6. Unexpected Help

Iodaith slowly made her way through the forest. Back bent in weariness, leaning heavily upon her staff, the ancient woman stumbled onward beneath the rising full moon. A fox watched curiously as the woman passed, and from somewhere above her, an owl screeched.

Suddenly, Iodaith stopped, listening intently. A faint cry, almost inaudible, echoed eerily through the still forest. It was not a cry of fear or despair, but of pain, and it sent shivers up the old woman’s spine. Whoever had made that cry was in agony, and it tore her heart to hear it.

For she could guess who it was.

Without another moment’s delay, she turned and hurried northwest, in the direction of the cry, and at a speed that would have seemed impossible for a woman of her years. At first, she walked quickly, and then she was running, picking up her long black robes and running as swiftly as she could.

“Hold on, dear pheriannath,” she whispered as she ran. “Eru protect you.”

***

“Merry! Merry, wake up!”

The sound of Pippin’s urgent voice pulled Merry from the dreamless doze he’d fallen into unintentionally. He blinked several times to focus on the worried face of Pippin, bending over him. Pippin looked pale in the moonlight, and tears glistened on his cheeks.

Coming fully awake, Merry sat up. “What is it, Pip?” he asked in a whisper. Pippin did not have a chance to answer, however, for a sudden cry caused them both to turn quickly.

Frodo lay, covered in blankets beside the fire, tossing and turning deliriously, crying out as he fought the darkness surrounding him. He struggled to open his eyes, hearing the worried voices of his cousins around him. His head still throbbed painfully, and his throat was dry and raw feeling.

“Frodo? Frodo, can you hear me?” Pippin’s voice sounded muffled and far away, and Frodo tried desperately to answer. All he could manage was the slightest nod of his head, and even that brought a new wave of dizziness over him.

Frodo felt fingers pressing the side of his throat. “His pulse is too fast,” Merry’s voice sounded strained, as though he was holding back tears. “That’s what’s keeping his fever up.” Where did Merry learn so much about doctoring? Frodo wondered absently.

“Frodo, if you can hear me, nod your head again. Please.” Merry seemed to have gotten more control over himself and his voice was steady. Frodo concentrated all his strength and will on the simple command, and managed, with difficulty, to nod his head again.

“He’s awake!” Frodo felt Pippin’s small hands brushing back the damp curls from his forehead and moving down his face to rest on his feverish cheeks. “He’s so hot, Merry. It doesn’t seem as though that wet cloth is doing any good.” Cloth? What cloth? The hands went back up to stroke his sweat soaked forehead.

“Well, at any rate it helped a little.” Merry’s voice faded for a moment, as though he’d turned away. “Here, let’s try again.” There was a short silence. Try what again? Frodo wondered hazily, frustrated by the difficulty he was having in understanding his cousins’ conversation. 

Pippin’s hands were removed, and something was laid in their place on his forehead. A soft cloth. A wonderful, cooling, water-soaked cloth. Frodo sighed gratefully as the cloth was pressed over his forehead and face, bringing – even if temporary – relief from the fevered heat that burned through him.

“Did you here that, Merry? He sighed – it must feel good.”

“I should think so, with his temperature. Go and fetch my water bottle, will you, please? His is empty.”

“Half a minute.”

Frodo, his senses sharpening as his fever abated somewhat, felt Pippin get up and move away, while Merry continued to bathe his face and neck with the cloth. Frodo licked his dry lips as he concentrated on attempting to speak.

“Merry?” he managed at last, his voice sounding hoarse and unused to his own ears. He again felt frustrated at the energy it took simply to form words. The hands pressing the cool cloth to his forehead stopped, and Frodo heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Frodo?” Merry’s voice was soft, but Frodo could hear the eagerness in it. “Frodo, can you open your eyes? Try!” Frodo took a long while before even attempting to follow through with Merry’s request, recovering the strength he’d drained from struggling to wake fully.

Frodo concentrated all his strength on trying to open his eyes, but they felt leaden, and all he managed was a slight furrowing of his brows. He groaned slightly with frustration, and instantly regretted the action, for it caused the pain in his dry throat to double.

“Come on, Frodo, you can do it. Try, please!” Frodo felt Merry take his hand and press it hopefully, and he tried again to open his eyes. The pain in his head was increasing with every attempt, and he began to drift, unwillingly, back to the peaceful darkness.

