Frodo lay curled on his side, his snake-bitten leg resting on top of his good leg; both somewhat immobilized by large pillows placed strategically around them and against his back. Over these, the bedcovers were draped, to keep pressure off the ever-swelling limb, and one pillow had been placed between his lower legs to give support to his injured calf. Even the slightest touch or movement of his leg caused the hobbit pain. All in all, the bed looked like a huge mound of pillows, and the hobbit ensconced within them was barely visible.
He was not asleep---despite Aragorn's earlier dose of chamomile tea to encourage it---and could not seem to get his body comfortable enough to rest, although Elrond had come in a bit earlier to check on him and had put a hand on his forehead again, chanting in Elvish. The pain had briefly receded, but was on its way back. So he lay there, just a pale face and dark hair peeking out amidst the covers, blue eyes staring at the blurry hobbit sitting in a rocking chair by his bed.
"Frodo?" Bilbo asked from the chair, leaning forward and becoming a bit more clear to Frodo. "Can I get you anything? The Dunadan says you must drink plenty of liquids---how about some ginger tea? It would help to settle your stomach." He smiled. "You always have had a sensitive stomach, my boy. I well remember that."
The memory brought a tiny tired smile to Frodo's face. "Perhaps it was your cooking, Bilbo," he teased, his voice little more than a murmur.
"Ah, I doubt that, Frodo. You always managed to put away quite a bit of my cooking, even though it never fattened you up. I tried, though."
Frodo took his hand out from under the blanket and reached out with it, ignoring the pins and needles feeling that had grown worse. Bilbo took the hand in return, gently squeezing the clammy fingers.
"I know you did, Bilbo," Frodo told him. "And I was only teasing about the cooking."
"Yes, I remember you used to try to barter for mushrooms at the market with my yellow sponge cake with buttercream frosting. Then you'd come home and tell me I had to make one for you to trade . . . . Oh, how I'd . . ." Bilbo broke off abruptly, noting Frodo's heavy breathing and pursed lips. "What is it, my boy?"
"The mention of food . . . makes me feel a bit ill."
"Oh, I'm sorry . . . I promise I won't mention it again. Does your stomach hurt very badly? Is there anything I can do?"
As usual, Frodo denied any serious trouble and shook his head weakly. "I'm just having a difficult time getting comfortable, is all, Bilbo. No need for a fuss."
The truth was, Frodo felt miserable---the nausea went unabated, his abdomen was cramping, and he could feel a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. But Frodo didn't want the others fussing over him---they all had better things to do than worry about him. Squeezing Bilbo's hand harder, he closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out his fuzzy vision.
But Frodo's ears were working, and he could hear Aragorn and Gandalf talking in low voices in the corner. He strained to hear, but couldn't make out the words.
**
"Just how dangerous is this, Aragorn? Is his life in jeopardy?" Gandalf asked the ranger, his eyes concerned.
Aragorn shook his head. "Elrond thinks not, Gandalf, but I must tell you---it is always possible that the poison will affect him more severely than we anticipate. Especially in light of the fact that he is not entirely recovered from his Morgul-blade wound. I have no experience with hobbits and snake bites, Gandalf---but with humans, smaller people are much more vulnerable to things such as this. Therefore we're pouring medicine into him---if he can keep it down. I do not doubt that his symptoms will grow worse and he will be quite ill for a while, however, even with a complete recovery."
"I see. And nothing more can be done?"
"We are doing what we can, old friend. And Elrond is pouring all of his Elvish healing into him. I wish we could spare Frodo any pain, but until he has turned the corner and recovery is assured, we dare not give him too many sedating herbs or pain relievers. It might weaken him too much to fight the poison." Clasping Gandalf on the shoulder, the ranger smiled slightly. "But we have all seen, have we not, the hobbit's strength? If he can survive a Morgul blade, I have few doubts that he will recover from this."
