A/N: Thank you for all the reviews! :) You guys are great! I'm glad you're
enjoying the fic. It's good to know that you all thought I did the right
thing by having Mr. Fields give Frodo the drug.
Danielle: I promise I'll update more often! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
*Warning*: There is a little more use of Opium (as a painkiller) in this chapter along the same lines as there was in the previous chapter, please see chapter 8 for more information about that.
----------------------------------------
Chapter 9:
It was dark outside. Bilbo had been following the road all that afternoon and evening, into the night. He would not stop until he found help. He hummed to himself, elvish songs, "I might as well sing," Bilbo said aloud, "Maybe it will attract *someone* who can *help*!" he finished, raising his voice slightly at the last part, as though the trees along the way may somehow begin to talk and offer solutions to all of his problems.
He was so tired, and hungry, he wished that time would allow him a brief rest; though he knew it wasn't possible, not if he wanted to save Frodo.
Bilbo trudged on down the road, talking to himself and the creatures of the night that lurked in the shadows and fields of the Shire after dark. He talked aloud to himself, because there was no one else, and talking to ones self is better than talking to no one at all, Bilbo believed.
The creatures of evening teased him; around the time of dusk he had noticed a soft light which appeared to be burning steadily in the distance. The light then disappeared unexpectedly, only to reappear somewhere else a short time later. It almost reminded him of the incident in Mirkwood, it meant that elves could be near, which gave him hope. Soon he began to see more lights, though in his weary state he had failed to realize that it was still warm out, and the lights were nothing more than lightning bugs, fireflies. As it got darker, they appeared more frequently, taunting him with their hopeful flashes of light, briefly illuminating the darkness.
"Frodo liked to catch lightning bugs," Bilbo remembered mournfully as he trudged down the empty road, tears coming to his eyes at the thought of his dear lad suffering at home with some mysterious, fatal illness. An image of the boy chasing around the glowing bugs at dusk on the hills surrounding Bag End found its way into his minds eye, along with a snatch of a conversation the two had shared only weeks before Frodo had gotten sick:
"Why do they glow, uncle Bilbo?" Frodo had asked excitedly, his eyes bright with wonder.
"They guide travelers along the road, lad." Bilbo had smiled at his answer, though he doubted it was true, such things fed the imaginations of young hobbits.
"Look, Bilbo! It looks like moonlight. . ." Frodo had exclaimed as he observed the pale light of the bugs that shone through the thin fabric walls of the box by his bed, "A little moonlight of my very own." The lad had smiled contently at the thought.
The memory of Frodo's merry laugh filled Bilbo's ears. "It certainly does, Frodo! And you've got your very own little bit of moonlight too, don't you?" he had answered the lad.
"They're like tiny elves, Bilbo!" Frodo exclaimed, his voice full of wonder, "You said Elves give off light, a glow of sorts." He then looked to Bilbo, pleased that he had retained the bit of information that his uncle provided him with, "Tell me more about the elves!" he had begged.
"Not tonight, Frodo." Bilbo had smiled gently, "It's getting late, dear boy. Time for bed. . ." he said.
"Oh, please!" Frodo begged, his small face hopeful, "Just one little story, then I promise I'll go to sleep." The lad pleaded.
Bilbo relented, never one to deny a curious young mind fodder for its thoughts. "All right, lad. I don't suppose one brief tale will hurt," he grinned, tousling the boy's thick curls.
"He'd catch them in little boxes," Bilbo said to himself as he continued down the dark road, ". . . and then set them beside his bed at night for a bit of light." He felt hot tears begin to dampen his cheeks. "Poor lad," he cried quietly, "My poor, dear Frodo," he sobbed. Bilbo reached in his pocket, pulling out his handkerchief and using it to dry his eyes.
Bilbo was roused from his memories by the sound of singing; he knew the song. It was a beautiful song, sung by fair voices, and in a strange language. He looked ahead on the path to see a softer light, several lights, barely visible as they shifted gracefully, seemingly through the trees, never faltering, never halting. He composed himself, and set off in the direction of the lights as quickly and quietly as his short legs could manage.
-----------------------
Before he knew it, Fosco found himself stooping by the hearth in Frodo's room again, filling the small pot with hot coals. He placed the tile basin atop it, and went back to check on his small patient.
