Chapter Eight

Merry and Pippin could discern little change in the spacious suite assigned to their cousin when they returned.  The sun was climbing to its zenith, casting shadows in the deeper parts of the silent room.  Sam was absent but Bilbo slumped in the chair by Frodo’s bedside, nodding and half-asleep.  Elrohir let them in, holding a slender finger to his lips and gesturing towards the old hobbit.

“Samwise has gone for a sniff of fresh air,” the young Elf-lord told them in a soft voice as he ushered them into the room.  “At my insistence,” he added with a slight grimace.  “Fretting himself into exhaustion will do him no good, and does not help Frodo.  Did you enjoy seeing our home?”

“Yes, sir,” Merry and Pippin answered.  Merry hesitated a moment, then continued, “It is so beautiful here, and everyone has been so kind.  But we’d like to stay with Frodo for a while, if you don’t mind.”

Elrohir raised an elegant eyebrow, looking so like Lord Elrond that the hobbits smiled at the sight.  “Be careful not to disturb him.  Estel, may I speak with you for a few moments?”

The Elf drew their escort away into a corner.  While the two Big People talked, the hobbits crept over to their cousins.  Merry placed his hand on Frodo’s forehead, worried that the fever had grown.  He slid his hand carefully over to the left shoulder, which still seemed cold as ice.  How could the arm be so cold and Frodo so hot?  He sighed sorrowfully.  Bilbo snorted and yawned, opening sleepy brown eyes.  “Hullo, lads.  Been seeing the place, have you?”

Elrohir kept an eye on the halflings while he spoke with his foster brother, keeping his voice low and doing nothing to draw their attention to them.  Seeing the question in his brother’s eyes, the young Elf shook his head.  “He is slipping away from us, brother.  Father will not abandon hope, but Frodo shows even less responsiveness than this morning.  I sent Samwise away so that he may have a little reserve of strength for when the worst occurs.”

Anguish overcame Aragorn, and he fought to keep his back straight and his voice soft, to avoid betraying his grief to the halflings.  Frodo had endured so much, with such great heart.  The Ranger did not think he could bear to watch the hobbit lose this battle he had fought so valiantly.  “Is there nothing that can be done?  Cannot Father make another attempt today?  He will be even weaker tomorrow.”

Elrohir shook his head, dark eyes sorrowful.  “Frodo would not live to see the sun set if we set knife to him again so soon.  Already his heart has slowed, and his breathing is less deep and less frequent.  The fever is eating up what little strength he has left.  To seek the shard now would most certainly finish him.”

“Ah, Merry…” murmured the Ranger.

Elrohir tilted his dark head and regarded Aragorn curiously.  “What did you say, my brother?”

Aragorn raised his head and the Elf saw sorrow in the blue-grey eyes.  “Merry said something to me earlier … about Frodo not being given much of a chance.  It doesn’t matter now.”

Elrohir’s elegant face softened and he placed a slender hand on his foster brother’s arm, squeezing hard so that the man felt both his affection and the sincerity of his words.  “I heard him.  His anger was not aimed at you, my brother, but at his own helplessness.”  The Elf searched the man’s face.  “We are doing everything possible, Estel.  You must not despair.  Those little ones look to you for strength.”

Aragorn nodded abruptly, his features tightening as he controlled his expression.  Elrohir nodded in return.  “They are watching us,” he whispered, dropping his voice even further.  Aragorn squared his shoulders and when he turned back to the hobbits, his stern face was composed with no trace of tears.  Bilbo, he discovered, was staring at them intently.  Merry too was leaning towards them, straining to hear, his bright blue eyes half-slitted with concentration.  Seeing the Man’s eyes upon him, Merry blushed.  Pippin, meanwhile, had been oblivious to the whispered conversation.  He had been gazing over the edge of the high bed at Frodo.  To Aragorn’s surprise, the young hobbit pulled himself slightly higher and inhaling, blew gently directly into his cousin’s pale face.

“Pippin, what are you doing?” asked the Ranger in surprise.