Merry watched in hopeful suspense as Frodo’s brow furrowed slightly and his eyes fluttered. “Pippin, he’s opening his eyes!” he cried, trying to keep his voice low.

Pippin hurried over and dropped down beside Merry, taking Frodo’s other hand in both of his. “Come on, Frodo,” he pleaded. “Try! You can do it!”

Frodo’s eyes fluttered again, and this time opened just enough for them to see a glimmer of blue beneath the thick, dark lashes. But then Frodo gasped, and his eyes closed again. His hands, which had been clenched in the effort to open his eyes, went limp in Merry and Pippin’s hold.

“Frodo? Frodo!” Merry called hopefully, letting go of his cousin’s hand to feel his forehead. It was again burning hot to the touch, and Merry quickly replaced the wet cloth. “He must be unconscious again,” he mumbled, more to himself than Pippin. Then, turning to his younger cousin, he spoke louder. “Did you bring the water bottle? He must drink, no matter – Pippin, what’s wrong?” For he suddenly noticed how pale and quiet the boy was.

“I… I feel sick, Merry,” Pippin whispered, and Merry saw with alarm that he was trembling. “My stomach hurts and my throat hurts…” He trailed off and put a hand to his aching head.

Merry took both of Pippin’s small hands in his and leaned closer to his cousin. “Oh, Pip,” he said softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Pippin replied quietly. “Frodo is so ill, and you have to take care of him.”

Merry pulled Pippin into his lap and felt the younger boy’s forehead. It was slightly too hot, and beads of sweat were beginning to form, dampening Pippin’s golden curls.

“There isn’t much more I can do for Frodo right now,” Merry whispered. “And he’d never forgive me if I let you get ill, too.” He kissed the top of Pippin’s head. “Now, what did you say hurts?”

“My throat, and my stomach…” Pippin began, but suddenly his eyes widened and he stopped, swallowing hard. “Merry,” he whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. “I think I’m going to be sick…”

Merry didn’t have time to respond, for Pippin scrambled out of his lap and dashed into the bushes on the outskirts of the camp. Merry jumped up and followed, and knelt beside his cousin as Pippin retched. When he’d finished, Merry used his own sleeve to wipe his cousin’s mouth, and scooping Pippin up in his arms, he carried him back to the campfire.

“Here, Pip, rinse out your mouth,” he said gently, offering his water bottle and a bowl. After helping Pippin with that, he let the whimpering boy curl up in his lap again. Merry stroked his curls comfortingly and whispered reassuring words, remembering with a smile the time, six years before, when Frodo had done the same to him after a nightmare, gently consoling him and letting him cry onto his shoulder.

Within a few minutes, Pippin had fallen asleep, nestled in Merry’s arms. Merry gently laid him down onto his sleeping roll and covered him with the remaining blankets, before turning to check on Frodo. His older cousin had not stirred, and was still pale and feverish.

“You need water, cousin,” Merry murmured, taking in Frodo’s cracked, colorless lips. He lifted Frodo’s head a bit and trickled a small amount of water into his mouth, having to gently stroke his cousin’s throat to help him swallow.

On the next mouthful of water, Merry found with relief that Frodo was able to swallow it, weakly, on his own. He continued to carefully pour in small mouthfuls, occasionally having to help his cousin swallow, until about half the bottle was drained. Then, he gently let Frodo’s head back down onto the pillow, noting that his face did not seem quite so pain-filled as before.

Merry sighed sadly, brushing back a dark ringlet back from Frodo’s face. He turned to look at Pippin, who was peacefully sleeping beside him. He seemed to have improved since ridding his stomach of whatever was making him ill.

“What am I going to do, Frodo?” he whispered, more to himself than his unconscious cousin. “I can’t take care of both of you alone.” The tears he’d been holding back for Pippin’s sake suddenly burst forth, and he buried his face in his arms as he sobbed. He wished despondently that Frodo was awake and could comfort him, or Pippin, to cheer him up… he wished someone was there to help him.

Suddenly, as if in answer to his unspoken plea, he heard swift footsteps approaching. He looked up, and his eyes widened as he saw an old woman hurrying towards him, her black robes swishing about her, hood shadowing her face. He sucked in his breath sharply as he recognized her.

