Gale Force

It was a horrible night.

To all intents and purposes, it didn't actually look that bad, if you weren't a sick little hobbit with "both-ends" syndrome. The fire was burning brightly, its light reflecting the glittering stars above; the coney stew smelled divine and its greasy steam curled upwards to the heavens; the Fellowship sprawled around the fire, for once happy to have a break from what was seeming to be the eternal Quest, and their laughter and jokes echoed across the moonlit river Anduin, accompanied by the soothing sounds of the tied canoes rocking gently on the waves, bumping into each other with a hollow note every once in awhile.

But Frodo was suffering. Aragorn had the little hobbit cradled in his lap, and had been trying to feed him tiny sips of ginger tea to settle his bilious stomach, but no sooner had Frodo tried to be co-operative and swallowed a spoonful of the spicy-sweet hot tea then it would come belting back up out of his acid-blistered mouth, often ending up all over his nightshirt, arms, legs, hands, chin and Aragorn's tunic and breeches. Not that it really mattered there, however; Aragorn's clothing was weathered and stained beyond any hope of repair. Still, Frodo felt awful, and was nearing the point that everyone gets to with this illness - he wanted someone just to put him out of his misery.

It wasn't only the vomiting - Frodo had to relieve himself every five minutes, and if he didn't do it right away, accidents would occur. Aragorn kept the handy cooking pot by his side, ready to get up and run as soon as Frodo even hinted at the urgent matter, but half the time it didn't matter - it was too late. This, thought Frodo to himself as he tossed in Aragorn's arms, this was the worst - the fact that he could barely control himself and had gone through nearly all of his pairs of knickers and breeches for the whole journey was incredibly embarrassing, not to mention unthinkable. Thankfully, Sam had volunteered to wash the soiled clothing in the river, but Frodo had told him to leave them until he was better. Nevertheless, the faithful gardener had gathered up the mess and Frodo could hear him at the river now, splashing energetically, most likely doing his level best to make Frodo as comfortable and as worry-free as possible.

Aragorn's face, always impassive, now held a look of slight worry as he looked at his sick little charge. Frodo was incredibly dehydrated - all that was coming out of him now during the spasms of sickness was sour bile mixed with the tiny bit of tea that Aragorn had been able to get down the hobbit's throat. Frodo's voice was hoarse from the constant acid on his throat and his mouth and lips were blistered, dry and cracking from the vomiting. Aragorn hadn't had a chance to check Frodo's bottom, but he could bet from the way the hobbit was squirming around in his lap that it too, was blistered from the illness. And then there was Frodo's fever.

It had shot up alarmingly within the past hour - the hobbit alternately shivered and sweated with the hot and cold. His face was deathly pale, tinged with grey, and Aragorn knew in his heart (though he attempted to ignore it) that if something could not be done soon, Frodo would die.

The company around the fire was beginning to become subdued. The hour was late, and Aragorn knew that they would have to get an early start. Legolas looked as wide awake as ever, but Gimli, Merry, Pippin, and Boromir looked exhausted. Aragorn nodded to Legolas and asked him to stay behind while the others trooped off to the tents. Gimli muttered that he was taking the one furthest from Frodo, a sentiment that the hobbit couldn't help overhearing. Frodo turned towards Aragorn and buried his face in the man's chest, sighing deeply with despair.

Legolas trotted over to Aragorn and spoke. "Estel, how is he?" Frodo felt a cool fingertip drawing his hot little face away from Aragorn and towards the fire and he tried to resist - he knew Legolas meant well, but he was so tired . . . couldn't they let him alone?

"Come, come, little one . . . let me see you. I'm trying to help," said the Elf, and was gratified to see the hobbit co-operate grudgingly. "Estel, may I take him?"

"He's very ill, Legolas, I won't lie to you, I've never seen someone with this virus this sick before. It mostly strikes children, and I suppose since Frodo is child-sized (begging your pardon, Master Hobbit), that he is showing the same severity of symptoms. I don't have the correct herbs for healing him at the moment and I do not know who does. How far are we from Lorien?" Aragorn's face was lined and worried by the light of the fire.

