. Sighing, I nod, biting my lip.
"I was willing to try the compresses because we were out of the wind. Anything more risks chilling him, which would do more harm than good. The least exposure to the cold is likely to cause shivering, and that will only drive the fever up."
Legolas sighs. "If we could at least calm him, perhaps get him to drink a bit more. . . ."
*********************************************************************
I don't understand.
I find myself walking through Bag End, looking for something, though I cannot tell what. Something very precious to me. . .something I wore on a chain about my neck. . .what was it? But it is too hot, and I feel dizzy. . .I must sit down for a little while. . . .
Looking around, I recognise my rooms, and yet it does not seem the same: something is wrong, terribly wrong. But what?
No. . .no, wait, I. . .I'm lying in bed. . .what? Have I been ill? It would make sense; I feel so weak. . .exhausted. . .everything aches, and my chest hurts. . . . But why is no one with me? Was I taken ill during the night? Perhaps Sam will come. . .he'll knock. . .perhaps he'll come soon and help me. . .change the sheets, send for a healer, get something cool for me to drink. . .perhaps soon. . . .
The room is filled with dark shadows, though. . .and suddenly they begin to *move*. . .they press in, closing around my bed like curtains of living midnight. . .I can't breathe. . . .
***********************************************************************
As Legolas continues speaking urgently to Frodo in Sindarin, trying to reach him, to comfort him, I debate the best course of action. Submerging him in snow would lower his temperature, but I fear to risk it when it may be difficult to rewarm him if need arises. And such a small person would be in grave danger if he began losing heat so quickly. . .it can be difficult to rewarm such a little one sufficiently, I know, and Frodo has been easily chilled ever since Weathertop. Yet if we do not bring down the fever. . .
I sense someone behind me.
"Gentlemen, if I might offer a possibility - "
It is Gandalf, his expression grave with concern as he seats himself carefully beside Legolas, looking as if he's aged a good ten years or more in the last day and a half since Frodo fell ill. I have seen him talking with the others all day: there are many questions, and decisions to be made. At once, though, he puts out his arms for the bundle nestled against Legolas. Hesitantly I nod: I have long since learned not to question him when it comes to the four smallest members of the Fellowship, though I do not know what he can do for the little one that we have not already tried. Yet there is a tenderness in his expression that belies any questioning of whatever he might have in mind, and I gesture for Legolas to give Frodo to the wizard. Retrieving the abandoned cup, I am glad to find that the milk and honey mixture is not yet cold, and I wrap the cup carefully in a scarf to try and keep it warm until we can coax Frodo to drink a little of it.
Soon, I hope.
*********************************************************************
"Frodo. . .stay with us."
Gandalf's voice. Dear Gandalf. . . .
The shadows withdraw, and I remember. . .I am not at home. . .we have been travelling from Rivendell. . .I cannot recall how long now. . .many days, though not so long that I cannot remember. . . . Yes, we're approaching that huge mountain. . . .
Suddenly I feel myself being moved, taken into other arms. . .and I sob with relief as I recognise the familiar warmth of a long beard. It must be Gandalf; the scent is so familiar. . .pipeweed and the peppery smell of fireworks and the faintest hint of elven spices. . . . I try to untangle one hand from the covers, and a larger one takes it. . .a familiar touch. . .thank goodness. . . .
"Gandalf. . ."
"Yes, my boy, I'm here." The voice is so warm and reassuring: I *want* to stay, *want* to hold on despite the despair which seizes me at the realization of how terribly far I am from home. Somehow a part of me feels it will be all right. . .surely it will turn out all right.
"I'm thirsty. . .please. . . ."
A cup is pressed gently against my lips, and I take a tentative sip: not water, something different in taste. . .yes, warm milk, or as near as we can make to it from the powdered milk in the supplies. And honey. . .very sweet, tasting slightly of apples. At first I hesitate: the coughing is enough to make me feel sick at times, and the thought of anything more than crushed ice is too much..
"Just a bit, Frodo. . .you wouldn't want me to have to tell Bilbo that a Baggins was refusing all food, now, do you?"
