22. Fire and Ice

"Fever… rising… soon… another…"

Frodo was pulled out of the painless oblivion in which he had been drifting by the sound of voices murmuring above him. He struggled to clear his strangely hazy mind and remember what had happened the last few hours, feeling a vague fear at the difficulty he had in organizing his thoughts. But he realized that sunlight was streaming onto his face, warming it pleasantly, and slowly he deduced that several hours had past since the last time he had been awake—though what had happened then was a blur of pain and fever. All he could remember was waking up to find himself resting in Sam’s gentle arms, his head cradled in Sam’s lap. After that, all was one long feverish nightmare, filled with searing pain and terror.

Frodo shuddered slightly, not wishing to dwell on those memories. He dragged his mind back to before his last awakening, and sought to discover how much he remembered of the night before. He was annoyed to find his normally quick mind so slow and muddled.

But at last another memory was stirred up, of the peaceful moments before he had fallen asleep—the last time? Or was it before? There had been a storm, hadn’t there, and Bilbo had come into his room and comforted him. But what was Sam doing there?

Frodo struggled to piece together his thoughts and come up with an answer, but all he could produce for his efforts were vague images of a wolf, and a Man, and little Hazel running through a dark forest…

Frodo was on the verge of fully remembering the events of the past night, but a sudden, sharp pain in his side interrupted his thoughts. Abruptly the sun seemed far too hot on his face, and beads of sweat began to form at his temples. He tried to lie as still as possible, hoping that the pain would go away, but instead it grew worse.

Everything began to drift into a confused blur; at the back of Frodo’s mind was the vague realization that his fever was rapidly rising and that he was becoming delirious, but that was soon forgotten as a thick fog seemed to envelop his mind, shrouding his thoughts. The only clear thought that still survived was of Bilbo’s gentle face, and he clung to it desperately, as the fever rose and the rest of his mind became a distorted haze.

A slight shifting from the previously motionless form in the small bed interrupted the soft conversation between Faramond and Gavin. They turned quickly to see Frodo moving restlessly, a feverish flush growing on his ashen cheeks. The two Men noiselessly knelt down at his bedside, and Faramond cupped Frodo’s small face in both hands, frowning at the rising temperature he felt.

"It is starting again," said Gavin—quietly, so as not to wake the exhausted Sam who slept in a chair by the bed. It was not a question.

"Yes." Faramond sighed deeply, running a hand worriedly through his black hair. "And, like as not, worse than the last bout." He glanced out the round window through which the afternoon sun streamed brightly through, illuminating the small room with a soft yellow glow.

"Close the curtains, please, Gavin," said Faramond wearily, turning back to Frodo and gently stroking back the now sweat-dampened curls from the small forehead. "The sun will only cause him more discomfort."

Gavin wordlessly obeyed, and soon the white window-curtains shut out most of the sun’s brightness, allowing only a dim, harmless light through.

"How many more bouts of this can Frodo bear?" asked Gavin softly, returning to kneel beside Faramond. "He has already had three that I have witnessed—soon to be five, counting all—and each worse than the last—" He was going to say more, but a gesture from Faramond silenced him.

The older Ranger bent closer over Frodo, looking intently at the small, thin face. "He said something," he whispered in explanation. "Or tried to. I am sure of it." Hardly had he spoken when Frodo’s cracked lips did indeed move, soundlessly forming a single word.

A slight look of weary irritation grew on Frodo’s face as he swallowed and tried again to form the word. This time, he almost succeeded—a whisper that was no more than an exhaled breath. But it was coherent enough for Faramond to understand it, and the Ranger's face filled with pity.

"Bilbo…"

"What did he say?" asked Gavin, leaning closer to hear.

Faramond glanced at the young Ranger. "He is trying to call for Bilbo, his kinsman, who, from what I understand, adopted him after his parents’ death." He lowered his head, biting his lip with worry and frustration. "I had hoped the fever, at least, would abate by now." He sighed. "Gavin, please go refill the basin of water and fetch a fresh cloth from the dresser over there."

Gavin quietly rose to do as he was asked, and Faramond sat on the edge of the small bed, careful not to disturb either hobbit. His hands still cupped Frodo’s face, which was now drenched with sweat and burning hot to the touch.

Faramond stroked the droplets from Frodo’s eyes, and then bent closer to examine the injury in the hobbit’s side again. The nightshirt was unbuttoned, so he had only to pull back the coverlet and the fabric of the shirt to see the wound clearly. Running his fingers lightly over the stitches, he found without surprise that the area was even hotter than the rest of Frodo’s body, and had a slightly red, irritated look. It was to be expected, he knew, and nothing to be overly concerned about. At least the stitches showed no sign of coming loose again. He sighed once more and covered the wound back up with the nightshirt, but left the coverlet back; Frodo needed to remain as cool as possible, with his fever rising.

Frodo was stirring more and more beneath Faramond’s hands as they examined the injury and then returned to his face, soothingly brushing the sweat-soaked ringlets back from where they had plastered themselves to his flushed cheeks and forehead. Abruptly, Frodo cried out softly, trying to turn over on his side and double up, and then stopping instantly as the movement sent searing pain through his body. Faramond could see him shuddering weakly with each wave of agony.

"Oh, Bilbo," Frodo groaned hoarsely, finally able to speak, "not again."

