Frodo, still propped up on his pillows, lay trying not to move too much as Elrond removed the strips of cloth Aragorn had bound his calf with earlier and applied a very warm poultice to the puncture wounds. The hobbit's leg felt consumed now by a fiery ache, and the lightest of touches seemed to hurt abominably. But the lord of Imladris had said the poultice would do a great of good in drawing out the poison, so Frodo bore it as stoically as he was able.
Gandalf was standing quietly next to Elrond, and Merry and Pippin were talking in low voices in the corner. Sam, always eager to be of service, had been sent off to fetch hot water bottles and various other sundries that were needed for Frodo's comfort. A warm fire was now roaring in the fireplace of the room, and the sweet smell of athelas scented the air.
Seeing Aragorn enter his field of vision---which seemed be blurring a bit---with a steaming cup, Frodo made a face.
"It's ginger tea, Frodo---it will help the nausea," the ranger explained. "And you need to be taking plenty of liquids. Here, just a few small sips for now, all right?"
"All right." He had to admit, the nausea *did* seem to be growing worse. Frodo reached for the cup, but his vision was a bit unfocused and his hands shaky, and he nearly dropped it. Aragorn caught it before it fell---not without a knowing glance at Elrond---and held it to the hobbit's lips.
"Drink, now. Just a bit."
His hands steadier now, Frodo took the cup himself and slowly swallowed. It tasted all right---sweetened with honey, apparently, and the warmth did seem to feel good in his belly.
"That's enough for now," Aragorn told him, gently prying the cup out of his hands and setting it on the bedside table. He reached out and felt Frodo's cheek---the hobbit's skin felt a bit clammy and was coated with a fine sheen of perspiration. Picking up a damp cloth, the ranger dabbed at Frodo's face with it. "How's the stomach feel? Think you can keep that tea down?"
"I don't know . . . doesn't feel too bad. I suppose I can."
"Good." Aragorn smiled a bit. "Because I have another drink for you. But you are not going to like it, I can guarantee, and I am sorry for that." With that, he took a small silver flask from the bedside table and poured some contents out of it into Frodo's tea cup.
Frodo grimaced---he knew there would be something foul-tasting coming eventually, and what Aragorn was pouring didn't smell appetizing at all. Many of his memories from his Nazgul wounding were shadowy and vague, but one stood out extremely well: a pungent fluid they had gently forced down him, even when he protested, insisting he must drink it. He sighed. He truly hoped it wasn't the same potion.
"What is it?" he asked, blue eyes wide as he tried to focus on the substance in the cup.
"It is a treacle---many different compounds to combat the poison. Some of them are herbs used strictly by the Elves. They are quite powerful, but I am afraid there is no way to sweeten the resulting tea, and it is very . . . potent."
"It is black, Aragorn, is it not?"
"Yes, and it doesn't taste very good, but you must get it down. It is necessary."
"Is it the same concoction I had when I was ill before?"
Aragorn shook his head as he brought the cup to Frodo's lips. "So you remember that, do you? Similar, Frodo, but not entirely the same. Now, drink up. All of it, but slowly."
Hesitating, Frodo took a sip---and nearly spit it out. It was, without a doubt, one of the worst-tasting medicines he'd endured---viscous and bitter. He choked for a moment, gasping, and the ranger was forced to sit him up and tap on his back to ease the thick fluid down, then gave him another drink of ginger tea to help the coughing. When he put the cup of treacle back to Frodo's lips, the hobbit shuddered, weakly grabbing the cup and trying to push it away.
"No, Frodo, drink it down," Aragorn urged. "Only a bit more." The ranger's large hand closed around Frodo's on the cup and tipped it back. Slowly, Frodo swallowed, his eyes watering, until the cup was empty. Aragorn smiled and laid him back on the pillows, patting his shoulder and offering a bit of peppermint tea to clear the taste.
