Disclaimer: None of the characters in this chapter are my creation (sadly), but the plotline is.  Medical sounding stuff isn't real, don't try it at home.  While I try to be realistic and I *do* research things, I still probably made it up or tweaked it for my own sick purposes. ;)

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed!!  I appreciate that you've taken the time to drop me a line. :)

__A Little Walk, chapter 4__

"I'm fine!" Frodo insisted, obstinately crossing his arms and causing the bathwater to slosh dangerously close to the edge of the wrought metal tub.

Aragorn gave him a pointed look from above, taking advantage of his superior height, and countered, "If you're fine, then I'm an elf."

The crackling and popping of the fire sounded too loud in the silence that followed.  Then Pippin broke the heavy stillness of the air.  "But *technically* you're part-"
Merry clapped a hand over his exuberant cousin's mouth and hissed, "Hush, Pip!"  After a beat he added, "Aren't you supposed to be on duty right now?"  Pippin's eyes widened and he uttered a cry of dismay from behind Merry's hand before scrambling off the bed where he'd been perched between Merry and Sam and scurrying out the door.  He had completely forgotten about his guard duty in the midst of the excitement caused by Aragorn's return with Frodo and Sam.

Sam simply sat and watched, amused.  Then he turned his attention back to the clash of titan wills.  Once again, Aragorn seemed to have forgotten that Frodo was at least as stubborn as he, and had tried to insist that the ailing hobbit drink some foul concoction.  Sam certainly sympathized with his master; he'd caught a whiff of the brew and wouldn't want it to come within three paces of him, much less be forced to *drink* it!  But he knew Aragorn was right.  Frodo was not in the best of health, and despite some improvement upon being given plenty of water and having a warm bath, those who knew him well could still see he was only feigning being well.

The standoff between the hobbit and the king ended when Frodo yawned.  Aragorn smirked, and Frodo glared at him.  "Just because I'm tired doesn't mean there's anything wrong with me," he groused as he stood and snatched the towel Aragorn held out for him.  Sam hopped off the bed and handed Frodo his nightshirt, and helped him dry his hair.

Frodo could feel Aragorn's eyes on his back, just waiting for his body to betray him.  While it was true he wasn't feeling very well, he certainly wasn't going to admit it, not when Aragorn was being so smug about it.  Frodo swallowed against a cough he could feel building in his chest and hoped he could get Aragorn to leave before he was forced to let the cough escape.  The steam from the bath had helped some-though he could tell Aragorn had added some herbs or something to the water when he wasn't looking-but now the urge to cough was returning more insistently.

But the King was gone when Frodo turned back around as he finished buttoning his nightshirt.  Merry saw his confusion and shrugged.  "He left."

"Good."  Frodo crossed over to the bed and climbed on.  The white monstrosity never looked so welcoming as it did then.  It was a large bed even by Men's standards, and could easily fit half a dozen hobbits.  The four hobbits shared it, usually with Frodo sandwiched between Sam and Merry.  Pippin slept on the other side of Merry so Merry could push him off if he kicked too much.  Ordinarily Frodo did not like being in the middle of the expansive bed; he felt very small and lost, but this time he crawled happily toward the middle, glorying in the freedom and space.  That cell hadn't been much larger than the bed...

"Now, cousin," Merry reproved, crawling up the bed and flopping down next to him.  "You know Aragorn is only trying to help."  The mattress sank a little on Frodo's other side as Sam also climbed up.

Frodo opened his mouth to give Merry a comment of his own when the long-suppressed cough decided to make its escape.  He buried his face in the pillow, muffling it so it wouldn't sound quite so bad.  The force of it brought tears to his eyes, and he felt a comforting hand rubbing his back as he hacked.  When he finally lifted his face from the pillow, both Merry and Sam were staring at him worriedly.  Sam handed him a mug of water, which he gratefully took to wash down the phlegm he'd coughed up and to soothe his raw throat.  After a moment, Merry commented, "If that's fine, I don't want to see terrible."  Frodo made a face at him as he gave the empty mug back to Sam and laid back down.  He was asleep almost immediately.

