The trek back to the Last Homely House, seemed, in Frodo's mind, to take practically forever. Still balanced on the ranger's hip, his leg had begun to ache painfully enough that he had to keep from gasping every time Aragorn so much as stepped over a rock. Glancing down at the tiny wound, Frodo saw that the swelling had grown much worse.
"Aragorn, how much longer?" he asked in a small voice.
"Not too much longer. We did not walk out far before we stopped for lunch. A good thing hobbits insist on eating so often."
Frodo closed his eyes and tried not to think about food. The idea of it made him feel positively ill, and he had spent the last half hour seriously concentrating on not throwing up on Aragorn's shoulder. He sighed. Behind them, the others walked, and Frodo met their eyes, trying to smile reassuringly, although he found it difficult to do.
"Try to rest, Frodo," Aragorn advised as he rubbed the hobbit's back gently, "and do not worry---we'll be there soon enough, and then you can lie in a soft bed. I daresay that despite the snake bite, you've probably overtaxed yourself today simply from the long walk."
"Yes." The word was drawn out and weary, and Frodo closed his eyes, too tired to look at the beautiful scenery anymore. "Aragorn, do you know what type of snake it was, by any chance?"
The ranger shook his head. "I do not, but I have my guesses. Fear not---I have some experience with treating such injuries, Frodo. Now, rest as I bid you to do earlier."
Finally the Last Homely House came into sight, and Aragorn, carrying a rather bedraggled-looking hobbit with three others in tow, ignored the stares of the inhabitants as he strode through the doors and called for someone to fetch Elrond.
Wasting no time, the ranger made directly for Frodo's room. As soon as they had reached it, Aragorn bid the others to turn down the bedclothes on the huge bed in the center of the room. Gently the ranger deposited Frodo onto the soft cool sheets, and the hobbit lay back with a sigh. He was still trying to get used to this bed---he was certain at least six hobbits could have slept in it at once, it was so large, and it made him feel awfully small. Pulling the covers up, Aragorn tucked them around the hobbit, leaving only his lower leg bare. Shock was not uncommon after a snake bite, and the ranger wanted to make sure Frodo was kept warm.
Sitting Frodo up a bit, Aragorn fluffed his pillows and placed them behind Frodo so that the hobbit lay in a half-reclining position to slow the poison, while Sam fetched a cool damp cloth for Frodo's forehead. Frodo was grateful for it, for his head had begun to ache and the room was spinning. He winced at the sunlight streaming through the large windows.
"Sam," Aragorn ordered, "would you lower the window shades a bit, so it is not so bright in here?"
"Aye, Strider. It's as good as done."
Lifting the cloth on his brow briefly with one hand, Frodo raised his head and winced as he looked at the bite wound on his calf. It was now quite alarmingly swollen and discolored, with streaks running through it. It reminded the hobbit a bit of his Morgul wound and he sighed, laying his head back and replacing the cloth.
"Just lie still, Frodo," came Aragorn's voice. The ranger was milling about the room gathering things, and Frodo could smell the faint scent of athelas.
"Aragorn, where did you get that? I didn't know there was any in here . . ."
"Ah, we have a whole stock of supplies in here from your earlier illness. And no one has ever thought to take them out, seeing as how you are still recovering."
Frodo nodded, then wished he hadn't as a wave of dizziness hit and his stomach churned. "I see. I suppose that's a good thing, seeing as how I am practically the most accident-prone hobbit in history. Any room I stay in seems to need an entire arsenal of healing herbs and concoctions."
Pippin chose that moment to pipe up. "I wouldn't say that, Frodo . . . remember the scrapes I've gotten into? There was the time I fell from the smial pantry while trying to get that jam jar . . . and remember the time I even poured the powder out of some of Gandalf's fireworks and lit it all on fire? Now that was a bad idea."
Frodo smiled weakly. "I remember. Your eyebrows took forever to grow back." He grimaced as Aragorn sat down on a stool next to his bed and began cleansing the bite wound thoroughly with athelas water. The ranger was always worried about the possibility of infection.
The door opened and Gandalf and Elrond entered, their faces tight with concern. They immediately went to the side of Frodo's bed, and the hobbit was beginning to feel somewhat nervous with so many pairs of serious eyes looking at him.