Faramond sighed, wishing fervently that there was something he could do to ease Frodo’s pain and bring down his fever. But he knew that there was not; for now, all he could do was to watch and wait, and comfort Frodo as much as possible.

"Frodo," he whispered, bending closer so that his lips almost brushed against the leaf-shaped ear, "it is I, Faramond. Bilbo is not here right now, but I am—right here beside you, and so is Samwise. You need not fear; this will not last long, and then we can give you something to drink and you can rest once more."

Frodo evidently heard what he said, or at least part of it, for he swallowed and gave a small, slow nod. The next moment he turned his face into the pillow, his whole weary body stiffening as he fought to bear his pain in silence. As the pain steadily worsened, he doubled up as best he could despite the agony it caused him, still keeping his face buried in the pillow to smother the cries that he could no longer keep back.

Faramond could do little but whisper reassurances, though he doubted Frodo could hear him now, and try to comfort him while the fit lasted. The previous two had not lasted more than a few minutes, and though each was worse than the one before, the duration of the bout remained nearly the same.

Gavin stood nearby, having silently placed the cloth and basin on the bedside table. He was unsure of what to do now, and it seemed that Faramond sensed it; for the older Ranger turned briefly to look at him and give a little shake of his head, conveying with his expression that there was nothing to be done.

Sam started awake as Frodo’s half-smothered cries of pain grew louder, and after blinking confusedly a few times, he sprang up and rushed to Frodo’s side. Without a word, he instinctively climbed up into the bed, and sitting himself against Frodo’s back, he bent over his master and took one of his hands in his own. Frodo gripped his hand so tightly it was painful, and Sam, softly murmuring words of comfort, soothingly stroked his master’s sweat-soaked face and hair. It was obvious that Frodo sensed a familiar presence, for he relaxed slightly, but he was in too much pain to recognize exactly who it was.

It was nearly two hours later, mid-afternoon, when Frodo began to show signs of waking after the last bout of fever. Faramond had stumbled off for a much-needed rest with the promise of returning later with a pain-relieving tonic for Frodo; he had thought it best to wait until he was sure that Frodo’s system had recovered from the large dosage he had been given the night before. Gavin had decided to stay and keep watch over Frodo along with Sam, adding that he would go to fetch Faramond if Frodo worsened.

Frodo had just begun to stir when the door opened quietly, and a small hobbit-lad entered, shutting the door soundlessly behind him.

"Hazel!" Gavin exclaimed softly. "I thought you were resting."

"Hazel-lad," Sam added, "you should be in bed. You had such a time of it yesterday…" He trailed off, knowing that it was useless arguing - the expression of white determination on Hazel's face was all too familiar.

Hazel crossed the room to stand next to Gavin. "I’m not tired anymore, Uncle," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I couldn’t stay in bed one minute more without knowing how Uncle Frodo was fairin’."

Sam sighed. "He’s just startin’ to wake up," he said. "But if he doesn’t do it soon I reckon I’ll have to wake him up myself. He needs to drink somethin’, with that fever of his."

Hazel walked over to the bed and climbed up to sit on the other side of Frodo. He looked closely at Frodo’s face, noticing that though it was deathly pale, his cheeks were still flushed. What that meant he wasn’t sure, but on feeling his uncle’s face with one small hand, he recognized the signs of a fever—a high one, at that. He frowned and touched the scratches on Frodo’s cheek, finding that they were healing quickly. That was one piece of good news, at least.

Gavin stepped closer to the bed and touched Hazel’s arm. "Come, Hazel," he said softly. "Come sit with me over here. There is nothing we can do until he wakes up."

Hazel sighed and reluctantly allowed Gavin to pick him up and place him in his lap as the Man settled against the wall close to the bed. Though he would not admit it, the boy was still dreadfully shaken and frightened over Frodo’s state, and he took comfort in the Man’s sturdy presence.

Frodo was slow in waking, and he seemed almost completely exhausted; he opened his eyes for a moment, but then with a wince he shut them again to go back to sleep. Within a moment, his breathing had deepened, evening out again.

Sam bent down closer to his master, taking both of Frodo’s hands in his and rubbing them lightly. "No you don’t, Mr. Frodo," he said softly. "You can’t go back to sleep yet—you’ve got to drink something first. Wake up, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo frowned as Sam’s voice called him back to wakefulness, and turned his face into the pillow. Despite his worry, Sam couldn’t help but chuckle a bit as he remembered that his master was more obstinate than all of the Gamgees put together, when he had a mind to be. "Now, now, Mr. Frodo," he chided, "you must wake up. I know you’re tired, but just drink a bit an’ then you can go back to sleep. Please, Mr. Frodo."

Frodo gave a heavy sigh and reluctantly forced himself awake. He started to turn over on his side but a sharp, stabbing pain there stopped him. He groaned softly in as much frustration as pain and abandoned the attempt, resigning himself to his current position on his back.

Seeing that the movement had caused Frodo pain, Sam was instantly all gentle concern. "Don’t try to move, Mr. Frodo," he warned needlessly. "Just lie still for a moment. There. Are you all right now, Mr. Frodo?"

"Sam." Frodo’s lips were dry and cracked, and it obviously hurt to speak, but Sam heard the reassurance that was put into that one word—as well as the hint of irritation at being forced to wake up—and he could not suppress a relieved grin. He let go of one of Frodo’s hands to reach over to the bedside table and dip a cloth into the small basin of water, and then he ran it gently over his master’s lips.

