(no subject)

[febobe]

Happy Birthday, LilyBaggins!!!! :D

I'm afraid I don't have much of anything for your birthday, but here's a tiny token of my appreciation for you and for our friendship. It's a sample from the time-travel hyperemesis gravidarum fic I have on back burner ATM. . .I think I might have shown it to you earlier, but I've added to it for this occasion. ;) I included the whole thing for easy reference. ;)

If I can muster a tiny bit of Aragorn angst later tonight, look for it in this LJ. ;) No promises for anything but effort, 'k? *SNUGS*




PROLOGUE

Sick.

Never in his life had Frodo felt so sick.

Bad enough to be in this - condition, which Aragorn and Elrond and Gandalf assured him must be some sort of blessing. Feels more like a curse, Frodo mused darkly, twisting uncomfortably in bed and shutting his eyes tightly as the movement evoked a fresh wave of nausea. Is that it? Sauron's curse? A final punishment?

A child was always a blessing.

Or was it?

Suppressing a shudder, Frodo tried vainly to suppress the dark thoughts running through his mind.

Ginger tea.

Yes, that was it. . .some of the ginger tea Elrond was in the habit of keeping on a warmer at his bedside; that was what he needed. A bit of ginger tea might help ease the nausea again. He was so tired of vomiting.

Cautiously. . .slowly. . .he pushed himself up on his arm, so that he still rested on his side.

Almost at once, nausea overwhelmed him, and he just managed to sit up in time to vomit, scrambling for the basin left by Elrond. Mercifully enough, it passed quickly, but by now it only brought up bitter bile anyhow, and the taste sickened him further.

He might have considered a sip of ginger tea just to take the taste away had the world not suddenly begun to spin.

Then suddenly all went black.

CHAPTER ONE

"He is growing worse."

"That much would seem obvious." Aragorn sighed. "The question is - what are we to do about it? I take it that is why you both have called me here?"

Elrond nodded gravely. "Mithrandir has - important information to share with you which may help us where all else begins, I fear, to fail. We have done all we can for the Ringbearer. He can keep nothing down, and the fainting is an ill sign. If he does not have help soon, neither he nor the child may live."

"Then what are we to do?" Aragorn looked from his foster-father to the wizard with questioning grey eyes.

"There is - " Gandalf cleared his throat softly. " - one path remaining. It is not an easy one, nor one I would advise lightly; indeed, only at the very end of need. But it seems we have reached that end."

He hesitated a moment.

"In the West Wing, there is a single tower room, called the Tower of the Kings. I believe you know it?"

Aragorn nodded. "It is a bare room, and has been so for age upon age."

"It is because what is important is what happens in that room, not how it appears." Gandalf leaned forward in his seat. "Few even of the great kings of old have known this, but - if the king takes a palantir to that room, he can travel into a future time and place, according to his wish. There are many future times of men to come, many ages both great and dark, and kings past have chosen to see and know them."

Aragorn frowned. "And what has this to do with Frodo?"

"If you hold to Frodo's hand, he will be transported with you. And there will come a time when houses of healing have ways to care for his condition. If he were taken there, he could be given medicines to stop the vomiting. They will have medicines that are safe enough for the babe - safer than this condition, at least."

"And to get home?"

"You simply do the same. Your palantir will be transported with you, and you need be in no special room to use it to return to the tower. But they will likely wish to keep Frodo for some while to care for him, so you may have some length of stay." Gandalf drew a small purse from his belt and offered it to Aragorn, who accepted. "Open it."

Inside were two cards and a number of long, rectangular papers. Aragorn gave Gandalf a quizzical look.

"The card which bears raised numbers is what the people of that land call a 'credit card.' Should you need anything of significance, use it. This is a widely accepted sort; it is called 'Visa.'"

"And the other?"

"That is what is called an insurance card. I have taken the liberty of securing one for Frodo. They are obligated to provide emergency care without it, but I believe you will find that it is an important thing to have." He gestured to the papers. "Those are their currency. One dollar, five dollars, ten dollars, and twenty dollars. I have included several of each; you may count them. There should be sufficient to provide for small needs. For anything of substance, you have the 'Visa' card."