After a moment Gandalf spoke. "Well, Frodo Baggins, what trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?" the wizard asked gently, his eyes kind. The words were harsh, but belied by the hand that came up to brush the hobbit's dark hair back from one pointed ear.
"Nothing so terrible as a Morgul-blade, Gandalf. But all the same, it is not . . . exactly the way I would have chosen to spend the rest of my time in Rivendell."
The wizard chuckled, and Elrond leaned down to peer at Frodo, his brows knitted together as he laid a hand on his brow. The hobbit would have been alarmed at the elf-lord regarding him in that manner---as if he were at death's door---if he hadn't known that it was simply Elrond's normal facial expression, whether discussing good news or evil.
After a moment, Elrond turned to Aragorn and began to speak Elvish, and Frodo concentrated hard to interpret. He was certain they were discussing either extremely unpleasant medical remedies for him, or else who should be the Ring-bearer after he was long gone. *No more negative thinking,* he told himself and closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea.
He felt a hand remove the cloth from his brow and opened his eyes to see Gandalf wringing it out before he replaced it. "Frodo, how are you feeling?" the wizard asked him.
"Not too badly . . . stomach churns and leg aches quite a bit, and my hands and feet are beginning to feel a bit tingly. Almost . . . like pins and needles. I can't explain it."
Gandalf looked down at him pityingly, wondering at Frodo's definition of "not too badly." He sighed---to someone who had just recovered from a Ringwraith's stabbing, a snake bite likely seemed a small matter.
Aragorn, who had just finished cleaning the wound, rose and came to Frodo's side, feeling his face and neck for signs of fever. "The tingling is a side-effect of the venom. Elrond will prepare a poultice to help prevent the spread of the poison, and some other medicines as well. And we'll get you something hot to drink to help with your pain and nausea."
Frodo nodded and opened his eyes. "Where's Bilbo?"
"We've sent someone to fetch him. He'll be here directly, Frodo," Elrond answered.
Gandalf spoke up. "Are there not, Elrond, Elvish medicines that would take care of this very quickly?"
The elf-lord shook his head. "We can do much, Gandalf, but cannot stop the effects of the poison entirely. Unlike the Morgul wound, this one is not based in enchantment. Therefore, our Elvish healing has but limited scope. It is up to Frodo's body to heal itself. But do not fear---he is strong." With that, Elrond left the room to gather much-needed medicinal concoctions.
The hobbit on the bed lay listening, his stomach growing more upset by the moment, and closed his eyes. He opened them as he felt hands gently unbuttoning his weskit. Aragorn. Holding a fresh nightshirt for him to wear.
"No, Aragorn," Frodo protested. He didn't like the image the nightshirt presented---it made him remember his recent injury, and he did not want to be an invalid again. "I don't need a nightshirt. I'm not planning on staying in this bed that long. As soon as I am able, I'm going to be up and about."
"Frodo, be sensible. We should at least make you as comfortable as possible. You certainly cannot rest well wearing your travel-worn clothing." The ranger looked to the wizard for help.
Gandalf smiled. "Once a Baggins, always a Baggins, I say. Frodo, listen to Aragorn. Rest now, and if you feel like getting up later this evening, you may do so."
Frodo acquiesced. "Very well." He grimaced, however, as he looked at the shirt---one of Elven design, with intricate leaf patterns and small gold buttons on it. He wasn't certain where it had come from, but he remembered waking up in it after his shoulder wound and finding it quite uncomfortable. As a result, he'd been sleeping in one of his extra day shirts since that time. He wanted a normal, soft linen nightshirt such as the ones he'd worn in the Shire.
"Isn't there another shirt . . . that isn't so . . . ornate?"
"Ornate?" Aragorn and Gandalf both stared at the hobbit, who frowned.
"So . . . fancy. It's rather uncomfortable. Perhaps Bilbo has an extra."
"Ah," said Aragorn. "I remember now. Pippin, if you will, check in that wardrobe yonder across the room. I believe there are several in there that Bilbo left while Frodo was ill."
The young hobbit did and pulled out a hobbit-sized white linen nightshirt---a normal, plain nightshirt of the type Frodo was accustomed to. Frodo smiled gratefully. Looking at it, he did indeed recognize it as one of Bilbo's old ones. The old hobbit must have put them in his room and forgotten to tell him about it.