"Thank you, Aragorn," Frodo said gratefully, his voice coming out a bit weaker than he'd intended. He was beginning to feel dizzier, worn out, and decidedly not even much in the mood for conversation anymore. He shifted in the bed a bit, grimacing as he felt nagging aches and pains come to life in most parts of his body, and closed his eyes. The tingling pain in his fingers and toes had worsened as well, and he whimpered a bit as he shook a hand, trying to get some normal feeling back into it.
"Are you hurting?" Aragorn asked him.
"Pins and needles feeling . . . it's growing worse."
"I see. Here, let me help." Taking the hobbit's tiny cold hands, the ranger rubbed them briskly between his own, trying to impart some bit of comfort to them. "Your hands are chilled, Frodo, but we shall get you warm soon. Where is Sam with those hot water bottles, I wonder?"
Frodo didn't answer. He lay with his head back against the pillows, trying to concentrate on not losing the treacle in his stomach. If he threw it up, that would only mean drinking more.
"Ah, here's Sam now . . ." Aragorn was saying as Sam entered the room, his arms laden with several hot water bottles.
"Here you go, Mr. Strider, just as you asked," Sam told him with concerned glance at his friend in the bed. "And when those cool down, I'll be bringin' you more of 'em, as long as is needed."
"Thank you, Sam." Suddenly the rubbing of Frodo's hands stopped. "Here Frodo, let's make you more comfortable." Gently sitting Frodo up, Aragorn removed a load of fluffy pillows that had been behind him and eased him to lie back down, flat, on just one pillow. The hobbit sighed and opened his eyes as the ache in his back subsided just a bit.
Pulling the covers back, Aragorn placed the warm bottles around the supine hobbit, along his sides and one on top of his belly, before tucking the covers back snugly about Frodo's shoulders and adding another down comforter on top of that. The hobbit's leg, however, was still uncovered, as Elrond was finishing up his treatment, and Frodo could hear him muttering faint phrases in Elvish as he laid his hands on the leg.
Suddenly the door opened and Frodo blinked, his eyes growing wide as Bilbo's face appeared, leaning over him. "Bilbo! I've been hoping you would come."
"Well of course, my dear boy, just as soon as I could get here." He bent down to plant a small kiss on Frodo's damp brow. "Oh, my poor lad---how are you feeling?"
"I am all right, Bilbo. Master Elrond seems to think I received a low dose of the poison. I'm feeling a bit under the weather, but hopefully, this shan't go on for too long."
As if on cue, Elrond rose from treating Frodo's leg and walked to stand by Frodo's head, gazing with concern at the sick hobbit.
"Do not fear, Bilbo," the elf-lord told the elderly hobbit. "Frodo is strong. We're giving him a treacle---an antidote to the poison---on a regular basis and he should hopefully be up and about again in a week or two. Although," he added with a note of seriousness directed toward Frodo, "he will likely feel rather ill for a while and must rest as he is told to do."
Bilbo let out a sigh, but all Frodo heard was "treacle," "regular basis," and "week or two." He frowned. "I'm going to have to drink that terrible potion again?" he asked with disappointment, his brows knitting together. "And a week or two---I cannot stay in bed a week or two."
"Do not get worked up, Frodo," Elrond soothed. "Perhaps you will be up earlier---we shall see. As for the treacle, I am afraid so, my young friend. I do not know how often---we shall have to monitor you and determine that hour by hour. And I do apologize for the taste---I wish we could make it more palatable, but I daresay it could be worse. Now, let us have a look at you."
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Elrond folded back the covers and took Frodo's wrist, checking his pulse, then felt his neck and cheeks and bid Frodo to follow his finger with his eyes, noting that the hobbit's vision seemed to be slightly affected. Then replacing the covers and laying his large hand across Frodo's small forehead, the elf-lord closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, muttering a few words in Elvish, before opening them and standing up, smoothing Frodo's hair back.
"Rest, little one. I will be back to check on you shortly."