Both of them gazed toward the large bed dominating the room and the tiny quivering form nestled within its blankets---the only parts of which they could see were a few dark ringlets and one pale hand stretched out and clasping Bilbo's.
***
Frodo's eyes opened as he felt the bed shifting, and he reluctantly let go of Bilbo's hand. Someone sat beside him---Aragorn, holding a cup.
"I'm sorry, Frodo, but it's time for another dose of the treacle," the ranger told him softly, his eyes pitying. He noted the sweat on Frodo's forehead and felt the hobbit's clammy cheek. Lifting the bedclothes away from Frodo, Aragorn gathered the hot water bottles and handed them off to Sam to refill.
The hobbit screwed his small face up. "More? So soon?"
"I'm afraid so. And then some more tea. We must get more liquids into you. Here, now, easy . . . there we go." Aragorn gently lifted Frodo's upper body enough to allow the hobbit to take small sips, but Frodo began coughing and sputtering and the ranger realized this was not going to work. Sitting Frodo up more, the ranger slid behind him and leaned him against his chest.
But sitting up was too much---Frodo's stomach recoiled and he paled, his eyes drooping. "Aragorn . . ." he whimpered.
Knowing that look, Bilbo quickly took the treacle cup and handed a basin to Aragorn a basin, who got it under the hobbit's mouth just in time as Frodo heaved and vomited. The punishment seemed to go on and on as Aragorn supported him, holding a wet cloth to Frodo's forehead with one hand while the other wrapped around him and held the basin.
"Easy . . . that's it," Aragorn soothed.
The vomiting gave way to dry heaves, then finally, spent, Frodo moaned and sagged in Aragorn's arms, his head flopping back limply.
Aragorn handed the basin off then turned back to Frodo. The hobbit's eyes were half-open and his face and hair were wet. Grabbing a fresh wet towel from Bilbo, the ranger began wiping Frodo's face with it.
"Is he all right?" Bilbo asked, his eyes wide with fear.
"He appears to be just exhausted," the ranger replied as he felt Frodo's face and eased his nightshirt open a bit to feel of his chest and back. The hobbit did not have a fever---if anything, he was a bit shocky, and his nightshirt was soaked through with sweat and plastered to his small body. The bed sheets, too, were damp where he lay on them. "After we get the treacle down him, we'll change his gown and bathe him with a bit of warm water."
At this, Frodo's eyes opened all the way and he peered up at Aragorn. "Treacle?" he asked weakly.
"Yes, Frodo. You must drink it. It will make you well." He looked up at Bilbo. "Bilbo, would you please hand me another blanket?"
The old hobbit did so, and Aragorn wrapped it around Frodo's shoulders, shifting him slightly, then picked the dreaded cup back up and held it to Frodo's lips, urging him to drink. Slowly, the hobbit sipped it, grimacing, until the cup was drained. Aragorn then gave him a swallow of the peppermint tea to mask the bad taste of the treacle and settle his stomach more.
Easing himself off the bed and gently laying Frodo back down, Aragorn removed the pillows from around him and wrapped him up well in blankets. Then, being extremely careful of his injured leg, the ranger lifted Frodo off the bed, cradling him. Except for a slight whimper as his injured leg dangled a bit, Frodo made no sound.
With that, Aragorn turned to Bilbo. "Will you take him, Bilbo, and give him sips of ginger tea while his bed is changed? I must go make up a new poultice for his wound and will prepare some athelas water to soothe him. Make sure he is kept warm--I will be back momentarily."
"Of course, of course. Anything for my boy." Bilbo, sitting in his rocking chair, held out his arms and gently took Aragorn's burden onto his lap. Then the elderly hobbit pulled Frodo close to lean against his shoulder, wrapping the blankets about him tightly---especially about his sweat-soaked head---as he rocked.