Aragorn, with Sam's help, bent to remove Frodo's clothing. Sam, however, had a difficult time reaching Frodo across the wide expanse of the bed and so he sat down on the edge of it, jostling it a bit. Unfortunately, that was all Frodo's stomach needed to expel its contents. He whimpered and retched, feeling Aragorn's arms sitting him up and supporting his head as he vomited.
When Frodo had finished, gasping, Aragorn wiped his face well with a damp cloth and Sam brought him a bit of water to swish. Wincing, Frodo looked around and realized he'd quite ruined his shirt and the bed sheets.
"Look what I did. I made a mess, didn't I?" he moaned, feeling ashamed. "I'm sorry . . . I didn't know I had to . . ."
"Nonsense, Frodo," Aragorn replied gently. "Don't worry about it---we'll take care of it. And in a moment, someone should be bringing some ginger tea for your stomach. That should make you feel much better."
"Yes, Mr. Frodo---you couldn't help it," added Sam as he removed the rest of Frodo's stained clothing and directed Merry and Pippin to bring clean sheets and blankets from a cupboard.
When Frodo's two cousins had returned with armfuls of clean linen, Aragorn gently lifted Frodo in his arms and covered him with a blanket as Sam finished stripping the bedclothes. Pippin and Merry quickly made the bed back up, grateful to be able to help, and fluffed Frodo's pillows.
Aragorn lay Frodo back down in the fresh bed and wiped his face and chest again. He and Sam were just about to ease the hobbit into his nightshirt when the door opened again to admit Arwen, carrying a tray filled with several steaming ewers. Blushing, Frodo quickly pulled the bedclothes about himself, ignoring his aching leg and still-hurting stomach, so that the only thing visible of him were two blue eyes peering over the top of the bed sheet.
But the elf maiden just smiled and sat the tray down on the bedside table, glancing at Aragorn and speaking to him briefly in Elvish. Then with a soft tinkle of laughter and a stroke of Frodo's brow with her pale hand, Arwen was gone.
Shaking his head at the hobbit's modesty, Aragorn pried the sheets out of Frodo's fingers and began to put the nightshirt on over his head. It was soft and well-worn, and Frodo sighed as he was dressed and Sam pulled the sheets up to his chest and smoothed them, making sure to leave his swelling leg uncovered. Fingering the nightshirt's sleeve, Frodo closed his eyes and sighed. Dear Bilbo, he thought to himself, trying to ignore his rising pain.
To be continued
"Aragorn, how much longer?" he asked in a small voice.
"Not too much longer. We did not walk out far before we stopped for lunch. A good thing hobbits insist on eating so often."
Frodo closed his eyes and tried not to think about food. The idea of it made him feel positively ill, and he had spent the last half hour seriously concentrating on not throwing up on Aragorn's shoulder. He sighed. Behind them, the others walked, and Frodo met their eyes, trying to smile reassuringly, although he found it difficult to do.
"Try to rest, Frodo," Aragorn advised as he rubbed the hobbit's back gently, "and do not worry---we'll be there soon enough, and then you can lie in a soft bed. I daresay that despite the snake bite, you've probably overtaxed yourself today simply from the long walk."
"Yes." The word was drawn out and weary, and Frodo closed his eyes, too tired to look at the beautiful scenery anymore. "Aragorn, do you know what type of snake it was, by any chance?"
The ranger shook his head. "I do not, but I have my guesses. Fear not---I have some experience with treating such injuries, Frodo. Now, rest as I bid you to do earlier."
Finally the Last Homely House came into sight, and Aragorn, carrying a rather bedraggled-looking hobbit with three others in tow, ignored the stares of the inhabitants as he strode through the doors and called for someone to fetch Elrond.
Wasting no time, the ranger made directly for Frodo's room. As soon as they had reached it, Aragorn bid the others to turn down the bedclothes on the huge bed in the center of the room. Gently the ranger deposited Frodo onto the soft cool sheets, and the hobbit lay back with a sigh. He was still trying to get used to this bed---he was certain at least six hobbits could have slept in it at once, it was so large, and it made him feel awfully small. Pulling the covers up, Aragorn tucked them around the hobbit, leaving only his lower leg bare. Shock was not uncommon after a snake bite, and the ranger wanted to make sure Frodo was kept warm.
Sitting Frodo up a bit, Aragorn fluffed his pillows and placed them behind Frodo so that the hobbit lay in a half-reclining position to slow the poison, while Sam fetched a cool damp cloth for Frodo's forehead. Frodo was grateful for it, for his head had begun to ache and the room was spinning. He winced at the sunlight streaming through the large windows.