Frodo nodded weakly, and with that, Elrond left. Moaning slightly as he felt a pain in his belly, Frodo turned over a bit, careful of his hurting leg, and sunk down into his warm nest of covers.
To be continued
Gandalf was standing quietly next to Elrond, and Merry and Pippin were talking in low voices in the corner. Sam, always eager to be of service, had been sent off to fetch hot water bottles and various other sundries that were needed for Frodo's comfort. A warm fire was now roaring in the fireplace of the room, and the sweet smell of athelas scented the air.
Seeing Aragorn enter his field of vision---which seemed be blurring a bit---with a steaming cup, Frodo made a face.
"It's ginger tea, Frodo---it will help the nausea," the ranger explained. "And you need to be taking plenty of liquids. Here, just a few small sips for now, all right?"
"All right." He had to admit, the nausea *did* seem to be growing worse. Frodo reached for the cup, but his vision was a bit unfocused and his hands shaky, and he nearly dropped it. Aragorn caught it before it fell---not without a knowing glance at Elrond---and held it to the hobbit's lips.
"Drink, now. Just a bit."
His hands steadier now, Frodo took the cup himself and slowly swallowed. It tasted all right---sweetened with honey, apparently, and the warmth did seem to feel good in his belly.
"That's enough for now," Aragorn told him, gently prying the cup out of his hands and setting it on the bedside table. He reached out and felt Frodo's cheek---the hobbit's skin felt a bit clammy and was coated with a fine sheen of perspiration. Picking up a damp cloth, the ranger dabbed at Frodo's face with it. "How's the stomach feel? Think you can keep that tea down?"
"I don't know . . . doesn't feel too bad. I suppose I can."
"Good." Aragorn smiled a bit. "Because I have another drink for you. But you are not going to like it, I can guarantee, and I am sorry for that." With that, he took a small silver flask from the bedside table and poured some contents out of it into Frodo's tea cup.
Frodo grimaced---he knew there would be something foul-tasting coming eventually, and what Aragorn was pouring didn't smell appetizing at all. Many of his memories from his Nazgul wounding were shadowy and vague, but one stood out extremely well: a pungent fluid they had gently forced down him, even when he protested, insisting he must drink it. He sighed. He truly hoped it wasn't the same potion.
"What is it?" he asked, blue eyes wide as he tried to focus on the substance in the cup.
"It is a treacle---many different compounds to combat the poison. Some of them are herbs used strictly by the Elves. They are quite powerful, but I am afraid there is no way to sweeten the resulting tea, and it is very . . . potent."
"It is black, Aragorn, is it not?"
"Yes, and it doesn't taste very good, but you must get it down. It is necessary."
"Is it the same concoction I had when I was ill before?"
Aragorn shook his head as he brought the cup to Frodo's lips. "So you remember that, do you? Similar, Frodo, but not entirely the same. Now, drink up. All of it, but slowly."
Hesitating, Frodo took a sip---and nearly spit it out. It was, without a doubt, one of the worst-tasting medicines he'd endured---viscous and bitter. He choked for a moment, gasping, and the ranger was forced to sit him up and tap on his back to ease the thick fluid down, then gave him another drink of ginger tea to help the coughing. When he put the cup of treacle back to Frodo's lips, the hobbit shuddered, weakly grabbing the cup and trying to push it away.
"No, Frodo, drink it down," Aragorn urged. "Only a bit more." The ranger's large hand closed around Frodo's on the cup and tipped it back. Slowly, Frodo swallowed, his eyes watering, until the cup was empty. Aragorn smiled and laid him back on the pillows, patting his shoulder and offering a bit of peppermint tea to clear the taste.
"Thank you, Aragorn," Frodo said gratefully, his voice coming out a bit weaker than he'd intended. He was beginning to feel dizzier, worn out, and decidedly not even much in the mood for conversation anymore. He shifted in the bed a bit, grimacing as he felt nagging aches and pains come to life in most parts of his body, and closed his eyes. The tingling pain in his fingers and toes had worsened as well, and he whimpered a bit as he shook a hand, trying to get some normal feeling back into it.
