Disclaimer: The characters and all places mentioned in this story are the work of the master JRR Tolkien, and I but wish to emulate him in my own small way. Also I am aware of the formatting problems and am working on them, so please bear with me. Thanks.

Smoke and Mirrors, Chapter 2

Frodo was trapped between a dream and a nightmare. He was trapped in a small room with orcs, they had drugged him with a thick, pungent brew and he was in torment. Amidst these thoughts niggled a sliver of hope. He had dreamed he had heard and seen Aragorn, but not the Aragorn he had known. This Aragorn was regal, dressed in fine cloth and with him had been a soft-spoken servant with gentle hands. They had tended his wounds and bathed him in lavender scented water. But then there was the pain, excruciating pain making him feel like every nerve in his body was on fire. He tossed feverishly feeling the stiffness of his neck and back. A sob escaped his lips and the vision of Aragorn and his kind servant was replaced with fire, smoke and the ever present ring swirling in a dark mist. It was just a trick of the ring, trapping him. Another lonely sob escaped his lips, his friends were not with him and Sam, oh Sam, where were you? How I need you, he thought. He had to somehow make his escape to destroy the ring before it destroyed all he loved and held dear. He could feel its icy claws grasping and tearing at his soul. He felt weak with despair. How could he destroy the ring when it was now so much a part of his very being? He clenched his jaw --he would destroy the ring even if it meant jumping to his own doom.

Saleth sat by Frodo's bedside weary beyond measure. They had used the medicinal teas but still his fever raged and his body spasmed with pain. Heaving a sigh, Saleth called an orderly and sent for the King.

When Aragorn arrived Saleth recounted all that he had done with no success in alleviating the illness that plagued the ringbearer. Aragorn approached and knelt by Frodo's bedside. He reached out, placing his hands on either side of the hobbit's flushed face, and ran his hands down the thin neck and back then back up again to the base of his head causing the small patient to moan. "I fear he has a sickness that is often deadly. I have seen it in children mostly, but it can happen with anyone. It starts with an infection and then moves into the brain causing pressure and acute pain." He turned towards the healer with a look of dread in his eyes. "There is no cure. It is called by my people 'brain fever' and most of its victims die after suffering delirium and an all consuming agony within a few short days...sometimes only hours," he finished in a choked voice.

"I too have had some experience with this malady. I have found that sometimes, strict bed rest, medicines for pain and fever, liquids and a constant vigil are successful. A most frustrating illness where the healer is helpless except to make the patient as

comfortable as possible and hope he has the strength to overcome it," sighed Saleth.

"This one has great strength. I would give him all of mine if I could. He will need physical strength as well, to overcome this. We must get some liquids and nourishment into him, as well as the medicinal teas," murmured Aragorn. Aragorn seemed lost in thought of how best to approach Frodo's treatment, and rose with a determined look on his face. "I will need a sturdy broth, slightly thicker than those typically fed to invalids. Do you have a funnel and small reed?"

"Of course, my Lord. We have many such devices to feed those who cannot -- or will not swallow. It is unpleasant at first, but serves well to give medicines and nourishment. Most are made of soft woods, some of leather or pond reeds," said Saleth.

"Very well. Procure the necessary materials and we will try to rebuild his strength in whatever way we can," sighed Aragorn. He glanced over at the other hobbits, and gasped. Merry and Pippin were clutching at each other, tears streaming down their faces. How foolish he felt, to discuss the probable death of their cousin in front of these two innocents.

"Has he come so far to be lost to us now? Can you do nothing to save him?" Merry's voice quavered.

"Please tell us...will he die?" whispered Pippin.

Aragorn quickly crossed to the hobbits and drew them close to him. "He may, my friends, but we must have faith and we shall fight this together. You must be strong for him, talk to him as he sleeps and let him know he is not alone. You also need your strength and rest to help serve Frodo". Both hobbits looked up at the King and nodded slowly. Broth and bread were brought and they ate slowly, sniffling and watching their cousin. Then sleeping draughts were dispensed to insure rest. Finally they finished eating and drinking and Aragorn tucked each of his friends in, kissing them lightly on their curly heads and watched as their eyes slowly closed as they slept. "I will return in 1 hour to start the procedure," said Aragorn.

"My Liege, I can do this, you need not bother yourself," replied Saleth.

"It is no bother. I want to take care of this little one". His gaze settled on Frodo. "He is my dear friend whom we owe so much, this least of all."

Saleth bowed. "As you wish, my Lord, we will be ready." Saleth arranged all the needed supplies along with the broth and teas on a clean cloth by Frodo's bedside. He was weary and needed rest. He thought to sit down for a moment while he waited for the King. He chose a chair in the corner of the room to continue his vigil and slowly his eyelids drooped. He began to nod, finally falling into a restless sleep. It would be something he would long regret ever happening.

Frodo regained consciousness slowly. He was groggy and his vision blurry. Trying not to turn his head, he cautiously allowed his eyes to roam about the room. There was a guard on duty sitting in a corner to the left of his bed. He had apparently, fallen asleep on his watch. Frodo carefully slipped his feet over the edge of the bed (what orc would have covered him so, and placed him in a bed? he wondered). He tried to stand but was overcome with a wave of dizziness and the same stabbing pain in his head, and sank to his knees. His whole head felt like it would explode. It was that foul brew they had forced on him, he thought. He was certain that this was what was causing his pain and the sickness he felt now. His stomach rolled, and he swallowed several times to squelch the nausea rising in his throat. He knelt there for some time trying to stay the combined effects of the brew, and then slowly looked around causing his head to swim and the room to pitch. He spied his cloak and scabbard along with Sting still lying within it, on a chair 4 or 5 feet away. (Why would an orc leave him his sword? He mused.) Undeterred, he crept slowly towards the chair, trying to quell the vertigo, silent as only a hobbit could be. He risked a glance across the bed at the sleeping guard while reaching out for the cloak and blade. It fell with a clatter that seemed to reverberate through the room. Frodo gasped in surprise and ducked lower behind the bed. The guard's eyes snapped open and fell immediately on the empty bed.