"Sam," Aragorn ordered, "would you lower the window shades a bit, so it is not so bright in here?"
"Aye, Strider. It's as good as done."
Lifting the cloth on his brow briefly with one hand, Frodo raised his head and winced as he looked at the bite wound on his calf. It was now quite alarmingly swollen and discolored, with streaks running through it. It reminded the hobbit a bit of his Morgul wound and he sighed, laying his head back and replacing the cloth.
"Just lie still, Frodo," came Aragorn's voice. The ranger was milling about the room gathering things, and Frodo could smell the faint scent of athelas.
"Aragorn, where did you get that? I didn't know there was any in here . . ."
"Ah, we have a whole stock of supplies in here from your earlier illness. And no one has ever thought to take them out, seeing as how you are still recovering."
Frodo nodded, then wished he hadn't as a wave of dizziness hit and his stomach churned. "I see. I suppose that's a good thing, seeing as how I am practically the most accident-prone hobbit in history. Any room I stay in seems to need an entire arsenal of healing herbs and concoctions."
Pippin chose that moment to pipe up. "I wouldn't say that, Frodo . . . remember the scrapes I've gotten into? There was the time I fell from the smial pantry while trying to get that jam jar . . . and remember the time I even poured the powder out of some of Gandalf's fireworks and lit it all on fire? Now that was a bad idea."
Frodo smiled weakly. "I remember. Your eyebrows took forever to grow back." He grimaced as Aragorn sat down on a stool next to his bed and began cleansing the bite wound thoroughly with athelas water. The ranger was always worried about the possibility of infection.
The door opened and Gandalf and Elrond entered, their faces tight with concern. They immediately went to the side of Frodo's bed, and the hobbit was beginning to feel somewhat nervous with so many pairs of serious eyes looking at him.
After a moment Gandalf spoke. "Well, Frodo Baggins, what trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?" the wizard asked gently, his eyes kind. The words were harsh, but belied by the hand that came up to brush the hobbit's dark hair back from one pointed ear.
"Nothing so terrible as a Morgul-blade, Gandalf. But all the same, it is not . . . exactly the way I would have chosen to spend the rest of my time in Rivendell."
The wizard chuckled, and Elrond leaned down to peer at Frodo, his brows knitted together as he laid a hand on his brow. The hobbit would have been alarmed at the elf-lord regarding him in that manner---as if he were at death's door---if he hadn't known that it was simply Elrond's normal facial expression, whether discussing good news or evil.
After a moment, Elrond turned to Aragorn and began to speak Elvish, and Frodo concentrated hard to interpret. He was certain they were discussing either extremely unpleasant medical remedies for him, or else who should be the Ring-bearer after he was long gone. *No more negative thinking,* he told himself and closed his eyes, fighting back a wave of nausea.
He felt a hand remove the cloth from his brow and opened his eyes to see Gandalf wringing it out before he replaced it. "Frodo, how are you feeling?" the wizard asked him.
"Not too badly . . . stomach churns and leg aches quite a bit, and my hands and feet are beginning to feel a bit tingly. Almost . . . like pins and needles. I can't explain it."
Gandalf looked down at him pityingly, wondering at Frodo's definition of "not too badly." He sighed---to someone who had just recovered from a Ringwraith's stabbing, a snake bite likely seemed a small matter.
Aragorn, who had just finished cleaning the wound, rose and came to Frodo's side, feeling his face and neck for signs of fever. "The tingling is a side-effect of the venom. Elrond will prepare a poultice to help prevent the spread of the poison, and some other medicines as well. And we'll get you something hot to drink to help with your pain and nausea."
Frodo nodded and opened his eyes. "Where's Bilbo?"
"We've sent someone to fetch him. He'll be here directly, Frodo," Elrond answered.
Gandalf spoke up. "Are there not, Elrond, Elvish medicines that would take care of this very quickly?"
The elf-lord shook his head. "We can do much, Gandalf, but cannot stop the effects of the poison entirely. Unlike the Morgul wound, this one is not based in enchantment. Therefore, our Elvish healing has but limited scope. It is up to Frodo's body to heal itself. But do not fear---he is strong." With that, Elrond left the room to gather much-needed medicinal concoctions.
