CHAPTER 5

Aragorn watched the Ringbearer's blue eyes open dazedly. "Drink this, Frodo." He set a cup of vegetable broth to pale lips and waited patiently for him to comply.

"Bilbo?"

Aragorn sighed. Frodo was becoming confused, a sure sign that the fever was building, if the sweat soaked curls and flushed cheeks were not indication enough.

***

Frodo felt so tired. It was his birthday, and he wanted to get up, but Bilbo would not let him, saying that he was not well enough.

"Drink this down now, Frodo, my lad. Then there's some syrup for that sore throat and you can go back to sleep."

"But . . . party . . . need to help." It was difficult to muster enough breath to string together more than two or three words. Frodo tried to sit up but strong hands caught his shoulders and held him down.

"Whoa there, lad. Never you mind about that. You just drink this nice vegetable broth for your Uncle Bilbo." A little broth was trickled between cracked lips and Frodo swallowed, reflexively. "We'll postpone our party until you're well enough."

"Bilbo . . . so tired."

There was a catch in Bilbo's voice as he replied. "I know, lad."

***

Aragorn looked down into the unfocused yet fever bright blue eyes and wondered where and when the little hobbit's clouded mind had taken him. He seemed to think that his carer was Bilbo and, rather than confuse him further, Aragorn just kept coaxing him to drink the warm vegetable broth. When the broth was finished he gave his patient a couple of spoonfuls of the wild cherry bark syrup that he hoped would suppress Frodo's cough long enough for him to rest.

After the medicine Frodo did indeed sleep but the fever kept him fretful and, despite the syrup, he was roused frequently by a sharp, dry cough. As his temperature soared, he also began to experience the hot flushes and shivering chills common to high fever and the Ranger decided to begin a regime of bathing him and changing his sweat-soaked blankets.

Frodo roused as he felt someone tugging gently at the blankets that cocooned him. "Please, Bilbo . . . let me sleep."

He opened his eyes in surprise when Strider's voice replied. "It is I, Frodo. I will try not to move you too much but you will feel better if I bathe you and wrap you in dry blankets."

The little hobbit shuddered and tried to clutch his blankets closer. "Too cold . . . please. Let me sleep." Talking made him cough again, and the resulting piercing pain made tears spring to his eyes, forcing him into a tight little ball.

"I am sorry, Frodo. The blankets are damp and that is why you feel so cold. Please let me help you." He gently uncurled the hobbit's fingers from the covers and began to strip them away, untangling them from legs and arms. Too weary to protest further, his charge acquiesced.

Turning to the bowl at his side, Aragorn wrung out a cloth in the warm mint scented water and began to bathe Frodo's chest and neck in soft, long strokes. As he worked he folded the blankets back in sections so that as little of his patient's body as possible was exposed to the cold air. Frodo relaxed as the touch and the water soothed him, rolling on to his side, unprotesting, when Aragorn moved to wipe his back. The shivering ceased and Frodo felt less confused and much more comfortable, even managing a small smile of thanks as Aragorn settled him back.

Finally, he wrapped Frodo in dry blankets, setting the others to air by the fire and returning the smile. A large callused but gentle hand pushed the little hobbit's sweat dampened curls off his forehead.

"Do you think you could manage a little camomile tea?"

Frodo nodded and the cup was set to his lips. He swallowed warily but the warmth soothed his throat settling in his stomach comfortingly and sending out tendrils of welcome heat to the rest of his aching body. By the time he had reached the bottom of the cup, the tea was beginning to work and he was feeling rather drowsy.

Throughout the rest of the long night, whenever Frodo roused the Ranger fed him teas of ginger and peppermint, alternated with soup and cold boiled water. However, the battle to suppress the coughing was soon lost, even with the occasional spoonful of honey to coat the itchy throat.

By morning the Ringbearer was exhausted. Although he was too weak to keep his eyes open, the constant cough had kept him always on the borders of sleep, and when the rest of the Fellowship began to stir Aragorn had decided on a potentially dangerous course of action. He called them all together by the fire, where Merry and Pippin were preparing the party's meagre breakfast.

"Frodo needs to rest if his body is to fight the infection, but the cough is giving him no peace. I have a medicine that will make him sleep however there is a problem in using it." The Ranger waited for his words to sink in.

"What do you mean, "problem"?" asked Merry.

"The medicine will make him sleep very deeply. That, in turn, will make him breathe less deeply. As his breathing is already very shallow, that could actually result in his breathing stopping altogether."

Sam drew breath as though to interject but Aragorn continued. "If that happens, we must act quickly, and this means that someone must sit with him at all times." He sighed. "I hesitate to ask this of you when we are already taking turns at guard duty on two doors."

"I do not see that it is any different to what is already happening," Boromir pointed out. "For most of the night either you or Sam have sat with our ailing Ringbearer."