Aragorn nodded, folding the bills around the cards and slipping all back into the pouch. "Thank you. But - these people - will they speak our tongue?"

"Westron and English are very like. Your speech may seem a little formal to them at first, but do not let that startle you. They will understand you well enough to give Frodo the care he needs, though perhaps you may have to explain yourself on more than one occasion. Naturally, I would not explain to them just how you arrived. . .they will not ask details of how you reached the hospital; they will assume you came by automobile, and allow them to remain ignorant. One final thing - " He handed Aragorn a folded sheet of paper. "You may wish to add this to your pouch, but study it first. It contains the information we choose to list as address, telephone number, and e-mail address when asked for such information."

Aragorn blinked. "Telephone? E-mail?"

"You will see. Telephones are interesting devices they have in the rooms at houses of healing in later times. Annoying things, they can be. They allow you to talk to people far away - rather like a palantir, only anyone can use them, you speak aloud, and they make a ringing sound when someone wishes to speak to you. Each location has its own numerical identifier. Quite convenient, really, if it weren't so irritating." He rose. "But we must prepare Frodo. You should leave tonight."

CHAPTER TWO

"Are you ready, Frodo?"

"I think so." Frodo's voice was faint, but he held fast to Aragorn's hand as the king knelt beside the chair they had brought up for him, where he sat trembling and sweating in his blankets over a night-shirt and robe. His feet, for once, were covered - he wore soft slippers used by the houses of healing; they had found a pair to fit his feet, as Gandalf said that the future world frequently had rules about wearing shirts and shoes, and would not understand that hobbits' feet were like shoes. It was clearly taking all the little hobbit could do not to throw up; he was sucking desperately on a small piece of candied ginger from a pocketful provided by Elrond, and he looked horribly pale. The sooner we get him help, the better, Aragorn thought, bracing himself.

"Good. Then here we go. . . ." Placing his hand on the palantir, Aragorn closed his eyes and focused, as Gandalf had told him to, on a house of healing. He had no idea what it should look like, but he tried to picture the entranceway. Through his eyelids he sensed a flash of light; Frodo must have seen it too, for Aragorn heard him moan weakly.

Opening his eyes, he found that they were no longer in the tower.

They were in the midst of a great open hall, set with many clusters of soft chairs, most of them occupied by people in strange clothing. Many of them looked worried or sad. Along one side of the hall ran a series of doors, leading into what appeared to be small rooms occupied by more people in strange clothing, all of whom looked very busy. In the centre of the room stood a large desk, and at it sat two women - also in strange clothing, but appearing to answer questions from people who walked up to the desk.

The noise was almost overwhelming - ringing sounds (were those the "telephones" Gandalf spoke of? Aragorn wondered), people talking, footsteps going up and down a nearby spiral staircase.

At once Aragorn turned to see about Frodo. The little hobbit was curled in one of the soft chairs, still shaking miserably. He still looked as if he might well throw up at any moment.

"Is - is this - where we get help?" he whispered weakly.

"I think so," Aragorn reassured him, though in his own mind he half-wondered whether he had done this right. "Let me go and ask. I'll be right back."

"All right. Don't be long."

Making his way toward the desk, Aragorn felt greatly relieved that he had trusted Gandalf in leaving his sword behind - it would indeed have looked out of place here. As it was, the simple garments he had chosen stood out enough so that people turned to stare. When he reached the desk, the ladies looked up from their work, though one of them was immediately drawn back in as another person, half-staring, walked up and handed her a small piece of paper, which she stamped with some sort of machine. The other woman, however, smiled politely.

"May I help you?"

"Yes, please." Aragorn hesitated. "My companion is ill. Where would we find help for him?"

The woman gave him a decidedly strange look, but pointed back toward wide double doors. "You'll probably want the emergency room - that way. Would you like me to have someone show you?"

Without hesitation, Aragorn nodded. "That would be much appreciated."