The hobbit on the bed lay listening, his stomach growing more upset by the moment, and closed his eyes. He opened them as he felt hands gently unbuttoning his weskit. Aragorn. Holding a fresh nightshirt for him to wear.
"No, Aragorn," Frodo protested. He didn't like the image the nightshirt presented---it made him remember his recent injury, and he did not want to be an invalid again. "I don't need a nightshirt. I'm not planning on staying in this bed that long. As soon as I am able, I'm going to be up and about."
"Frodo, be sensible. We should at least make you as comfortable as possible. You certainly cannot rest well wearing your travel-worn clothing." The ranger looked to the wizard for help.
Gandalf smiled. "Once a Baggins, always a Baggins, I say. Frodo, listen to Aragorn. Rest now, and if you feel like getting up later this evening, you may do so."
Frodo acquiesced. "Very well." He grimaced, however, as he looked at the shirt---one of Elven design, with intricate leaf patterns and small gold buttons on it. He wasn't certain where it had come from, but he remembered waking up in it after his shoulder wound and finding it quite uncomfortable. As a result, he'd been sleeping in one of his extra day shirts since that time. He wanted a normal, soft linen nightshirt such as the ones he'd worn in the Shire.
"Isn't there another shirt . . . that isn't so . . . ornate?"
"Ornate?" Aragorn and Gandalf both stared at the hobbit, who frowned.
"So . . . fancy. It's rather uncomfortable. Perhaps Bilbo has an extra."
"Ah," said Aragorn. "I remember now. Pippin, if you will, check in that wardrobe yonder across the room. I believe there are several in there that Bilbo left while Frodo was ill."
The young hobbit did and pulled out a hobbit-sized white linen nightshirt---a normal, plain nightshirt of the type Frodo was accustomed to. Frodo smiled gratefully. Looking at it, he did indeed recognize it as one of Bilbo's old ones. The old hobbit must have put them in his room and forgotten to tell him about it.
Aragorn, with Sam's help, bent to remove Frodo's clothing. Sam, however, had a difficult time reaching Frodo across the wide expanse of the bed and so he sat down on the edge of it, jostling it a bit. Unfortunately, that was all Frodo's stomach needed to expel its contents. He whimpered and retched, feeling Aragorn's arms sitting him up and supporting his head as he vomited.
When Frodo had finished, gasping, Aragorn wiped his face well with a damp cloth and Sam brought him a bit of water to swish. Wincing, Frodo looked around and realized he'd quite ruined his shirt and the bed sheets.
"Look what I did. I made a mess, didn't I?" he moaned, feeling ashamed. "I'm sorry . . . I didn't know I had to . . ."
"Nonsense, Frodo," Aragorn replied gently. "Don't worry about it---we'll take care of it. And in a moment, someone should be bringing some ginger tea for your stomach. That should make you feel much better."
"Yes, Mr. Frodo---you couldn't help it," added Sam as he removed the rest of Frodo's stained clothing and directed Merry and Pippin to bring clean sheets and blankets from a cupboard.
When Frodo's two cousins had returned with armfuls of clean linen, Aragorn gently lifted Frodo in his arms and covered him with a blanket as Sam finished stripping the bedclothes. Pippin and Merry quickly made the bed back up, grateful to be able to help, and fluffed Frodo's pillows.
Aragorn lay Frodo back down in the fresh bed and wiped his face and chest again. He and Sam were just about to ease the hobbit into his nightshirt when the door opened again to admit Arwen, carrying a tray filled with several steaming ewers. Blushing, Frodo quickly pulled the bedclothes about himself, ignoring his aching leg and still-hurting stomach, so that the only thing visible of him were two blue eyes peering over the top of the bed sheet.
But the elf maiden just smiled and sat the tray down on the bedside table, glancing at Aragorn and speaking to him briefly in Elvish. Then with a soft tinkle of laughter and a stroke of Frodo's brow with her pale hand, Arwen was gone.
Shaking his head at the hobbit's modesty, Aragorn pried the sheets out of Frodo's fingers and began to put the nightshirt on over his head. It was soft and well-worn, and Frodo sighed as he was dressed and Sam pulled the sheets up to his chest and smoothed them, making sure to leave his swelling leg uncovered. Fingering the nightshirt's sleeve, Frodo closed his eyes and sighed. Dear Bilbo, he thought to himself, trying to ignore his rising pain.
To be continued