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.
I'm still working on getting the FrodoHealers location set up differently; thanks for being patient grumbles profusely about the Yahoo delay. Speaking of the group, postings are coming through very slowly for some reason; there are two I approved some eleven hours ago that are only showing up now. I have no idea why, but am hoping it'll pick up pace a bit again today.
Dear readers, thank you all 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 Eight: The Cow Jumped Over the Moon
It is easier to rest curled in Gandalf's arms. Kind as Aragorn is, Gandalf is. . .I don't know, exactly. He reminds me of Bilbo and of Bag End and of happier days, before I even knew of the Ring and was only a child dreaming of adventures, all with happy endings.
I do not think this one will have a very happy ending at all.
Listening to Gandalf's familiar voice, the vibration of the deep baritone sound in his chest lulling me, I find myself falling asleep at last.
Bree.
I find myself in the inn at Bree.
Surely there's something I've forgotten in between. . .this can't be right.
But it *is* right. . .I can practically smell the worn leather and frothy beer, the kitchen-smells of thick stew and freshly baked bread, the ashy smokiness of the roaring fire in the huge hearth. . . .
But where are the others?
Turning, I see Strider behind me, and cannot help but smile.
Yet I cannot see his face beneath his hooded cloak.
He comes a few steps closer, and suddenly I notice something.
His cloak is not the usual green, but black.
Black as midnight.
My breath catches as the odor of the tomb. . .the smell I remember from the Barrow, and from Weathertop. . .overwhelms all else. I try at once to turn and run, but his hand, skeletal fingers extending from a ghostly arm beneath the cloak, has me, holding me fast, despite my attempts to pull away. . . .
********************************************************************
"Hold him still!"
Gandalf secures his arms more tightly over the Ringbearer's as I try wringing out the cloth, glancing up to ensure our makeshift curtain is still in place against any winds before running it quickly over Frodo's damp face. The little one struggles, crying out, and my heart twists into a knot at our having to restrain him. Yet his sleep has grown restless beyond help, and the fever has increased dramatically once more.
"He cannot live through this, Aragorn."
It is Boromir's voice behind me, causing me to look up for a moment while continuing to stroke Frodo's face, intermittently wringing the cloth out freshly in the panful of melted snow. "What do you propose we do, then?"
The tone sounds sharper than I meant. Too late I realise this, as he winces, sighing. "Is there nothing more we could do? In Gondor, I have seen the healers use cold baths to bring about the healing crisis."
"I have seen it as well. But I dare not risk exposing him to the cold with the difficulty we would have in rewarming him if needed."
Boromir sighs, nodding. "The chill here is enough to freeze one's blood as it is. . . ."
Wringing out the cloth yet again, I look around for the others. Gimli stands on watch, his beard glinting reddish hints in the light of late morning. Sam, with assistance from Merry and Pippin, is working on lunch, the only thing that would keep him from Frodo's side, and only then because I insisted he would be of most help to his master thus: it is true, given that the hobbits have rather more experience with actual cooking than the rest of us, who tend to throw a loaf of bread and some dried meats and fruit in a sack and make no further ado. . .and Frodo needs something easy to get down, something more to hobbit tastes and easier to eat. Legolas sits by Gandalf, his hand resting gently upon the Ringbearer's curly hair, murmuring softly to the little one in Sindarin.
Elrond, what would you do? Surely after the Last Alliance you must have treated. . .terrible conditions, in terrible places with little help.
But Elrond is not here, of course.
For a moment I cannot help thinking that perhaps it would have been wiser to insist, to have had Pippin and Merry sent home and one or two of the healers of Elrond's house sent with us. We knew Frodo was still not perfectly well, and never will be again, even if he survives this.
"Strider?"
Merry's voice breaks my reverie. Looking up from my patient, I find the young Brandybuck standing patiently beside me, holding a wooden mug filled with steaming liquid, stirring it carefully with practised movement.
"Yes, Merry?"
"I've brought Frodo's lunch; do you want me to try and feed him?"