Aragorn replied. "That was our choice. Now all of you will be involved. Are you willing to take that responsibility?"

"I'll stay with Mr Frodo for as long as he needs me," announced Sam stoutly.

He quailed visibly, however, when Gandalf retorted, "You will take your turn to sleep and stand guard duty, along with the rest of us, Master Samwise."

"I'll do anything that's needed to help Frodo get well," offered Merry, laying a supporting hand upon Sam's shoulder.

"Then it is settled," announced Gandalf. "Aragorn will show us all what will be needed if it comes to it and Frodo stops breathing. Then we will add his care to our list of watches."

Frodo was only vaguely aware of the conversation, his weary mind too fogged to follow it and when Strider returned a short while later, the hobbit put up no resistance.

"Drink this, Frodo." Aragorn's voice, again and the cool touch of a metal rimmed cup at his lips. Frodo swallowed the cold liquid that filled his mouth. It had a nasty bitter taste and he was glad that he only had to take a couple of swallows of it. Within minutes his mind began to spin, spiralling him unresistingly downwards into deep and dreamless sleep.

Aragorn watched as it took rapid effect on the fever-weakened body. Dark fringed eyelids slid closed, hands that had been clenched into tight fists uncurled, and Frodo's breathing, although now very shallow, evened out. Once he was sure that Frodo was settled, the Ranger went to his bedroll to sleep himself, and first watch fell to the youngest hobbit.

Pippin found himself counting Frodo's breaths. It was a little disconcerting that his cousin was not stirring when he had been so restless only hours before. Beneath all the blankets it was difficult to see his chest rising, especially when his breathing was so shallow. If he listened carefully, though, Pippin could hear the wheeze of each out rush of air.

So intent was he upon Frodo's breathing that at one point Pippin found his own matching his cousin's, and had to break himself of the rhythm as he began to grow dizzy. He wondered if Frodo felt dizzy too.

There was a pause in the sound.

Pippin's heart paused with it, hoping that he would not have to put into practice the mouth to mouth breathing that Strider had explained to them all.

Frodo took in a small ragged breath and Pippin relaxed once more.

Merry sat at the hearth, drying the last of the breakfast plates, and let his eyes roam the room.

Aragorn was asleep, wrapped in his cloak by the fire. Legolas and Sam were taking their turn at guard duty on the doors. Sam kept glancing back at Frodo and Pippin but Legolas was peering intently into the darkness beyond their refuge.

Since their entry to Moria the elf had seemed a little tense. Merry was aware that the previous evening Strider had administered a dose of the same sleeping draught he had just given Frodo but when the hobbit had tried to ask the Ranger why, he had changed the subject. Legolas appeared to be a little more relaxed at the moment, standing, leaning on his bow.

Gimli and Boromir sat together, conversing quietly. The dwarf was running a whetstone along his axe blade and Boromir was working oil into the leather of his sword scabbard. Merry noticed for the first time how beautifully figured the leather was and yet, its suppleness told of much use. The gear of the son of the Steward of Gondor was richly decorated, but it's elegance never stood in the way of practicality.

Boromir dripped a little more oil onto the rag in his hand and began to work it, in circular motions, into the tooled leather of the scabbard. "A nice mess we are in," he commented to Gimli.

The dwarf did not pause in the rhythm of sliding stone against blade. "But the mess is not of our making," he replied.

Boromir snorted. "If we had gone by way of the Gap of Rohan we would have been well on our way to Gondor by now."

"Aye, perhaps. In the clutches of Saruman and his army of orcs. We would have been hard-pressed to slip by Isengard unnoticed." Gimli did not like the way the steward was always questioning the decisions of their guide but he supposed that, as a leader of men he was unused to being second in command.

Boromir paused in his work, letting his eyes drift to the blanketed form of the Ringbearer. "We have the power to slip past, if we would but have the strength to use it," he whispered, softly.

"Ach!" yelped Gimli, as he dropped his whetstone and sucked his thumb, where it had slipped against the axe blade.

Legolas could hear clearly the murmured conversation behind him. Perhaps he should warn Mithrandir when his watch was ended. At the moment the man's words held no threat for they were trapped into their journey through this dreadful place and he would probably make no move until they were clear of it. Although who knew what his desire for the Ring would make him do? Thought of the Ring invited its seductive melody into his mind and Legolas pushed it firmly away. It was, however, becoming more difficult with each passing day and he could hear it beginning to weave itself into the songs of all the Fellowship. Boromir was but a little further along the road that they were all treading.

Legolas decided that he would speak to Mithrandir after his watch and glanced back into the room to seek out his resting-place. His eyes found Gandalf sitting upon the one intact chair they had found. His unlit pipe was clenched in his teeth and he was staring into the flames of the fire.

The wizard was quietly reviewing his memories of a previous journey through Moria. That time he had travelled east to west, however, and the landmarks would look different from this direction of travel. Would he be able to guide them safely through?