Aragorn heard Frodo's cough out in the hall and shook his head.  "Stubborn hobbit," he muttered to himself.  He would have to make sure Frodo would cooperate, or he'd be getting a lot worse before he started getting better.  But he'd wait until morning.  Even stubborn hobbits need their sleep, and especially sick ones.  Perhaps by then Frodo will be feeling bad enough that he'll *want* to cooperate.  Aragorn turned and wearily returned to the small, out-of-the-way study serving as his bedroom.  The 'King's Rooms' were being used as mass housing for all the surplus retainers and servants accompanying the embassies from literally all over Middle-Earth.  He looked forward to-no, *longed* for-the time when the arrangements and treaties were made and the hordes of people returned to their own countries.

~~~~~~

As much as Frodo wanted a good night's sleep, it was soon apparent that wasn't going to happen.  It seemed like every time he would just get to sleep he would jerk himself awake with coughing.  Every time he would cough, he awoke Sam, and sometimes even Merry.  They did whatever they could for him, though it wasn't much: gave him water or tea, clapped him on the back to help him clear his airways, and as the night wore on, help him remain upright long enough to finish coughing so he didn't choke on the bits of phlegm he was bringing up.  Frodo refused to meet their eyes, knowing what he would see there.  Concern.  Pity.  Reproach.  And he didn't want to deal with it.  He was too tired.

Eventually he was able to sleep in longer snatches, but then he had dreams, terrible dreams.  In one dream, he was being suffocated by his pillow.  In another, he was drowning in the murky waters of the Brandywine along with his parents.  And every time when he was just about to succumb to the encroaching greyness of oxygen deprivation, he would wake up gasping.  His gasps would inevitably lead to more coughing, again waking the others.

Finally Merry asked, "Are you *sure* you don't want one of us to get Aragorn?"

"Yes, I'm sure!"  Frodo grumbled, trying to turn his back on them both and fall back to sleep.  Soon he was in a wet dream world, weightlessly cocooned in an endless pool of water.  It was crystal clear, a light blue that went in all directions yet he could see no bound; no matter which way he tried to swim, he couldn't break the surface.  The uniformity of the water's color in all directions baffled him.  The water wrapped him in a tight embrace, gradually growing noticeably warmer.  Though he had no idea how that was possible, it felt nice and lulled him into a state of relaxed composure, bordering on sleepiness.  He knew he needed to find the surface soon, but he felt so comfortable that he could ignore his growing need for air.  The water grew ever hotter and soon felt like a suffocating blanket upon him, grasping him tighter and making him sweat, dragging him down.  His lungs began to burn; he tried to struggle weakly against the web of water holding him still as he felt himself begin to droop.  The familiar greyness began to cling to the edges of his vision.  'I can't breathe!' he thought in dismay and despair, fighting his lungs' attempts to inhale the burning hot water.  Darkness continued to fall, and Frodo realized with sudden clarity, 'I'm going to drown...'

Sam awoke with a start.  For several long moments he lay still, uncertain what roused him from his slumber.  All seemed in order, a small fire crackling cheerfully in the grate, the sound of a few early summer crickets chirping drifted in the half-open window on a comfortably cool pre-dawn breeze, his companions breathing softly as they slept behind him on the bed.  He strained his ears to listen-perhaps Frodo had coughed?  But no coughing was to be heard.  What had woken him, then?  He had a growing feeling that something was very, very wrong but he had no idea what.

Then it occurred to him.  *Shouldn't* Frodo be coughing again by now?  It had been at least a good half hour since the last fit, and so far that night Frodo had only been able to go about 20 minutes between coughs.  With a sinking feeling of dread that he'd singled out the problem, he rolled over to check on Frodo.  His master was taking shallow, labored breaths, his chest barely moving from the effort.  He was flushed with fever, a slight sheen of sweat coating his face, the area right around his lips beginning to turn blue.  Even as Sam moved to act, Frodo's breaths began to slow further, yet remained shallow.

