Author's Note: Set as somewhat 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. This chapter is told from Aragorn's point of view.

While I'm sure you all know this, as a disclaimer I must nonetheless add that all medical treatment information is developed purely for fictitious use and should not be attempted in actual real life practice. Please consult your health care professional for medical advice.

Re FrodoHealers on Yahoo group: still trying to get it moved. :P Feel free to ignore the warning if at all possible; honestly, there is no "adult" content to the group. I read EVERY posting personally before approving it to go through. Who knew help could be so slow, anyhow, though? :P My apologies.

As always, thank you all SO much for your wonderful patience, encouragement, e-mails, and reviews! I apologise for taking so long in updating this time; it shouldn't take so long again. :)

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 11: Cruel Choices



"Aragorn, what's the matter? Is Frodo worse?"

"What's going on? Is Frodo. . . ."

I remain silent as Pippin and Merry, wide-eyed with anxiety, clamour for explanations. Even Boromir and Gimli look distressed as I gesture the company aside, gathering all save Legolas, who sits some distance away, cradling Frodo protectively in his arms. When at last all are present and attentive, which takes little time indeed, I look around, grateful for Gandalf at my side. I would not wish to deliver such news to the youngest ones without him.

"His fever is growing worse. We must try to bring it down. . .otherwise, he may not survive. But there is no safe way to attempt it beyond what we have already tried, and clearly that is no longer working."

Pippin's eyes widen, and he gulps, while Merry presses a calming hand against the younger one's shoulder, despite the betrayal of fear and dark memory I see in his own brown eyes. Sam looks positively on the verge of tears. Giving them a few minutes to take in this news, I wait until Gandalf's hand rests on Sam's shoulders before continuing.

"The decision, however, is one that I think must be made by the whole company. . .and the three of you know him better than any of us do. As I understand things, he has had this sickness before. Can you recall anything of how he was treated successfully? Of the duration, whether we might be able to wait this out at all? I know conditions here are very different from the Shire, but perhaps there is something we might be able to draw from that. . . ." My understatement is almost enough to bring a dark laugh to the surface. Very different? It might as well be night to day. . . .

All are silent for a few minutes. Sam rubs furiously at his eyes with his sleeve, while Pippin presses Merry's hand, looking pleadingly at his older cousin. And it is, in fact, Merry who finally breaks the stillness.

"He had it at least twice that I know of, though I wasn't around generally. But we were talking about being ill once, and I remember him saying that when he'd had pneumonia they'd given him a lot of medicines and kept him in bed. . .not that he felt like getting up. . .and he mentioned being woken up by being given baths. . . ."

"Beg pardon, sir - " Sam cleared his throat shyly. "That's right; I remember when we were both younger. . .poor Mr. Frodo was just a tweenager then. . .he got awful sick one winter, and Mr. Bilbo had to bathe him with cool water to keep the fever down. And there was a time he was ill after Mr. Bilbo left. . .not this, I don't think, but he *was * awful sick still. . .he finally let me get a doctor for him, and the doctor said to give him some kind of medicine he left and plenty of tea, just plain peppermint or chamomile or ginger, plus a cup of meadowsweet tea three times a day, and to keep him sponged down, water about the temperature you'd use for a baby's bath, maybe a touch cooler, when he felt too poorly or when the fever seemed to be getting too high. And that worked well enough. Took a lot of attention, it did; he was awful sick for near to a week then. But I don't know any more than that, Strider, sir. . . ."

I look at Gandalf, who sighs and shakes his head.

"Tell us our choices, Aragorn. We must all know exactly what decision faces us."

Settling back on my heels, I look up at the others, remaining in a crouch to avoid towering over the hobbits.

"We can do nothing save what we already are, which means that Frodo will most likely die within hours to days. We can try mild cooling measures, such as keeping him only lightly dressed, without blankets, which might reduce the fever, but which I fear would chill him, and which definitely would be uncomfortable for him at best. We could go a bit more extreme and melt snow just enough to use the liquid to bathe him, which again risks chilling. With the difficulty in rewarming him that we would have, I hesitate. Or. . .we could go the extreme route and use packing: undress him, pack him in snow and keep him there until his fever comes down, then pat him dry and keep him covered, out of the drafts as best we can. We would need to try and improve the tent we currently have set up, but it could be done."

"Won't that freeze him to death?" asks Pippin incredulously.

"The packing won't. But he could become too chilled, especially if there is any draft into the tent. Our best choice would be to find a small cave if we can, creating a makeshift tent in there. . .we could shield him from drafts on both sides and build a small fire to warm the air. If we are fortunate, his temperature will not rise so far again. If not. . .we will have to repeat the process."

A long silence passes. At last Sam sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Strider. . .what do you think has the best chance of savin' him?"

My eyes meet his. There is no challenge now, as I saw at first after Weathertop. . .only anxious curiousity.

"The snow packing. We risk Frodo's death no matter what we do. This gives him the greatest chance at recovery."

"Then that's what we do. Only I'm going to help; you ain't doing no such thing to Mr. Frodo without me there to help out, make sure he's got a good warm place to rest after you've froze him like that."

I reach to touch Sam's shoulder gently, in reassurance and gratitude, but Boromir's voice strikes quietly through the cold air.

"We have to face facts. He will not likely survive this, whatever we do. Perhaps we should consider how to make it least painful for him. . .but if this is what you feel best, name what I must do, and it shall be done."

Something in me is uneasy at his words. . .but his eyes are anxious, and for all my misgivings, I do not believe he would attempt to harm Frodo with one of us present. Alone. . .I would not feel entirely at ease. The Ring's call upon him is too strong already. Even I hesitate at handling it; in treating Frodo I work around that chain rather than move it even a little upon his neck. The fierce glares from the hobbits appear ready to lead to words, but I quickly rise, meeting Boromir's gaze.

"If you and Gimli could find a small cave such as I mentioned, that would be the most useful measure to take. Secure what we can spare in blankets and materials to shelter an area where we can keep Frodo out of the breezes. Whatever course of action we take, that much will help him."

Merry and Pippin look at Sam, then Gandalf, then one another, talking quietly between themselves for a moment before turning to look up at me.

"Strider, we think you should try it. Whatever you think gives Frodo the best chance at surviving." This from Merry, his expression serious and sad.

"Frodo would want that." A surprisingly serious Pippin chimes in, nodding in agreement. "He'd be brave; he wouldn't want you to not try. . . ."

Gandalf nods silently, while Gimli sighs, shaking his head.

"A shame. Poor fellow. If it must be, it must, though. Do what you believe best, Aragorn. . .snow and all."

For a moment I wait, allowing time should anyone change his mind.

Silence.

"Then it is decided."

With that, I turn, motioning for Sam and Gandalf to accompany me as I return to the makeshift shelter where Legolas cradles Frodo, rocking the little hobbit in his arms.

~To Be Continued~