The healer hated to resort to this drug again, but it would be cruel not to. Frodo had rested peacefully for several hours, dozing frequently. The hobbit-lad had experienced some increased nausea, but it was nothing he couldn't bear after having already been through so much. Fosco had even spent some of the time holding Frodo in his arms. The boy had wanted to be held close, and it seemed to have done his spirit a world of good. Though, as the medication wore off, he became nearly delirious from pain, and the routine sponge baths that Fosco had begun giving him for the fever appeared to have stopped working. As Frodo's pain began reaching near unbearable level's again, Fosco held out as long as he could, trying other things that he thought might help reduce Frodo's suffering, though he soon gave up that venture and elected, regretfully, to try more of the strong drug. The child didn't appear to be negatively affected by it. It had given Frodo so much needed relief that the healer was willing to accept whatever consequences may result from his actions, though, Fosco seriously doubted that Bilbo Baggins would fault him for trying to help his boy.
"Frodo. . . I'm going to move you now, alright?" Fosco whispered gently.
Frodo released the breath he'd been holding, and tried his best to nod in response.
Fosco gently slid two arms beneath the lad's frame, and lifted him carefully. Though no amount of care could have saved Frodo from the excruciating pain that was ignited in his belly as he was moved.
The hobbit-child groaned in pain, and cried out loudly, "I'm go-. . . going t-. . .to die. . ." he gasped, "Pl- please, ma-. . .make it stop or. . .or l- let me. . . me die." He begged, tears flowing from his blue eyes.
"Hold on, lad, almost there. . ." Fosco promised, gently settling Frodo in his arms by the hearth in front of the pot of coals. The small child's legs hung limply off of Fosco's lap, the healer noticed that even the thick tufts of hair on his small feet were wet with sweat.
Frodo let out a wail, nearly losing his breath from the strain put on his swollen abdomen as the healer held him protectively, preparing to lower his head down over the tile basin.
Fosco reached over and opened the bottle of liquid, pouring a fair amount onto the burning apparatus. "Breathe in through your nose, Frodo." The healer reminded, "Deep breaths now. . . I know it hurts, but soon you won't feel the pain. . ." he continued, closing Frodo's mouth gently with one large hand. He noted earlier that the lad preferred to leave his mouth open, but he mustn't allow Frodo to do so this time, it would be a lot quicker if he his panting didn't hinder the rate at which he could inhale the vapors.
Frodo struggled weakly, trying to force his mouth open to breath. He soon resorted to breathing through his nose, inhaling the vapor in the process, shakily at first, but the breaths soon evened out more and the child's body began absorbing the fumes.
Fosco rubbed his back, encouraging the boy to take deep breaths, "There we are, lad, almost done. . . you can go back to bed soon." He promised.
Frodo whimpered, attempting to shift away from the smoke. Fosco quickly pulled the child away, leaning him back in his arms to get a look at his face. The face hardly looked like it belonged to the vibrant tween that he'd seen running about Hobbiton all summer. The pale skin and dark circles beneath his sunken eyes were telltale signs of illness.
At that moment he was reminded of one particular time in late spring that he had seen Frodo at the market, sneaking little pieces of dried apple from a bin of them at Mr. Boffin's stand. He chuckled at the memory. Frodo had swung about, prepared to move on to the next thing that interested him. He had nearly run right into Fosco, his eyes wide with surprise at the shock of having nearly been caught. His rosy cheeks had turned beet red, and he took off running, ashamed to be caught sneaking apple wheels at his age. The lad had been nearly chest-high on Fosco at the time. Though by the fall, Frodo passed that mark easily, he had really grown that summer. Fosco chuckled; he suspected it was his uncle Bilbo's cooking, trying to get the boy to fill out. Hobbits with slim lads and lasses were not looked upon with the highest honors; any parent who couldn't fatten up their children surely wasn't a good one by hobbit standards. Bilbo was already seen as strange, and Fosco thought that surely the old bachelor didn't want to be known for having an 'overly slim' lad.
Fosco's thoughts returned to present, and he looked down at the shivering bundle he held in his arms. If Frodo survived, then Bilbo would have his work cut out for him trying to fatten the lad up. Frodo had lost an awful lot of weight, and he would likely lose more before all was said and done. His eyes were half-lidded, the expression on his wan face was proof that his mind was elsewhere, and his pain was forgotten for the time being.
