CHAPTER 4

Sam and Aragorn eyed the water in the bucket dubiously. "Perhaps we could boil it," suggested Gimli. The muddy water smelled a little earthy but seemed otherwise normal. Flowing through hard stone, however, it should have been clearer and no one liked to consider too deeply what it was that had produced the sediment in the liquid drawn up from the well.

"If we had some muslin we could strain it. Then if we let it settle and boil it when it's cleared……………." Sam thought out loud. "But we've nothing as fine as muslin."

Gandalf had been listening to their discussion. "Would silk suffice?" he offered.

"It would do very well. If we had any," replied Aragorn.

The wizard fished about for a moment within his robes. Sam had noticed before that Gandalf's overmantle hid a selection of pockets and it was from one of these that he now produced a small screwed-up bundle of fine grey fabric, which he handed to the Ranger. Aragorn opened it out to examine it, his eyebrows raised in unconscious imitation of his foster father.

It turned out to be a scarf. Made of the finest silk, it was nearly six feet long and two feet wide, with the elven rune G expertly embroidered at either end. It was a beautiful thing, and yet it had been bundled away in a pocket and was now being offered to strain mud. Strider tugged experimentally at it. "This will be perfect. Thank you, Gandalf."

The wizard nodded and leaned close to whisper in Aragorn's ear. "I won't tell Arwen if you don't. It was a present."

Arwen's betrothed chuckled. "Your secret is safe."

And so it was that they stretched the beautiful silk scarf over one of Sam's pans and poured some of the water through it. Pippin had a steady blaze going in the hearth by now, so they boiled the water and left it to settle. There was still a little sediment, but they ladled out the clean water and threw away the dregs. Any water that was not used immediately they stored in the huge cauldron, after Merry and Pippin had scrubbed it clean . . . a job which had necessitated Pippin climbing inside it at one point, much to Gimli's amusement.

The Ringbearer now lay on a makeshift mattress of old blankets, only a little way from the hearth. His face was flushed and he shifted restlessly within his nest of covers. Aragorn drew them aside and bent his head to listen at the pale chest again, his face clouding as he detected the telltale crackle of building infection. Frodo's breathing was shallow, increasingly rapid, and he seemed only vaguely aware of his surroundings.

Aragorn looked up to find Sam's ever present from, sitting opposite him. "He's not doing well, is he?" asked the hobbit. His eyes, the colour of fresh tilled loam, were moist with unshed tears.

"He is struggling, Sam. But he has not succumbed yet and there is much we can yet do to aid him."

"Just tell me what he needs and I'll see it done."

Before Aragorn could reply Frodo interrupted them, his bright blue eyes opening wide in panic as he tried to force air into his lungs. He lay, gulping like a fish out of water and his face was turning a pale grey.

"Strider . . . can't breathe . . . help . . ."

Aragorn slipped an arm beneath Frodo's shoulders and raised him slightly. Almost immediately, the hobbit took a deeper breath, and as he took more the grey was once more replaced by the pale flush of fever.

"Sam. Find me something to lean him against. Try padding one of our packs with a blanket."

Sam cast about amongst the various pieces of baggage and finally selected Boromir's pack. The man relinquished it without protest but he stood, watching the Ringbearer's struggles, for some minutes. It was the work of only a few moments to pad it with a blanket and slip it behind Frodo and Aragorn laid him gently back, tucking the covers close about his shoulders again.

"Sam, bathe his face and hands with a little cool water and put a compress on his forehead. We must not let this fever rise too high." Aragorn stood. "I will prepare something to help relieve it."

Frodo tried to make himself comfortable. The blankets beneath him were not as soft as his feather mattress at Bag End, but at least they were protecting him from the chill of the stone floor. He concentrated on trying to draw air into his aching chest but every breath was something for which he had to steel himself. The delicate membranes of his lungs cried out in protest as each indrawn breath of cold air scoured them, the fight to push that air out again accompanied by a sharp pain in his side and chest. The constant struggle was forcing him to breathe less deeply and more rapidly and this, in turn was making him feel dizzy and light-headed. The temptation to give up the fight was almost too great, but his body would not let him, and so he went on, his whole world encompassed by the need to breathe.