"Don’t tire yourself too much, sir," said Sam softly, cutting off Frodo’s attempt at thanking him. "I’ve got a cup of some nice, cold water for you here, if you like." He watched his master’s face hopefully. To his relief, the thick lashes begin to flutter and then Frodo’s bright eyes opened, halfway at first; but after closing briefly, they opened again, fully. Suddenly it seemed to Sam that it had been a long, long time since he’d last seen them.

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo whispered, smiling gratefully. "I’m dreadfully thirsty."

Sam’s own grin broadened; his master’s smile, however wan, seemed to brighten the room immediately. "I expect you would be, Mr. Frodo, what with your fever," he said cheerfully, placing the cloth back into the basin and reaching for the cup filled with water.

Hazel suddenly climbed up carefully but quickly onto the bed; Sam had completely forgotten anyone else’s presence in the room. "May I help you drink, Uncle Frodo?" the boy asked hopefully. He turned to Sam without waiting for a reply, seeing that it was he who would answer. "Oh, please say yes, Uncle Sam! I want to help!"

Sam glanced at Frodo, who was smiling again, and ruffled Hazel’s brown curls. "O’ course, Hazel-lad," he said. "I’ll sit behind him and you hold the cup. Don’t give him too much at a time now, mind," he added unnecessarily, as he carefully slid behind Frodo, lifting his master’s shoulders gently and supporting him against his chest.

"I’ll be careful, Uncle Sam," Hazel promised seriously, taking the cup. He hesitated a moment, abashed at the notion of tending to his adult "uncle" like a child. Frodo saw his expression and managed a weak laugh.

"Don’t look so timid, Hazel," he teased. His voice was hoarse and quiet, but cheerful nonetheless. "I’m the one who has to eat and drink this way, remember. But there isn’t anything I can do about it at the moment," he added fatalistically, with a sigh; "I can hardly lift my arms at all, let alone hold a cup without spilling. It’s certainly a nuisance, but nothing for you to feel so awkward about."

Hazel grinned at him, his confidence restored, but his relief faded when he saw Frodo close his eyes, exhausted from the simple act of reassuring him. The boy pursed his lips and glanced up at Sam, who nodded for him to continue.

Carefully, Hazel touched the rim of the cup to Frodo’s lips, and when they parted obediently he poured a small amount of water into his mouth, slowly so that his uncle did not choke. His discomfort was forgotten as he helped Frodo take cautious sips of the water until Frodo turned his face away, unable to drink any more. Hazel showed Sam the half-empty cup and his uncle nodded his approval.

"No more for the moment, Hazel," Frodo murmured wearily, opening his eyes again. "Thank you. You were getting quite good at that." He grinned weakly.

Hazel giggled slightly while Sam carefully maneuvered out from behind Frodo, gently settling his master back against the pillows. "How’re you feelin’, Mr. Frodo?" he asked, taking Frodo’s hand. He frowned, puzzled, upon feeling its temperature. "You seem a bit cool, though it don’t make sense with that fever o’ yours."

Frodo sighed tiredly and forced a wan smile. "I am a bit cold, actually, Sam—I haven’t felt warm since last night; other than that, though, not so bad as before, I think. The water helped a good deal. But I still feel horribly worn out, even with all the sleep I’ve had. It’s beginning to become frustrating now," he added ruefully. "I’d like to stay awake for more than ten minutes at a time!"

Sam smiled sympathetically and patted his master’s hand. "Well, you still have a fair bit of recoverin’ to do, Mr. Frodo," he said, "and you’ll never get better if you don’t sleep." Frodo sighed, not cheered, and Sam chuckled. "But half a minute, master," he added. "I’ll make a bit o’ tea for you to drink later, if you’ve a mind. It’ll warm you up right proper. And maybe it’ll help keep you awake longer, too."

"Thank you, Sam," murmured Frodo with a more genuine smile, closing his eyes. "That might do the trick. I hope something will keep me awake—I already feel like falling asleep again!"

"I’ll take care of Uncle Frodo," Hazel promised sincerely. Frodo opened one eye and his smile broadened in amusement and Sam chuckled a bit.

"I’ve no doubt you will, Hazel-lad," agreed Sam, sliding carefully off the bed. "I won’t be more’n a few minutes. Try to get some more rest, Mr. Frodo, so you’ll be able to finish the tea when you wake up," he added with a glance at his master. "The more sleep you get, the faster you’ll recover!"

Another martyred sigh from Frodo was the response to this cheerful reminder, and grinning, Sam quietly shut the door behind him.

Hazel scooted closer to Frodo and took his hand in both his small ones. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, Gavin, unnoticed by everyone until now, appeared at the bedside. Frodo opened his eyes to blink in surprise at the unfamiliar Man.

"You must be Faramond’s companion," he said, smiling with pleasure that he was able to remember and think clearly again. "I’m sorry, I don’t think I learned your name."

"Gavin Rushlight, at your service," Gavin introduced himself politely, nodding—as he was already bent over because of the low ceilings and did not have room to bow.

"Rushlight?" Frodo’s eyes brightened with curiosity and he woke up a bit more. "That is Faramond's surname as well, is it not? You are kinsmen, then?"