She motioned a young man over. "Jim, could you show this gentleman and his - friend - to the ER?"

The young man nodded, looking to Aragorn. "Where is your friend? Do they need a wheelchair?"

"Wheelchair?" Aragorn's blank stare must have registered with Jim, for he walked back to the wall and brought up a wheeled chair with handles on the back for pushing. The perfect thing! Eagerly Aragorn nodded.

"Yes, please. He's very sick."

Jim smiled. "I promise I'll be careful, sir."

Quickly Aragorn led him back to the corner where Frodo still sat huddled in his chair. If Jim noticed anything unusual about Frodo's appearance, he did not show it in his eyes, nor did he comment. Rather, he pulled the wheelchair up close to Frodo's chair, smiling gently.

"Now, I'm just gonna help you over into this chair - is that all right with you?"

Frodo nodded vaguely.

"Good. Easy now." Helping him up, Jim gingerly assisted the little hobbit into the chair, then put down metal footrests and helped Frodo ease his feet onto them. "There you go. You're all right. Yeah, you're all right."

Frodo merely groaned, still shaking.

"New in the area?" Jim asked casually as they began walking toward the double doors at the back of the hall.

Aragorn simply nodded. "Yes."

"It's nice here. You get used to it." They turned onto a long hallway, cold and drab, occasionally passing white-coat-clad people who seemed to be in a hurry, and people wearing spectacles, and more people in strange clothing that seemed to be the fashion of this time. After a few minutes, they turned onto another hall and went into a quieter passageway. . .only to emerge into a more crowded area with many people talking, some coughing, many looking less than happy, and a harried-looking clerk behind a desk.

"Here you go. Emergency room. I'll leave you two here." He pointed to the desk. "You'll need to sign him in at the desk, get him registered."

"Thank you." Taking the wheelchair from Jim, Aragorn gently pushed Frodo up to the desk and cleared his throat quietly.

CHAPTER THREE

"Yes?"

Aragorn had faced orcs, wargs, even Nazgul, and seen a Balrog at close range. . .but still his will wavered as the woman cast him a frosty gaze. Steeling himself, he nodded. "Yes, please. My friend is very ill. He needs to see a - " What was it Gandalf had said they called healers? Oh, yes! " - doctor. As soon as possible."

"What seems to be the problem?" Looking somewhere between bored and annoyed, she looked up at him, waiting.

"He - " How to explain this? Better, perhaps, to leave the information about Frodo being with child for the doctor. "He's been vomiting - he can't keep much of anything down, and he has fainted during this sickness."

"His name?"

"Frodo Baggins."

She cast him a strange look, but ran her fingers over a surface so swiftly that they fairly danced, and letters appeared on a bright screen before her.

"Insurance card?"

Aragorn pulled the card from his pouch, offering it to her. She laid it down, danced her fingers over the surface several more times, then stood up and went to a box, where she lifted a lid and laid the card down, closing the lid before pressing a button. There was a small flash, a whirring sound, and, to Aragorn's wonder, a piece of paper emerged. Returning, she handed the card back to Aragorn, along with a form attached to a hard board and a pen.

"Fill this out and give it back to me, and someone will be right with you." She suddenly seemed to notice Frodo, and frowned. "We'll need a parent or legal guardian's consent for treatment."

Aragorn blinked blankly at her.

"Your 'friend,'" she elaborated, somewhat impatiently. "We can't treat children without parental consent."

This seemed to rally Frodo, who looked up, blue eyes blazing. "I am *fifty-one years* old, thank you very much!" he muttered darkly, in a tone loud enough for her to hear. "I came of age nearly twenty years ago - I can give my own 'consent' for treatment!"

The woman arched her eyebrows, looking to Aragorn, who nodded.

"He is correct. He has not been a child for nearly twenty years. He is old enough to consent."

"Where's his identification to prove it?"

