Chapter Two - In the Rooms of a Ring-bearer

“You are just angry because Sam and I put those disgusting things on your plate and you had to eat them,” Frodo asserted. “I’m not taking any nasty potion because we bested you at the banquet.”

“Elrond is not sending a tonic for me to give to you because you played a trick on me, Frodo,” Aragorn replied with iron patience. His stomach chose that moment to roil unpleasantly, and Aragorn wondered if there wasn’t a small grain of truth in the hobbit’s accusation. If there was, he had no intention of admitting it. “I am giving it to you because you are running a temperature and you don’t look well.”

Frodo crossed his arms and straightened his shoulders, his back rigid against the soft pillows adorning his oversized bed as he glared at his friend. Refusing to be intimidated, Aragorn gazed back with one eyebrow slightly arched. “I knew you were not well when you left the banquet early. You never leave when the Elves are preparing to sing.”

Frodo stared implacably. “I am not sick. I want to get up.”

“No, Frodo,” the King said as patiently as he could. “It was most unwise of you to walk all the way to the Tombs of the Stewards today. The houses of the dead are no place for the living. Why did you go there?”

Frodo looked away. “I wanted a little peace and quiet.” Before Aragorn could question that, Frodo switched subjects. “You let Sam wander all over the city!” he flung at the King.

“Sam is wise enough to take care of himself, and does not seek to exceed his strength.” Aragorn settled himself at the hobbit’s bedside. “Merry told me you almost fell when you tried to stand. How long have you felt unwell?”

“I am in excellent health, thank you.”

Looking at the feverish hobbit, Aragorn feared that Merry was right and Frodo had taken ill from his unauthorized excursion beyond the palace gates. Frodo was very pale except for two bright red spots burning in his cheeks, and he was perspiring and shivering both. Aragorn had ordered the fire built up in the hobbit’s apartment and now the flames crackled and snapped like a miniature bonfire. And still Frodo trembled, and fought to conceal it. The King’s gaze darkened as Frodo sniffed and fought back a cough.

“You are not,” Aragorn contradicted flatly. “You are certainly catching a cold, at least.” Frodo glared. Seeing he would receive no concession, Aragorn sighed and continued, “I have an ointment for the scars that will help ease their aching. What Elrond is sending is a—"

“Strengthening cordial or tonic,” the hobbit interrupted in a weary voice, closing his eyes, “and I’m not going to take it. I am fine. I would be better if you would leave and let me get some sleep.”

“Merry told me they found you sitting on a tomb,” Aragorn said, ignoring the suggestion. “And Pippin said you were reading a book on burial customs. Why?”

Frodo did not answer for a moment. When he did, his voice was level. “I am in a new place. I wished to learn about Gondorian customs.”

“Funeral customs?” Frodo’s eyes opened at Aragorn’s tone, and the King was aware his voice had sharpened with worry. He tried to soften it. “Why, Frodo?”

“It is of no importance. I do not wish to speak of it.” Frodo shrugged, apparently involved in looking at the crackling flames.

“Why?” Aragorn persisted, aware that he could awaken that Baggins stubbornness all too easily. All hobbits were obstinate, the King had decided long ago, but Frodo’s mule-headedness was becoming legendary. He would get nothing from the hobbit that Frodo was not willing to give him. Frodo remained silent.

Aragorn reflected dourly that he could not have the saviour of Middle-earth whipped. The people of Minas Tirith would never allow it, to say nothing of Sam and Frodo’s cousins and the other members of the Fellowship. Gandalf would understand, though… With an effort, he pulled his attention back to the matter at hand. Very well, then. None of the Company were present to defend the Ring-bearer from his healer, and Frodo could scarcely refuse him.

He withdrew from the pocket of his formal robes a small leather sack. Frodo made a soft sound of disgust, but chose to forgo the battle when Aragorn merely looked at him. “All right, all right,” the hobbit admitted. “Putting those sickening things on your plate was an unkind thing to do. I suppose I do owe you for that. I will not fight you.”

“Thank you, Frodo.” Aragorn squeezed out a thin line of cream onto his finger before the hobbit could change his mind. “Turn over, please.” With a grimace, Frodo did, nestling into the pillows on his stomach and reaching up to hold up his hair obediently out of the way.

Aragorn rubbed the salve over the dark, puckered pit at the back of Frodo’s neck, careful not to press too hard. The spider-bite had discoloured the skin as well as roughened it, but Frodo claimed it no longer hurt. Aragorn did not doubt that this was why Frodo was letting his hair grow; the dark curls now tumbled past his shoulders. Sam had clucked his disapproval and made several pointed suggestions, but Frodo ignored him. Aragorn understood. The hobbit was not vain, but anyone would seek to cover such a disfigurement.

