Disclaimer: All the settings and characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. These drabbles and ficlets are my way of working out or interpreting ideas and concepts already present in The Lord of the Rings. This is done for enjoyment, and for sharing, but not for profit.

Author's Note: These two ficlets were written in 2004. The first (a drabble, with elements from the movies) was for Ana_stasia's birthday while the second was for Febobe (Frodo Baggins of Bag End). I have a few more drabbles that have h/c elements, but they have a little more of the comfort in them while these two have a little more of the hurt in them.

Chapter 9: Rough Healing

Kingsfoil

The hobbits stop their ears, for Frodo’s cry is a Ringwraith’s: a thin tearing sound. Strider crushes leaves with his fingers. Whatever other virtues the plant might have, the Ranger knows this: it helps draw poison forth. But as astringents often do, it stings and burns.

He presses the pulp to the wound.

But Frodo cries out only once, in his own voice. As Strider binds the leaves to broken skin, Frodo’s eyes silently thank him.

For though the pain was not eased by the hands of a Ranger, the wraith call was foiled by the herbs of a king.

Resolve

Frodo sits awkwardly, his legs stiff and straight in front of him.

"Now, sir," says Sam, "we could do this the difficult way or the easy way."

Frodo shakes his head. "I know, Sam." He lies face down and holds out his hand.

Sam nods slowly, smiles, and hands Frodo the cloth.

It is a difficult thing for two hobbits to steal noiselessly through the green yet dangerous land of Ithilien, but the damp of the Dead Marshes has been insidious. It has stolen in during long marches and left its victim in agony at night. Frodo knows this well, and daily his knotted and aching legs bear testimony. But when Sam's strong and unyielding fingers dig ruthlessly into spasm-hardened calves, Frodo cannot help but cry out. Gollum, bidden by his master to do so, holds him down. Curious eyes gleaming, he watches as Frodo writhes.

Sam admires Frodo for the rational acceptance of rough healing, but is a little afraid of that unreachable stern core that will not allow anything, or anyone, to hinder the Quest. But when Frodo sits up once more and removes the cloth from his own mouth, the resolute Ring-bearer is no longer there. Instead a weak and trembling hobbit, the kind and grateful master of Bag End, gingerly props himself up against his backpack. And so Sam cannot help but look forward, each day, to this transformation. He cannot help but look forward to these moments of giving pain.

Sam covers Frodo with both Elven cloaks and holds him close.