Title: A Little Walk 10/? "Turning Point"
Author: Ancalime
Rating: PG
Summary: Frodo's condition reaches its critical point.
A/N: There's a small FotR book reference in this chapter. As usual, thanks to Tangelian for reading it over. :-)



That troll was standing on his chest again, but this time the troll also brought a couple of friends so every intake of air was like trying to lift a mountain with his chest. When he coughed, the trolls jabbed him in the sides and jumped on his ribs, leaving him breathless and aching. More often than not, he just didn't have the energy to cough to try to dislodge the trolls, so he had to keep fighting them for every breath, all his focus concentrated on breathing in, then out, in, out.

He knew there was some reason he was supposed to be awake, something he was supposed to be paying attention to, but that was lost in his focus on simply breathing. The droning voice in the background was very conducive to sleep and he longed to surrender to that urge, but he fought it for a time and tried to discern the words spoken, certain there was something there he should hear.

He could feel that moving cushion behind his back again and gratefully allowed himself to relax against her, appreciating the warmth she emanated. Why was he so cold? His mind was telling him he was as hot as if he were in the heart of Mount Doom, but he shivered, feeling like he was high on the slopes of Caradhras. He could still hear the droning voice near him, but the sounds that voice made remained unintelligible, so he abandoned all thoughts of listening and drifted back into a restless doze.


Frodo slept uneasily for several hours after the sentencing, his high fever and difficulty breathing preventing him from truly resting. Both Jael and Sam observed his discomfort and moved in wordless agreement to sponge-bathe him in hopes it would ease him for the time being. Jael used more aromatic peppermint in the water, and Frodo seemed to relax and breathe a bit deeper under the ministrations of their warm cloths.

They were nearly finished when Joram and his two-guard escort entered the room. He was sent to retrieve the rather large pile of dirty linens he was responsible for washing, his every action carefully watched by the soldiers flanking him, hands always on their swords.

Joram stopped before the soiled heap and looked toward the bed momentarily. The expression of disgust and disdain plain on his face made Jael clench her fists in anger. How dare he despise Frodo for something he inflicted! With effort she turned her back on him and resumed her careful motions of sweeping the wet cloth over an area of skin then toweling it dry, so the hobbit would not catch a chill in addition to his other ailments. By the time Sam took charge of redressing Frodo so Jael could take care of the water and cloths, Joram was gone and a portion of the linen hill was missing. It was then she realized he would have to enter the room multiple times, and she was not sure she could resist the temptation to inflict bodily harm on the barkeep. It was painfully obvious he considered his sentence to be no more than a minor inconvenience, after which he could return to his tavern and resume his seedy way of life. She was infuriated by his ability to shrug off the King's chastening with no effect on his behaviour.

Once she disposed of the lukewarm water out the window and gathered up the wet towels and cloths, approaching the heap, Joram returned for another armful of the laundry. He sneered at her as she drew closer, and Jael decided she'd had enough of him. Her face remained cooly neutral, no hint of her intention until he was only a few feet from her. Gathering the linen in a tighter bundle she hurled it in his face. "You are fortunate indeed that Frodo pled mercy!" she cried. "For I would have you stabbed unmercifully and thrown in a dark, dirty alley to die among the rats where you belong." Even before he'd thrown all the towels off his head and shoulders, he moved to grab her, his face red with fury. But the soldiers were faster than the barkeep, and restrained him before he could reach Jael.

Aragorn returned from a conference just in time to hear the end of her cry, and he moved quickly to pull her back before she attacked Joram further in her fury. "Easy, easy," he urged her as she tried to fight her way free of his grasp so she could go dig her fingernails into Joram's face or do *something* to express her anger. Aragorn ushered her back to the side of the bed, and finally released her. Jael was shaking with the intensity of her emotions, but she did not move. Aragorn commanded the soldiers, still restraining their prisoner, "Take him out of here. Send a servant up for the rest." They nodded, unable to salute with their hands full, and dragged Joram from the room.

Sam stood in open-mouthed astonishment at Jael's outburst. He never would have anticipated such behaviour from the quiet, well-mannered woman, and found himself standing helplessly next to the bed, merely an audience to events as they unfolded. Now that the excitement was over, he climbed back onto the bed -he was getting very good at scaling its height without much effort- and resumed his rightful place next to Frodo.