Fosco stirred slowly, lifting the lad carefully and bearing the small bundle back to the bed. Frodo hardly whimpered at all, if anything it could have been interpreted as a sigh of relief. The healer was dreadfully concerned about giving too much drug, the result of which could be deadly for Frodo in his already weakened state.
The lad opened his eyes a little, managing a weak "Thank you" for Mr. Fields.
"You're welcome, Frodo." Fosco smiled slightly, pleased to see that the child was finding rest when he needed it so. "I'm glad it's helping." He sat down in his chair beside Frodo's bed, and began stroking the small lad's wet curls soothingly.
"Bilbo?" He asked softly.
Fosco sighed, terribly concerned that the lad still hadn't realized that Bilbo had gone. Though he did not wish to cause Frodo grief, so he played along with the lad. There was no harm in it, he thought. "Yes, Frodo?" Fosco answered.
"I. . .love you, Bilbo." Frodo smiled slightly.
Fosco knew it was the medication talking, and perhaps that is why the child had mistaken him for his uncle. "I love you too, Frodo." He answered, patting Frodo's back gently.
"Bilbo?" Frodo asked again, opening his eyes to look at the healer.
"Yes, Frodo?" Fosco answered.
"I'm not. . . going to be all right, am I?" the lad asked, holding Mr. Fields' gaze.
Fosco didn't know what to say. Of course you never tell even the sickest of hobbits that they're not going to make it, certainly not a child. "Whatever make's you think such a thing?" Fosco asked, curious to know what the lad's response would be.
"I. . .d- don't know," Frodo answered, his voice shaky with emotion. "I don't know what's. . .wr- wrong. . .with me. I've never. . .never felt s-. . .so sick be- before." He continued, his voice barely a whisper, "You think. . .think I'm. . g- going to d-. . .die. . .Don't you?" he ended.
Fosco could see tears sliding down Frodo's cheeks once more. "Oh, Frodo, don't say such things." Fosco answered, "You're going to be just fine." He continued, "You're not going to die, dear child. . .I've never thought it, and you shouldn't either. . ." He tried to sound optimistic, "Just rest now, lad." The healer directed.
Fosco knew that when a hobbit was dying, the individual in question knew it. It surprised him though, that one so young was so perceptive of others' thoughts and feelings.
----------------------------------
Bilbo was nearly out of breath by the time he caught up with the mysterious lights. It seemed as though it had taken forever to reach them, though they weren't moving at a very fast pace, his short legs felt like lead, and though he struggled to run he still made slow progress.
"Hello!" Bilbo called desperately, "Hello! Please!" he begged as he drew closer to the lights. The glowing group paused, and turned around to meet him.
Bilbo nearly fainted with relief upon seeing that he had found what he was looking for. A group of five elves stood before him now, a slightly amused look on their faces at seeing a flustered halfling out in the middle of the woods at such an hour of the night.
The leading elf, a male with long dark hair and ageless hazel eyes, knelt down to get a better look at this strange creature. "Whatever brings you out at such an hour, Master Halfling?" the elf inquired.
Bilbo looked around, clearly taken aback by their light mood after he had spent so much time alone on the road, brooding over his predicament, though he was still able to remember his manners. Having been among elves before, he knew how and how not to conduct himself in their presence. Bilbo drew himself up and took a deep breath before he began, "My name is Bilbo Baggins. I've journeyed forth from my home, seeking your help, I feel very fortunate to have found you. . . and I will feel even more so if you are able to help my cause." He stated boldly.
The graceful elf arched an eyebrow, "And what might that be?" he asked.
Bilbo looked at the ground, his resolve wavering as his emotions began to take over, he sniffled, looking back up, he struggled to get the words out, "My. . .young nephew, Frodo, is very ill." He began, "I have dwelt briefly in Rivendell before, and have been deemed 'Elf-friend' by lord Elrond." He continued, "The healer here in my lands- the Shire- does not know what to do." He looked expectantly from one Elven face to the next, "He says that Frodo will die if he does not receive treatment. . ." Bilbo swallowed hard, "And yet he does not know how to help the lad." He cried.