"I would say three days at most, Estel, but we cannot go back at this point. Our time becomes ever-shorter, and backtracking would lose us precious moments. However . . . there is legend that a group of Elves lives beside this river, and if this rumour is true, then they would certainly have the healing methods to cure this poor soul." Legolas held out his arms and Aragorn transferred Frodo over to him, stretching his cramped muscles gratefully.

"I am going to wash my hands and, er . . . other things," said Aragorn, looking ruefully down at his stained outfit. "I'll send Sam back up here and please make sure, Legolas, that he goes to bed. Two sick hobbits would be a casualty that this Quest cannot handle. I will send Sam with some heated water and perhaps you could ready Frodo for a sponge-bath? He really cannot go to bed like that . . ." The man's grey eyes traveled over the poor hobbit's vomit-and-diarrhoea-stained clothing.

"I don't think I'll sleep anyway, Aragorn, but thank you all the same," said Frodo hoarsely, determined to have some say in this turn of events. He tossed fretfully in the Elf's arms and Legolas looked down at him concernedly. "Little one, are you all right? We don't need to . . . remedy anything?"

Frodo smiled wanly up at the Elf's slightly embarrassed face. "Not as yet, but I'm not promising anything. These things have a way of - "

The end of his sentence was obscured by a horrid gagging noise and a shower of stomach contents hit the ground beside the Elf. Frodo sighed and scrubbed a hand across his mouth. "Sneaking up on you," he finished tiredly.

Legolas ran a cool hand over the fevered brow and murmured something in Elvish that Frodo didn't understand, although the words sounded familiar. "Rest now, Frodo. Be assured that we are on the lookout and doing all we can for you." Legolas began to sing softly and Frodo shut his eyes, trying to quell the violent shaking that had just come upon his limbs.

It was some time later when Sam came trundling up to the fire, his cheerful rosy face set into his normal smile. About to speak to Mr. Frodo, Sam was quickly hushed by Legolas, who pointed at the finally-sleeping hobbit. Frodo was curled, like a child, in the Elf's arms and his breathing was deep and even, eyelashes fluttering slightly as he slept.

Sam nodded understandingly and poked up the fire, spreading Frodo's minute trousers and knickers over the drying rack that Boromir had built earlier. He suddenly yawned. Legolas looked up.

"Go to bed, good hobbit - you have been a tremendous help. Frodo is asleep now, and that is the best for him. I am going off tonight to attempt to find the legendary tribe of Elves that is said to reside in these woods. They will have the means to help Frodo. Aragorn will wake you if and when he needs your assistance, so rest assured that you will not be overlooked."

Sam nodded again, but frowned. "I would personally rather stay with Mr. Frodo, Mr. Legolas, sir. He's my friend and master, and I know how to make him feel better."

"Yes, but Sam, if you continue to overwork yourself, you will become ill like your friend. We cannot deal with two sick Halflings and Aragorn needs everyone's help to heal Frodo."

Sam sighed. "Very well, but you tell Strider that he's to wake me if anythin' happens, you hear?" His voice, so jolly most times, had a harsh, worried edge to it. Sam squared his shoulders staunchly and nodding again at the Elf, crawled into the tent nearest the fire.

Legolas sighed and rocked Frodo gently, humming under his breath again as he waited for Aragorn.

He didn't wait long - the human came striding up over the riverbank not two minutes later. He looked slightly cleaner and carried a basin of water in his arms, which he immediately set on the fire before coming straight to the Elf. "How is he?"

"Asleep, and thank Eru. He had three more spasms since you went, and started a trembling in his lower limbs," said Legolas, and pointed to Frodo's shivering legs. "Also, he has begun to lose the fur on his feet." Sure enough, patches of white showed through the thick dark hair on the hobbit's overlarge feet.

Aragorn looked grave. "You will go tonight to find the Elven-tribe?"

Legolas nodded. "As quick as I can, and bring them here, if they are to be found, by the dawn." He sighed. "If only I could be sure that I was not just chasing a fable!"

Aragorn sighed as well, but did not break Legolas' strong blue gaze. "We must keep hope, and perhaps the Valar will bless us as they have done others in our situation. Frodo is too precious to slip away . . . surely they will not let such an important individual die!"

"Others more important and more loved have died, Estel . . . we must prepare for the worst, even still."

