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febobeFolks, this is part of a fic which I plan to continue. It'll probably pick up the pace a bit after I get finished with my Big Bang fics, but it's a long haul kind of deal, not something that'll end in another chapter or two; this is that wildly AU fic I was on about half the weekend. ;) Set during TTT, movieverse-based, I hope that it will entertain those dear ladies who cannot attend a movie viewing this evening, especially Claudia603 and LilyBaggins.
I've included a "prologue" and three "chapters," but they're way short, I'll warn you. No long chapters just yet!
Please note also that this story follows my usual standards of no sex, no slash, and no profanity; the PG-13 rating is for dark thematic content and medically graphic content only. There will be no sex, slash, or profanity, and I also do not plan to kill off Frodo in this story, just so you know...trust me, no hobbits will die in the course of this fic. (In fact, a certain character who DOES die in canon LOTR actually is ALIVE in this fic, so some of you may love me for this and some of you may hate me for it! But rest assured you'll figure out where you stand fairly quickly, IMO!)
Author's Note: The illness in question may be recognized by some readers, though not necessarily just yet. I am aware that the incubation period for this condition in the "real world" is longer than the number of days between the Dead Marshes and the onset of Frodo's symptoms; however, I am assuming a shorter onset in Middle-earth and in a hobbit weakened by the burden of the Ring, significant injuries, and long, difficult travel.
PROLOGUE
With Frodo and Sam gone, the orcs fallen around them or fled, the remainder of the Fellowship stood considering their paths, there in the forest. Merry and Pippin had come very near to being carried away by Saruman's orcs, but a few timely arrows from Legolas and Boromir had done much to remedy the matter, and now they stood safely at Boromir's side, flanked on the other edge by Gimli and his axe, as safe as they could be in the open Wild. Boromir had managed to escape relatively unscathed, as had Aragorn, and the hobbits; Legolas was, of course, unhurt, and Gimli, if he had any injuries, made no mention of them.
"We must seek the aid of Rohan," Aragorn said. "I fear for them; whether they have aid to give is yet to be seen. Boromir, perhaps you might make a start toward home, to give warning of the stirrings of the Enemy. Theoden and Denethor must be informed of Saruman's plotting."
"Of course. I shall, for my part, take the little ones to Minas Tirith with me, if they be willing to come," replied Boromir. "Gimli, will you also join us?"
"Aye! Let Legolas and Aragorn take the warning to Rohan; for my part, I will see the hobbits safely to Gondor with Boromir, and offer what service I can there." Gimli stowed his axe safely. "Are we ready, then? Let us be away!"
CHAPTER ONE
"Master, are you feeling all right? You're looking right peaked."
"I'm fine, Sam." Frodo shivered in his cloak, huddling close to the fire Sam had built, his bowl of rabbit stew untouched beside him.
"Ain't there nothing I can do to get you to eat? Just drink the broth, at least. It's good and hot, just hold your mug tight, you'll see...."
"I'm not hungry, really. And I don't think I could bear to swallow a thing; I still feel sick."
A thought flickered through Sam's anxious mind.
What if he takes sick out here, with just you to help him, and nobody around to make up medicine for him, or fetch help?
Nervously he shoved the fear aside.
"We'd best keep moving," said Frodo after a moment. "We've lingered here too long."
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I think you ought to rest a bit first," Sam urged gently. "That Gollum can wait till you're good and ready, and this is as pleasant a place as we've seen in a while, and you could do with a bit o'sleep."
"Sleep." Frodo sighed softly. "I would like to sleep."
"Then sleep, master. Lay your head in my lap and rest."
And that was how the men found them - Sam dozing, with a trembling Frodo, asleep, resting with his head laid in Sam's lap.
CHAPTER TWO
"What is your name?"
Frodo felt faint and dizzy, but there was nothing for it. He knew he must answer the captain, who looked at him in some strange sort of astonishment. "Frodo Baggins, of the Shire. And this is Samwise Gamgee."
"Your bodyguard?"
"His servant," retorted Sam angrily.
The man rose, his grey eyes filled with evident interest as he approached Frodo...and for an instant, Frodo feared that the man might have realised what he carried, might try to take It...but the captain knelt before him and put a gentle hand upon his shoulder.
"I can see that you are weary...and fevered. Will you rest a little, while we make preparations to travel to Minas Tirith? It is not far, and we can give you food and drink to strengthen you a little. But I fear you need more aid than I have here to give...and I am under orders."