Gavin blinked, as though puzzled by the question, and then smiled suddenly. "No, not kinsmen. Faramond stayed with my family earlier this year and when we left together he took on the name Rushlight so that we might pass as brothers and thus receive fewer questions. Rangers are a rather secret group," he explained for Hazel's benefit. "That is, many people know of us, but very little about us, and we try to keep it so."

"Why is that?" Hazel asked curiously.

Gavin obligingly went into several more minutes of explanation, and once Hazel was satisfied there was a brief pause. Then Frodo remembered something.

"Rushlight is a northern name, is it not?" he asked. At Gavin's nod, he added, "You must be from Bree, then?"

"I am indeed," replied Gavin with a smile. "But I did not know that you were familiar with my home. Have you been there?"

"No, unfortunately. But my uncle, Bilbo, visited Bree several times and I learned a great deal about it from him. I do hope to see it someday—it sounds like a very interesting place."

Interesting was probably a very apt word, Gavin thought wryly, remembering the crowded, dirty streets, the noise, the tall houses packed closely together along the cobblestone roads. But there were good, beautiful, fascinating things in Bree, as well. "It certainly is," he said aloud. "There are festivals, traveling minstrels, mapmakers, the town square with all its shops and wares, and several book-sellers—do you enjoy reading?"  

Frodo nearly sat up straight, his eyes widening in excitement at the mention of books. "Very much!" he said, the dull pain in his side stopping him from getting too enthusiastic. "For as long as I can remember I’ve loved to read. Books are…" he paused, and after considering for a moment, decided that there was no way to put into words what books meant to him. "Do you like to read?" he asked instead.

Gavin could not help but smile at the suppressed eagerness he saw in Frodo’s blue eyes, but he shook his head. "I regret that I have never been able to find much time for reading—although when I do, I greatly enjoy books, as well. Not many in Bree appreciate such pastimes, nor can many read at all, but my parents always encouraged my brother and I to read."

Frodo smiled again, but closed his eyes for a moment as weariness began to set in again. "I can relate," he said, dragging his eyes back open. "Not many hobbits have the interest—or ability—to read, I’m afraid. It’s a pity though…" He sighed, and then turned to look at Hazel, sitting silent beside him. "What about you, Hazel-lad?" he asked. "You’re nearly old enough to be learning your letters."

Hazel blinked. "Well, Uncle," he said slowly, "my da doesn’t… doesn’t quite know his letters."

"Oh, yes, I remember. But I’m sure that Sam would enjoy teaching you, or if your parents could ever spare you for a visit to Bag End, I should like nothing better, myself."

Hazel’s eyes lit up at the thought of being able to enjoy books as his uncle and Gavin talked about, and wondered briefly why not many hobbits could read, since books seemed to be such wonderful things.

Gavin spoke up. "I shall most likely be leaving tomorrow," he said, "but until I do, I would be pleased to teach you what I can."

Hazel all but clapped his hands in excitement. "Oh, yes!" he cried. "I’d surely love it, Mr. Gavin! When can we start?"

"As soon as Faramond and Sam return, I think," said Gavin with a smile, pleased to have thought up so enjoyable a distraction for Hazel. "And we shall have to ask your father’s permission, of course."

"He’ll say yes," Hazel said confidently. "I know he will."

A silence came over the room as each fell into their own thoughts. Then, Gavin broke it. "I think, Frodo, since you are awake, I shall fetch Faramond," he said. "He has a pain reliever for you."

Frodo winced at the thought of drinking more of Faramond’s pain-relieving but also sleep-inducing herbs, but it would be a relief to have the horrible agony lessened, however little, during the next bout. He shivered involuntarily at the thought.

"That’s probably a good idea," he said tiredly, letting his eyes fall shut; "I feel about to go to sleep right now."

Gavin smiled sympathetically. "Then I shall hurry. Hazel," he added, "you must keep Frodo awake until Faramond returns. Can you do that?"

"Yes sir," Hazel replied cheerfully.

Gavin smiled again and walked to the door. Just as his hand touched the knob, however, it turned, and the door was pushed open—nearly hitting Gavin in the face. Faramond entered, holding a small cup of dark, earthy-smelling liquid.

"Oh, did I hit you, Gavin?" he said, shutting the door behind him. "Forgive me, I did not see you."

"Er, that's all right," Gavin replied, blinking in surprise. "I was just going out to fetch you."

"Were you? Has Frodo worsened?"

"No, I have not," Frodo answered, opening his eyes. "But I’m about to fall asleep again, and Gavin decided that it was easiest to give me whatever dreadful brew you’ve been concocting while I am awake."

Faramond laughed, walking over to the bedside and sitting carefully on the edge of it. "Well, you seem to be feeling better," he said, laying one hand on Frodo’s small forehead and feeling the temperature. He frowned suddenly. "Frodo, your fever is still present, but"—he slid his hand down to touch Frodo’s cheek, and then his neck and chest—"the rest of you feels chilled. Are you cold?"

Frodo nodded after a moment’s hesitation. "Actually, I can’t remember feeling warm except during and after those… spells." He paused, puzzled. "But I do feel colder than before, yes."

Faramond frowned. "So soon?" he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. He shook his head and raised his voice. "I will see what I can do to keep you warm. But first," he held up the cup, "I have brought you this. It will ease your pain."

Frodo made a face, but did not protest. Faramond was surprised and concerned at the lack of resistance, and paused for a moment. "It will also send you to sleep," he added, looking for a spark of Frodo’s usual obstinacy. "And I fear I cannot sweeten it for you."