Sam sat Frodo up to help him breathe, moving behind to support him, even as he firmly nudged the sleeping body on the other side of Frodo.  "Mr. Merry!" he hissed, trying to wake him and not succeeding.  He tried several times before resorting to punching the other hobbit in the shoulder.  "Mr. Merry!" he repeated insistently.

Merry finally cracked an eye and slurred, "Wha-?"

"Go get Strider.  Frodo's worse."

That got Merry's attention.  His eyes snapped open and he rolled off the bed to stand up almost before his body could react and keep him from tumbling to the floor.  In an instant he was out the door and down the hall, his feet slapping the cold stone floor in his haste.

Sam reached for and managed to grasp the edge of a cloth from the basin of water placed earlier that night on the table next to the bed.  He swiped the cloth repeatedly across Frodo's face and neck, the cool cloth quickly becoming warm as it touched Frodo's fever hot skin.  Frodo was breathing a bit better than he had been, but it was still a far sight from what was normal.  "Keep fightin', Mr. Frodo!" he urged in a whisper as he tried to adjust the bedding so Frodo was kept warm, but without putting any extra weight on his chest that would add to his struggle.

As Frodo's vision narrowed to a tiny pinprick of light, he could feel himself losing control of his body.  Against his every effort, he went limp in the heated water's hold.  Finally he lost mastery over his urge to inhale.  He gasped, feeling the liquid invade his lungs . . .

Frodo gasped suddenly, startling Sam from his fretting over what was taking Strider and Merry so long.  That line of thought became completely irrelevant as Frodo listed forward and started coughing roughly.  Sam supported him with an arm across the front of his shoulders, his other hand holding the cloth beneath Frodo's chin to wipe away the thick sputum he knew would be forthcoming.  He wished he had more hands so he could do more, but unfortunately hobbits only come with two arms.

As he was lamenting this fact, more hands appeared-two the same size as his, two larger.  Merry helped him hold Frodo up-a difficult task, as his entire body was jerking from the force behind each cough-while Aragorn briefly assessed Frodo's condition before turning to his layout of herbs and supplies on a table in the corner next to the fireplace.  "Just keep doing what you're doing," he assured the hobbits, his voice raised to be heard over Frodo.  Aragorn perused his collection, picking this one and that, until he had a small pile of dried foliage selected.  By then Frodo's harsh coughs had been replaced by low wheezing, and Sam appeared at Aragorn's side.  "Is there naught I can do to help?"

"If you would build up the fire a bit and get some water boiling..."

Sam was moving before Aragorn finished speaking, quite familiar by now with the sickroom routine.  "What are you giving him?" he asked, soon reappearing beside Aragorn, having stoked the fire, put a kettle on, and closed the window to get rid of the draft.

"It's a mixture of several things, a couple for fever, another to help him cough more-"

Sam interrupted.  "He don't seem to need anything to make him cough, if you follow me."

Somewhat amused at Sam's statement of the obvious, Aragorn replied, "It's to help him bring up more when he coughs, to help him clear his lungs better."

Abashed, Sam blushed.  "Oh.  And what's the rest of it for?  Looks like it'll be worse than the brew last night."

"Indeed, it will be.  Most of these have a rather unsavory taste, and mixed together . . . well, it won't be pleasant.  I will add some honey, but not nearly enough to counteract the bitterness.  As for the rest, one is for pain, and the last is to thin the stuff in his lungs to make it easier to bring up."  He crossed to the fireplace, and poured the boiling water into a pot with the herbs.  "We'll need to sponge him down to bring down his fever, and make sure he eats some light broth.  And if..." he trailed off, musing to himself, shaking his head at some unspoken thought.

"And if *what*?" Sam asked, puzzled and curious.

Aragorn sighed as he stirred the strong, bitter tea.  "And if the herbs don't work well enough, I'll likely have to resort to something else to clear his lungs."

Though it was not stated, Sam knew what he was referring to, and it caused him to blanch and gulp.  He'd seen the doctor do that to Marigold once.  His mother didn't realize he was even in the room until he'd fled, sobbing, because the doctor was hurting his little sister.  Sam hadn't trespassed in a sickroom since.  But if Aragorn had to do that to Frodo, he would be there despite his bad experience.  He'd stuck by Mr. Frodo through worse, so there was no call for abandoning him now.