When he returned to the hearth, Aragorn found Gandalf waiting for him.

"How fares Frodo?" the wizard enquired.

"His fever rises. If he develops pneumonia he will need rest, but I fear the cough will keep him wakeful."

Gandalf nodded. "He is not the only one who needs rest. Have you spoken with Legolas recently?"

Aragorn did not look up from his preparation of the ginger tea he had decided upon for Frodo. "I have," he replied non-commitally.

The wizard chuckled. "Do not worry, Aragorn. You break no confidence. I know what troubles our fair companion. He told me of the effect this place is having upon him and his fears about the cause."

The Ranger met Gandalf's eyes. "I worry about him. The strain is beginning to tell and I have never seen him so uncertain."

Gandalf nodded. "I think sleep will help, but I doubt he will manage that unaided. I saw him lie down a little while ago, but now he sits watch with Gimli once more. Do you have aught that would help him rest?"

"I have. But I doubt he will take it." Aragorn smiled. "Elven princes are renowned for their pride and this one has a stubborn streak that I have tussled with before."

"Wizards can be stubborn as well. Prepare your potion and I will ensure that he takes it."

Opening a small bottle the Ranger poured a few drops of the contents into a cup, then added an equal amount of water, gently swirling the resulting milky liquid. He smiled crookedly at Gandalf. "Do you mind if I come along? I would like to watch this skirmish."

"By all means." The wizard motioned for Aragorn to precede him. Leaving instructions with Pippin on the preparation of Frodo's tea, Aragorn crossed the room with Gandalf.

Legolas and Gimli sat on either side of one of the doors. Gimli had relieved the elf of his guard duty, but although Legolas had gone to lie down and sleep, he had returned only half an hour later, stating that he was not tired. Seeing the faint shadows beneath green eyes, Gimli doubted his assertion but felt he had not the right to interfere.

"I had no idea that Moria was so large. You dwarves must have carved out the entire mountain."

Gimli nodded, a little nonplussed at the sudden communicative nature of the elf. "You have not seen it in its full glory," he replied, sadly. "The halls were once lit with a thousand crystal lamps and the marble floors were polished until they reflected back the glow."

Legolas settled on the floor. "Was everything as beautifully carved as the walls we passed by?"

The dwarf looked hard at his questioner. The wood-elf was normally very self-contained and for the first part of their journey, had communicated only in the exchange of jibes. Even during their trials on Caradhras, when everyone else had reached the end of their tethers, Legolas had been calm and serene. Now there was a tightness at the corners of his mouth and his eyes had lost their sparkle. Sitting cross-legged upon the floor, he picked absently at the laces on his soft leather boots and Gimli could not remember ever having seen him fidget before. Legolas was evidently troubled by something, and the dwarf surprised himself when he realised that he cared. The two had argued on just about everything during their journey, only reaching an uneasy truce by the time they descended Caradhras. Gimli had not noticed when that truce had turned into friendship but now, seeing the small signs of the elf's distress, Gimli the son of Gloin felt concern.

"Indeed they are. There are tales of one hall where the pillars are carved into the forms of giant trees, so that you would swear that you had stepped into some ancient forest."

Legolas smiled. "I would like to see that."

As he spoke, Aragorn approached, with Gandalf in his wake. "Drink this." He handed a cup to Legolas, who eyed the few mouthfuls of milky liquid with some suspicion.

"What is it?"

"You need to sleep. This will help." Aragorn looked pleadingly at his friend.

Legolas shook his head and tried to hand the cup back but the Ranger folded his arms. "I am well enough. Elves do not need sleep in the same way that mortals do. And my bow will be needed if we are attacked"

Gimli had been listening to the conversation with some interest. It was apparent that his suspicions were correct and there was, indeed, something amiss with the elf. Even now, however, he could not resist a quip. "We could save you an orc, for when you awaken."

Gandalf shot him a look that could have petrified an oak.

For a moment, Legolas was stunned. "Master Dwarf! This is no time to be flippant. We do not know what dangers . . ."