Gandalf's tone is so merry I cannot help myself - smiling, I take another sip, allowing him to administer small mouthfuls for a bit. At last he takes the cup away and strokes my hair, keeping me close against his chest. . . . Despite it all, I feel somehow safe. . .Gandalf is here, and even though I feel sure there are horrors ahead I do not wish to even imagine, if I get through this, I cannot help feeling that it doesn't matter. . .not for the moment.
"Try and sleep now, Frodo. It's all right. I shall not be going anywhere. . .sleep if you can. You must rest."
Nestled comfortably in his arms, I nod. . .and feel myself dozing off, too tired to stay awake any longer.
**********************************************************************
Despite the many years I have known Gandalf, I cannot help staring. There he sits, the tiny Ringbearer cradled in his arms, patting his back as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Frodo is already falling into a semi-peaceful slumber, and a touch of my hand against his forehead confirms that his fever has come down a little: not much, but enough that we need not panic, not with him resting quietly and semi-coherent. Sitting on my knees beside them, I nod to Legolas that we will be all right on our own, waiting until he goes to relieve Boromir on watch before I speak.
"After Weathertop. . .it was you he asked for. More than a few times."
A sad smile turns up the corners of the wizard's mouth. "He knows me, Aragorn. He has known me since he was an infant, with his mother bouncing him on her knee while Bilbo told tales of his travels. I have known the boy nearly his entire life."
"He draws strength from you."
Gandalf shakes his head. "The strength is there. I think I merely remind him where to look, though he does not realise that yet. And I will not press him: he carries enough burden without the feeling that he must learn to manage alone. Especially now." He continues rubbing Frodo's shoulders, so small that Gandalf's hand (like my own) easily covers nearly the full width of the small back.
I sigh, studying the Ringbearer and debating herbs. . .courses of treatment. . . . "There is so little I can do for him, Gandalf. We cannot let his fever go that high again. And he must take some nourishment. I have spoken with Sam; we can prepare some soups from dried vegetables if we can continue risking the fire. But coaxing it into him is another matter."
"It can be done. We have no choice."
Frodo stirs, moaning. At once Gandalf begins rocking him gently, shushing. . .beginning to sing softly, a song I have not heard in many years. . .once, some years ago, when in Rivendell for a few days. Bilbo had been sitting in the garden where I was walking, arranging notes for his beloved book, and as he worked, he sang. On the wizard's lips it sounds. . .odd, a grandfather singing a child's tune to amuse a beloved grandson. . . .
"The Man in the Moon had silver shoon,
and his beard was of silver thread;
With opals crowned and pearls all bound
about his girdlestead,
In his mantle grey he walked one day
across a shining floor,
And with crystal key in secrecy
he opened an ivory door. . . ."
And the Ringbearer calms once more, settling back into Gandalf's arms quietly as the wizard continues to sing.
"Filigree stair. . ." he murmurs faintly, evoking a smile from Gandalf, who is just beginning to sing the line with those words.
In the starlight of the last fading hour of darkness, the moonlight glimmers outside our shelter, enough of the light reaching us to catch the sparkle of a fine chain at Frodo's neck.
Feeling sick, I can do nothing but watch. . .and listen.
~To Be Continued~
*Author's Note: The song is, of course, the opening of JRR Tolkien's own "The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon," as published in _The Tolkien Reader_. I've used this in "Shadows in the Darkness" as well, taking it as a probable favourite of both Frodo and Bilbo.
As always, I cannot thank you all enough for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e-mails, and reviews! :)
As a note regarding the maple syrup, potatoes, and tomatoes issues. . .that is a point of heated contention among hobbit roleplayers and writers. :) I base my approach on this principle: Potatoes, as well as pipeweed, while "New World" items, are integral pieces in Tolkien's tale. (For those confused about the potatoes, read _The Two Towers_ chapter entitled "Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit." :) ) Consequently, I like to think that the Shire's climate was sufficiently mixed that these "New World" foods - including not only potatoes, which obviously existed in Tolkien's Shire, but corn, tomatoes, and a variety of other foods - do indeed exist in the setting in which I'm writing. This is something I've held to since long before PJ's movies. :) So. . .thank you all for forgiving that little matter. :)
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 Seven: Burning Up
Jerking my head up, I scarcely manage to avoid spilling the contents of the cup. The expression on the elven prince's face is like nothing I have yet seen: he is extremely concerned, and glances up to me for only half a second before returning his attention to Frodo, whom he cradles more tightly, speaking softly to him in Sindarin. I rise, hurrying back to them. . .and find my worst fears confirmed. Frodo's eyes are closed, and while he seems conscious, he clearly has no idea where he is or what is happening, and he struggles weakly in the elf's arms, whimpering.