“He always wrinkles his nose when I do that,” Pippin said softly.  “I’d wake him up that way, when I’d visit at Bag End and I wanted breakfast and Frodo was sleeping late.  He’d forbidden me to shake him awake because one time I … um … well, that’s not important.  So I blow on him until he wakes up.”

“And you could truthfully claim you never touched him,” Aragorn supplied in some amusement.

Pippin nodded quietly.  “Yes.”  The tweenager’s bright green-gold eyes began blinking rapidly.  “But – but it’s not working.”  He stepped back from the bed and leaned back against Bilbo’s chair, sagging against the frame, supporting himself with a hand on the padded arm.  “He’s not waking up,” Pippin whispered again, the first tear sliding down his face.  Bilbo reached up and covered the lad’s hand with his own, rubbing gently.

“An’ a good thing, too, Master Pippin – you know he don’t like that,” came Sam’s steadying voice from the door.  “He said you weren’t never ‘ta do that again, after what happened the last time.”  Both Samwise’s timing and his words were perfect – as down-to-earth and commonsensical as the flowers and the sun.  Bilbo laughed shortly when Pippin flushed.  Aragorn smiled despite the heavy weight on his heart.

“And what happened the last time?” he asked neutrally, acknowledging and endorsing Sam’s effort at distraction.  Pippin’s flush deepened.   Merry’s bright blue eyes were sparkling - he knew, then. 

Pippin waved a hand depreciatingly.  “Oh, nothing really.  Just a little misunderstanding.  Really,” he affirmed with a quelling glare at Merry.  “It was nothing.”  The somewhat desperate glare was extended to Samwise.

Sam blinked innocently, but Aragorn caught the closed-mouth smile as the hobbit turned to close the door and joined the others.  “It should be about time for luncheon, I would think.  Should I ask for some trays, sirs?”

Aragorn saw his brother regarding the little gardener with admiration; in just a few words, the stocky hobbit had diverted an impending storm and redirected his friends’ attention.  “A most excellent idea,” the Ranger said briskly.  “If you would be so kind, Sam -”

“No need,” interjected Elrohir graciously.  “I have tasks that require my attention.  If you will excuse me, I will leave you and I will speak to the kitchens on my way.”

“Please ask the cook for more beef broth for Frodo,” Aragorn asked.  “I will give it to him.”  Elrohir acknowledged the request with a nod then smiled at the hobbits.  Before Sam could escort him to the door, he swept gracefully across the room and let himself out.

“Would it hurt Frodo if I sat next to him?” Pippin asked, his small hands pleating the blankets anxiously.

Aragorn started to refuse the young hobbit’s request then another glance from those pleading eyes changed his mind.  Merry too was looking at him hopefully.  These folk were different from Men, Aragorn reminded himself.  They needed the touch of their kind, the sound of their voices.  “If you do not jostle him, Pippin, and are very careful,” he said.  Pippin held up his arms and Aragorn lifted him as easily as a child, depositing him gently on Frodo’s right side.  Pippin settled himself cautiously next to his cousin and laid his head in the hollow of Frodo’s shoulder, sliding his hand under the blankets to clasp his cousin’s limp one.

Bilbo nodded in approval.  “He likes that, lad.  He knows you’re there, don’t you doubt it.  Even if he can’t tell you.”  Bilbo swallowed.  “Now,” he continued hurriedly, his voice cracking slightly, “why don’t you tell me what you saw this morning?”

For the next half-hour, Aragorn sat quietly and let the hobbits talk, answering a question or commenting only when he was directly addressed.  He was content to watch quietly, marveling at how easy the halflings were with each other.  There had not truly been time to get to know them well during their journey; first they had fled before the hunters, then after Frodo’s wounding every moment had counted in getting the injured hobbit to Elrond.  The last time he had seen them enjoying themselves was that night on Weathertop, when he had sung the Lay of Lúthien to them.  Then the Nazgûl had risen from the tumbled stones and shadows…

Pippin wiggled up into a sitting position to join the conversation, though he retained possession of Frodo’s hand in both of his, stroking it continuously.  After the two younger hobbits had reported on their tour, the talk switched to recalling days long past and the telling of stories.  Several times, one would start to direct a remark to Frodo, and a little silence would fall before another would continue, stumbling and choking over his words.