"Are you hurting?" Aragorn asked him.
"Pins and needles feeling . . . it's growing worse."
"I see. Here, let me help." Taking the hobbit's tiny cold hands, the ranger rubbed them briskly between his own, trying to impart some bit of comfort to them. "Your hands are chilled, Frodo, but we shall get you warm soon. Where is Sam with those hot water bottles, I wonder?"
Frodo didn't answer. He lay with his head back against the pillows, trying to concentrate on not losing the treacle in his stomach. If he threw it up, that would only mean drinking more.
"Ah, here's Sam now . . ." Aragorn was saying as Sam entered the room, his arms laden with several hot water bottles.
"Here you go, Mr. Strider, just as you asked," Sam told him with concerned glance at his friend in the bed. "And when those cool down, I'll be bringin' you more of 'em, as long as is needed."
"Thank you, Sam." Suddenly the rubbing of Frodo's hands stopped. "Here Frodo, let's make you more comfortable." Gently sitting Frodo up, Aragorn removed a load of fluffy pillows that had been behind him and eased him to lie back down, flat, on just one pillow. The hobbit sighed and opened his eyes as the ache in his back subsided just a bit.
Pulling the covers back, Aragorn placed the warm bottles around the supine hobbit, along his sides and one on top of his belly, before tucking the covers back snugly about Frodo's shoulders and adding another down comforter on top of that. The hobbit's leg, however, was still uncovered, as Elrond was finishing up his treatment, and Frodo could hear him muttering faint phrases in Elvish as he laid his hands on the leg.
Suddenly the door opened and Frodo blinked, his eyes growing wide as Bilbo's face appeared, leaning over him. "Bilbo! I've been hoping you would come."
"Well of course, my dear boy, just as soon as I could get here." He bent down to plant a small kiss on Frodo's damp brow. "Oh, my poor lad---how are you feeling?"
"I am all right, Bilbo. Master Elrond seems to think I received a low dose of the poison. I'm feeling a bit under the weather, but hopefully, this shan't go on for too long."
As if on cue, Elrond rose from treating Frodo's leg and walked to stand by Frodo's head, gazing with concern at the sick hobbit.
"Do not fear, Bilbo," the elf-lord told the elderly hobbit. "Frodo is strong. We're giving him a treacle---an antidote to the poison---on a regular basis and he should hopefully be up and about again in a week or two. Although," he added with a note of seriousness directed toward Frodo, "he will likely feel rather ill for a while and must rest as he is told to do."
Bilbo let out a sigh, but all Frodo heard was "treacle," "regular basis," and "week or two." He frowned. "I'm going to have to drink that terrible potion again?" he asked with disappointment, his brows knitting together. "And a week or two---I cannot stay in bed a week or two."
"Do not get worked up, Frodo," Elrond soothed. "Perhaps you will be up earlier---we shall see. As for the treacle, I am afraid so, my young friend. I do not know how often---we shall have to monitor you and determine that hour by hour. And I do apologize for the taste---I wish we could make it more palatable, but I daresay it could be worse. Now, let us have a look at you."
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Elrond folded back the covers and took Frodo's wrist, checking his pulse, then felt his neck and cheeks and bid Frodo to follow his finger with his eyes, noting that the hobbit's vision seemed to be slightly affected. Then replacing the covers and laying his large hand across Frodo's small forehead, the elf-lord closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, muttering a few words in Elvish, before opening them and standing up, smoothing Frodo's hair back.
"Rest, little one. I will be back to check on you shortly."
Frodo nodded weakly, and with that, Elrond left. Moaning slightly as he felt a pain in his belly, Frodo turned over a bit, careful of his hurting leg, and sunk down into his warm nest of covers.
To be continued