CHAPTER 7

The strong hand was grasping his chin again, the goblet pressed to his lips. Frodo cried out and tried to escape his captor's iron grip but he was too weak. A voice was insisting that he drink . . . that he swallow. He turned his head and finally managed to break free, struggling to rise.

"Frodo. Be still," commanded a familiar voice. Gandalf? The Ringbearer opened his eyes and tried to make sense of the vague shapes before him. Slowly, Gandalf's face came into focus and next to him, Aragorn.

"Gandalf, help me," Frodo sobbed, struggling to suppress the cough that lurked in his chest, threatening to overtake him again. He knew that he felt better when he managed to clear his lungs a little but the process was so painful . . . A strong but gentle hand reached down and stroked the hobbit's brow.

"It's alright, Frodo. You have a fever." He nodded to Strider, who brought the small metal cup to his charge's lips once more.

"I'm afraid this medicine will not taste very nice. But you must take it. I have some honey for you afterwards."

Frodo allowed him to trickle some of the liquid into his mouth and gagged immediately. It was so bitter that it brought tears to his eyes and he lost the battle with the cough, bringing lancing pain to his side and chest. But he was not to be released and, as soon as the dry barking cough subsided the cup was offered again.

"Drink it, Frodo."

The creature in his dreams had wanted him to drink something too. Dread made him squint up at Gandalf once more but the rock wall behind him did not change and Aragorn did not turn into the Dark King.

"Drink, Frodo." Strider pleaded.

The Ringbearer complied, willing his stomach not to rebel and expel the bitter drink. After he had swallowed the last mouthful Aragorn slipped a spoon between his lips and his mouth was filled with the sweet fragrant taste of honey. Frodo accepted it gratefully. When they tried to get him to take some broth, however, he refused and his carers decided it was not necessary to pursue the matter at that moment, letting him slip back into a light, troubled sleep.

Boromir lay, wrapped in his cloak in the corner. Gandalf had sent him away to sleep half an hour ago but the son of the Steward could find no rest. His dreams, now, were always haunted by visions of the Ring. Why had it fallen into the hands of this frail creature? Why could it not be used against its maker? It was folly to throw it away and even more folly to take it into the Dark Lord's land. The final irony, to Boromir's mind, was that it could well be used to heal the Ringbearer, if someone would but have the courage to use it at all.

Legolas and Pippin sat at the hearth. The wood elf had been inspecting and repairing his arrows and the little hobbit, ever curious, had asked him what he was doing. Pippin now sat, listening intently, as the elf carefully explained the construction of an arrow, demonstrating how to check the fletching, shaft and tip . . . tracing his finger along the curving path of the feathers that made the arrow spin straight and smooth through the air. The hobbit picked up one of the exquisitely made darts, rather timidly.

"Do elves use poison on their arrows?"

Legolas shook his head vehemently. "No. Only orcs use such vile methods to bring down their prey."

The little hobbit set it down again and stared into the firelight. "People talked about orcs in the Shire, but I've never seen one. Are they as awful as they say?"

The elf's face hardened, as it always did when orcs were mentioned. "They are devoid of all goodness and their outward aspect reflects the inward one."

"Do you think there are still orcs here?"

Legolas' face softened and he laid a hand upon the little shoulder. "I do not know, Pippin. Certainly there were orcs here, once. But now . . . I do not know."

His eyes clouded and he tried once more to push against the walls about his soul but to no avail. And then, suddenly, there was a chink. He listened closely and caught the roar of distant fire. Slipping through, he followed the thread of song, its minor key grating on his mind. Then just as suddenly he was thrown back, his fea shrieking at the raw power pitted against it.

When next he became aware of his surroundings his head was cradled in Pippin's lap and Aragorn was bending over him, his expression showing open concern. Legolas made to sit up accepting Aragorn's help to steady him. A pounding in his head made the elf screw up his eyes against the glow of the firelight and fight to keep the contents of his stomach in place.

"What happened?" asked Aragorn, slipping into the grey tongue as he handed him a cup of water.

Legolas replied in kind as he sipped it gratefully. "I thought the walls had gone . . . there was a weakness and I sensed . . . something of fire and shadow . . . I think." He sighed. "I do not rightly know what I sensed. But something powerful hides here." He made to shake his head but winced as the action redoubled the pounding. "It reminds me of something . . . a childhood story . . . but I cannot remember."

Aragorn took the empty cup and replaced it with another that the wizard handed him. The scent of camomile rode upon the steam curling upward from it and Legolas drank slowly, allowing it to ease his mind. Then he sat, unresisting, as the Ranger began to massage his neck and shoulders. Pippin joined Sam, where he sat by Frodo.

"I don't like the look of that," said Sam, nodding at the group by the fire. Pippin swallowed in a dry throat.

"I don't know what they're talking about but I expect its not good," Pippin replied. He flung down the cloth he had just picked up to bathe Frodo's hands and it landed in the bowl, splashing water all about it. "Oh, how I hate this place!"