"Aragorn, we're losing him. We must do something more; he cannot continue as things are."
Frodo murmurs deliriously, words I could not make out. Sighing, I nod, biting my lip.
"I was willing to try the compresses because we were out of the wind. Anything more risks chilling him, which would do more harm than good. The least exposure to the cold is likely to cause shivering, and that will only drive the fever up."
Legolas sighs. "If we could at least calm him, perhaps get him to drink a bit more. . . ."
*********************************************************************
I don't understand.
I find myself walking through Bag End, looking for something, though I cannot tell what. Something very precious to me. . .something I wore on a chain about my neck. . .what was it? But it is too hot, and I feel dizzy. . .I must sit down for a little while. . . .
Looking around, I recognise my rooms, and yet it does not seem the same: something is wrong, terribly wrong. But what?
No. . .no, wait, I. . .I'm lying in bed. . .what? Have I been ill? It would make sense; I feel so weak. . .exhausted. . .everything aches, and my chest hurts. . . . But why is no one with me? Was I taken ill during the night? Perhaps Sam will come. . .he'll knock. . .perhaps he'll come soon and help me. . .change the sheets, send for a healer, get something cool for me to drink. . .perhaps soon. . . .
The room is filled with dark shadows, though. . .and suddenly they begin to *move*. . .they press in, closing around my bed like curtains of living midnight. . .I can't breathe. . . .
***********************************************************************
As Legolas continues speaking urgently to Frodo in Sindarin, trying to reach him, to comfort him, I debate the best course of action. Submerging him in snow would lower his temperature, but I fear to risk it when it may be difficult to rewarm him if need arises. And such a small person would be in grave danger if he began losing heat so quickly. . .it can be difficult to rewarm such a little one sufficiently, I know, and Frodo has been easily chilled ever since Weathertop. Yet if we do not bring down the fever. . .
I sense someone behind me.
"Gentlemen, if I might offer a possibility - "
It is Gandalf, his expression grave with concern as he seats himself carefully beside Legolas, looking as if he's aged a good ten years or more in the last day and a half since Frodo fell ill. I have seen him talking with the others all day: there are many questions, and decisions to be made. At once, though, he puts out his arms for the bundle nestled against Legolas. Hesitantly I nod: I have long since learned not to question him when it comes to the four smallest members of the Fellowship, though I do not know what he can do for the little one that we have not already tried. Yet there is a tenderness in his expression that belies any questioning of whatever he might have in mind, and I gesture for Legolas to give Frodo to the wizard. Retrieving the abandoned cup, I am glad to find that the milk and honey mixture is not yet cold, and I wrap the cup carefully in a scarf to try and keep it warm until we can coax Frodo to drink a little of it.
Soon, I hope.
*********************************************************************
"Frodo. . .stay with us."
Gandalf's voice. Dear Gandalf. . . .
The shadows withdraw, and I remember. . .I am not at home. . .we have been travelling from Rivendell. . .I cannot recall how long now. . .many days, though not so long that I cannot remember. . . . Yes, we're approaching that huge mountain. . . .
Suddenly I feel myself being moved, taken into other arms. . .and I sob with relief as I recognise the familiar warmth of a long beard. It must be Gandalf; the scent is so familiar. . .pipeweed and the peppery smell of fireworks and the faintest hint of elven spices. . . . I try to untangle one hand from the covers, and a larger one takes it. . .a familiar touch. . .thank goodness. . . .
"Gandalf. . ."