"What orders, and whose?" demanded Sam.
"My brother's." When Frodo and Sam looked questioningly at him, the man continued. "Boromir, Steward of Gondor."
Abruptly Frodo swayed...and fainted, the tall man catching him gently as he fell.
"Your master is very ill," the man said, turning to Samwise. "The sooner we reach the city, the better it may go for him...though I fear for his life regardless, for he has taken a fever. Do you feel you can manage the journey without a rest? Every hour we delay risks his life."
Sam could only stand aghast.
The Ring. In Gondor.
And yet...what choice did they have, with Mister Frodo so ill he might die?
CHAPTER THREE
It seemed to Sam a much longer journey than it must have been, for Frodo rode with the strange man on his steed - Faramir, his name was, it seemed, but Sam cared little for anything other than fretting over Mister Frodo, who moaned every time the horse moved too quickly and jostled his poor bones, and the fact that Boromir was evidently alive, and now Steward, else he had a twin of the same name.
What would happen to the Ring?
To them?
Sucking his teeth nervously, Sam tried to concentrate on the city rising up before them, all white ramparts and towers worn with age. Up they rode, up long circles and past Big Folk guards and people of the city, shops and stalls and plain houses and great ones, past children and men and women, past horses and chickens, pigs and ploughmen, until at last they reached the top, and Faramir handed Frodo gingerly to one of his men before dismounting and taking the trembling bundle into his arms.
And then someone strode into the courtyard.
Someone in...white?
"Mithrandir! Mithrandir, I have someone here you may wish to see, if memory serves me rightly!" called Faramir, approaching the figure with swift, smooth strides and offering Frodo to the arms of...
...Gandalf?!?
Sam gaped. Try as he might, he could not seem to pick up his jaw, but as soon as the man riding with him helped him to the ground, he ran to Gandalf.
"What's happening here? Where did you come from? We thought you were dead, we did, saw you fall! Is it really you, Gandalf?"
Gandalf released a small laugh, though his eyes were full of gravity as he gathered Frodo into his arms, cradling him close. "Yes, Sam, I am here, and I am most certainly Gandalf. But tell me, both of you - what brings you here? I see all is not well."
Sam started to speak, but Faramir was swifter.
"We found them in Ithilien, resting from their travels, and much desiring to go on unhindered, but we saw that the little master was taking ill, and so I felt it best to see to them, as Boromir instructed."
Instructed? Sam felt as if the world had turned upside down and inside out. Gandalf looked down at him with concern.
"Sam, come with us. We shall tend to your master at once - and you must sit, and eat, and tell us all that has happened since our paths parted. Boromir has been very worried about the two of you, and in truth, so have I. But he will provision you for further travel once we determine what is to be done, and you need not fear him. He has learned harsh lessons since last you and Frodo encountered him."
"Mister Frodo needs bed, not an audience with some Steward," Sam urged.
"And he shall have it at once." Gandalf turned to Faramir. "Your old nursery will do, I take it?"
"Of course. I shall have Eleanora summoned at once. She will help us, and happily." Faramir turned, and led the way inside, down the halls, long and imposing, to a small room up two (rather lengthy) flights of stairs. Even Sam, however, had to approve of the choice.
It was child-sized by men's standards, but the perfect size for a hobbit, and there were beds neatly made - two small ones, one on either side of the room. On the one of these farther from the window Gandalf laid his charge, easing Frodo into bed as Faramir pulled back the covers, revealing clean, crisp white sheets and a soft green blanket covered by a light counterpane. At once Boromir's brother began rifling through drawers, retrieving a night-shirt just about Frodo's size, perhaps a little large but not enough to swallow him, as one would have said in the Shire. At once Gandalf undressed Frodo with a few quick movements, and quicker than you could have said knife he had the little hobbit dressed in the night-shirt, leaving the Ring dangling from its chain about the small neck.
And then...a woman entered, one of the Big Folk too, but...so stout and hobbity-looking that even Sam felt better at the sight of her. She looked very much like a tall hobbit, save that her wavy brown hair was fastened up and back from her face, and when she saw Frodo, she let out an exclamation of pity.
"Ah, the poor little one! Faramir, tell Nurse what is the matter."
"I have asked that the physician be summoned, but he has taken a fever of some sort; feel his brow."
She did, and promptly sighed. "Poor mite, he's burning up. Have water brought for me, just warm to the touch, not cold. And cloths for compresses, and extra blankets, and some broth - something light, I think. We must keep him fighting it till the doctor arrives. And from there I imagine we'll still have our work ahead of us."
