CHAPTER 6

The watches changed and Aragorn came to relieve Mithrandir, pulling aside the blankets and bending to listen at the small chest, once more. The infection was still building and a quick glance at Frodo's face showed the bright flush of fever in his cheeks.

"He does not improve." Gandalf's voice was low and his comment was not a question.

Aragorn sighed. "I had hoped that with the rest his body would be able to fight the infection but I fear it has too strong a hold." He went to fetch warm water and cloths and then he and the wizard bathed Frodo's over-warm body and wrapped him in dry blankets again.

When Frodo finally awoke it was with a harsh dry cough once more, for with returning consciousness his body demanded more air and his congested lungs had difficulty providing it. In addition, the fever made him unresponsive and sometimes uncooperative; his confusion making him push aside hands that would help him. At such times it was fortunate that he was also very weak, for it was easy to subdue him, although all felt guilty at having to hold him down and force medicines upon him.

When Legolas took over Frodo's care Aragorn decided to try a new strategy of treatment. To Sam he gave the task of preparing a tea of mullein, in an attempt to loosen the fluid that was filling Frodo's lungs. Sam was a little envious of the comparative ease with which the Elf managed to coax the fretful Frodo to swallow the medicine. Sam's last attempt had resulted in his friend thrashing about wildly and spilling the ginger tea they were trying to tempt him with. There was something about Legolas' presence that seemed to soothe Frodo. Perhaps the elf's touch brought memory of Elrond and his care after the injury at Weathertop.

Aragorn gave the tea a couple of hours to begin its work before he made his next move. Adding peppermint to a large bowl of very hot water, he brought it and a blanket to his patient's side.

"Surely you do not intend to bathe him in water that hot?" asked Legolas, worriedly.

"No, but if we can get him to inhale the steam it may loosen his chest a little," he replied, shaking out the blanket. "Can you lean him forward over the bowl and hold his head?"

Legolas nodded, wrapping the naked hobbit in a warm blanket and lifting him gently into his lap. Setting one arm about Frodo's chest and the other on his brow, he tilted him forward over the fragrant steam. Frodo showed little signs of awareness, although his eyes were slightly open. Aragorn draped the blanket over the Elf's head, spreading its folds wide to enclose the bowl, and forming a tent to trap the steam.

0000

Frodo's eyes followed the flickering shadows caused by the fire on the wall. Dark shapes crawled across the uneven surface, then slowly gathered and began to take on form.

A tall shape detached itself from the stone and began to advance upon him. Cold eyes glimmered within the depths of a hood and Frodo tried to scrabble away, but the fallen statue at his back prevented him. He threw up his hands as the wicked point of the knife thrust towards him.

Pain sliced through his shoulder . . . ice white pain that tore a long scream from his throat. He struggled to escape but suddenly arms were pinning him tight. The scream turned into a cough and the agony in his shoulder was echoed by a searing pain in his chest and side. At that moment he felt he would die but voices began to penetrate his anguish.

"Aragorn, let us up! Let us up! He is struggling too much and will spill the water." Legolas' urgent voice sounded close by his ear.

"They're gone, Frodo. It's alright." Aragorn's calm voice came from somewhere in front of him. "Take a small breath in . . . now out. You are safe, Frodo."

"Please, Mr Frodo." Sam's voice, almost tearful.

Frodo breathed in a warm damp air, laced with the fresh smell of peppermint. The pain and the coughing began to recede.

"That's it Frodo. Now another one . . . "

He breathed again and opened his eyes to find himself propped over a large bowl of steaming water, in which floated some bits of dark green leaves. Legolas held him securely. Summoning what little strength he could muster Frodo raised his head, to find a circle of anxious faces.

The cough began building again and for a few moments Frodo fought it, but eventually he had to surrender. He was grateful for Legolas' support as the agony of the hacking coughs that wracked his weakened frame left no energy to sit up. Vile, metallic tasting, muck filled his mouth and he was thankful when someone put a cloth to his lips to spit into. When he was finished and lay, spent, against the Elf's chest, someone gave him cool water to drink. Then they laid him back on the makeshift bed and tucked him around with warm blankets, bathing his hands and face. He fell at once into an exhausted sleep.

Once Frodo lay quiet and still once more, everyone returned to their tasks. Merry cleared away the bowl and Sam took Legolas' place at his Master's side. Frodo's breathing was a little deeper but the congestion was still clearly audible, neither had his fever broken and he still muttered and stirred weakly.

Legolas splashed cold water on his flushed face and gratefully accepted the cup Gimli offered him. The elf sat down, some distance from the fire, unbuttoning his shirt a little, and Gimli settled down beside him.

"Do you think he improves?" Gimli asked, re-filling Legolas' cup from a flask of water at his side.

"Thank you." The elf accepted the cup, sipping more slowly now. "His chest begins to clear, I think, but if the fever does not break soon that will do him little good."

Letting his eyes return to Frodo, Gimli shook his head. "I have seen mighty warriors laid in their graves by fever such as this. Hobbits, it seems, are much stronger than they look."

Legolas took another mouthful of water, the pink tinge to his complexion beginning to fade to its normal alabaster flawlessness. "This hobbit, at least."

Gandalf returned to his survey of the darkness beyond the door he was guarding. Had the Ringbearer just turned a corner on the road to recovery, or was this just a change in tactic for the illness that gripped him?