The elf's expression lost it's merriness, "I'm terribly sorry to hear such grim news, Master Baggins." The elf placed a hand lightly on the hobbits shoulder.
Bilbo nodded, ashamed to have become so emotional in the presence of such great beings. "He's all I have, you see, he is like my son. I don't know what I shall do if he doesn't make it. . ." Bilbo cried.
The elf tilted Bilbo's chin up, and looked into the hobbits teary eyes, "Grieve not, Master Baggins. We are on our way to the Havens, though I do not object to leaving the group and traveling with you to help your nephew." The group of elves was from Rivendell, and they had occasionally heard tales of the strange halfling and his heroic deeds at Lake Town. If this were indeed the same halfling of which some in Rivendell still spoke, then he would try his best to save the dear hobbit's sick child.
The tall elf rose to his feet, and instructed Bilbo to wait for him, "I must speak with my companions, they understand little Westron, and I must tell them why they will be traveling without me the rest of the way."
Bilbo nodded, "Yes, of course. Thank you ever so much. . ." Bilbo paused, "I'm afraid I do not know your name."
The elf smiled, "I am called Dimhirion."
Bilbo returned the gesture, "Thank you, Dimhirion."
After Dimhirion conferred with his companions, he turned back to Bilbo. They turned back towards the direction of the Shire, and started the journey back to Bag End.
"Slow down, Master Baggins!" Dimhirion called, concerned for the old hobbits well being. He appeared to have been running for quite some time without any rest, and he was running still, though his body clearly needed rest.
"I must continue on," Bilbo called back, "Frodo hasn't got much time. . .we must reach Bag End as soon as possible or it will be too late."
The elf nodded, he understood that time was an issue, "I shall carry you for a ways then," he offered, easily lifting Bilbo onto his shoulders and taking off at a brisk pace, his long legs covering more ground with one stride than Bilbo's could even when running full speed. "Do not worry, Bilbo" Dimhirion reassured the hobbit, "We shall be back at your home by morning."
Bilbo nodded, "I hope it's not too late," he fretted, "But it's all that can be done, I understand."
------------------------- A/N: Thanks for reading! :) Please let me know what you think.
Danielle: I promise I'll update more often! :)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
*Warning*: There is a little more use of Opium (as a painkiller) in this chapter along the same lines as there was in the previous chapter, please see chapter 8 for more information about that.
----------------------------------------
Chapter 9:
It was dark outside. Bilbo had been following the road all that afternoon and evening, into the night. He would not stop until he found help. He hummed to himself, elvish songs, "I might as well sing," Bilbo said aloud, "Maybe it will attract *someone* who can *help*!" he finished, raising his voice slightly at the last part, as though the trees along the way may somehow begin to talk and offer solutions to all of his problems.
He was so tired, and hungry, he wished that time would allow him a brief rest; though he knew it wasn't possible, not if he wanted to save Frodo.
Bilbo trudged on down the road, talking to himself and the creatures of the night that lurked in the shadows and fields of the Shire after dark. He talked aloud to himself, because there was no one else, and talking to ones self is better than talking to no one at all, Bilbo believed.
The creatures of evening teased him; around the time of dusk he had noticed a soft light which appeared to be burning steadily in the distance. The light then disappeared unexpectedly, only to reappear somewhere else a short time later. It almost reminded him of the incident in Mirkwood, it meant that elves could be near, which gave him hope. Soon he began to see more lights, though in his weary state he had failed to realize that it was still warm out, and the lights were nothing more than lightning bugs, fireflies. As it got darker, they appeared more frequently, taunting him with their hopeful flashes of light, briefly illuminating the darkness.
"Frodo liked to catch lightning bugs," Bilbo remembered mournfully as he trudged down the empty road, tears coming to his eyes at the thought of his dear lad suffering at home with some mysterious, fatal illness. An image of the boy chasing around the glowing bugs at dusk on the hills surrounding Bag End found its way into his minds eye, along with a snatch of a conversation the two had shared only weeks before Frodo had gotten sick:
"Why do they glow, uncle Bilbo?" Frodo had asked excitedly, his eyes bright with wonder.