So the knock on the door was most welcome.  Sam answered it, scrubbing at his eyes with a shirtsleeve.  “Gandalf!” he said in surprise, stepping back a pace to allow several Elves to carry heavily laden trays into the room.

“Hullo, all,” greeted the wizard as he followed them in.  Samwise and Merry gathered around him, beaming up at him.  “I saw this lot going down the hallway staggering under the weight of several trays, and I said to myself, ‘that must be my friends’ luncheon.’  So I decided to come and help you eat it.”

“You lads will be lucky if he leaves you enough to sustain a mouse,” Bilbo declared from his chair.  “A hobbit’s appetite can scarcely equal a wizard’s, from what I’ve seen.  Isn’t that true, Dúnadan?”

“I decline to comment, Bilbo,” returned the Ranger diplomatically.  He rose and offered his chair to Gandalf.  The wizard took it gratefully, leaning his staff against the carved headboard of Frodo's bed.  The kitchen staff placed the trays on the side table and bowed, taking their leave to the soft murmur of the younger hobbits' thanks.

“Very wise of you, Aragorn,” teased Gandalf.  “I am pleased to see that age has taught one of my old friends some sense.”  He leaned forward and laid his gnarled hand on Frodo’s forehead, stroking back the sweat-limp hair with great tenderness.  “And how is our patient today?”

“No change, except that his fever’s getting worse,” said Merry, helping Sam distribute the trays.  He placed Pippin’s across the tweenager’s lap and poured him a mug of milk, then moved on to hand a tray to Aragorn.

The Ranger shook his head.  “Unlike hobbits – and wizards, evidently - Men do not eat six meals a day.  Give my tray to Gandalf, Merry.” 

“Chicken!” crowed Pippin.  “Stuffed with mushrooms!”  Those were the last remarks made as the hobbits ate, paying respectful attention to their food.   With the exception of Bilbo, they ate as if they had not seen food in many days.  While the others dined, Aragorn rose and gently displaced Pippin, picking him up (tray and all) and depositing him onto one of the small settees.  Pippin drew up his knees and balanced the tray upon them, watching the Ranger anxiously.  Aragorn edged past Bilbo’s chair and sank down on the bed, easing himself up to support his back against the headboard.  Carefully he gathered the unconscious hobbit into his arms and lifted Frodo to cradle him before him, settling him into a reclining position in his arms.

“Sam, would you -” he began, but found the hobbit already at his side, the covered pot of steaming soup wrapped in a cloth to protect his hands.  “Oh, thank you.”  Pippin pulled the blanket up and made sure Frodo’s shoulders were covered.  Merry tucked a napkin beneath Frodo’s chin then handed Aragorn a spoon.  It was then that the man realized that he was surrounded by hobbits, four pairs of eyes gazing at him intently. 

Sam waited by his side and Merry and Pippin stood across the bed from them.  Bilbo retained his chair but his eyes were on Frodo’s slack face.  Their unfinished trays lay abandoned, all thoughts of food forgotten.  Gandalf too was watching him, putting aside his meal and wiping his fingers with his napkin.  Feeling oddly nervous by their regard, Aragorn dipped the spoon into the broth, waited a moment to let it cool, and carefully ladled it into Frodo’s mouth, tilting the hobbit’s body slightly to ensure it ran down his throat and not the windpipe.  Frodo’s head lolled against his shoulder and his hair smelled of the sweet herbal soap the Elves had washed him with.

“That’s it, Frodo-lad,” murmured Bilbo, leaning over to stretch out an arm and catch up a corner ofthe napkin to collect a stray drop.  “That’s my good lad.  A little more, now…”  Aragorn fed the unconscious hobbit to the whispered encouragement of his old cousin, Bilbo’s voice rising and falling almost in a chant.  A hand gently stroking down the hobbit’s throat encouraged the swallowing reflex.  When the little pot was almost empty, the man looked up from his work to see Pippin leaning against Merry, both half-asleep on their feet.

