Frodo was leaning against Merry's shoulder, his eyes tightly closed and his cousin's arm wrapped about him protectively. Pippin was pouring cold water into a cup, before handing it to a still rather green hued Sam.
Aragorn settled upon the blanket before them, with a small smile. "What a sorry sight we have here." He intercepted the cup being passed to Sam and rummaged in his pack for a moment before adding a couple of drops of clear liquid. "Here, Sam. This should finally settle your stomach. Have something light to eat and then I want you rolled in your blankets and sleeping. We can afford to rest here until tomorrow morning."
When Sam glanced at his master and made to refuse the cup, the man frowned in a way all too reminiscent of Elrond. "I will accept no arguments, Sam. Frodo will be well cared for, you have my promise."
At his words, Frodo forced open his eyes, turning to his friend. His voice was thin but carried more weight because of it . . . the effort required to say anything at all more than evident. "Take it Sam. The others will look after me. I need you whole and hale."
The last words were the ones that finally shamed Sam into swallowing the drink. He would be more use to his master, if he himself felt better.
Aragorn turned his attention now to the Ringbearer. "What ails you, Frodo? I can feel a fever and I suspect you have a headache. Is anything else the matter?"
Frodo let his head rest against his cousin once more, squeezing his eyes shut against the harsh sunlight. "The headache is the worst."
Merry came to the man's aid . . . long used to his cousin's delicate ways of side-stepping when asked about any illness. In the first years after his parent's death he had heard that Frodo suffered many illnesses, intense grief making him an easy victim. By the time Merry was of an age to understand his older cousin, Frodo was a normal, healthy hobbit, but when he did fall ill he still hated to admit it.
"That's not what Aragorn asked, Frodo. And well you know it. This is not my mother asking about a dose of the sniffles. You are very poorly and we need to get you well as soon as possible. So stop trying to hide away and tell us what we can do."
Stung into compliance by Merry's admonition, Frodo straightened up and faced Aragorn squarely.
"I'm sorry, Aragorn. In truth I don't know where to start. I have an awful headache and I feel hot one minute and cold the next. I seem to have pins and needles in my hands and feet and my right foot feels sore. Although I suspect the soreness is nothing to worry about. I stepped on a thorn."
Aragorn ran his hand down Frodo's calf and took the right heel in his palm, lifting it gently while Merry supported his cousin again. What he saw there made him frown and he turned to where Legolas stood upon the branch of a long dead tree, surveying the land about them. "Legolas. Would you come here please? I think I need the benefit of your knowledge."
The elf leapt down lightly and knelt at Aragorn's side, with a gentle smile to the hobbit. The man lifted Frodo's foot into the light for Legolas to see. "Your eyesight is better than mine but I think I see a light rash on the sole around that small puncture wound. What do you make of it?"
Slender fingers ran across Frodo's sole so lightly that the leathery skin did not register the touch. Yet, a cool balm seemed to follow in their wake and Frodo sighed in relief. The sound of the elf's voice was as soothing as his touch, even though it was difficult to concentrate on the content with the pounding in his head.
"He has stepped in Fireleaf. It must have been the other morning, for I noticed a large patch near our campsite. It is a wonder he was not overcome sooner."
"Aye. Hobbits are stubborn creatures and Baggins' more so than most," Aragorn replied.
Merry could feel Frodo leaning more heavily on him and moved to draw him closer as Legolas lowered the injured foot. "Is it serious? You said it could make us very ill. How ill?" He stroked Frodo's arm, concerned when his cousin did not ask these questions himself.
Aragorn took one of Frodo's wrists in his fingers, counting the pulse there, so it was Legolas who replied.
"To a man or an elf it is uncomfortable and unpleasant, but I do not know how it will affect hobbits. Your bodies are smaller."
"On the other hand, as Frodo has proved before, he is stubborn and I do not see him surrendering readily," Aragorn replied.
Frodo found that he could no longer focus on the words, which wavered disturbingly in and out of his consciousness, because a strange burning sensation had started within his chest. He began to panic as it built and built but before he could voice his distress the world fell away. He tumbled slowly into Merry's lap, his breathing shallow and his face almost grey.
Pippin cried out in alarm, reaching out a hand in vain attempt to catch his cousin and for a moment all the others froze. Then there was a flurry of activity as Aragorn took control.
"Pippin, see to Sam. Legolas, set out Frodo's blanket and add any you can find from the other packs. Sam . . . go and lie down before that sleeping draught I gave you makes you fall over too."
Merry cradled his cousin tenderly as Aragorn thumbed open an eyelid and bent to listen to Frodo's chest. Sam still sat mulishly at their side, eyes fixed upon his master's still features. Pippin spread out a blanket and had to all but drag him up. "Come on, Sam. Aragorn needs all his attention on Frodo." That was all he needed to say to persuade Sam to allow himself to be shepherded away.
Soon Frodo was wrapped gently in blankets by Gimli's hastily constructed fire and Aragorn was in quiet conversation with Legolas while the two sorted through a selection of tiny packets and boxes from the man's medicinal supplies.
"I have seen Fireleaf, but never encountered its effects, firsthand. What are the symptoms of the poisoning?" Aragorn asked, glancing across to check that Sam was asleep.
Legolas followed his gaze, smiling as he watched Pippin trying to remove the jacket of a deeply asleep hobbit . . . no mean feat when noting that Sam had managed to regain all of his ample girth during their stay in Lothlorien and Pippin was the smallest of their group.
"The main symptoms are already evident. Fever, headache, tingling in the limbs and some loss of feeling in the extremities. There are more extreme cases, where they have worsened to cause a temporary light paralysis. Only once have I actually seen it progress that far, however, and the elf recovered well over two or three days."
Aragorn nodded, laying aside several packets and tinctures and closing his small herbal. "The paralysis worries me. Hobbits have proved themselves a hardy folk but in their smaller bodies that could lead to breathing difficulties."
The two returned to the fire, where Gimli was heating water in one of Sam's precious pans. Legolas wondered wryly what Sam would think of such a liberty, but then, as it was for his master's benefit, it was unlikely he would truly object. Indeed his only caveate would probably be that he was not the one looking after Frodo.
Satisfied that he had done all he could to help for the moment, the elven warrior returned to his post as lookout, exchanging a nod with a thoughtful Boromir as the man relinquished his recently acquired position atop a boulder.
At somewhat of a loose end, the son of the steward settled down nearby and began to inspect his sword, unwrapping an oiled rag from his pack and sliding it up and down the length of the weapon.
From his position at Frodo's side Merry shuddered at the slightly menacing sight. The keenly edged sword was almost as long as Merry was tall.