"They guide travelers along the road, lad." Bilbo had smiled at his answer, though he doubted it was true, such things fed the imaginations of young hobbits.
"Look, Bilbo! It looks like moonlight. . ." Frodo had exclaimed as he observed the pale light of the bugs that shone through the thin fabric walls of the box by his bed, "A little moonlight of my very own." The lad had smiled contently at the thought.
The memory of Frodo's merry laugh filled Bilbo's ears. "It certainly does, Frodo! And you've got your very own little bit of moonlight too, don't you?" he had answered the lad.
"They're like tiny elves, Bilbo!" Frodo exclaimed, his voice full of wonder, "You said Elves give off light, a glow of sorts." He then looked to Bilbo, pleased that he had retained the bit of information that his uncle provided him with, "Tell me more about the elves!" he had begged.
"Not tonight, Frodo." Bilbo had smiled gently, "It's getting late, dear boy. Time for bed. . ." he said.
"Oh, please!" Frodo begged, his small face hopeful, "Just one little story, then I promise I'll go to sleep." The lad pleaded.
Bilbo relented, never one to deny a curious young mind fodder for its thoughts. "All right, lad. I don't suppose one brief tale will hurt," he grinned, tousling the boy's thick curls.
"He'd catch them in little boxes," Bilbo said to himself as he continued down the dark road, ". . . and then set them beside his bed at night for a bit of light." He felt hot tears begin to dampen his cheeks. "Poor lad," he cried quietly, "My poor, dear Frodo," he sobbed. Bilbo reached in his pocket, pulling out his handkerchief and using it to dry his eyes.
Bilbo was roused from his memories by the sound of singing; he knew the song. It was a beautiful song, sung by fair voices, and in a strange language. He looked ahead on the path to see a softer light, several lights, barely visible as they shifted gracefully, seemingly through the trees, never faltering, never halting. He composed himself, and set off in the direction of the lights as quickly and quietly as his short legs could manage.
-----------------------
Before he knew it, Fosco found himself stooping by the hearth in Frodo's room again, filling the small pot with hot coals. He placed the tile basin atop it, and went back to check on his small patient.
The healer hated to resort to this drug again, but it would be cruel not to. Frodo had rested peacefully for several hours, dozing frequently. The hobbit-lad had experienced some increased nausea, but it was nothing he couldn't bear after having already been through so much. Fosco had even spent some of the time holding Frodo in his arms. The boy had wanted to be held close, and it seemed to have done his spirit a world of good. Though, as the medication wore off, he became nearly delirious from pain, and the routine sponge baths that Fosco had begun giving him for the fever appeared to have stopped working. As Frodo's pain began reaching near unbearable level's again, Fosco held out as long as he could, trying other things that he thought might help reduce Frodo's suffering, though he soon gave up that venture and elected, regretfully, to try more of the strong drug. The child didn't appear to be negatively affected by it. It had given Frodo so much needed relief that the healer was willing to accept whatever consequences may result from his actions, though, Fosco seriously doubted that Bilbo Baggins would fault him for trying to help his boy.
"Frodo. . . I'm going to move you now, alright?" Fosco whispered gently.
Frodo released the breath he'd been holding, and tried his best to nod in response.
Fosco gently slid two arms beneath the lad's frame, and lifted him carefully. Though no amount of care could have saved Frodo from the excruciating pain that was ignited in his belly as he was moved.
The hobbit-child groaned in pain, and cried out loudly, "I'm go-. . . going t-. . .to die. . ." he gasped, "Pl- please, ma-. . .make it stop or. . .or l- let me. . . me die." He begged, tears flowing from his blue eyes.
"Hold on, lad, almost there. . ." Fosco promised, gently settling Frodo in his arms by the hearth in front of the pot of coals. The small child's legs hung limply off of Fosco's lap, the healer noticed that even the thick tufts of hair on his small feet were wet with sweat.
Frodo let out a wail, nearly losing his breath from the strain put on his swollen abdomen as the healer held him protectively, preparing to lower his head down over the tile basin.
Fosco reached over and opened the bottle of liquid, pouring a fair amount onto the burning apparatus. "Breathe in through your nose, Frodo." The healer reminded, "Deep breaths now. . . I know it hurts, but soon you won't feel the pain. . ." he continued, closing Frodo's mouth gently with one large hand. He noted earlier that the lad preferred to leave his mouth open, but he mustn't allow Frodo to do so this time, it would be a lot quicker if he his panting didn't hinder the rate at which he could inhale the vapors.