They are still exhausted, Aragorn thought.  It will be many days before they recover their strength and their energy.  Sam, too, was visibly drooping, lulled by the sun streaming in the windows and Bilbo's soft song.  “Why don’t you place the trays outside the door,” he suggested to them, amused to see Pippin jerk into wakefulness.  Merry rubbed his eyes.  Sam blinked and took the spoon and soup-pot from Aragorn, setting them on one of the trays.  “Then you can all take a nap.”

“We don’t want to leave Frodo,” Merry stated around a yawn, turning to help Sam gather up the trays while Pippin located all the mugs.

“Use the divans, then, as you did the night before last,” suggested Gandalf.   Of all of them, the wizard was the only one to see Aragorn settle Frodo back into the pillows then seize the opportunity to run his hand along the hobbit’s left arm.  Gandalf met his eyes and Aragorn shook his head. 

“I am too old to dangle off a settee,” Bilbo stated with a grimace.  “See you at tea, lads.  There should be more blankets in that press over there.”  The old hobbit rose stiffly, the movement obviously painful.  He steadied himself with a hand on the edge of Frodo’s bed.  “Ah, sat too long that time, I’m afraid.”  Sam left off putting the trays outside to assist him, but Gandalf was there first, supporting the elderly hobbit with a hand under his elbow. 

“Elrond should be coming to check on our Frodo soon,” Gandalf remarked.  “Bilbo, let me walk with you to your room.  I wanted to ask you about…”  The wizard’s voice trailed off into the distance as the door closed after them.

After putting the last of the dishes out, Sam closed the door and Pippin pushed a blanket into his hands.  Pippin handed one to Merry and Aragorn and kept one for himself.  Then he stood by Frodo’s bed again, eyes on his cousin’s still face.  Sweat beaded along Frodo’s forehead, glistened on his skin.  Pippin stroked his cousin’s dark hair, then turned to the Ranger.  “May I sleep with Frodo, please?” Pippin asked.

Aragorn sorrowed over the need to refuse this request.  “No, Pippin.  I am sorry, but you might shift in your sleep and cause him pain.”

Pippin shook his bronze curls, but Merry supported Aragorn. “You would too, Pip.  You kicked me a dozen times last night.”

“I won’t.  I promise I won’t.  Please, Aragorn … I want to be near him.  I won’t even fall asleep.”  It was incredibly difficult to deny this young hobbit anything, the Ranger thought.  Those sorrowful eyes made him feel quite unreasonably guilty for refusing.

Aragorn had his doubts that Pippin could stay awake, but perhaps his nearness would ease Frodo in that dark place the wounded hobbit had retreated to.  “All right, Pippin, but again, you must be very careful.”  He returned the tweenager to his cousin’s right side and watched as Pippin turned over on his side and nestled against Frodo, cautiously sliding an arm over his chest. 

Aragorn could not stretch out on the small sofas as could the hobbits, but Bilbo’s chair near Frodo’s head would do.  He wondered if the halflings realized that Frodo had not for a moment been left alone without a trained healer by his side.  Or, a darker part of his mind amended, one with the strength of will to do what must be done if the hobbit suddenly succumbed with the shard still in his body.  He doubted that any of the hobbits had noted the knife at his belt, or that Elrohir also wore one.

He would wait until the halflings slept soundly then conduct a more thorough examination than he wanted to perform under their anxious eyes.  He, like Merry, had felt the increased fever in Frodo’s slight form.  Unlike the young hobbit, he knew exactly what prolonged, high fever could do to a body, especially one already weakened by pain and blood loss and poison.

It was difficult not to fall asleep himself, which made him aware of how weary he still was.  His limbs felt leaden, legs and knees aching still.  Sam was already snoring softly, stretched out on his back with both arms under his head, accumulated fatigue catching up with him at last.  Merry turned restlessly on the small divan but was finally still, his arm thrown over his eyes.  Aragorn inspected his boots carefully for clinging dirt and then placed them gingerly on the fine coverlet, sighing with relief at being able to stretch out his long legs.  He draped the blanket over his knees then leaned back to wait for Pippin to fall asleep.  He must have dozed off himself for the next thing he was aware of was Pippin’s shrill voice shrieking, “Strider!  Strider!  Frodo’s not breathing!”

* TBC *