Frodo flipped back over and allowed him to rub cream into the small, shiny scars where Frodo’s mithril mail had been forced into his chest by the Cave Troll’s spear. The spear point was still evident as a triangular indentation in the hobbit’s chest, with smaller scars surrounding it where the mail had cut. Injuries long healed.

The savaged hand was not healed. Frodo spread his fingers helpfully but Aragorn felt the hobbit tense as he gathered the small hand into his own. “Still tender?” he asked.

“Yes. I keep starting to do the simplest things, and it feels like a knife is driven into my hand. I suppose it will toughen with time.” Aragorn examined the knitting wound carefully, conscious always of how easy it was for infection to set into the wound of an amputation. The new skin was still red over the stub, thin and fragile. But there were no signs of infection … this was not the source of the fever plaguing the hobbit, then. Frodo sighed in relief and sagged back against the pillows as Aragorn released him.

Last he set the salve against the cold, white mark on the hobbit’s shoulder and began to rub it in as gently as he could. The Morgul-wound was still cold to the touch, a strange white scar, and Frodo turned his head away as Aragorn examined it, suddenly anxious and withdrawn. “Relax, my friend,” Aragorn murmured. “I am trying not to hurt you.”

“I know,” Frodo whispered back. “I just hate to have it touched. I always feel…”

“What?” Aragorn pressed gently. He raised his other hand to lay it over the hobbit’s forehead. It was hotter than it had been. The fever was rising. Frodo closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the coolness against his brow. Then he grimaced, reluctantly answering the question put to him.

“The pain never leaves it completely. I am aware of it, always. I do not want anyone to contaminate himself by touching it.”

“Contaminate?” Aragorn was confused. “Frodo, such a wound is not contagious.”

“The evil within it is,” the hobbit whispered.

Ah, thought the King. Now we come to it. “Frodo,” Aragorn began, “you must not—” The hobbit averted his face.

Aragorn leaned across the bed, shifting into Frodo’s field of vision, refusing to be ignored. “Frodo, talk to me— please. That you are in pain from more than physical wounds is obvious to me, and to those who love you. Sam has spoken to me, as have Merry and Pippin. They know that some unnamed hurt or fear gnaws at you.” 

Frodo’s face had gone still and remote, his indignation at the forced medical attention washing from him. Aragorn could almost see doors clanging shut behind those extraordinary eyes.

“Gandalf has seen it, too, Frodo. As have I, and Legolas and Gimli and those who have come to know and love you. Why are you walling yourself away from us?” Frodo was rigid, trembling with suppressed emotion.

A knock at the door interrupted them. Aragorn squeezed the hobbit’s shoulder, then rose and accepted a silver tray from a servant. Upon it sat a delicate vial, stoppered and sealed, filled with lavender liquid. The servant bowed and left.

“Elrond’s tonic,” Aragorn said with satisfaction, resolving to continue their conversation after the tonic had been downed, whether Frodo wished to or not. He broke the seal and extended the graceful bottle towards his patient. “This will make you feel better, my friend.”

“I assure you it will not,” Frodo replied, inching up apprehensively on the bed, his eyes locked on the tonic as it were poisonous. “Truly, Aragorn. I speak from experience.”

“Frodo, I do not wish to argue with you. Take it or I will ensure that you take it.” 

Frodo’s eyes narrowed as the King held out the vial.

* * *
The King of the West leaned against the outside of the closed door and exhaled explosively.

Gandalf pulled the pipe from his mouth and blew a smoke ring, watching it idly as it slowly dissipated in the still air of the corridor. “How is he?”

“Infuriating,” Aragorn said briefly. “It is a battle to treat his wounds and a war to make him take his medicine. I encountered less opposition on Pelennor Field.” Aragorn sighed and rubbed his eyes tiredly. “He is also falling ill, though he denies it. His temperature is rising rapidly and he is becoming confused.”

“He is in pain,” the wizard stated softly.

Some of the irritation went out of the King’s face. “Yes. His wounds are closing, though their healing is inhibited by a body weakened by long deprivation and toil. He will heal, given time. I am more concerned about his state of mind.”

“It was an impossible thing we asked of him,” Gandalf said. “That he succeeded was beyond all expectation.”

“I don’t think he really believes it is over,” interrupted a soft voice. The King and the wizard turned towards it, and three small forms detached themselves from the shadows of the corridor and moved soundlessly towards them.

“Hobbits,” sighed Gandalf. “I should ask the King to issue a decree that all of them be required to wear bells.”

“Let us move away from the door,” Aragorn murmured. “I do not want our voices to disturb him.” The five walked some way down the hall, where a bend of the corridor would muffle their conversation.

“He won’t talk to us,” Merry continued as the other two nodded in sorrowful agreement. “He just says it was awful and he doesn’t want to remember it.”  