"Yes, my boy, I'm here." The voice is so warm and reassuring: I *want* to stay, *want* to hold on despite the despair which seizes me at the realization of how terribly far I am from home. Somehow a part of me feels it will be all right. . .surely it will turn out all right.
"I'm thirsty. . .please. . . ."
A cup is pressed gently against my lips, and I take a tentative sip: not water, something different in taste. . .yes, warm milk, or as near as we can make to it from the powdered milk in the supplies. And honey. . .very sweet, tasting slightly of apples. At first I hesitate: the coughing is enough to make me feel sick at times, and the thought of anything more than crushed ice is too much..
"Just a bit, Frodo. . .you wouldn't want me to have to tell Bilbo that a Baggins was refusing all food, now, do you?"
Gandalf's tone is so merry I cannot help myself - smiling, I take another sip, allowing him to administer small mouthfuls for a bit. At last he takes the cup away and strokes my hair, keeping me close against his chest. . . . Despite it all, I feel somehow safe. . .Gandalf is here, and even though I feel sure there are horrors ahead I do not wish to even imagine, if I get through this, I cannot help feeling that it doesn't matter. . .not for the moment.
"Try and sleep now, Frodo. It's all right. I shall not be going anywhere. . .sleep if you can. You must rest."
Nestled comfortably in his arms, I nod. . .and feel myself dozing off, too tired to stay awake any longer.
**********************************************************************
Despite the many years I have known Gandalf, I cannot help staring. There he sits, the tiny Ringbearer cradled in his arms, patting his back as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Frodo is already falling into a semi-peaceful slumber, and a touch of my hand against his forehead confirms that his fever has come down a little: not much, but enough that we need not panic, not with him resting quietly and semi-coherent. Sitting on my knees beside them, I nod to Legolas that we will be all right on our own, waiting until he goes to relieve Boromir on watch before I speak.
"After Weathertop. . .it was you he asked for. More than a few times."
A sad smile turns up the corners of the wizard's mouth. "He knows me, Aragorn. He has known me since he was an infant, with his mother bouncing him on her knee while Bilbo told tales of his travels. I have known the boy nearly his entire life."
"He draws strength from you."
Gandalf shakes his head. "The strength is there. I think I merely remind him where to look, though he does not realise that yet. And I will not press him: he carries enough burden without the feeling that he must learn to manage alone. Especially now." He continues rubbing Frodo's shoulders, so small that Gandalf's hand (like my own) easily covers nearly the full width of the small back.
I sigh, studying the Ringbearer and debating herbs. . .courses of treatment. . . . "There is so little I can do for him, Gandalf. We cannot let his fever go that high again. And he must take some nourishment. I have spoken with Sam; we can prepare some soups from dried vegetables if we can continue risking the fire. But coaxing it into him is another matter."
"It can be done. We have no choice."
Frodo stirs, moaning. At once Gandalf begins rocking him gently, shushing. . .beginning to sing softly, a song I have not heard in many years. . .once, some years ago, when in Rivendell for a few days. Bilbo had been sitting in the garden where I was walking, arranging notes for his beloved book, and as he worked, he sang. On the wizard's lips it sounds. . .odd, a grandfather singing a child's tune to amuse a beloved grandson. . . .
"The Man in the Moon had silver shoon,
and his beard was of silver thread;
With opals crowned and pearls all bound
about his girdlestead,
In his mantle grey he walked one day
across a shining floor,
And with crystal key in secrecy
he opened an ivory door. . . ."
And the Ringbearer calms once more, settling back into Gandalf's arms quietly as the wizard continues to sing.
"Filigree stair. . ." he murmurs faintly, evoking a smile from Gandalf, who is just beginning to sing the line with those words.
In the starlight of the last fading hour of darkness, the moonlight glimmers outside our shelter, enough of the light reaching us to catch the sparkle of a fine chain at Frodo's neck.
Feeling sick, I can do nothing but watch. . .and listen.
~To Be Continued~
*Author's Note: The song is, of course, the opening of JRR Tolkien's own "The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon," as published in _The Tolkien Reader_. I've used this in "Shadows in the Darkness" as well, taking it as a probable favourite of both Frodo and Bilbo.