"I know," Frodo sighed resignedly, "which is why I would like to get it over with. I’m not going to argue with you, if that’s what you’re waiting for. I’d rather be asleep and numb than awake and… otherwise." He swallowed and looked with another grimace at the cup in Faramond’s hand. "But are you sure you can’t sweeten it a little?"

Faramond laughed, relieved to find that Frodo was not going to be completely passive. "I am sorry, Frodo," he said, shaking his head. "But I fear I cannot. I will be quick, though, and Sam is coming shortly with some tea for you." He turned to Gavin. "Will you help me, please? Prop him up for me." He laughed at the look of irritation on Frodo’s face at being unable to sit up by his own strength, but the hobbit did not protest further.

Gavin felt awkward and unsure as he sat on the edge of the bed and carefully lifted Frodo’s shoulders up, settling him against his chest. He looked up at Faramond for a sign of approval and was rewarded with a smile and a nod.

Once Frodo had finished the tonic, one slow, bitter mouthful at a time, Faramond settled him back against the pillows and felt his forehead. "Your fever is rising again," he said with a sigh. "It seems that this tonic came none to soon." He gave a small smile of reassurance as he felt Frodo give a slight shiver. "Do not fear, Frodo. If this next bout will just wait a bit, the pain reliever will take effect."

Frodo nodded, but his face paled. Faramond pressed his hand briefly and then got to his feet. "I will go speak to Jessimine," he said, "and send Samwise in with the tea."

Suddenly Hazel, who had withdrawn unnoticed when Faramond entered, came forward and tugged on Faramond’s sleeve. "What about me, sir?" he asked. "What can I do?"

Faramond smiled and bent down to the child’s height. "I will need you to keep Frodo as warm as you can and make sure he doesn’t fall asleep until he has had some of Sam’s tea." He put his hand on Hazel’s small shoulder and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "And try to keep his spirits up. Talk to him, or tell him a story. He might feel a little frightened. Can you do that for me?"

Hazel nodded gravely. "Yes sir," he said earnestly, glancing worriedly at his uncle. "I won’t let him get frightened—he was talkin’ with Mr. Gavin earlier, about Bree, an’ maybe Mr. Gavin will keep tellin’ us about it."

Faramond smiled and gave Hazel’s shoulder a light pat. "Good lad," he said, raising his voice to a normal tone. "That will be perfect." He turned his smile on Frodo, who returned it, though wanly. "I shan’t be more than ten minutes."

He received obedient nods from everyone, and with a returning nod, he turned and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

"Mr. Gavin," said Hazel cheerfully, as soon as Faramond was gone, "will you keep tellin’ us ’bout Bree?"

Gavin glanced briefly from Hazel to Frodo and understood. "Very well," he agreed, sitting himself down on the floor against the wall facing Frodo’s bed. Hazel clambered up on the bed and sat beside his uncle to make sure he did not fall asleep. But there seemed no immediate danger of that—Frodo opened his eyes and his face brightened eagerly.

Gavin smiled at his enthusiastic audience and settled against the wall, his long legs stretched out comfortably. "Shall I tell you about the Midyear’s Festival that takes place in the Town Square?"

Hazel clapped his hands. "Oh, yes, please!" he exclaimed excitedly. "It must be very much grander than our festivals here in the Shire."

Gavin grinned at him. "Bigger and grander, perhaps," he said, "but I doubt if they are more enjoyable. The Midyear’s Festival is the only one of the year in Bree. I should like to attend a Shire-festival someday."

"The biggest festival here is at Yuletide," said Hazel. "Michel Delving has the biggest, but Hobbiton has the best, my da an' mum an' my Uncle Sam say. There are booths full of toys and candies to buy, and dancing, and a pie-eatin’ contest! Me Uncle Hamson was in the pie-eatin’ contest one year, and he got to six pies before he finally dropped out!"

"From what I know of hobbit-appetites, that does not surprise me," Gavin laughed. "There is also a pie-eating contest in the Bree Midyear’s Festival, and it is usually a hobbit who wins. There are also games and races with prizes to win, booths full of toys, trinkets and fresh-baked treats for sale, and a Maypole*."

"What’s a Maypole?" Hazel asked curiously. "I don’t think we have one of those here."

"Not in Bindbale, maybe," Frodo spoke up, "but in Hobbiton we do. It’s a wooden pole with long ribbons of all different colors attached to the top. Everyone dances around it while holding onto a ribbon, and braid all the strands together around the pole. It’s great fun—I shall have to bring you along to the Midyear’s Festival next year."

Gavin nodded. "It has always been one of my favorite parts of the Festival," he agreed. "But my very favorite part are the minstrels who come and sing on a wooden platform in the center of the Square, where all can see." He sighed, visualizing the minstrels, gaily dressed in bright tunics and feathered caps, strumming their lutes, harps or lyres and singing in clear, melodious voices. "They sing tales from Gondor and sometimes even out of the South, or merry hobbit-songs from the Shire. Once there was even a minstrel all the way from Dol Amroth, he said, and sang us a song in Elvish."

Frodo’s eyes widened and despite his growing fatigue and chill, tried to sit up, unsuccessfully. Abandoning the attempt, he settled for asking Hazel to prop up the mound of pillows so that he could lean against them. "Thank you, Hazel. I did not know that many traveled from Dol Amroth into the Western lands," said Frodo. "That must have been extraordinary! I should have liked to see and hear him."