“What then shall we do?” asked the King. “He cannot continue to bottle up this poison inside of himself. It is eating at him, slowing his recovery, and now I fear it is making him truly ill.”

“Get him drunk?” Pippin suggested tentatively.

“He’ll just get soppy and go to sleep,” Merry growled. “When Frodo makes up his mind about something, there isn’t a force on earth that will make him change his mind. Well, except…” the others looked at him expectantly, “…except for Mum.” Seeing the slight smile curving Aragorn’s lips, Merry flushed. “Look, you don’t know my mother.”

“I would not care to cross Esmeralda Brandybuck,” Gandalf said briefly. “However, as we do not have the time to send for said lady, we will have to deal with Frodo’s reticence ourselves. Perhaps he could be enticed into a riddle-game, with the forfeit—”

“Begging your pardon, sirs,” Sam broke in, “but you oughtn’t be talking about forcing Mr. Frodo to do anything. He’ll talk or he’ll not, as he feels like it. I’m hoping he’ll talk to Mr. Bilbo when we get back to Rivendell,” he added in a softer voice.

“He needs to talk to someone who wasn’t there … who didn’t see … someone who can listen to him without having to battle his own nightmares.” Sam was staring at the stone floor, not meeting any of their eyes. “Who didn’t see him when things were so bad, or after, after we’d been rescued. Who saw what that evil thing did to him. He can’t talk to someone who pities him, sirs. Mr. Frodo … well, he can’t…” Sam broke off suddenly and turned away from them, tears glittering in his brown eyes. Wordlessly, Pippin wrapped his arms around his friend and hugged him.

The Companions looked at each other silently. “Perhaps you know him best, Samwise,” Gandalf said gently, “but we all love him. He was better at first, but now he is slipping away from us. Just a little, day by day. If we do not excise this infection from his soul, he may well die of it.”

“But what are we going to do?” Pippin asked. “How can we help him?”

“Give him the chance to put his roots back in the soil,” Sam said unexpectedly. “Let him out where the sun can shine on his face. Hobbits aren’t made to live in stone towers with no grass beneath our feet.”

“Let him see the world he saved,” Merry continued with a nod, “instead of keeping him here in the palace. Stone walls are no protection against dreadful memories. Let us take him into Minas Tirith, and see the children playing and the gardens starting to bloom and the life returning to the city and the people.”

Aragorn nodded slowly. “I will speak with Éomer and ask he release you from duty, Merry. Pippin, tell Beregond it is my wish. Sam…”

Sam grinned at him crookedly. “I don’t answer to no one but Mr. Frodo, sir.”

Aragorn smiled at the hobbit. “I know that, Sam.” 

“I’ll stay with him tonight, sir, if you don’t mind,” Sam answered. “I just want to keep an eye on him.”

“I should insist he return to the Houses of Healing,” Aragorn answered slowly. “But he would not be comfortable there, and there is really nothing the House could do for him there that Sam cannot do here. I will order that cool cloths and ice be sent to you, Sam, and all else you might need.”

“May we say goodnight?” Pippin asked, suddenly sounding much younger than his years.

“Only if he is still awake,” Aragorn said, motioning them back around the corner. “Quietly now. High fever can cause the sufferer to either sleep heavily or eschew sleep.” Aragorn opened the door slowly and peered into the dimly-lit room. “If he sleeps, I do not want—” 

The bed was empty, the covers kicked to the floor. The five of them stared about the unoccupied room, as if Frodo might suddenly pop from the wardrobe or the blanket press to surprise them. “No,” whispered Merry. “Oh, no. No no no…”

“We—We’ve got to find him! I’ll rouse the Guard!” Pippin whirled to run from the room. Quick as thought, Gandalf caught his shoulder and dragged him back.

“Think for a moment, Peregrin Took! How do you think Frodo would react to unfamiliar Men searching for him, after he spent months running and hiding and being hunted? He is confused and ill. If we rouse the Guard, he will conceal himself. We might drive him even farther from us.”

“I’ll fetch Legolas,” Merry said. “Sam, you find Gimli. Tell him we need them to search for Frodo, but not to frighten him. Pippin, check our rooms—he might have gone there looking for us. Go, lads!”

The hobbits raced down the hall, their going just as silent as their coming. Aragorn groaned, feeling the day’s weariness descend on him suddenly as if a lead weight. “Where shall we seek him? We cannot count on sound to betray a hobbit. We could walk right by him and never see him, did he wish it.”

“We must find him,” Gandalf said tensely. “He will not last long in his condition. And there are other dangers out there than exposure. He could fall down a flight of stairs, or off a balustrade, or what if the rumours we heard are true—“

“Gandalf! Go!”

* TBC *