He draped a fresh cool cloth over his master's forehead and dropped the old into the basin, surreptitiously listening to Aragorn and Jael as they began a hushed conversation a few steps from the bedside. He was not directly part of the discussion, but neither of the bigger folk moved to exclude him, so he sat in ignored silence while they debated. They were trying to decide the best course of action for Frodo's care, so he listened without shame, for Frodo's sake.

"I apologize for my conduct," Jael sighed ruefully. "It was most improper."

Aragorn smiled. "It was rather unseemly, but no less understandable. He does not understand nor appreciate the gift of mercy Frodo has given him, and that is most maddening. How does Frodo fare?"

"Not well, my lord. His fever has risen and he is breathing more shallowly. We just finished bathing him, but I'm afraid it did not do as much as we hoped."
"Perhaps we should attempt the inhalation treatment again? Or maybe-" Aragorn blanched, "-pounding?" He cast a worried look toward the bed and Frodo, rubbing his forehead in an unconscious gesture of frustration and concern. Sam recognized the motion instantly, having seen it many times in the months of traveling with the ranger, and also having noted Lord Elrond wear the same expression and rub his head just so, as if trying to ward off a headache. The Man undoubtedly picked it up in his long years under Elrond's care and tutelage.

"Nay, my lord," Jael countered. "Inhalation does no help when the breaths are that shallow. And pounding would fair kill the poor thing. He hasn't the strength to endure that abuse." She drew a bit closer and lowered her voice so Sam had to strain to catch her words. All the while she studied the tips of her worn shoes and the hem of her skirt, unable to be forthright while looking the King in the eye. "If I may say so, my liege, there is nothing further we can do for him. The hands of the King may be the hands of a healer, but there is only so much any healer can do." She paused, swallowing hard. "Even one of the Fair Folk."

Sam's ears perked up at this oblique reference to the Elves. Aragorn caught it too. "What do you mean?"

"I once had a young sister, who also fell victim to this ailment. Despite the care of an Elf trained by Lord Elrond himself, she did not survive. Though I am convinced it was not the illness but her grief at our parents' recent passing which resulted in her own death." Her eyes finally raised and met the King's, sympathy and understanding in her gaze, and finding pity and compassion in his. "The time has come when we must trust in the strength of his stubbornness in clinging to life. From what I have heard of his travails, I am convinced he has a will of adamant. He will pull through. He *will* survive." She spoke with conviction, the voice of truth. Sam found himself nodding in agreement, her words expressing his belief as well. He held Frodo's clammy hand and rubbed it soothingly, disturbed to note its limpness and the traces of bluish colour around the fingernails.

Finally Aragorn nodded reluctantly. "You speak wisely, Lady Jael. You are correct; I doubt even Master Elrond would be able to do much more than we have already done." He paused. "And my condolences on the loss of your sister."

"It is all right; it happened many years ago, and it was for the best. It is good she did not have to endure what happened later. She is no longer suffering, and that is a comfort." Jael squared her shoulders resolutely and straightened proudly. What she said next Sam could not hear, but Aragorn chuckled and the matter seemed to be settled. Naturally, Sam was curious about those later events that Jael's sister was fortunate to miss -and about how Jael had come into contact with Elves!- but now was not the time to ask, so he remained quiet.


Frodo's gasping, wheezing breaths continued to rasp for the next several hours. His fever rose a bit more and he remained unaware for most of the time, only coming partially to consciousness at the end of a particularly violent coughing spasm, whimpering in pain and shaking with renewed chills.

Aragorn was in and out of the room in those hours, coming to check on Frodo in stolen moments between meetings and discussions with the foreign ambassadors. Most of the talks were finally winding down, the King being able to set forth terms that were acceptable to the embassy, and all that remained was the formalities of setting down a treaty in the necessary legal terminology. Elessar wished he could simply abandon the lengthy negotiations and attend to Frodo as he should, but his duty to his realm forbade it, and Jael had been right: there was nothing more he could physically do for the ailing hobbit. So he went to the bedside as he could, sparing a word of encouragement to Jael and Sam while reassuring Frodo with a touch to his face, a squeeze of his hand.

As evening drew on and its dusky light faded into night, Jael began to wonder if she was really right after all. Frodo had shown no sign of improvement that entire day, only sliding further into the heated grip of fever, his body a heavy limp bundle on her lap. She again held him in her embrace, her body heat seeming to be the only effective remedy for his wracking chills as the fever raged. Sam diligently wiped Frodo's face and retrieved anything Jael requested, and despite Frodo's worsening condition, he held on to the optimistic view that his master would soon 'turn the corner,' as his mother used to say, and begin to recover.