Gavin smiled, his eyes sparkling with excitement at the memory. "It was indeed wondrous," he said. "There were some who distrusted him for his skill in the Elven tongue and his strange appearance—" Frodo snorted at the foolishness of some people—"for he was very fair, with long dark hair and grey eyes, and his clothes were strange." He glanced at Frodo for a moment, and then continued. "He carried a harp that he said was very ancient. He told me that it was of Elf-make and came from a place called Beleriand."

"Beleriand!" Frodo exclaimed in astonishment. He stopped abruptly and winced at the pain that erupted in his side, relaxing again against the pillows. "More and more extraordinary! Oh, I wish I had seen this minstrel for myself. What was his name?"

"He said that it was Endymoin," said Gavin, pronouncing the strange word carefully. "Besides his Elvish song, he also sang tales that no one had heard of before—tales of Númenor, especially. And he traveled with an old woman," he added upon sudden recollection, "who told us more Númenorian tales at the Inn one night. She was very learned, perhaps even moreso than the minstrel himself."

"Did you learn her name?" Frodo asked breathlessly, thinking of another old woman who was learned in Númenorian lore.

"I did, but it was as strange as Endymoin. Ioreth, or Iodaith…yes! Iodaith. That was it."

"Iodaith," Frodo repeated in amazement. And yet somehow he was not surprised; the woman he had met months before near the Three Farthing Stone had struck him as being a wanderer and incredibly learned—perhaps she was even one of the Wise. It was not surprising to hear of her traveling with one from Dol Amroth.

"Do you know of her?" Gavin asked in surprise.

"I met her once," Frodo said, coming out of his thoughts. "Early this Spring. She is a remarkable person."

Gavin nodded. "She is," he agreed. "She was held in awe by everyone in Bree—including those who scorned Endymoin—and we were all saddened when she left with the minstrel the next day."

"Did she say where they were going?"

"She said only that they would part company soon and she would continue West while Endymoin traveled back East to pass through Gondor and return to Dol Amroth."

Frodo shook his head in admiration for the wise, strong old woman who had saved his life and recounted tales that even he, with all his knowledge learned from Bilbo, had never heard of. As he had then, he wondered briefly if Iodaith wasn’t half-Elf. Descended from the ancient Númenorians, certainly. Suddenly he thought of Gandalf, his twinkling blue eyes and gruff, no-nonsense exterior, his wisdom and kindness, and he realized that Iodaith was very like the dear old Maia.

"Are you all right, Uncle Frodo?"

Hazel’s voice brought Frodo out of his thoughts and he realized that he had been silent for some time. He smiled. "I’m fine, Hazel," he assured the boy. "I was just thinking about—" He abruptly broke off with a gasp, his face going white, as he felt a sudden chill stab into his side.

Hazel immediately bent closer over his uncle and worriedly took his hand. "What’s the matter, Uncle?" he cried. "What is it?"

Frodo closed his eyes a moment, recovering his breath. "It’s… nothing, Hazel," he gasped. "Just a shiver. I’m all right now."

Hazel put on the same expression Sam always wore when he knew that Frodo was not admitting the whole truth about his condition. "No you’re not, Uncle," he said firmly. "You’re feelin’ badly again, I can see that plain enough. Should I go fetch Mr. Faramond?"

"No, no," Frodo said hurriedly, not wanting to trouble Faramond any more than was necessary. "There’s no need. I’m—" He gulped as another cold shock of pain shot through his side. He felt beads of sweat start on his forehead despite his growing chill, and shivered involuntarily as he realized that the bout was coming too soon—Faramond’s pain reliever would not have time to work.

"All right, perhaps you’d better," he consented, trying to sound light-hearted. He forced a small smile.

Before Hazel could even slide off the bed, however, the door opened and Sam came in, carrying a cup of warm tea. "I’m sorry to have taken so long, Mr. Frodo," he apologized cheerfully, setting the cup on the bedside table. "Jessimine wanted to talk with me an’—lawks! What’s wrong, master?" He suddenly noticed Frodo’s strained expression and white face, and glancing up he saw that Hazel’s face, too, was pale and worried. He climbed up on the bed beside Frodo and took his master’s hand. "Dear me!" he exclaimed, sucking in his breath sharply at the chill he felt. "You’re cold as ice!"

"A surprise of the infection’s making, I suppose," Frodo managed to joke through chattering teeth. "Not one of its more pleasant ones, either."

"I’ll go fetch Mr. Faramond," Hazel said, hopping off the bed.

"Good lad, Hazel," Sam agreed without taking his eyes from his master. "And you might want to bring your mum, too."

Hazel nodded and dashed out of the room. Sam laid the back of his free hand to Frodo’s forehead and frowned. "How can you be so cold when you’ve got such a fever?" he wondered, taking his master’s other hand in his. "It’s like that Fire Snake poison…" He trailed off, shaking his head as if to dispel those unpleasant memories. "Don’t worry, Mr. Frodo. Mr. Faramond will know what to do."

"I’m sure he will," Frodo murmured, closing his eyes as he felt the chill spreading through his body even as the fever rose. He felt suddenly exhausted.

Sam watched his master for a moment, biting his lip worriedly. Then he reached over to the bedside table and picked up the cup of tea. "Here, Mr. Frodo," he said, "drink some o’ this tea. It’ll warm you up."