Aragorn gently took the sleeping hobbit from Legolas' arms. "Go now, friend Elf, and find your kin. We must do everything we can to save Frodo . . . time is running short, he is having trouble breathing . . ." Both the Elf and the man looked down at Frodo, who was beginning to wheeze. "It is possible the constant regurgitation of acid has entered his lungs and he is having reflux, but I do not want to wait."

Legolas nodded and patting Aragorn's shoulder, rose gracefully to his feet. "I will go. Take care of him, and the others, Estel." He gently touched Frodo's cheek, and was gone, racing over the uneven ground until his light footfalls could no longer be heard on the drying leaves.

Aragorn watched him until he faded out of sight, then fought a shiver as he realised he was utterly alone. No one else was awake, and even if they had been, none of the others would have been able to help him with healing the sick hobbit that lay in his lap.

Frodo chose that time to awaken, immediately disgorging his stomach contents over Aragorn's clean tunic and his own nightshirt. Also, he felt the all-too-familiar rush of wet heat over his bottom and groaned, knowing that there was no chance that Aragorn could have missed it. When he could breathe, he looked at the man's face above him. "I'm so incredibly sorry, Aragorn . . . this is horrid . . ." He resisted the urge to bury his face again.

Aragorn simply hoisted Frodo into a sitting position and rubbed the tiny back soothingly. "Nevermind, Frodo, I was about to bathe and change you anyway. Legolas has gone to find the Elven-tribe rumoured to live in these woods. They should have herbs to heal you," he said, trying to keep his voice cheerful. He gently spread a clean, warmed blanket from atop the drying rack beside them and laid Frodo on it, who could not keep a whimper out of his voice as he was put down.

"I know, I know, little one," murmured Aragorn, gently undressing Frodo to his bare skin and wrapping him in the blanket immediately after removing his clothing. "I will put you into bed as soon as you are bathed."

He wrung a washcloth in the now-warmed water and began to gently wash the hobbit with it, starting with his face. Frodo squirmed away from the contact at first, but then relaxed as the warmth soothed his raw cheeks and blistered lips. A piquant herbal smell came to his nostrils and he turned his blue eyes to Aragorn in surprise.

"Lavendar and peppermint," said the man, smiling at him. "It will clear your nose and hopefully settle your nausea for the time being." He continued to wring and wash Frodo's tiny body, moving down to his chest, arms and after sitting him up, his back. The sour smell of internal fluids began to leave the hobbit and his taut little body relaxed as the warmth and herbs soothed him.

Aragorn arrived down at Frodo's nether regions and he looked up at the little hobbit, who was almost asleep. "Frodo, I'm going to have to wash down here, all right? It may sting a little," he warned the Halfling, who simply nodded and closed his eyes. Lifting Frodo's legs up in one hand, much as you would change an infant, Aragorn cleaned the soiled regions and paid special care to the poor raw bottom, which was just as bad as he had feared. Luckily, he had some powder used for poison ivy rash . . . Aragorn rummaged through his pack and found it, rubbing it gently into the sore, tender skin. Frodo sighed in relief even as his cheeks reddened in embarrassment.

"That's better, now, hmm?" Aragorn continued talking softly to Frodo as he finished the sponge bath, pinned a fresh cloth around the hobbit's hips and drew on a clean nightshirt before taking Frodo into his arms once again. To the hobbit's surprise and ultimate mortification, Frodo began to cry.

"Oh, come now, Frodo, come . . ." Aragorn began to rock Frodo, rubbing his back a little. In reality, he had virtually no idea how to comfort the hobbit without making him feel like he was more of a child than he already did, but on the other hand, Aragorn had seen grown men weep like babies, and Frodo, in his eyes, was no more than that anyway. However, this was most uncharacteristic, as Frodo was the bravest of them all, carrying the Ring, which glimmered at his throat.

Frodo felt so sick, that was all . . . he was debilitated and tired, and wished for nothing but sleep. The herbs had calmed him, but what he really wanted was Bilbo, yes . . . or his mother, or someone to look after him. He wanted his own bed, his own house, warmth and comfort . . .

He stopped crying slowly, the quiet sobs turning into sniffles and then into slow sighs. Aragorn said nothing, but they didn't need to voice their thoughts.

Hurry, Legolas.