At the other door, Boromir wandered what was happening in the world outside, whilst they sat in this darksome hole, waiting for the Ringbearer to recover. If indeed, he ever did.

Day turned into night and still Frodo struggled. In the darkness of Moria there was no sunset to tell them of the onset of evening but Gandalf seemed to be able to count the hours passage. Frodo was trapped in his own night, peopled with visions, memories and nightmares.

***

The door to Bag End stood open, soft candlelight spilling across the threshold from within. Frodo stepped inside, his toes mapping the familiar contours of the tiled floor. On the coat hooks, by the door, were his old green travelling cloak and Bilbo's dark brown one. The little hobbit's heart soared with joy and he called out.

"Bilbo . . . Bilbo?"

From the kitchen came a whisper and the sound of a chair scraping across the stone flagged floor. Frodo ran down the hall but it seemed longer than he remembered and felt as though he waded through mud. After an eternity of running he caught the handle on the kitchen door and burst triumphantly into the room, a bright laugh on his lips.

The laugh turned into a scream for the small sunny kitchen of Bag End was filled with tall, dark hooded figures. As he fell through the door they spun towards him, the cold ring of steel filling the air as long swords were drawn. Frodo turned, almost tripping over his feet, and fled back into the hallway, only to be assailed by the same feeling of running through cloying mud. Try as he may, he could not reach the green front door and he could feel the icy breath of his pursuers stirring his hair.

A clawed hand caught his shoulder and threw him about. The black hooded figure towered above him, a huge metal goblet in its hand and a sibilant whisper issued from deep within shadows of the black cowl.

"Drink . . . halfling." The goblet moved down, clamped firmly within a metal gauntleted hand. Frodo whimpered and struggled, trying to pull out of its way, but another hand caught his chin. The cold rim touched his lips and he clamped his mouth shut but the finger and thumb of the other hand pressed at certain points and he found his jaw falling helplessly open. Cold, bitter liquid filled his mouth and then the hand switched position and his jaw was held shut, forcing him to swallow.

He was released, sobbing and allowed to sink to the coolness of the familiar tiled floor. Where was Gandalf? He had promised to help him against the Black Riders.

"Gandalf?"

"Yes, Frodo. I am here." The familiar voice pushed through his despair and the little hobbit's eyes flew open.

The ancient wizard was bending over him, his kindly lined face filled with concern. Frodo blinked. The familiar ceilings of Bag End were gone and beyond Gandalf's head a rough-hewn rock wall was just visible in the flickering firelight.

"Where am I, and what is the time?" Frodo blinked again and the fire lit rock was replaced by a high flat ceiling with intricately carved dark beams.

"In the House of Elrond, and it is ten o'clock in the morning." Gandalf blew a smoke ring from his pipe, as he sat by the open window through which could be heard the rushing of a waterfall and birdsong.

A rich, melodious voice drifted towards him from the other side of the bed. "Welcome to Rivendell, Frodo Baggins." The tall, elegant creature at his bedside had deep grey eyes and long, night black hair.

As Frodo watched, in growing horror, the hair became a hood and black robes swathed the long lean body. Grey eyes became red coals, set deep within shadows and a clawed hand reached out towards the ring, lying heavy upon the Hobbit's chest.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and tried to back away. "Noooooooo . . ."

A deep strong voice cut through his cry. "Frodo. It is I, Boromir. Be still, Little One. You are safe."

Frodo opened his eyes and met the light grey ones of the man of Gondor. The Ringbearer tried to draw in a shaky breath but the ever-present cough attacked instead. Boromir held him, patiently, until it subsided, leaving an unpleasant taste in his mouth, finally settling his charge back amongst the nest of blankets and giving him a few sips of peppermint tea to clear his mouth.

In the first moments of his awakening the Ringbearer had been burning but now he felt as though he had been plunged into ice water and he curled up, shivering within his coverings, feeling truly wretched. To his surprise Boromir scooped him up, pulling the blankets closer about him, and cradled him against his chest as he enfolded them both within the brocaded, fur lined depths of his rich cloak. The chilled hobbit began to relax as the heat from the man's body and the cloak infused him, his trembling slowing and taut muscles easing out. He began to doze.

Across the room Pippin set down his half eaten plate of stew, struggling to swallow the mouthful he had been chewing when Frodo cried out. All about him the rest of the Fellowship were doing the same as everyone suddenly lost his appetite.

At one of the doors, Aragorn had only half his mind on the possible contents of the darkness beyond. The other half was desperately seeking some memory of his foster father's instructions on the treatment of high fever. The mullein was loosening the fluid in Frodo's lungs but not fast enough.

There was one other herb in his medicinal that he had not yet dared to use on such a small creature as a hobbit. Elrond had given him a vial of boneset tincture, with instructions that it must not be used on the hobbits. The elven healer was wise in these matters but he was not travelling in the wild. In Imladris there would have been other ways to deal with Frodo's illness but they were far from the comfort of the Last Homely House.

If he used it in a very small dose it should act as an expectorant and help with the fever. Of course, the first problem would be to get the hobbit to take it. Aragorn had only been dosed with it once in his life and vividly remembered its extremely bitter taste even now, many years later. If Frodo were more lucid, reason would prevail, but the little hobbit was slipping in and out of fevered dreams . . .

As Frodo began to settle once more, in Boromir's arms, Aragorn returned his concentration to the watching of the dark. He would try the boneset tincture when they changed duties.

TBC