Without waiting for a reply, Sam moved closer and sliding one hand behind Frodo’s head, gently lifted it and lightly touched the rim of the cup to his lips. He froze for a moment, struck dumb by his own boldness towards his master, but his own commonsense reminded him that Frodo needed to drink the tea, for his own good.

Frodo dragged his eyes open, blinking rapidly against the exhaustion that blurred his vision, and looked suspiciously at the contents of the cup. The tea was still quite warm, and smelled wonderful; homey, somehow, reminding him of Bag End. The thought was comforting, and without protest, he closed his eyes once more and obediently opened his mouth.

Sam was again struck dumb with surprise, but then he smiled, relieved that his master was not going to fight him. He pressed the rim of the cup to Frodo’s parted lips and tipped it, carefully, so that he could take a cautious sip.

Frodo held the tea in his mouth for a moment, tasting it, and recognized it suddenly as a blend of ginger, peppermint and chamomile, sweetened with a touch of honey. He swallowed slowly, enjoying the warmth it brought, as he remembered that Bilbo had used to make the same tea for him whenever he had come down with a chill or a fever. He was able to smile slightly at the memory, and boyishly licked his lips to get as much of the honey off them as he could, his smile broadening as he thought of how Bilbo would chuckle whenever he did that. For once, thinking of Bilbo did not cause the usual ache in his heart, and Frodo was able to rest peacefully in the comfort of his memories.

"There you are, sir," said Sam softly, pleased at the reaction and watching with satisfaction as Frodo continued to take more slow sips, "that’s right. Drink all you can, master; it’s sure to put some warmth back into you an’ make you feel better."

It was a pleasant surprise for Sam when Frodo was able to finish nearly half of the tea, and he did not urge his master to drink more. He set the cup down on the table and laid Frodo back down against the pillows. Frodo smiled again, licking his lips once more to get the very last of the honey off them. "Thank you, Sam," he whispered. With the soothing warmth of the tea inside he felt more ready to sleep than ever, but his weariness was not so sharply edged as it had been before. Now he felt safe, mercifully numb, and tired.

Gavin, hesitating for a moment, stepped forward to the bedside and laid his large hand on Frodo’s forehead. "Frodo," he said urgently. "You must stay awake."

Frodo forced open his eyes in surprise at the unfamiliar touch. His sense of peace began to vanish at the reminder, and it seemed like some of the warmth he’d gained from the tea was already diminishing. "Gavin," he said softly, not expecting an answer or even really wanting one, "what is wrong with me now?" He immediately regretted the remark—‘I may feel dreadful,’ he decided, but I’m not going to complain about it. They worry enough as it is.’ With that resolution, he pressed his lips firmly together and prepared himself for the torment he knew was to come, hoping that if he anticipated it, he would find it easier to bear it in silence.

Gavin’s strange brown-grey eyes were filled with genuine concern. "I do not know," he said honestly. "But I think that it might be an effect of Wolf Bite, as you guessed." He removed his hand abruptly, as though suddenly realizing that it was still resting on Frodo’s forehead, and straightened. "Whatever the cause is, Faramond will know," he said confidently.

Sam sighed as Frodo lost his struggle to keep his eyes open and he saw his master set his jaw against a wave of pain. "I hope you’re right, sir."

~*~

A sword, double-edged and bitterly cold, seemed to have been thrust into his side. Deeper and deeper, with each wave of pain, twisting cruelly and sending fire coursing through his body, until the torture was too great to bear and he drifted in dark oblivion for a while.

But far too soon the pain brought him back to consciousness, or what he thought was consciousness; at least he was awake enough to realize that the icy sword was still buried in his side, so deeply that only its hilt showed. Frodo wanted to reach down and pull it out, but the slightest movement seemed to cause the sword to bite deeper, spreading its chill through his body.

Frodo opened his eyes to find that the entire room had suddenly became bare and empty, and everything seemed to be colored red and black, like flames and shadows. And after a moment some of the flames and shadows took on a shape; a great, black, horned creature with fiery-red eyes and fire flickering beneath the shadow that covered it like a cloak. All at once the sword was held by one of the creature’s strong, clawed hands, which began pushing it deeper into Frodo’s side once again, twisting it slowly, agonizingly, and laughing horribly all the while. White-hot flames from the creature’s hands shot down the blade and into Frodo’s side, clashing with the deep chill and struggling without success to overpower it.

Frodo closed his eyes and set his teeth, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened and his fingernails drew blood from his palms. Sweat poured down his face, but he shivered violently as the ice of the sword and the fire of the creature battled against the other to win possession of him. The creature laughed at his pain, but it stopped driving in the sword. Frodo did not look up, but pressed his eyes more tightly shut, readying himself to bear more torment, which he knew would be coming.

And more torment was not more than a few seconds in coming. The creature, silent now, wrapped both clawed hands around the hilt of the sword and pulled. Ripped it all the way out, twisting it horribly as it did so.

Never in all his life had Frodo felt such burning, piercing agony, and he screamed. He could not help himself. White spots swam before his tightly shut eyes, and he felt as though the bed he was lying on had begun to spin and lurch, though he hardly noticed the dizziness it caused. The pain coursing through him overwhelmed his senses so that he only felt, thought, and breathed the horrible, relentless torment. He did not feel the tears mingling with the sweat pouring down his face, did not feel the blood begin to trickle from his lips as his teeth bit into them.