"Frodo? Master Hobbit?" he called softly. He rose quickly and moved to go to the other side of the bed and caught his breath at what he saw. The Ringbearer was braced against the bed, his face and hair plastered to his head, his nightshirt soaked thru with sweat. His eyes were rimmed with red, and dark circles lay below them. He clutched at his chest, his small hand clasping the medallion the Lady Evenstar had placed around his neck. He clasped it so tightly that the edges had cut into the small hand, drawing blood that now dripped freely onto the dirty nightshirt. His whole body was a quiver and his lips dry and split. Saleth instinctively reached out to him to try and bring him back to bed.

"Come, Master Holbytla, you are so very ill, let us get you bathed again and give you something cool to drink," murmured Saleth.

"Back...Do not touch me," rasped Frodo, as he back-crawled towards the corner of the room. To Frodo, in his delirium, he clasped the ring, not the Lady Arwen's pendant. The Ringsong he heard in his head combined with a rushing noise that seemed like thousands of people whispering. It was so loud, he wanted to cover his ears and block it out, but he refused to lower his guard. He was determined to make his escape. His hand was bundled with gauze and it was cumbersome to hold the sword, but he grasped it anyway and swung it towards the guard—the point, bare inches from Saleth's chest as he knelt in front of Frodo. "Back...NOW, or I'll run you thru," he cried. Saleth slowly rose and backed away, watching in horror as Frodo took the sword and sliced, none to gently, through the hand wrappings. Quickly he unraveled the hand and grasped the sword properly. He grimaced as he curled his fingers including the stub, around its hilt, but did not drop the sword. He slowly tried to stand, inching from the floor up the wall. When this was complete he stood awhile, his body trembling violently from the weakness, pain and fever. "Go over there," he rasped, pointing back across the bed towards the chair. Saleth slowly backed towards the chair and Frodo circled towards the door, panting and stumbling along the wall. Saleth spoke in soothing tones about how he meant him no harm and only wished to help him, but Frodo would have none of it. "Cease your talk, I have nothing more to say to you. I will not be held any longer. The Ring must be destroyed," he whispered. His throat was so dry, his tongue felt so thick that he couldn't even swallow.

"Frodo, you already destroyed the ring. That which you clasp so tightly is the pendant given to you by the great Lady Undomiel," Saleth spoke softly. For the barest flicker of a second Saleth saw doubt in the Ringbearer's eyes.

"No, it is the One Ring--my mind, nay, my soul is completely bent to its will. There is no hope for me, but there is still hope for Middle Earth. I must go to the cracks of fire and throw it in, or die trying," he sobbed. Tears tracked down his face and he moaned as his soul and body were rent with the shear magnitude of his task and, ultimately, his fate. He backed along the wall, legs quivering, into the corridor. Somehow he had to get out and resume his climb up the mountain. Saleth slowly crossed the room and walked out into the corridor. His charge stood a mere arms span away from him, eyes glazed, leaning his face against the wall.

It was so cool, Frodo thought, so pleasant. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the guard approaching, hands held up and out. Saleth tried to look as passive as possible hoping that the strength the ringbearer was finding, from where he knew not, would ebb and he would be able to carry him back to his bed. Frodo turned, the corridor pitched and blurred. He felt his mouth fill with saliva and tried to quell the feeling but could not. With a gasp a sudden fountain of vomit shot out of his throat. He moaned and black specks moved before his eyes. His mouth tasted of bile and bitter tea. Saleth made to catch the swaying ringbearer but a sudden spark lit the hobbit's eyes. A burst of adrenaline coursed thru him, causing him to grasp the slipping sword and stab at his attacker. Saleth cried out in pain and grabbed at his wrist. A long deep cut lay open his left palm. Frodo backed clumsily away before he could be attacked again. Saleth's cry had alerted another healer who charged into the hall behind him and quickly caught the healer as he sat down hard. Frodo continued to move backwards, panting and gasping, his body weakening in the aftermath of the rush of adrenaline until be bumped up against something strong and unyielding. He risked a glance over his shoulder eliciting another stab of pain.

"Frodo...I was just coming to see how you were doing, my friend," smiled Faramir. The smile wavered as he took in the site of the bloody corridor, the wounded healer and the total lack of recognition in the obviously sick hobbit's eyes. "Frodo? What has happened here?" He reached out to grasp the swaying hobbit. Frodo's sword was rimmed with bright blood, his right hand, bleeding profusely, still clutched determinedly to the hilt of his small sword. No trace of recognition could be found in his glazed blue eyes, only fear and revulsion.

"No, leave me be," he gasped, clenching his mouth tightly. He raised the small blade and stabbed the blade into the stunned Steward's thigh.

"FRODO! Agh!" cried Faramir fell grasping his thigh. But Frodo was already moving unsteadily towards the open gate of the houses of healing, adrenaline once again spurring him on and out into the night.

To be continued…