CHAPTER 8

Cold. Frodo was so cold that he couldn't stop shivering. There were soft voices around him and the sounds of people moving about but the main focus of his limited awareness was the cold.

For a moment the chill grew worse and he whimpered in protest, too weak to do more. Then there was a small area of heat at his left side, another at his feet and more at his right side. A soft weight was draped over him and the chill lessened. Someone was talking to him but Frodo was having difficulty focussing on the words until there was a feather soft touch across his upper lip, something cool smeared there, and the fresh scent of mint filled his nostrils, clearing his head a little. The voices began to make sense.

Elrond wiped his finger on a towel and replaced the stopper in the tiny vial of oil in his hand, setting it aside on the table. At his side Sam was tucking in the bedcovers again, after slipping the last hot water bottle in place.

"Thank you, Sam. Can you fetch a couple more hot water bottles and tell them to keep more ready as these cool?"

"Yes, sir. Right away." Sam left; the sound of his bare feet slapping on wooden flooring.

"I think he is awake." Came the warm rumble of Gandalf's voice from the other side of the bed and Elrond looked down again as Frodo began to stir.

"Frodo? Open your eyes, if you can, Little One," the healer instructed, his voice gentle. The little hobbit struggled to comply and succeeded after a few moments, his blue eyes blinking as he tried to bring the world into focus.

Frodo found himself propped up in his bed and dusk had turned to night. The soothing yellow light of candle's bathed the room, along with the flicker of firelight and the air was filled with a familiar scent. He followed the smell and turned his head, to find a large bowl, steaming above a brazier, near his bed. His mind put a name to it at last. Athelas.

A warm hand touched his brow and Frodo followed the grey clad arm up to a shoulder and then a face, surrounded by dark hair. The candle light reflected in Elrond's eyes, turning grey to gold. The hand slipped from his brow to beneath his head and he was lifted a little as a spoon was rubbed gently against his lips.

"Try to swallow this, Frodo."

Frodo tried to clench his lips shut but a finger pressed gently on his chin, opening his mouth to allow passage for a spoon. Frodo recognised the sweet taste of the sedative and tried to spit it out. He didn't want to sleep, to run away. Succeeding in forcing most of it back out, he saw the elf's expression grow concerned and felt a damp cloth wiping his chin.

Somewhere outside his limited line of vision he heard Gandalf's voice. "What happened?"

Frodo tried to answer but his throat was dry and swollen and he lacked the breath.

"He is fighting me." Elrond's looked down at him. "You must sleep, Little One. We will talk when you have recovered a little, I promise."

Again came the gentle pressure on his chin and the sweet syrup in his mouth. Frodo forced a weak swallow, then another and the liquid slid smoothly down his throat. Closing his eyes, he waited for it to carry him down into sleep, his last conscious impression one of a cool damp cloth draped across his forehead and Elrond's soft voice murmuring something in elven.

He was still too warm but his body no longer shivered and ached. When Frodo tried to move slightly, though, he winced as the tightness in his chest threatened a cough. Lying still, he swallowed, becoming aware of perspiration sticking his nightshirt to his skin and a deep leaden feel to his limbs. Somewhere to his left he could hear the crack and settle of a fire in the hearth and shadows danced on the intricately carved beams of the ceiling above him.

A grey velvet clad arm crossed his line of sight and Frodo felt a damp cloth being lifted from his brow. There was the sound of water swishing and then the hand returned and the now deliciously cool cloth, was replaced on his burning skin.

Something was rubbed against his lips. "Try to drink this, Frodo."

Elrond's lilting voice drifted into his ears and Frodo managed to part his lips a little. A few drops of warm liquid were trickled in and Frodo held them there for a moment as he gathered the energy to swallow. It was ginger tea; it's warm crisp taste soothing the parched tissues of his mouth. Even as he tried to swallow a whisper of a touch at his throat helped him and he managed to down it more easily than he had anticipated. For some time Frodo's world revolved about swallowing as more spoonfuls were coaxed into him until, finally satisfied, the healer allowed him to rest again. The hobbit drowsed, drifting in and out of vague dreams of fire and ash.

"There now, Mr Frodo. Just a drop of medicine . . . See if you can swallow it for your Sam. It'll help with that nasty cough."

Frodo choked a little as a bitter tasting liquid filled his mouth but he managed to swallow, glad to be rid of it.

"One more, sir. Then you can go back to sleep." More of the bitter concoction, which he forced down, then a sip of cool water as reward. He slept again.

Dragging open leaden eyelids, Frodo found the ceiling bathed in the grey light of an overcast autumn day. He rolled his head to one side to see if he was alone and found Sam sitting at his bedside. He looked concerned.

Despite being draped in only the lightest of down filled quilts, Frodo found the weight upon him too much and he was too hot. With weak, swimming, movements he tried to push them back but as soon as he started to make some headway Sam tugged them back again.

"No, you don't. You need to keep tucked up nice and warm."

Frodo swallowed and tried to protest but he lacked the breath. "Hot."

"I know, sir. You've got a nasty touch of fever, so you've got to stay warm." Sam straightened the sheet under Frodo's chin. "Master Elrond is going to try and break it soon. You just lay quiet for a bit."

The dark-haired elf appeared behind Sam and smiled down at Frodo, kindly. He carried another quilt and for a moment Frodo worried that it was going to be added to the heap pinning him down. Elrond touched Sam on the shoulder.