The first sign of that corner came a few hours after sunset. Gandalf brought in a tray of dinner for Jael and Sam, though Merry and Pippin dropped in and snitched a bite or two as well and were shooed away by Gandalf, who insisted that both woman and hobbit must take a break and eat while he kept an eye on Frodo. He sat in thoughtful silence, feeling the ponderous weight of helpless waiting pressing down on his shoulders. It wasn't often that he could do absolutely nothing to aid a situation; unfortunately, this was one of those times.

Gandalf was so absorbed in his reflection he almost missed a quiet voice speaking his name. "Gandalf." He quickly turned his attention to the bed, where Frodo lay looking at him wih bleary eyes.

When the hobbit knew he had the wizard's attention, he continued. "Where am I and what is the time?" he asked, a trace of humour in his hoarse voice as he cracked a small smile. Gandalf returned the smile, which quickly faded when Frodo unsuccessfully tried not to chuckle. The wheezing chokes that resulted brought Sam and Jael running, though Gandalf had control of things. One large hand on Frodo's back as the hobbit hunched forward, the other held a cup of water ready for him when he regained some mastery of his lungs.

Frodo sipped gratefully, then murmured "Thank you," as he flopped back onto his pillows and, shivering, pulled the blankets back up from where they had fallen in his lap.

"How are you feeling?" Gandalf asked, waving Sam and Jael back to their food. They went, reluctantly, the wizard's forbidding expression forestalling any argument.
Frodo answered miserably, "Can't breathe... cold..."

As Frodo spoke, Gandalf bent to pick up a quilt that had slid to the floor; he began to lay it atop the ill hobbit, but stopped mid-motion, and instead bundled it around Frodo as he smoothly moved him into his lap. Frodo felt the motion but didn't stop to think about it, too caught up in feeling cold and hot, like an unpleasant combination of being buried in snow and having his head too close to one of Mount Doom's fiery rivers. The memory made him shudder and break into a sweat even as the cold formed a band around his chest, squeezing relentlessly.

Gandalf could feel the heat of Frodo's fever even through the several layers of quilt he was bundled in and frowned. No wonder Frodo felt so cold! Though it was a good sign that he'd been awake and coherent; perhaps the fever was nearing its end?


When Elessar concluded the day's negotiations, he returned to the hobbits' room to find Frodo sleeping in Gandalf's lap and Jael and Sam changing the bed linens again. Once the bed resumed its dressed state, the wizard insisted that all three of them take a respite upon it, and he would mind Frodo. Jael was too worn to argue, Sam knew better than to try, and Aragorn tried anyway. But even the King of Gondor is no match for an Istari, especially one who yawns mid-argument.
Midnight found Gandalf thoughtfully chewing on his unlit pipe as the rest of the room's occupants slept. Well, three of them slept, and Frodo dozed; Gandalf doubted anyone could truly sleep while having to fight for every shallow breath. He had heard it said of this illness that its victims drowned in their beds, and now he saw the truth of it. At least the fever had stopped rising and Frodo's shudders had ceased.

But as Frodo stopped shivering, he also seemed to stop responding in any way to the outside world. Gandalf would frequently fold a cool cloth on the hobbit's forehead or wipe his face with it, and at first Frodo would respond with a small sigh or movement, but as time dragged reluctantly on, his responses grew more sporadic and eventually ceased altogether. His breathing remained as labored before, a darkening tinge of blue at his lips and the grey pallor of his skin evidencing his inability to perform such an ordinary activity.

Many times Gandalf found himself wondering if he should wake Aragorn, but stopped himself short. Everything was up to Frodo now, and rousing Aragorn from his much-needed slumber would be for naught.

The eastern sky began to lighten, the dark velvet of night giving way to the soft grey of predawn, and slowly the sleeping world started to stir. As the first shy birds twittered to welcome the sun, Frodo shifted slightly and answered the chirps with a sigh. Gandalf squinted in the diffuse light, discerning a decrease in the hobbit's pallor as he breathed a bit more freely than had been his wont.

When the weary wizard felt his small charge's forehead, he broke into a relieved smile. The fever had broken.

TBC (of course!) ;)