"I know what you mean," confided Sam, dabbing at a few splashes on his leg. Frodo stirred and his friend picked up the cup that Strider had left. "You'd best go fetch a spoon of honey, Master Pippin."

The room was dark. Had Bilbo drawn the curtains? Frodo tried to get comfortable but his mattress was too hard and he felt hot. How long was this illness going to continue? He had been at Bag End only a few weeks and now he was so very sick. Not a good beginning, and he would not be surprised if Bilbo sent him straight back to Brandy Hall. Where was Bilbo?

"Bilbo?" His throat was sore and he could not seem to draw enough breath for more than a word at a time.

"Try and drink this, Mr Frodo." It was not Bilbo's voice.

"Where's Bilbo? I need Bilbo" Frodo called out fretfully.

Again, it was not Bilbo who answered. "It's Sam, Frodo. Mr Bilbo's not here. Don't you remember? He stayed behind in Rivendell."

Frodo tried to understand. Sam was far too young to be looking after him. Why had Bilbo left the ten year old in charge? He forced open crusted eyelids and tried to focus on the face bending over him. It belonged to a stranger. Who was he and why was he asking him to drink something? Frodo pulled away from the offered cup.

"You're not . . . Sam. Where's . . . Bilbo?"

He tried to turn his head to look about the room. Where was his dresser? And the window should be over there . . . He tried to sit up and pull away from the stranger but the effort cost him dearly. The cough started slowly, building upon itself, and the more he tried to stifle it the worse it got, until he felt his lungs would burst and tears of agony were flowing freely down his face. Strong arms supported him and someone rubbed his back, briskly.

The cough subsided, leaving him limp in the arms of whoever was holding him. The stranger's voice again. "Please, Frodo. Drink this for your Sam."

Too spent to protest, Frodo allowed himself to be fed the bitter liquid, followed by a spoonful of something sweet and sticky. The arms lowered him back onto a pillow of some sort and then other hands bathed his hands and face with cool water. It felt good and the he let the confusing world slip away.

As the watches came and went Gandalf sat by the fire, considering Legolas' words. Was it Durin's Bane that he had encountered? And what was Durin's Bane? It was a creature talked about in hushed tones by the Dwarves when it was mentioned at all, but none now seemed to remember what it actually was. The Prince's description began to form a picture in Mithrandir's mind, however, and that picture had a name . . . Balrog. He had never thought to be pitted against such a foe in this age. If it found their little party would Gandalf be strong enough to protect them? He hoped they would not have to find out.

He kept a close eye on the Prince of Mirkwood but he seemed to recover well enough from his ordeal. Although he said that his headache had subsided the wizard could tell that he was still plagued by the previous problem. It was interesting to note that Gimli often placed himself near Legolas and the soft murmur of the light elven voice and gruff dwarven were often intermingled now, sometimes even in laughter.

"Legolas, come and see this," called Gimli quietly. The elf joined him, where he stood in one of the darker corners of the room. Taking Legolas' hand the dwarf laid it upon a shadowed section of wall and the wood elf's face lit up as his fingers traced the carving that he felt there. Merry joined them, candle in hand, and Legolas pushed him forward.

"Bring your candle closer to the wall, Merry." The little hobbit complied and gasped, as it's tiny golden flame illuminated the surface before him.

It was clear that the entire wall had once been intricately carved but most of it had been so badly defaced over the years that it was impossible to see what it had originally contained. The orcs had missed this corner only because it had furniture piled against it. Now the questing flame of Merry's candle revealed leaves and flowers, birds and insects in what appeared to be a woodland scene.

The Wood Elf's fingers followed the crisp outline of an oak leaf and encountered the tiny form of a bee at its apex. Merry touched a robin, tugging at a worm from out a clump of delicately carved grass, his finger tips feeling every feather of its wing. So intent was he upon the tiny creature that he did not notice the elf's eyes mist with tears, but Gimli did and Legolas did not pull away when he felt a consoling hand laid upon his forearm.

Frodo contended with his fever for many hours but it became clear that, despite the boneset tincture that Aragorn kept pressing upon him he was losing the battle. The fretful tossing slowed and then stopped and his breathing became more and more shallow. It was with a feeling of great sadness that the Ranger had to acknowledge that Frodo's chest was now becoming more congested, instead of less. In this dry and dusty tomb the hobbit was drowning.

Sam sat at his master's side most of the time now, and Gandalf gave up all pretence of sending him to guard the doors or sleep. Aragorn too, was relieved of other duties and together they tried to keep the Ringbearer breathing.

Frodo lost all contact with the world. Eyes half lidded, he did not even seem to have the energy for nightmares and made no response when they bathed or fed him. Fortunately, his body still swallowed reflexively and, although it took some time, they were able to continue to get him to accept fluids and medicines. But despite all their care his lips became first pale and then bluish and his shallow breathing rattled alarmingly.

TBC.