I look at Frodo, who has settled down only a little - due largely to the efforts of Legolas and Gandalf, I believe.
"Thank you. Certainly. . .let Legolas help with getting him to swallow; it may take a bit more work this time."
"Oh, of course. Sam would insist, but he's trying to get things finished up with the pans and all, and that's not something one wants to leave Pip alone with, really. . . ." Nodding practically, Merry sits unceremoniously beside me as I scoot away a little, allowing him access to his cousin. At once he adopts the more relaxed, easy tone I hear them using between themselves. "Hullo there, Frodo. . .it's just me, Merry. . .with some of Sam's nice soup. . .mushroom, you know, nice and hot, with a bit of barley in it. . .I hope you'll at least try a little; he did make it over an open campfire, and you need to eat. . . ." Tipping the spoon gently to Frodo's lips, he waits.
Frodo calms a bit. . .and his lips part, admitting the spoonful of liquid. After a second, he swallows.
"Good! There's a good fellow - " Merry fairly beams, stirring the soup again before offering another mouthful. "You know, I was worrying about you there. . .the day Frodo Baggins passes up something mushroom is the day the world's coming to ruin, you know. Don't think I didn't know what my older cousins were up, because it's true what they say about little pitchers and big ears!"
"Yes, it most. . .*certainly*. . .is. . . ."
Blinking, I look up from adding snow to the pan.
Frodo's eyes are open.
Barely, but open, definitely. Looking up at Merry, he manages the slightest hint of a smile, taking the next spoonful before speaking again, his voice faint and very hoarse.
"I know. . .you. . .threatened to. . .tell on me. . . ."
Merry laughs, the sound warm and mirthful. "Well, you'd been warned, and yet there you were, still doing it, and you were going without me! I'd not have had to say that if you'd taken me along. . . ."
The conversation is enough to make us all smile, even Boromir and myself.
Glancing back at Merry, I change my mind. We brought the best healers for Frodo that we could have found in all Middle-earth.
*********************************************************************
~To Be Continued~
I'm still working on getting the FrodoHealers location set up differently; thanks for being patient grumbles profusely about the Yahoo delay. Speaking of the group, postings are coming through very slowly for some reason; there are two I approved some eleven hours ago that are only showing up now. I have no idea why, but am hoping it'll pick up pace a bit again today.
Dear readers, thank you all 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 Eight: The Cow Jumped Over the Moon
It is easier to rest curled in Gandalf's arms. Kind as Aragorn is, Gandalf is. . .I don't know, exactly. He reminds me of Bilbo and of Bag End and of happier days, before I even knew of the Ring and was only a child dreaming of adventures, all with happy endings.
I do not think this one will have a very happy ending at all.
Listening to Gandalf's familiar voice, the vibration of the deep baritone sound in his chest lulling me, I find myself falling asleep at last.
Bree.
I find myself in the inn at Bree.
Surely there's something I've forgotten in between. . .this can't be right.
But it *is* right. . .I can practically smell the worn leather and frothy beer, the kitchen-smells of thick stew and freshly baked bread, the ashy smokiness of the roaring fire in the huge hearth. . . .
But where are the others?
Turning, I see Strider behind me, and cannot help but smile.
Yet I cannot see his face beneath his hooded cloak.
He comes a few steps closer, and suddenly I notice something.
His cloak is not the usual green, but black.
Black as midnight.
My breath catches as the odor of the tomb. . .the smell I remember from the Barrow, and from Weathertop. . .overwhelms all else. I try at once to turn and run, but his hand, skeletal fingers extending from a ghostly arm beneath the cloak, has me, holding me fast, despite my attempts to pull away. . . .
********************************************************************
"Hold him still!"
Gandalf secures his arms more tightly over the Ringbearer's as I try wringing out the cloth, glancing up to ensure our makeshift curtain is still in place against any winds before running it quickly over Frodo's damp face. The little one struggles, crying out, and my heart twists into a knot at our having to restrain him. Yet his sleep has grown restless beyond help, and the fever has increased dramatically once more.