Frodo sighed in Bilbo's arms and snuggled closer to him, the edge of the blanket wrapped about his upper body falling away. Looking down to rewrap Frodo, Bilbo began to close up the front of the younger hobbit's nightshirt as well. Then he noticed the gold glint of the Ring about his charge's neck.
To be continued
He was not asleep---despite Aragorn's earlier dose of chamomile tea to encourage it---and could not seem to get his body comfortable enough to rest, although Elrond had come in a bit earlier to check on him and had put a hand on his forehead again, chanting in Elvish. The pain had briefly receded, but was on its way back. So he lay there, just a pale face and dark hair peeking out amidst the covers, blue eyes staring at the blurry hobbit sitting in a rocking chair by his bed.
"Frodo?" Bilbo asked from the chair, leaning forward and becoming a bit more clear to Frodo. "Can I get you anything? The Dunadan says you must drink plenty of liquids---how about some ginger tea? It would help to settle your stomach." He smiled. "You always have had a sensitive stomach, my boy. I well remember that."
The memory brought a tiny tired smile to Frodo's face. "Perhaps it was your cooking, Bilbo," he teased, his voice little more than a murmur.
"Ah, I doubt that, Frodo. You always managed to put away quite a bit of my cooking, even though it never fattened you up. I tried, though."
Frodo took his hand out from under the blanket and reached out with it, ignoring the pins and needles feeling that had grown worse. Bilbo took the hand in return, gently squeezing the clammy fingers.
"I know you did, Bilbo," Frodo told him. "And I was only teasing about the cooking."
"Yes, I remember you used to try to barter for mushrooms at the market with my yellow sponge cake with buttercream frosting. Then you'd come home and tell me I had to make one for you to trade . . . . Oh, how I'd . . ." Bilbo broke off abruptly, noting Frodo's heavy breathing and pursed lips. "What is it, my boy?"
"The mention of food . . . makes me feel a bit ill."
"Oh, I'm sorry . . . I promise I won't mention it again. Does your stomach hurt very badly? Is there anything I can do?"
As usual, Frodo denied any serious trouble and shook his head weakly. "I'm just having a difficult time getting comfortable, is all, Bilbo. No need for a fuss."
The truth was, Frodo felt miserable---the nausea went unabated, his abdomen was cramping, and he could feel a cold sweat breaking out all over his body. But Frodo didn't want the others fussing over him---they all had better things to do than worry about him. Squeezing Bilbo's hand harder, he closed his eyes for a moment, blocking out his fuzzy vision.
But Frodo's ears were working, and he could hear Aragorn and Gandalf talking in low voices in the corner. He strained to hear, but couldn't make out the words.
**
"Just how dangerous is this, Aragorn? Is his life in jeopardy?" Gandalf asked the ranger, his eyes concerned.
Aragorn shook his head. "Elrond thinks not, Gandalf, but I must tell you---it is always possible that the poison will affect him more severely than we anticipate. Especially in light of the fact that he is not entirely recovered from his Morgul-blade wound. I have no experience with hobbits and snake bites, Gandalf---but with humans, smaller people are much more vulnerable to things such as this. Therefore we're pouring medicine into him---if he can keep it down. I do not doubt that his symptoms will grow worse and he will be quite ill for a while, however, even with a complete recovery."
"I see. And nothing more can be done?"
"We are doing what we can, old friend. And Elrond is pouring all of his Elvish healing into him. I wish we could spare Frodo any pain, but until he has turned the corner and recovery is assured, we dare not give him too many sedating herbs or pain relievers. It might weaken him too much to fight the poison." Clasping Gandalf on the shoulder, the ranger smiled slightly. "But we have all seen, have we not, the hobbit's strength? If he can survive a Morgul blade, I have few doubts that he will recover from this."
Both of them gazed toward the large bed dominating the room and the tiny quivering form nestled within its blankets---the only parts of which they could see were a few dark ringlets and one pale hand stretched out and clasping Bilbo's.