Eventually, the fire-creature and the sword disappeared, and at last, mercifully, the pain became endurable, and Frodo was allowed to fall gratefully into unconsciousness again.

~*~

Though Faramond and Sam were silent and grim-faced, Frodo’s scream—filled with such unimaginable, indescribable agony—had brought tears to both of their eyes, and they still coursed down Sam’s cheeks. But neither looked at the other until Frodo’s deathgrip on Sam’s hand loosened, and his tense body began to relax. His breathing, which before had come in quick, wounded gasps, deepened and evened out. He uncurled himself carefully and turned his cheek against the pillow, breathing a soft, ragged sigh as he fell into an exhausted sleep once more.

Jessimine stood in a corner of the room by the bed, her face hidden in her hands and her shoulders shaking. When silence fell over the room, she dropped her hands and used her apron to wipe the tears from her face, stoically composing herself. Beside her, Gavin let out the breath he had not known he was holding, reflecting briefly that he was intensely glad that Jessimine had sent Hazel out earlier. "Is it over?" he asked hesitantly, approaching the bed.

Faramond sighed and, reaching over to the bedside table to dip the washcloth into the water of the basin, he began to stroke Frodo’s hot face with it, gently wiping away the blood from his broken lips. "Yes, Gavin, I believe it is over." He handed the washcloth to Sam, who continued to cool his master’s face with the utmost tenderness. "I believe that it was the last of them."

Faramond’s words, spoken cautiously, hung heavily over the room for a moment as hope slowly began to build in everyone’s hearts. Jessimine’s face brightened with a smile of joy, her eyes still filled with tears. "The infection has run its course?"

Faramond was wary of giving false hope. "I am not entirely sure," he warned, "but I believe that that will prove to be the last bout. The fever rose dangerously high—higher than I have ever seen it—during the worst of it, and it is nearly gone now." He felt Frodo’s sweat-drenched forehead to be sure. "But it is not quite the last of the Wolf Bite itself. The chill he has been feeling will now deepen and linger for the night, I think, but once it has gone, that will be the very last."

Everyone was silent, considering his pronouncement with mingled hope and caution. Faramond glanced down at Frodo, whose pain was quickly subsiding, causing him only an occasional wince when he drew too deep a breath. The Ranger thought that the torment he had just been through—shown in his half-smothered scream—must have been the greatest that any mortal could bear. He felt confident that that had been the peak of Wolf Bite’s malice, and things could only improve now.

Sam glanced at him only briefly, his face pale and tear-streaked, before turning back to his master. "How did he bear all that?" he murmured, half to himself as he gently wiped away the sweat beaded on Frodo’s now cool brow. "He’s been so brave, tryin’ to stay quiet even when he’s in so much pain."

Faramond gently laid his hand on Sam’s small shoulder. "You are right, Sam," he said softly. "I did not tell you for fear of upsetting you, but Wolf Bite is often fatal. Not many are strong enough to battle it. Frodo has astonished me with his strength and endurance, and I am very hopeful that his recovery will be swift. Although," he added in a slight attempt at a jest, "I think you will have your work cut out for you to keep him abed and resting."

Sam managed a soft chuckle. "Aye," he said, drawing his sleeve quickly across his eyes and then continuing to gently stroke Frodo’s face with the cloth, "stubborn as a mule, he is, when he’s of a mind to be." He sighed, looking down at his master’s face, still fairy-like despite its deathly pallor. "But you come to love him for that."

Faramond gave Sam’s shoulder a light pat. "I already have," he said with a smile. "Frodo is deserving of great respect. Not many Men would have faced a wolf their own size so courageously. Nor would many have survived such an infection." He straightened and dropped his hand. "Gavin," he said, turning to his companion, "I think that Hazel would enjoy your company out in the parlor. He’s liable to pace a hole in the floor worrying about his ‘uncle’ Frodo if he does not hear of him soon." His expression warned him not to give false hope to the boy, and Gavin nodded.

"I will go to him right away," he said, smiling. "I promised to teach him some of his letters, too. That might be a welcome distraction for him." He looked at Jessimine for permission.

The hobbit-lady clasped her hands. "Oh, you dear!" she exclaimed. "That would be wonderful. I’ve wanted him to learn his letters, but neither his father nor I know them ourselves. And it’s just the thing to keep his mind off worrying."

Gavin’s smile widened, and nodding hastily, he hurried out of the room, his cheeks pink with pleasure beneath his sun-darkened skin as he repeated in a whisper to himself, "Dear!"

TBC...

Sorry for the delay with this chapter... life's been hectic lately and I'm only just getting back into my old routine. So hopefully the next chapter will not take as long! :)

Oh, and I should give a shout out to Kenobi from fanfiction.net, who gave me the idea for the name Endymoin from her own story, "Fields of Rain." It’s a wonderfully written, suspenseful, Frodo-filled ;-) AU and if you haven’t read it yet, you really must!

* I’m not sure if the folk of Middle-Earth would actually use the word "Maypole," since they do not have a month called May (and I believe the term Maypole itself comes from its use in celebrating May Day in England—must look that up one of these days—please correct me if I’m wrong), but quite honestly I couldn’t come up with another word for it. Maybe a Thrimidge-pole? That seems a bit long, though—oh, well…