"It is ready, Master Samwise." The quilt was spread at the foot of the enormous bed and Sam began to lift Frodo's covers.

"Come on, now, Mr Frodo. Let your Sam get you out of this nightshirt and then you can have the nice warm bath that Master Elrond has arranged for you and you'll begin to feel better."

As Sam removed the last of the covers Frodo began to shiver. His nightshirt was soaked with perspiration and the air on it made him feel very cold. Sam moved quickly to strip it from him and then stepped back.

Elrond lifted the Ringbearer carefully and laid him in the centre of the quilt, swaddling him in its soft warm comfort. Then he gathered up his precious bundle and, holding him secure and close, carried Frodo to the fireside, where a small tub of fragrant water waited, its steam redolent of lavender and sandalwood.

Kneeling at the hearth, Elrond laid his burden on a rug and unwrapped him tenderly. Frodo was lifted once more and then lowered slowly into the warm water.

"You are weary, Frodo. Lie back and rest and I will tend you." Elrond's voice was one his soul remembered trustingly; a calm and strong comfort calling him back from the darkness after Weathertop.

Frodo closed his eyes and laid his head back against the towel folded over the rim of the bath as cushion. He sighed as warm water eased the shivering and the ache in his chest and gentle hands wielded soap and cloth in soothing rhythm on his body.

As the dark lashes fluttered shut over the bright blue eyes, Elrond dipped into his healing heart and began his work. Each stroke of the soaped cloth was used to pour a little healing energy into the limbs beneath his hand. As he worked his mind reviewed the Little One's journey, for it was written clear to read upon his body.

Here, on his left shoulder, was the cold white mark of the Nazgul blade, criss-crossed with other, smaller, scars where Elrond had cut to retrieve the shard that had tried to pierce Frodo's heart. He could sense something lingering there…almost a memory of pain. Perhaps Mithrandir had been right when he said that Frodo would never be fully healed of that wound. The elf sighed. He had tried everything within his power to heal the Little One of its effects but he had been only partially successful.

Tipping Frodo's head forward to wash his neck, Elrond found the, still livid, mark of Shelob's bite. And here too, there lingered something. His fingers tried to bring some healing but it was like fighting a shadow. The poison slipped away every time he looked at it, flickering always on the edge of his vision and out of reach.

Further down the back and Elrond encountered the white stripe made by Snaga's lash when the little hobbit had been held in the tower of Cirith Ungol. The quest had come so close to failing in that hour. And yet, by chance it had not.

Chance.

There had been too many chances in this quest and Elrond did not believe in chance.

On the ribs of his left side, both front and back, were the marks of the spear thrust incurred in Mordor; a small round white mark at the front and the darker marks of scoring on the back.

Elrond laid the tiny body back to rest upon the side of the tub once more. Lifting Frodo's right arm he ran the cloth down its length and felt the body tense as he touched the hand. It was almost is though the Little One was fighting the urge to pull it from Elrond's grasp. Firmly but tenderly, the healer held the three fingers in his own, pouring in comfort and ease and, gradually, he felt the tension fade.

The left arm felt a little cold still, and Elrond tried to bring warmth to the flesh. When he reached the hand his eyes lit upon the palm. It was criss-crossed with a fine network of scars, like the crackle in the glaze of an ancient vase. Frodo had told them that for some part of their journey up Mount Doom he had crawled on hands and knees until they had reached the path. And here was the mute testimony of that chapter of his story. Elrond supposed that the right hand held the scars too but he did not bother to check again.

Both knees held similar patterns however, and the soles of his feet were deeply scored in places, the soft fresh skin of healed burns standing contrast to the distinct lines of cuts caused by the razor sharp stones of the plain of Gorgoroth.

Almost finished, the healer moved up to gently wipe the small, pale face. It was then that Frodo opened his eyes and Elrond saw that the scars upon the hobbit's body were merely the tips of the wounding that this young soul had endured.

The cornflower blue eyes, once merry and bright, as summer skies filled with golden sunshine, were now empty pools of clear water. Their surface held only the reflections of happiness and beneath, pain and sadness swirled about empty chasms where the destruction of the Ring had torn away huge sections of his soul.

Elrond's heart ached to think that so young a being should have undergone such torture and, for long moments, their eyes held. The elven lord sensed the Ringbearer looking into his heart, finding there his guilt for allowing Isildur to keep the Ring and his pain at having to send Frodo to destroy it. Elrond's eyes widened as, gently and quietly, there stole into his soul a soft tendril of understanding and forgiveness…then Frodo closed his eyes once more and the spell was broken.

Frodo lay still and comfortable at last. The steam soothed his sore lungs and the warmth of the water eased the ache in his limbs. He sensed that, as Elrond bathed him, there was more than just the healing power of warm water and specially chosen oils at work. There was just a hint of the tug at his soul that he had felt after Weathertop, as though the elven lord were calling him back from shadows once more.

He was almost asleep when he was finally lifted from the womb-like tub and dried with soft warmed towels. Warm, strong smelling oil was rubbed into his chest and Frodo sighed as its action was added to that of the bath and his breathing eased even more. Then he was dressed in a warmed nightshirt and returned to his bed.

Sam had been busy and there were fresh linens, smelling of lavender and sunshine. The pillows had been fluffed and hot water bottles lay ready to push against his master's cold left side. Frodo was tucked in and fell almost immediately into a deep, dreamless sleep.