Frodo struggled weakly, trying to force his mouth open to breath. He soon resorted to breathing through his nose, inhaling the vapor in the process, shakily at first, but the breaths soon evened out more and the child's body began absorbing the fumes.
Fosco rubbed his back, encouraging the boy to take deep breaths, "There we are, lad, almost done. . . you can go back to bed soon." He promised.
Frodo whimpered, attempting to shift away from the smoke. Fosco quickly pulled the child away, leaning him back in his arms to get a look at his face. The face hardly looked like it belonged to the vibrant tween that he'd seen running about Hobbiton all summer. The pale skin and dark circles beneath his sunken eyes were telltale signs of illness.
At that moment he was reminded of one particular time in late spring that he had seen Frodo at the market, sneaking little pieces of dried apple from a bin of them at Mr. Boffin's stand. He chuckled at the memory. Frodo had swung about, prepared to move on to the next thing that interested him. He had nearly run right into Fosco, his eyes wide with surprise at the shock of having nearly been caught. His rosy cheeks had turned beet red, and he took off running, ashamed to be caught sneaking apple wheels at his age. The lad had been nearly chest-high on Fosco at the time. Though by the fall, Frodo passed that mark easily, he had really grown that summer. Fosco chuckled; he suspected it was his uncle Bilbo's cooking, trying to get the boy to fill out. Hobbits with slim lads and lasses were not looked upon with the highest honors; any parent who couldn't fatten up their children surely wasn't a good one by hobbit standards. Bilbo was already seen as strange, and Fosco thought that surely the old bachelor didn't want to be known for having an 'overly slim' lad.
Fosco's thoughts returned to present, and he looked down at the shivering bundle he held in his arms. If Frodo survived, then Bilbo would have his work cut out for him trying to fatten the lad up. Frodo had lost an awful lot of weight, and he would likely lose more before all was said and done. His eyes were half-lidded, the expression on his wan face was proof that his mind was elsewhere, and his pain was forgotten for the time being.
Fosco stirred slowly, lifting the lad carefully and bearing the small bundle back to the bed. Frodo hardly whimpered at all, if anything it could have been interpreted as a sigh of relief. The healer was dreadfully concerned about giving too much drug, the result of which could be deadly for Frodo in his already weakened state.
The lad opened his eyes a little, managing a weak "Thank you" for Mr. Fields.
"You're welcome, Frodo." Fosco smiled slightly, pleased to see that the child was finding rest when he needed it so. "I'm glad it's helping." He sat down in his chair beside Frodo's bed, and began stroking the small lad's wet curls soothingly.
"Bilbo?" He asked softly.
Fosco sighed, terribly concerned that the lad still hadn't realized that Bilbo had gone. Though he did not wish to cause Frodo grief, so he played along with the lad. There was no harm in it, he thought. "Yes, Frodo?" Fosco answered.
"I. . .love you, Bilbo." Frodo smiled slightly.
Fosco knew it was the medication talking, and perhaps that is why the child had mistaken him for his uncle. "I love you too, Frodo." He answered, patting Frodo's back gently.
"Bilbo?" Frodo asked again, opening his eyes to look at the healer.
"Yes, Frodo?" Fosco answered.
"I'm not. . . going to be all right, am I?" the lad asked, holding Mr. Fields' gaze.
Fosco didn't know what to say. Of course you never tell even the sickest of hobbits that they're not going to make it, certainly not a child. "Whatever make's you think such a thing?" Fosco asked, curious to know what the lad's response would be.
"I. . .d- don't know," Frodo answered, his voice shaky with emotion. "I don't know what's. . .wr- wrong. . .with me. I've never. . .never felt s-. . .so sick be- before." He continued, his voice barely a whisper, "You think. . .think I'm. . g- going to d-. . .die. . .Don't you?" he ended.
Fosco could see tears sliding down Frodo's cheeks once more. "Oh, Frodo, don't say such things." Fosco answered, "You're going to be just fine." He continued, "You're not going to die, dear child. . .I've never thought it, and you shouldn't either. . ." He tried to sound optimistic, "Just rest now, lad." The healer directed.