“Iodaith!” he exclaimed, flushing with anger as he remembered his earlier suspicions of the old woman. He quickly wiped the remains of his tears away and jumped to his feet as Iodaith reached the campsite and stopped in front of him, doubled over and gasping heavily for breath.

“What are you doing here?” Merry asked suspiciously.

The old woman recovered her breath and straightened. “What is wrong with them?” she asked, her blue eyes looking over the two ill hobbits.

“I don’t know,” Merry answered, still distrustful. “Pippin had a stomachache and threw up a few minutes ago, and then fell asleep. Frodo has a fever, but there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with his stomach.”

Iodaith looked at him sharply. “What did they last eat?”

“A soup that Pippin made.” Merry handed her the cooking pot, which had not yet been cleaned, and she dipped her finger inside and rubbed it around the sides of the pot. Bringing it out, she sniffed it and muttered something that sounded like a curse under her breath.

Quickly handing the pot to Merry, who set it down on the ground, she wordlessly walked over to Frodo and dropped down beside him. Stretching out her long, aged fingers, she felt for a pulse at the side of his throat and frowned.

“He is too hot,” she said, not even glancing up at Merry as she pulled back the blankets. “Did you not feel his fever?” Without giving Merry a chance to reply, she gestured impatiently to Pippin. “Make sure he is cooled, if he is ill also, as you say.”

Speechless with surprise, Merry automatically obeyed, pulling the blankets off Pippin, who began to tremble in the chill air. “What do I do now?” he asked worriedly, looking at Iodaith for help, despite his mistrust of her.

“If you would wait a moment, young hobbit, I will tell you,” Iodaith grumbled, effectively quieting him. She unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt halfway and placed an outstretched hand on his chest, closing her eyes and mumbling something that Merry could not hear.

Frodo gasped and struggled against her, his head tossing from side to side. Merry hurried over to his cousin and knelt beside him, stroking his feverish cheek in an attempt to comfort him. “What are you doing?” he demanded angrily.

The old woman’s eyes opened, but she kept her hand on Frodo’s chest, as though holding him down. “What does it look like I’m doing?” she snapped, fiery blue eyes flickering. “I’m trying to heal him! Now be quiet and let me continue.”

Merry shut his mouth with an audible snap and watched silently as Iodaith shut her eyes and began to chant again. Frodo struggled at first, as it seemed as though she was holding him down, although she applied no pressure with her hand. Indeed, her hand was barely touching him.

Presently, Iodaith opened her eyes and looked at Merry. “Get me some water."

While Merry hastened to obey, she pulled from somewhere in the great folds of her robe a small flask, filled with a golden liquid that seemed to glow. When Merry returned with a water bottle, she took it from his hands and opened her flask.

A sweet fragrance filled the air, easing Merry’s tension and stopping Frodo’s struggles. Merry closed his eyes and it seemed that the scent of lilacs and lavender, reminding him of his mother, floated around him.

Iodaith smiled and some of the lines of worry and care on her face were smoothed away. “Help me lift him,” she instructed Merry, but not sharply this time. They lifted Frodo up into a sitting position, and his head rested on Merry’s shoulder.

Iodaith pressed the flask to Frodo’s lips and poured just one golden drop into his mouth. Frodo swallowed slowly. Iodaith studied him closely for a moment, then poured another drop into his mouth.

Almost at once, Merry felt something change. Frodo’s fever began to diminish, and a hint of color touched his pale cheeks. It almost seemed, as Iodaith laid a hand on his brow, that Frodo glowed, faintly, with a soft golden light. Iodaith also seemed to shine, and as Merry watched, awestruck, it seemed that the long years on the woman’s face were washed away, and he beheld a fair young maiden. Her brilliant blue eyes remained closed as she chanted something once again that Merry could not hear or understand.

It was almost as though the two were speaking wordlessly to one another, for both were completely still, and Merry began to fear that Frodo was not even breathing. It seemed then that his fever was returning, and the faint flush began to fade from his cheeks again. Merry’s eyes widened in fear as his cousin’s breaths became labored, choking gasps, and his skin grew even paler than before.

“Lay him down,” Iodaith commanded quickly, her voice sounding as young as she appeared, but full of authority. Merry instantly did as he was told, and gently laid Frodo back down onto the bedroll, keeping one of his cousin’s hands in his own. Frodo did not show any signs that he was aware of the movement, and remained limp and unresponsive as Iodaith bent over him.