Sam swallowed. Hard.
And there was still the matter of the Ring, too.
How much worse can it get?
-to be continued-
I've included a "prologue" and three "chapters," but they're way short, I'll warn you. No long chapters just yet!
Please note also that this story follows my usual standards of no sex, no slash, and no profanity; the PG-13 rating is for dark thematic content and medically graphic content only. There will be no sex, slash, or profanity, and I also do not plan to kill off Frodo in this story, just so you know...trust me, no hobbits will die in the course of this fic. (In fact, a certain character who DOES die in canon LOTR actually is ALIVE in this fic, so some of you may love me for this and some of you may hate me for it! But rest assured you'll figure out where you stand fairly quickly, IMO!)
Author's Note: The illness in question may be recognized by some readers, though not necessarily just yet. I am aware that the incubation period for this condition in the "real world" is longer than the number of days between the Dead Marshes and the onset of Frodo's symptoms; however, I am assuming a shorter onset in Middle-earth and in a hobbit weakened by the burden of the Ring, significant injuries, and long, difficult travel.
PROLOGUE
With Frodo and Sam gone, the orcs fallen around them or fled, the remainder of the Fellowship stood considering their paths, there in the forest. Merry and Pippin had come very near to being carried away by Saruman's orcs, but a few timely arrows from Legolas and Boromir had done much to remedy the matter, and now they stood safely at Boromir's side, flanked on the other edge by Gimli and his axe, as safe as they could be in the open Wild. Boromir had managed to escape relatively unscathed, as had Aragorn, and the hobbits; Legolas was, of course, unhurt, and Gimli, if he had any injuries, made no mention of them.
"We must seek the aid of Rohan," Aragorn said. "I fear for them; whether they have aid to give is yet to be seen. Boromir, perhaps you might make a start toward home, to give warning of the stirrings of the Enemy. Theoden and Denethor must be informed of Saruman's plotting."
"Of course. I shall, for my part, take the little ones to Minas Tirith with me, if they be willing to come," replied Boromir. "Gimli, will you also join us?"
"Aye! Let Legolas and Aragorn take the warning to Rohan; for my part, I will see the hobbits safely to Gondor with Boromir, and offer what service I can there." Gimli stowed his axe safely. "Are we ready, then? Let us be away!"
CHAPTER ONE
"Master, are you feeling all right? You're looking right peaked."
"I'm fine, Sam." Frodo shivered in his cloak, huddling close to the fire Sam had built, his bowl of rabbit stew untouched beside him.
"Ain't there nothing I can do to get you to eat? Just drink the broth, at least. It's good and hot, just hold your mug tight, you'll see...."
"I'm not hungry, really. And I don't think I could bear to swallow a thing; I still feel sick."
A thought flickered through Sam's anxious mind.
What if he takes sick out here, with just you to help him, and nobody around to make up medicine for him, or fetch help?
Nervously he shoved the fear aside.
"We'd best keep moving," said Frodo after a moment. "We've lingered here too long."
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but I think you ought to rest a bit first," Sam urged gently. "That Gollum can wait till you're good and ready, and this is as pleasant a place as we've seen in a while, and you could do with a bit o'sleep."
"Sleep." Frodo sighed softly. "I would like to sleep."
"Then sleep, master. Lay your head in my lap and rest."
And that was how the men found them - Sam dozing, with a trembling Frodo, asleep, resting with his head laid in Sam's lap.
CHAPTER TWO
"What is your name?"
Frodo felt faint and dizzy, but there was nothing for it. He knew he must answer the captain, who looked at him in some strange sort of astonishment. "Frodo Baggins, of the Shire. And this is Samwise Gamgee."
"Your bodyguard?"
"His servant," retorted Sam angrily.
The man rose, his grey eyes filled with evident interest as he approached Frodo...and for an instant, Frodo feared that the man might have realised what he carried, might try to take It...but the captain knelt before him and put a gentle hand upon his shoulder.
"I can see that you are weary...and fevered. Will you rest a little, while we make preparations to travel to Minas Tirith? It is not far, and we can give you food and drink to strengthen you a little. But I fear you need more aid than I have here to give...and I am under orders."
"What orders, and whose?" demanded Sam.
"My brother's." When Frodo and Sam looked questioningly at him, the man continued. "Boromir, Steward of Gondor."
Abruptly Frodo swayed...and fainted, the tall man catching him gently as he fell.