"He cannot live through this, Aragorn."
It is Boromir's voice behind me, causing me to look up for a moment while continuing to stroke Frodo's face, intermittently wringing the cloth out freshly in the panful of melted snow. "What do you propose we do, then?"
The tone sounds sharper than I meant. Too late I realise this, as he winces, sighing. "Is there nothing more we could do? In Gondor, I have seen the healers use cold baths to bring about the healing crisis."
"I have seen it as well. But I dare not risk exposing him to the cold with the difficulty we would have in rewarming him if needed."
Boromir sighs, nodding. "The chill here is enough to freeze one's blood as it is. . . ."
Wringing out the cloth yet again, I look around for the others. Gimli stands on watch, his beard glinting reddish hints in the light of late morning. Sam, with assistance from Merry and Pippin, is working on lunch, the only thing that would keep him from Frodo's side, and only then because I insisted he would be of most help to his master thus: it is true, given that the hobbits have rather more experience with actual cooking than the rest of us, who tend to throw a loaf of bread and some dried meats and fruit in a sack and make no further ado. . .and Frodo needs something easy to get down, something more to hobbit tastes and easier to eat. Legolas sits by Gandalf, his hand resting gently upon the Ringbearer's curly hair, murmuring softly to the little one in Sindarin.
Elrond, what would you do? Surely after the Last Alliance you must have treated. . .terrible conditions, in terrible places with little help.
But Elrond is not here, of course.
For a moment I cannot help thinking that perhaps it would have been wiser to insist, to have had Pippin and Merry sent home and one or two of the healers of Elrond's house sent with us. We knew Frodo was still not perfectly well, and never will be again, even if he survives this.
"Strider?"
Merry's voice breaks my reverie. Looking up from my patient, I find the young Brandybuck standing patiently beside me, holding a wooden mug filled with steaming liquid, stirring it carefully with practised movement.
"Yes, Merry?"
"I've brought Frodo's lunch; do you want me to try and feed him?"
I look at Frodo, who has settled down only a little - due largely to the efforts of Legolas and Gandalf, I believe.
"Thank you. Certainly. . .let Legolas help with getting him to swallow; it may take a bit more work this time."
"Oh, of course. Sam would insist, but he's trying to get things finished up with the pans and all, and that's not something one wants to leave Pip alone with, really. . . ." Nodding practically, Merry sits unceremoniously beside me as I scoot away a little, allowing him access to his cousin. At once he adopts the more relaxed, easy tone I hear them using between themselves. "Hullo there, Frodo. . .it's just me, Merry. . .with some of Sam's nice soup. . .mushroom, you know, nice and hot, with a bit of barley in it. . .I hope you'll at least try a little; he did make it over an open campfire, and you need to eat. . . ." Tipping the spoon gently to Frodo's lips, he waits.
Frodo calms a bit. . .and his lips part, admitting the spoonful of liquid. After a second, he swallows.
"Good! There's a good fellow - " Merry fairly beams, stirring the soup again before offering another mouthful. "You know, I was worrying about you there. . .the day Frodo Baggins passes up something mushroom is the day the world's coming to ruin, you know. Don't think I didn't know what my older cousins were up, because it's true what they say about little pitchers and big ears!"
"Yes, it most. . .*certainly*. . .is. . . ."
Blinking, I look up from adding snow to the pan.
Frodo's eyes are open.
Barely, but open, definitely. Looking up at Merry, he manages the slightest hint of a smile, taking the next spoonful before speaking again, his voice faint and very hoarse.
"I know. . .you. . .threatened to. . .tell on me. . . ."
Merry laughs, the sound warm and mirthful. "Well, you'd been warned, and yet there you were, still doing it, and you were going without me! I'd not have had to say that if you'd taken me along. . . ."
The conversation is enough to make us all smile, even Boromir and myself.
Glancing back at Merry, I change my mind. We brought the best healers for Frodo that we could have found in all Middle-earth.
*********************************************************************
~To Be Continued~