Stories of Arda Home Page
About Us News Resources Login Become a member Help Search
swiss replica watches replica watches uk Replica Rolex DateJust Watches

Smoke and Mirrors  by lovethosehobbits

Chapter 2

Frodo was trapped between a dream and a nightmare.
He was being tormented in
a small room by orcs and they were pouring a thick, pungent brew
down his throat. He struggled; even going so far as to spit the mixture back
into the face of the leader. He was surprised that he hadn't been beaten
for this action and it seemed to only make the being more determined
at giving him the gagging brew.Amix 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 burning and stabbing at him, making him aware of every nerve in his
body. He tossed feverishly his movements quelled only by the stiffness of his
neck and back. A sob escaped his lips and the vision of Aragorn and
the servant was replaced with a familiar one of fire, smoke and the ever present
ring swirling about him 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 icey claws
grasping and tearing at his soul making him 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
his own doom.

Saleth sat by Frodo's bedside weary beyond measure. They had
repeatedly bathed him, applied the tincture and dosed him with the
medicinal teas. Still The Ringbearer's fever raged,his body spasming with the
pain. Heaving a sigh, Saleth called an orderly and sent for the King.

When Aragorn arrived Saleth recounted all that he had done to try and alleviate
the pain and 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.
The infected usually die 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 sometimes 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 overome 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," the King sighed. He glanced over
at the other hobbits, and gasped.
Merry and Pippin were clutching at each other, tears streaming down
there 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
quickly.
Broth and bread were brought and they ate slowly, sniffling and
watching their cousin. Then sleeping draughts were dispensed to
ensure rest. Finally they finished eating and drinking and Aragorn tucked
each of his friends in, placing a hand lightly on each curly head as he
watched their eyes slowly close in sleep.

"I will return in 1 hour to start the procedure," said Aragorn.

"My Leige, 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. Caring for
him is the least we can do, and I do it gladly."
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 began to droop until finally he fell into a
restless sleep. It would be something he would never forgive himself for.

Frodo
slowly regained consciousness. 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 kind of orc
would have covered him so, and placed him in a bed with such care? 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 the foul brew they had forced on me,
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
rising nausea. 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 his
sword within easy reach? he thought in confusion).
Silent as only a hobbit could be he crept slowly towards the chair,
trying to quell the vertigo and nausea. 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.
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 quivered and he licked at his dry
and split lips. 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.
Frodo, in his delirium, 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 guaze and it was cumbersome to hold the
sword but he grasped it just the same as he 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 through," Frodo 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 unravelled 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, sliding from the floor up the wall.
When this was complete he stood awhile, his body trembling violently
from 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 swallow.

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

"It is the One Ring and my mind... nay, my soul has been 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 is 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 the Ringbearer would would ebb
enough that he would be able to carry him back to his bed.
Frodo turned causing the corridor to
blur and pitch violently. He felt his mouth
fill with saliva and tried to quell the nausea unsuccessfully. With a gasp
a sudden fountain of vomit shot out of his throat. He moaned as
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 through him. He
grasped the slipping sword and stabbed at his attacker.

Saleth cried out in pain and clutched 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 which elicited 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 yet still clutching determinedly the hilt of the
small sword. No trace of recognition could be found in the glazed blue
eyes, only fear and revulsion.

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

"FRODO! Agh!" cried Faramir falling backwards as he grasped at 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.









<< Back

Next >>

Leave Review
Home     Search     Chapter List