***
Frodo's eyes opened as he felt the bed shifting, and he reluctantly let go of Bilbo's hand. Someone sat beside him---Aragorn, holding a cup.
"I'm sorry, Frodo, but it's time for another dose of the treacle," the ranger told him softly, his eyes pitying. He noted the sweat on Frodo's forehead and felt the hobbit's clammy cheek. Lifting the bedclothes away from Frodo, Aragorn gathered the hot water bottles and handed them off to Sam to refill.
The hobbit screwed his small face up. "More? So soon?"
"I'm afraid so. And then some more tea. We must get more liquids into you. Here, now, easy . . . there we go." Aragorn gently lifted Frodo's upper body enough to allow the hobbit to take small sips, but Frodo began coughing and sputtering and the ranger realized this was not going to work. Sitting Frodo up more, the ranger slid behind him and leaned him against his chest.
But sitting up was too much---Frodo's stomach recoiled and he paled, his eyes drooping. "Aragorn . . ." he whimpered.
Knowing that look, Bilbo quickly took the treacle cup and handed a basin to Aragorn a basin, who got it under the hobbit's mouth just in time as Frodo heaved and vomited. The punishment seemed to go on and on as Aragorn supported him, holding a wet cloth to Frodo's forehead with one hand while the other wrapped around him and held the basin.
"Easy . . . that's it," Aragorn soothed.
The vomiting gave way to dry heaves, then finally, spent, Frodo moaned and sagged in Aragorn's arms, his head flopping back limply.
Aragorn handed the basin off then turned back to Frodo. The hobbit's eyes were half-open and his face and hair were wet. Grabbing a fresh wet towel from Bilbo, the ranger began wiping Frodo's face with it.
"Is he all right?" Bilbo asked, his eyes wide with fear.
"He appears to be just exhausted," the ranger replied as he felt Frodo's face and eased his nightshirt open a bit to feel of his chest and back. The hobbit did not have a fever---if anything, he was a bit shocky, and his nightshirt was soaked through with sweat and plastered to his small body. The bed sheets, too, were damp where he lay on them. "After we get the treacle down him, we'll change his gown and bathe him with a bit of warm water."
At this, Frodo's eyes opened all the way and he peered up at Aragorn. "Treacle?" he asked weakly.
"Yes, Frodo. You must drink it. It will make you well." He looked up at Bilbo. "Bilbo, would you please hand me another blanket?"
The old hobbit did so, and Aragorn wrapped it around Frodo's shoulders, shifting him slightly, then picked the dreaded cup back up and held it to Frodo's lips, urging him to drink. Slowly, the hobbit sipped it, grimacing, until the cup was drained. Aragorn then gave him a swallow of the peppermint tea to mask the bad taste of the treacle and settle his stomach more.
Easing himself off the bed and gently laying Frodo back down, Aragorn removed the pillows from around him and wrapped him up well in blankets. Then, being extremely careful of his injured leg, the ranger lifted Frodo off the bed, cradling him. Except for a slight whimper as his injured leg dangled a bit, Frodo made no sound.
With that, Aragorn turned to Bilbo. "Will you take him, Bilbo, and give him sips of ginger tea while his bed is changed? I must go make up a new poultice for his wound and will prepare some athelas water to soothe him. Make sure he is kept warm--I will be back momentarily."
"Of course, of course. Anything for my boy." Bilbo, sitting in his rocking chair, held out his arms and gently took Aragorn's burden onto his lap. Then the elderly hobbit pulled Frodo close to lean against his shoulder, wrapping the blankets about him tightly---especially about his sweat-soaked head---as he rocked.
Frodo sighed in Bilbo's arms and snuggled closer to him, the edge of the blanket wrapped about his upper body falling away. Looking down to rewrap Frodo, Bilbo began to close up the front of the younger hobbit's nightshirt as well. Then he noticed the gold glint of the Ring about his charge's neck.
To be continued