Frantically Aragorn dug around in the pouch. A last thing Gandalf had handed him. . .identification cards for Frodo and himself. The Valar only knew how he had secured cards with their images pictured upon them, along with address, information about them, and strange numbers. Their birthdates had, he said, been altered to "translate" into the standard years of the time, so that Frodo's birthdate would be listed as fifty-one years earlier, and so forth. Pulling Frodo's out, he handed it over. The woman studied it, seemed satisfied at last, and returned it.

"Have a seat over there to fill out your paperwork." She gestured to a seat nearby, along one wall.

Aragorn pushed Frodo over and sat down beside him, beginning work on the papers. "Frodo, I think most of these signatures have to be yours. Do you think you can manage to sign them?"

"I can try."

"Sign at the X's, then." Gently Aragorn placed pages and pen in his lap, and he began slowly to sign, finally handing the pages back to Aragorn quickly.

"That's all, I think. I hope so. How much longer? I need to lie down. . . ."

"Soon." Rising, Aragorn returned the papers to the desk and came back to sit with Frodo once more. "Have a little more candied ginger if you like."

"It's not helping right now. I want to lie down, please. . . ." Frodo blinked back tears.

"Frodo Baggins!"

Aragorn looked up sharply as a woman dressed in a colourful smock and trousers called Frodo's name, looking around the large room. At once he rose. "Yes? Here he is."

The woman motioned to them. "He can come in now."

Pushing the wheelchair, Aragorn directed Frodo into a much smaller room, where the woman waited for them. At the sight of Frodo on close range, she blinked slightly, but offered no comment beyond her question. "Mr. Baggins, do you mind if your - friend - stays?"

"No. I want him to."

"All right, then. What brings you in tonight?"

"Can't stop throwing up. . .feel sick. . . ." Frodo rested his head on his hand, elbow propped on the arm of his wheelchair. "I fainted once. . .blacked out. . . ."

"He. . ." Aragorn hesitated. "There is a rather. . .unusual. . .situation of which you should probably be aware."

The lady looked back at him curiously.

"Frodo is. . .carrying a child. I know that that must seem impossible, but it is true. You may examine him if you wish."

She arched her eyebrows. "I'm certain the doctor will wish to do so." Turning back to Frodo, she held out an instrument. "Can you hold this under your tongue for me just for a few minutes? We'll get your temperature, and while we're doing that I'll check your blood pressure."

Temperature. She must mean whether Frodo had a fever. That couldn't be a bad idea, Aragorn mused, watching curiously as the nurse wrapped some sort of sleeve around Frodo's upper arm and began to pump a small device which appeared to tighten the sleeve. She also listened to Frodo's arm with some kind of strange device. At last, the little tube in Frodo's mouth beeped repeatedly, and she removed it.

"No fever. . .that's good." She took Frodo's wrist and sat checking his pulse. At last she rose. "We'll get you in a room. A doctor should be with you soon."

"Can I lie down?" ventured Frodo anxiously.

"There will be a gurney for you to lie down on, and I'll make sure you have a pillow and blanket," the lady reassured him, taking the handles of the wheelchair and nodding for Aragorn to follow her. He obeyed, and out a different door they went, down a different corridor, one busy and noisy, to a room with a small section set off by a curtain. A tall, thin, flat bed with metal railing on either side stood in the middle of the area, and the nurse pushed Frodo over to this.

"Do you need any help getting up there?"

"I'll help him." Gingerly Aragorn lifted Frodo in his arms, easing him onto the bed with tender care. . .but at once Frodo struggled to stay sitting up.

"Please. . .going to be. . .sick. . . ."

Fortunately, the woman was quick with a small basin, and there was only a bit of bile to come up; the disaster was short-lived, though it left Frodo breathless and sweating. Helping the little hobbit lie back down, Aragorn accepted a fresh basin from the woman and set it at Frodo's head, beside the pillow, as they tucked a light white blanket over him.

"The doctor will be here soon. There's a chair if you want it, sir, and a call button in case you need help." The woman showed them a small red button on the end of a cord draped over the raised railing as she carefully raised the other railing - probably wise, Aragorn mused, so that Frodo could not accidentally slip off the high bed.

And with that, she was gone.

-to be continued!-