Safely or not, this was the only course left open to them. Saruman had seen to that. Gandalf berated himself once more for not having seen Saruman's treachery sooner. The signs had been there at the last Council Meeting, and yet even the elves had noticed nothing greatly amiss at the time. How easy it was to see the signs after the event.

Gandalf shook himself. He was not all knowing. He glanced across at Frodo, suddenly very much aware of that which hung about the little hobbit's neck. Could the Ring give him that power? He shook his head, clearing it of the stray thought.

Sam was also looking at Frodo. He could not think what use he himself was, standing at the door. The world beyond their dimly lit refuge was black but not the friendly black of a cloudy night in the Shire. This blackness was so solid that he felt he could cut it with his sword. His eyes could pick out nothing. In fact, at first, he had tried so hard to see something that his mind had created phantom shapes and he had almost called out an alarm several times. Fortunately, when he blinked, the shapes had disappeared. Now he relied more heavily upon his ears.

Hobbits have very good hearing and Sam had begun to recognise sounds in the pressing darkness beyond . . . the steady drip of water and the sigh of a stray breath of icy air. Always, at the back of his mind, however, he could hear the soft rhythm of Frodo's breathing, and he longed to be standing vigil there, instead. Even as he listened he detected a change . . .

Pippin leaned closer to his cousin, his ears straining for the telltale wheeze. Hesitant, he held his cheek against Frodo's mouth, hoping to feel the outward rush of warm air. For what felt like an eternity he waited. In growing alarm he pulled aside the blankets and tried to discern some movement of the pale chest.

"Aragorn!"

With time for only this one frantic cry, Pippin knocked away the pack that held his cousin in a sitting position and lowered Frodo to his back on the floor. Tilting back the so-familiar face, Pippin pinched Frodo's nostrils with one hand and placed the other on his chin, forcing the now blue lips apart. Taking what he hoped was a normal breath in, Pippin sealed his lips over his cousins and breathed steadily out, forcing air into Frodo's lungs. As he rose, Pippin turned his head to watch the rib cage fall. He waited a moment and then repeated the process, only vaguely aware of the rest of the party crowding around him. When he leaned back after the fourth breath he was rewarded by the sight of Frodo's rib cage collapsing and then expanding on its own. Then it fell and rose again, accompanied by the now familiar wheeze.

Pippin sat back on his heels as other hands lifted Frodo up and slid the pack back beneath his shoulders once more. He was only distantly aware that it was Gimli, who was tucking the blankets back around Frodo. Strong hands slipped under Pippins armpits and lifted him gently to his feet, leading him towards the hearth and sitting him down on their one chair.

Gandalf's voice seemed to come from a long way off. "Well done, Pippin. Sit here, now, while I find you something to drink. Aragorn will deal with Frodo."

Pippin sat, staring into the flames of the fire. A cup was slipped into his hand and calloused fingers pushed it to his mouth. He swallowed, mechanically, gradually growing aware of the taste of camomile and a hand lightly rubbing his back. Someone was sobbing quietly and it was a few minutes before Pippin realised that the sounds were being made in his own throat. He blinked, and the world slipped back into focus through a fog of tears. Glancing over his shoulder, he found himself looking into Merry's concerned face. The older hobbit smiled, offering him a hanky.

"Feeling better, Pip?"

Pippin blinked again, finally noticing the little group bent over Frodo at the edge of the firelight. Awareness of what had just happened flooded in, and Pippin scrambled to his feet. "Frodo . . . how is he?"

Gandalf detached himself from the others and knelt down before Pippin. A gentle hand on the young hobbit's shoulder pushed him back into the chair. "Frodo will be well, thanks to you. Perhaps you should consider a career as a healer when you return to the Shire," smiled the old wizard.

Beginning to feel a little better, Pippin smiled back wanly. "I don't think so, thank you. I don't believe I ever want to have to do that again." He wiped his eyes and blew his nose. "Will he really be alright?"

"Yes, indeed, Pippin." Strider replied, as he crossed to the hearth and assessed the little hobbit. "Thanks to your quick action, he was not without air for too long, and he breathes again, although I would wish that it were deeper." He reached out a hand and touched fingers to the pulse at Pippin's wrist for a moment. "That procedure can be a little frightening the first time you do it." He grimaced. "I remember reacting much as you just did. Are you feeling a little better now?"

Pippin nodded and set his empty cup on the hearth. "I'm alright. Should I go back and finish my watch?"

"No Pippin. That's not necessary. Gimli will start his watch early. Why don't you go and get some sleep. It will not be long before your turn at the doors." He nodded to Merry, who set a hand beneath his younger cousin's elbow and drew him away to his bedroll, aware that the camomile tea would soon push Pippin into gentle sleep.of the rasping breaths coming form the small bundle in Legolas'

TBC.