Fosco knew that when a hobbit was dying, the individual in question knew it. It surprised him though, that one so young was so perceptive of others' thoughts and feelings.
----------------------------------
Bilbo was nearly out of breath by the time he caught up with the mysterious lights. It seemed as though it had taken forever to reach them, though they weren't moving at a very fast pace, his short legs felt like lead, and though he struggled to run he still made slow progress.
"Hello!" Bilbo called desperately, "Hello! Please!" he begged as he drew closer to the lights. The glowing group paused, and turned around to meet him.
Bilbo nearly fainted with relief upon seeing that he had found what he was looking for. A group of five elves stood before him now, a slightly amused look on their faces at seeing a flustered halfling out in the middle of the woods at such an hour of the night.
The leading elf, a male with long dark hair and ageless hazel eyes, knelt down to get a better look at this strange creature. "Whatever brings you out at such an hour, Master Halfling?" the elf inquired.
Bilbo looked around, clearly taken aback by their light mood after he had spent so much time alone on the road, brooding over his predicament, though he was still able to remember his manners. Having been among elves before, he knew how and how not to conduct himself in their presence. Bilbo drew himself up and took a deep breath before he began, "My name is Bilbo Baggins. I've journeyed forth from my home, seeking your help, I feel very fortunate to have found you. . . and I will feel even more so if you are able to help my cause." He stated boldly.
The graceful elf arched an eyebrow, "And what might that be?" he asked.
Bilbo looked at the ground, his resolve wavering as his emotions began to take over, he sniffled, looking back up, he struggled to get the words out, "My. . .young nephew, Frodo, is very ill." He began, "I have dwelt briefly in Rivendell before, and have been deemed 'Elf-friend' by lord Elrond." He continued, "The healer here in my lands- the Shire- does not know what to do." He looked expectantly from one Elven face to the next, "He says that Frodo will die if he does not receive treatment. . ." Bilbo swallowed hard, "And yet he does not know how to help the lad." He cried.
The elf's expression lost it's merriness, "I'm terribly sorry to hear such grim news, Master Baggins." The elf placed a hand lightly on the hobbits shoulder.
Bilbo nodded, ashamed to have become so emotional in the presence of such great beings. "He's all I have, you see, he is like my son. I don't know what I shall do if he doesn't make it. . ." Bilbo cried.
The elf tilted Bilbo's chin up, and looked into the hobbits teary eyes, "Grieve not, Master Baggins. We are on our way to the Havens, though I do not object to leaving the group and traveling with you to help your nephew." The group of elves was from Rivendell, and they had occasionally heard tales of the strange halfling and his heroic deeds at Lake Town. If this were indeed the same halfling of which some in Rivendell still spoke, then he would try his best to save the dear hobbit's sick child.
The tall elf rose to his feet, and instructed Bilbo to wait for him, "I must speak with my companions, they understand little Westron, and I must tell them why they will be traveling without me the rest of the way."
Bilbo nodded, "Yes, of course. Thank you ever so much. . ." Bilbo paused, "I'm afraid I do not know your name."
The elf smiled, "I am called Dimhirion."
Bilbo returned the gesture, "Thank you, Dimhirion."
After Dimhirion conferred with his companions, he turned back to Bilbo. They turned back towards the direction of the Shire, and started the journey back to Bag End.
"Slow down, Master Baggins!" Dimhirion called, concerned for the old hobbits well being. He appeared to have been running for quite some time without any rest, and he was running still, though his body clearly needed rest.
"I must continue on," Bilbo called back, "Frodo hasn't got much time. . .we must reach Bag End as soon as possible or it will be too late."
The elf nodded, he understood that time was an issue, "I shall carry you for a ways then," he offered, easily lifting Bilbo onto his shoulders and taking off at a brisk pace, his long legs covering more ground with one stride than Bilbo's could even when running full speed. "Do not worry, Bilbo" Dimhirion reassured the hobbit, "We shall be back at your home by morning."
Bilbo nodded, "I hope it's not too late," he fretted, "But it's all that can be done, I understand."
------------------------- A/N: Thanks for reading! :) Please let me know what you think.