"Your master is very ill," the man said, turning to Samwise. "The sooner we reach the city, the better it may go for him...though I fear for his life regardless, for he has taken a fever. Do you feel you can manage the journey without a rest? Every hour we delay risks his life."
Sam could only stand aghast.
The Ring. In Gondor.
And yet...what choice did they have, with Mister Frodo so ill he might die?
CHAPTER THREE
It seemed to Sam a much longer journey than it must have been, for Frodo rode with the strange man on his steed - Faramir, his name was, it seemed, but Sam cared little for anything other than fretting over Mister Frodo, who moaned every time the horse moved too quickly and jostled his poor bones, and the fact that Boromir was evidently alive, and now Steward, else he had a twin of the same name.
What would happen to the Ring?
To them?
Sucking his teeth nervously, Sam tried to concentrate on the city rising up before them, all white ramparts and towers worn with age. Up they rode, up long circles and past Big Folk guards and people of the city, shops and stalls and plain houses and great ones, past children and men and women, past horses and chickens, pigs and ploughmen, until at last they reached the top, and Faramir handed Frodo gingerly to one of his men before dismounting and taking the trembling bundle into his arms.
And then someone strode into the courtyard.
Someone in...white?
"Mithrandir! Mithrandir, I have someone here you may wish to see, if memory serves me rightly!" called Faramir, approaching the figure with swift, smooth strides and offering Frodo to the arms of...
...Gandalf?!?
Sam gaped. Try as he might, he could not seem to pick up his jaw, but as soon as the man riding with him helped him to the ground, he ran to Gandalf.
"What's happening here? Where did you come from? We thought you were dead, we did, saw you fall! Is it really you, Gandalf?"
Gandalf released a small laugh, though his eyes were full of gravity as he gathered Frodo into his arms, cradling him close. "Yes, Sam, I am here, and I am most certainly Gandalf. But tell me, both of you - what brings you here? I see all is not well."
Sam started to speak, but Faramir was swifter.
"We found them in Ithilien, resting from their travels, and much desiring to go on unhindered, but we saw that the little master was taking ill, and so I felt it best to see to them, as Boromir instructed."
Instructed? Sam felt as if the world had turned upside down and inside out. Gandalf looked down at him with concern.
"Sam, come with us. We shall tend to your master at once - and you must sit, and eat, and tell us all that has happened since our paths parted. Boromir has been very worried about the two of you, and in truth, so have I. But he will provision you for further travel once we determine what is to be done, and you need not fear him. He has learned harsh lessons since last you and Frodo encountered him."
"Mister Frodo needs bed, not an audience with some Steward," Sam urged.
"And he shall have it at once." Gandalf turned to Faramir. "Your old nursery will do, I take it?"
"Of course. I shall have Eleanora summoned at once. She will help us, and happily." Faramir turned, and led the way inside, down the halls, long and imposing, to a small room up two (rather lengthy) flights of stairs. Even Sam, however, had to approve of the choice.
It was child-sized by men's standards, but the perfect size for a hobbit, and there were beds neatly made - two small ones, one on either side of the room. On the one of these farther from the window Gandalf laid his charge, easing Frodo into bed as Faramir pulled back the covers, revealing clean, crisp white sheets and a soft green blanket covered by a light counterpane. At once Boromir's brother began rifling through drawers, retrieving a night-shirt just about Frodo's size, perhaps a little large but not enough to swallow him, as one would have said in the Shire. At once Gandalf undressed Frodo with a few quick movements, and quicker than you could have said knife he had the little hobbit dressed in the night-shirt, leaving the Ring dangling from its chain about the small neck.
And then...a woman entered, one of the Big Folk too, but...so stout and hobbity-looking that even Sam felt better at the sight of her. She looked very much like a tall hobbit, save that her wavy brown hair was fastened up and back from her face, and when she saw Frodo, she let out an exclamation of pity.
"Ah, the poor little one! Faramir, tell Nurse what is the matter."
"I have asked that the physician be summoned, but he has taken a fever of some sort; feel his brow."
She did, and promptly sighed. "Poor mite, he's burning up. Have water brought for me, just warm to the touch, not cold. And cloths for compresses, and extra blankets, and some broth - something light, I think. We must keep him fighting it till the doctor arrives. And from there I imagine we'll still have our work ahead of us."
Sam swallowed. Hard.
And there was still the matter of the Ring, too.
How much worse can it get?
-to be continued-