Gandalf decided that he had heard enough. "Indeed, we do not. And if we do encounter anything, I would like you to be bright and alert. At the moment you are exhausted." Legolas opened his mouth to protest, but the wizard held up a hand and continued. "Do not try to deny it. I know that you stood more than your fair share of watches between Rivendell and here. You fool no one. Not even a dwarf." This produced a low growl from Gimli but Gandalf pressed on. "I promise that I shall awaken you, should the need arise." He set a hand beneath the cup in the elf's hand and pushed it gently upwards, a little relieved when he no longer met any resistance. Legolas swallowed the contents and grimaced at Aragorn.

"Your potions never taste any better."

Aragorn chuckled. "Somebody once told me that the better the medicine, the worse it tasted."

"Then that must be one of your better ones." Legolas smiled grimly and returned the empty cup. This time Aragorn accepted it.

"Come, Master Elf. You had better lie down before that draught takes hold." Gandalf caught Legolas' arm and drew him to his feet, leading him, unresisting, back to where his cloak lay abandoned in a corner. By the time the prince reached it he was already reeling a little, and his eyelids slid shut as soon as he lay down.

Watching from the door, Gimli commented, "I thought elves always slept with their eyes open."

"They usually do. Unless they have just been fed a powerful sedative, mixed and supplied by Lord Elrond," smiled the Ranger.

At the other entrance Boromir had been standing his watch alone. But his attention had been divided between the dark hallway beyond and studying the disparate pair of elf and dwarf. Gimli stood easily, leaning upon his axe, but Legolas sat stiffly. As he watched, Gandalf and Aragorn approached the elf and spoke briefly with him. Then he and Gandalf had returned to the corner where Legolas had laid out his cloak. Boromir turned to study Isildur's Heir, where he stood with Gimli. His eyes were following the elf, although he continued to talk to the dwarf. Had he finally noticed something amiss?

Pippin inspected the last of their bread, made in the embers of their fire several days ago. It was now hard and stale and Merry had suggested that they toast it, so to Pippin had fallen the task of slicing, not an easy task for it had a tendency to crumble. As he worked, his inquisitive eyes swept the room.

Aragorn was sorting through his packets of herbs and bottles once more, reading labels. Pippin fancied that if the Ranger read them one more time the ink would wear away.

Legolas was acting strangely again. When Gimli went to relieve him from guard duty he went to lie down but got up again within a few minutes. Now he was lying down again. Pippin could never work out whether Legolas was sleeping or not but he hoped so, because that meant that Pippin could have the elf's share of supper. Perhaps the fact that the bright green eyes were now closed meant that he was sleeping. On the other hand, as Legolas usually slept with eyes open, maybe that meant that he was awake. Pippin shook his head to clear it of the convoluted thought.

Boromir had relieved Gandalf at the other door. Pippin didn't like the way the big man kept looking at his cousin. It was as though he felt that Frodo's present illness confirmed his opinion that a hobbit was too weak for the task of Ringbearer and Pip fancied he could almost hear him announcing, "I told you so."

Gandalf was wandering here and there about the room, like a caged animal. Come to think of it, where was Gandalf?

"Good evening, Master Peregrine." Pippin jumped as the wizard stole up, silently, behind him. "How fares our supper?"

It was Merry who answered. "It will be a little sparse, I'm afraid. We have plenty of dried vegetables, but little dried meat, and only a few apples for desert."

Gandalf patted Merry on the back. "Do the best you can. I've never met a hobbit yet that couldn't make a feast out of nothing."

"And leave nothing from a feast," chuckled Aragorn. As Gandalf moved off the Ranger turned to Merry. "Strain off some of the broth for Frodo and set it aside. We will need to get some nourishment into him."

"Talking of which," Pippin interjected, "this tea has cooled enough, I think." He handed Strider a small cup, filled with warm liquid. The pleasant smell of ginger and honey drifted on the steam rising from it.

Sam was wringing out a cloth as Aragorn sat down at his side. Folding it carefully, he draped its cool weight upon his master's forehead.

"Here, Sam. See if you can get him to drink this. It is ginger tea with honey. The ginger will help to lower his fever and the honey will soothe his throat."

"Frodo?" Sam laid his hand on his master's face, surprised at how hot and dry the skin felt, and stroked his thumb gently across one flushed cheek. He was rewarded by Frodo opening bleary eyes.