Iodaith’s glow intensified as she continued to chant, her voice rising. She bent down and pressed her forehead to Frodo’s, placing a long, slender hand on his chest. He gasped, and Merry, holding his hand, could feel his heartbeat racing.

As Frodo suddenly choked, Iodaith tilted his head back and covering his mouth with hers, blew one long breath into his mouth. Merry felt his pulse stumbling. Iodaith pulled back and looked at Frodo’s pale face. “Elbereth Gilthoniel!” she cried, and Frodo’s breaths began to lengthen and even out. His soft, golden glow returned, as though flowing from her hands, and Merry felt his heartbeat slow to a normal pace.

Color returned to Frodo’s face and his fever vanished just as suddenly as it had come. His glow, as well as Iodaith’s, faded, and again she was an old, aged woman. Pressing her forehead again to Frodo’s for a moment, Iodaith sighed wearily and straightened.

“Well?” Merry questioned hesitantly.

“He is asleep,” Iodaith answered tiredly. “You have nothing more to fear for him – I feared at first that he would not be able to endure my healing, but he has proved stronger than I’d thought.” She smiled wanly. “Now let us see to Pippin.”

Merry, eyes still wide with astonishment at what he’d just witnessed, followed her over to the bedroll where Pippin lay sleeping. Iodaith closed her eyes and placed her hands on his small forehead, then after a moment, looked up with a smile. “He is fine,” she said, stroking Pippin’s golden curls. “He expelled the poison from his stomach in time.”

“What made them so ill?” Merry asked, looking with relief down at his sleeping younger cousin.

“They were poisoned,” Iodaith answered. “From thornapple seeds, I believe. Young Pippin must have put them in the soup by accident.”

Merry’s face paled. “But Frodo didn’t get sick to his stomach – why is that?”

Iodaith tucked a golden curl behind Pippin’s small, leaf-shaped ear. “Frodo reacted differently to the poison. It was still inside him, but the drink I gave him has destroyed it.”

“What kind of drink was that?” Merry asked curiously.

“It is an Elf-drink,” Iodaith replied. “It is called laurëmîr, which means ‘Golden Jewel.' It is very precious, and no more than a few drops are needed.” She suddenly stood up. “But I must go,” she said. “Frodo and Pippin will recover, and I am no longer needed.”

Merry jumped up and grabbed her hand as she began to walk away. “Wait!” he pleaded. She turned to look at him questioningly, and he blushed and looked down. “I just wanted to say thank you, for healing them… and I’m sorry for distrusting you.”

Iodaith smiled and bent down. “I understand why you did,” she said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You were trying to protect your cousins – there is no need for you to apologize.” She stooped and kissed the top of his head. “Farewell.”

“Good-bye,” he said softly, picking up her large walking stick and handing it to her. “Will we see you again?”

Iodaith took a moment before answering. “Perhaps,” she said at last. “One day. Farewell.”

With that, she turned, and was quickly swallowed up in the night’s shadows. “Good-bye,” Merry whispered.

He stood there for a moment longer, staring after her, but then a noise behind him made him turn around. Both Pippin and Frodo were beginning to stir. The youngest opened his eyes first, and yawning, sat up.

“Merry?” he said, blinking.

Merry quickly came over and sat down beside him. “I’m here, Pip,” he said happily. “How are you feeling?”

Pippin rubbed the remaining sleep from his eyes and grinned. “Besides being hungry, I'm fine.” His smile faded. “But how is Frodo?”

Merry smiled and turned to look at their older cousin. “He’ll be fine now,” he said with a sigh of relief. Patting Pippin’s hand, he got up and went over to Frodo’s side.

Frodo’s eyes fluttered slowly open, and he propped himself up on his elbows. “Merry?” he said, a little hoarsely.

Merry’s face broke into a grin. “How are you feeling, Frodo?” he asked, taking his cousin’s hand and finding with relief that it was no longer burning with fever.

Frodo sighed. “Tired,” he said, laying back down. “And hungry.”

Merry laughed happily. “I’ll make you both some tea,” he announced, standing up. “It must be nearly midnight now – a bit late for supper, don’t you think?”

“It’s never too late for supper!” Pippin declared. They all laughed, and Merry silently thanked Eru for sending Iodaith to them as he listened to the wonderful sound of his cousins’ laughter.

TBC...