~~~~~~

Frodo blinked at Aragorn, knowing the man was talking to him but unable to grasp any meaning from the words as they floated around in his head.

"Frodo?  Will you drink this for me?"  Aragorn tried again, holding up the mug and trying to motion what he wanted the hobbit to do.  But Frodo's unfocused gaze was still unresponsive as he reclined against his cousin.  Merry still held him up so Aragorn could administer the tea, and Sam hovered anxiously nearby, ready to fetch anything needed.

Aragorn sighed in frustration when there was still no answer.  He'd been relieved to see Frodo awake after his most recent fit, but now his failure to get the hobbit to do or say anything concerned him.  Frodo needed to drink the remedy he'd prepared, more so now than before.  "I suppose that means yes," he commented.

But Sam shook his head in disagreement.  "I wouldn't try it," he warned.  "One taste o' that and he'll spit it right back out."

"I won't let him," Aragorn answered resolutely, gently pulling Frodo's mouth open a bit and carefully pouring some of the mixture in.  Frodo's eyes widened, and true to Sam's word, he made as if to spit it out, but Aragorn was too quick for him.  Having passed the cup off to Sam, he clapped one hand over Frodo's mouth and pinched his nose shut with the other, leaving Frodo no choice but to swallow.  He did so, glaring at the King all the while.

When Aragorn pulled open his mouth, Frodo instantly understood what he hadn't comprehended earlier.  The bitterness didn't take him completely by surprise-he knew well enough by now that Aragorn's concoctions *never* tasted pleasant-but this was even worse than he'd imagined.  But of course Aragorn anticipated his next move and made him swallow it anyway.  Frodo wished he wasn't so predictable sometimes.  At least the shock seemed to have restored his gift of speech.  "Let me guess-you're going to make me drink *all* of that," he said wryly, the comment sounding more weary than he'd intended.

"Now *there's* the Frodo we know and love!" Aragorn responded with mock gaiety.  "And the dear hobbit is most astute, as usual."  He winked at Frodo, then turned and reclaimed the mug of tonic from Sam, standing beside him as he perched on the edge of the bed.  When he turned back, he had sobered and said, "Yes, Frodo, you need to drink all of this.  But first, how do you feel?"

Frodo knew all along that question would be asked, but he still wasn't prepared to make a response.  "I'm . . . tired, so very tired . . . " he answered slowly, taking stock of the remainder of his complaints.  While he still didn't want to confess how badly he really felt, he realized the point was now beyond argument.  "...it hurts to cough... hurts to breathe..." he continued miserably.  Aragorn nodded sympathetically and Frodo expected him to say 'I told you so' or something to that effect.  But he didn't, to Frodo's relief, though what he *did* say wasn't exactly welcome either.

"This should help with much of that," Aragorn informed him, brandishing the mug like a weapon to punish a stubborn hobbit for his recalcitrance.  Frodo grimaced in anticipation, but allowed Aragorn to carefully give it to him in small mouthfuls.  Despite Aragorn's care, Frodo gagged on the last swallow, sending him into a new paroxysm of coughs and chokes.  Aragorn signalled Sam to get the waiting chamomile tea as he and Merry attended to Frodo.

Mercifully, the bout was a short one; Frodo managed to bring it under control once he successfully swallowed the last of the bitter mixture.  He gratefully drank the chamomile tea once he'd settled back against Merry again, and felt himself becoming more and more drowsy.  He soon fell back to sleep, hoping as he did so that he wouldn't have that water dream again.

"We should sponge him off, and maybe change his nightshirt," Aragorn said in a low voice once it was apparent that Frodo was asleep.  He helped Merry lay Frodo against a pile of pillows, keeping him somewhat upright to make it as easy as possible to breathe.  The ill hobbit was pale, even for him, though the slight flush of fever added some color to his pallid complexion.  His breathing was still shallow and labored, forcing him to fight for every breath he took.  'Even sleep isn't restful,' Aragorn thought with sadness.  He hoped the herbs would be effective, for the alternative would be most unpleasant for all.

TBC