"Bilbo?"

"No, Mr Frodo. It's Sam," he corrected, worriedly.

Frodo finally focused frightened eyes on his face. "Sam . . . thought for a . . . minute . . . Bag End . . . So hard . . . breathe . . . Just like . . . then."

"Like when, Mr Frodo?"

Frodo sobbed. "Years ago . . . pneumonia . . . Please, not again." Tears began to track down his already flushed face.

As he had lain, staring at the firelight flickering on the walls, Frodo's mind had been drawn back to another time and place. He had been only a tweenager but he remembered vividly the feeling of his chest being squeezed tightly, making each breath an agony of effort. Bilbo had been there to help him then, and he had been surrounded by the warmth and comfort of Bag End. Yet even then, he had struggled for weeks, and would have given in to despair many times were it not for Bilbo's loving care.

He fought another sob. "Not again." How could he endure it in this cold dark place?

Sam swallowed back a lump in his throat. He had never seen Frodo so frightened, even after Weathertop. His breathing had been difficult then, too, but not like this. Sam could hear each rapid indrawn breath and they were too fast and shallow. He forced a smile.

"Come on, now, Mr Frodo. Drink this down and you'll feel a little better." He offered the cup and Frodo dutifully sipped, but he could not hide a wince as he swallowed and pulled away.

"Can't . . . hurts." He closed his eyes again and coughed, a dry barking sound, which did nothing to ease the congestion and only left him gasping at the sharp pain it elicited in his chest. But Sam would not let him go.

"Now then, Frodo. Don't you go giving up on me. You've got to drink this." Frodo's eyes opened in surprise at his friend's firm tone. "Come on, now. We'll take it a drop at a time, but you have to drink it if you want to get better."

Sam offered the cup again and Frodo brought up one of his hands to guide it. There was a slight tinge of blue at the fingertips, Sam noted with alarm. Frodo opened his lips to let a few drops of the warm liquid into his parched mouth and swallowed carefully. It did not hurt as much this time.

Sam smiled and wiped away a stray drop from the corner of his master's mouth. It took some time, but he finally persuaded Frodo to drink the entire contents of the cup. The activity seemed to exhaust the Ringbearer, however, and when his friend let him alone again he fell into a light sleep.

The Fellowship ate their supper in shifts and predominantly in silence. Moria seemed to close in about them. The halls were huge and the ceilings high but the darkness restricted their sight to the small area they could light with fire and candle. (Gandalf had set aside his staff as soon as the fire was lit, stating that its use might draw unwanted attention to them.) When they had eaten, those who were not on guard duty rolled themselves in their cloaks by the fire and tried to sleep. All except Sam, that is. He sat at his master's side, changing the compress and pressing him to take a few sips of water whenever he awoke.

For much of the night Gandalf sat, hunched by the fire, his pipe clenched in his teeth. Conscious of Frodo's breathing, he did not light it but holding it helped him think. Legolas slept deeply. He had seen to that. Doubtless, the Prince of Mirkwood would have much to say to him on the matter when he awoke and found that he had not been roused for his watch for, unable to sleep himself, the wizard had sat it for him.

What was it that affected the elf? What would have such power that it could cut him off from the song that all elves heard? Gandalf was aware, distantly, of the music but he was not a part of it, as were the elves. His soul had been birthed in a different song and he could only imagine what it must be like for Legolas, perhaps like becoming blind or deaf.

Did whatever was dampening Legolas know of their presence or was the blocking simply a part of its nature? Perhaps whatever lurked in Moria instinctively hid its presence, rather than specifically reacting to the elf.

Gandalf hoped it was so. He had planned on a four-day hike through Moria, but it looked as though their time within these dark halls would be greatly extended. It would be unsafe to move Frodo until his fever broke, but the longer they stayed in one place the more chance they had of being discovered by whatever was hiding here.

Aragorn awoke and tapped Sam on the shoulder, for the little hobbit had nodded off. There was a short whispered conversation and then the Ranger took his place and Sam went to lie down next to Merry. Frodo tossed and fretted as the fever began to hold sway.

TBC