(no subject)
This snippet of TLTW takes place about six months after Ellohir is born.
Disclaimer: Don’t own it. Don’t make money off it.
Frodo jolted awake, bolting straight up, hand to his throat. His stomach sank as his blurred vision adjusted and he focused on the clock. Ellohir stirred and sucked on his fingers, but Frodo’s sudden movement had not awakened him.
“Oh, no,” Frodo groaned. His head pounded, no doubt from sleeping in one stiff position, curled protectively around Ellohir.
The clock said it was nearly two in the afternoon, and Frodo had promised to meet Aragorn in the throne room at noon so that he could join him and the envoy from Harad for a midday meal. Earlier that day Frodo had been unable to soothe Aragorn as he paced like a restless animal.
“What is it already?” Frodo had finally asked in exasperation.
“I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“Please…attend this council with me. I need your input. You know I do not make decisions rashly, but it has been long years since the people of Gondor have been at peace with Harad. I fear…” Aragorn had run his hand through his hair, a nervous habit Frodo mostly found endearing. “I want it too much to be impartial. You are talented at weighing a situation. You may find holes in this deal that I cannot see.”
“I will come.”
Now Frodo groaned, and he pictured Aragorn’s gray eyes shaded with disappointment. Frodo had been more than a little forgetful in the past weeks. Hardly a week passed when he didn’t let some small task or promised engagement with Aragorn slip. It hurt so to see Aragorn striving to hide his wounded feelings. The last time Aragorn had let slip a stinging remark about how Ellohir would certainly never learn responsibility from his Hobbit half.
If he hurried, perhaps he might still join the Men. They could still be lingering over dessert. Besides, Frodo thought with sudden hope, if the meeting had adjourned, surely Aragorn would have already come back in anger.
“Alia!” Frodo called. The nursemaid didn’t materialize, and he sighed in frustration. Always the woman hovered over much, but now that Frodo needed her urgently, she was nowhere to be found. Still bleary from sleep, Frodo left the sleeping infant in the middle of the bed and trotted into the corridor. His eyes felt hot, and he had a pounding headache that radiated through all his muscles. He sighed in new aggravation. He refused to take ill yet again. He wearied of lying helpless in bed while Aragorn and Koslorn fretted over him and from whence he could do nothing but read and write dull letters to his friends in the Shire. Of course, this time Aragorn would probably be irritated enough that he would let Frodo lie alone in his misery.
“Hoy!” he called to the guard at the end of the corridor.
“Master Baggins?”
“Will you kindly fetch Alia--? I must go at once to the king.” He fidgeted with his clothing, smoothing out wrinkles. He ran his hands through his curls, though that was a lost cause - his hair always looked as if he had just awakened from sleep.
When Alia arrived with a fluttering of hands and apologies, Frodo sprinted down the corridor, ignoring a sour nausea that crept up his throat. He cautiously navigated the steps, remembering all too clearly the day he had toppled down them before Ellohir was born.
Aragorn was pacing like a caged animal in front of the throne -- alone. Frodo’s heart sank as he ran to him.
“Aragorn…”
“He has left.” Aragorn’s voice was curt as he paced, and one hand rested on the hilt of his sword. Frodo halted in front of him.
“Oh.” His face fell, and he blinked rapidly, looking down at his hands, head still throbbing miserably. He most likely had a dratted fever again. “I am so sorry, Aragorn. Ellohir was crying and I tried to calm him…we both fell asleep-“
“I am not interested in why,” Aragorn said shortly and strode past him. Frodo trotted to keep pace with him, and the exertion sent black spots twinkling in front of his eyes.
“I am sorry,” Frodo said quietly, holding out his hands. “Aragorn, I fully meant to be there-wanted to be there-“
“I have no doubt of it,” Aragorn said. Then he stopped abruptly and swung around. Frodo had never heard such weary disappointment in his lover’s voice. “I wanted so for you to meet him, Frodo. I am not sure of this land treaty, even now.”
“I should have been more careful-” Frodo began.
Aragorn interrupted him. “What is done is done.” He began to walk again at an impossibly rapid pace, and Frodo gave up trying to follow. He watched him disappear down the corridor before trudging in the opposite direction, too miserable to return to his chamber. His muscles felt heavy and he was sluggish, nearly as much so as when he had carried Ellohir inside him in those last months. He didn’t feel the familiar ache across his abdomen, the usual sign that the complaint that had plagued him since Ellohir’s birth had returned. This ache clutched all his muscles.
“When was the last time I had fresh air?” he muttered to himself. For a hobbit, all this time spent indoors in the stony citadel was surely not healthy. Forcing one step in front of the other, he made his way out of the citadel and into the narrow streets of the Upper Level. The sun felt pleasant on his cheeks, and he breathed in the fresh air. Yes, he absolutely had to spend more time outdoors. And furthermore, he had to take Ellohir out more. Surely he could find a place in this stony city where a garden could be tended. His heart ached for Sam with a sudden ferocity. He would know what to do.
As Frodo walked, he could not rid his mind of the sad disapproval on Aragorn’s face. Frodo never wanted to see that expression again. He simply had to change his forgetful ways, even if it meant carrying quill and paper with him everywhere to jot down everything he and Aragorn agreed upon. He wiped his hand over his brow. The afternoon sun that had started out so pleasantly, now seemed too warm for late October, and it caused his eyes to burn.
He could not remember the twists and turns he had taken on these stone streets, but he found himself in front of a tiny shop. He collapsed on the front step, relieved to rest his aching legs. He leaned his hot cheek against the stone doorframe, but no sooner had he closed his eyes than a sharp voice caused him to jump.
“Little Master, we are closed.”
“That is all right,” Frodo said. “I wish only to rest a moment.”
“Nay, I can’t have you urchins sleeping in front of my business - “ The shop owner paused, taking a close look at Frodo. “Oh. You are the halfling…Master Baggins. Goodness, I offer you my sincerest apologies.” He put his hand on his breast and bowed, looking flustered. “What brings you so far?”
“I was taking a walk, but I do not think I am well.”
“May I?” The shopkeeper asked, and when Frodo nodded, he touched Frodo’s brow. Frodo leaned into it, releasing a sigh of relief, as the large hand felt cool and smooth. The Man frowned. “You are very warm. And your eyes do not look well.”
“I feel…quite ill. Is there a place where I can rest? I do not think I have the strength to make it back home.”
“Come inside and lie down for a bit on one of the beds. I will fetch you a wet towel. Shall I send for a guard?”
Frodo climbed on shaky feet, but his limbs felt so heavy that he could not imagine how he would walk anywhere else, even the small distance to the shopkeeper’s quarters. His legs gave out, and he fell to his knees. The shopkeeper easily lifted him, tsk-ing in dismay.
Frodo’s heart sank as he shivered with chills. He thought about how sweet and soft Ellohir had felt in his arms as they had napped that afternoon. He had left him in Alia’s care, but what if - Frodo gasped in cold dismay. What if he had given Ellohir this illness that he had? If the baby fell ill, he might not have the strength to fight it.
Frodo twisted in the shopkeeper’s arms, trying to gaze into the Man’s friendly eyes. He had to get home! If little Ellohir was burning with fever, then nothing should stop Frodo from being with him!
“Oh, you must…” Frodo said. “Please send for the healer Koslorn!”
“Aye,” the shopkeeper said, nodding. “First, allow me to put a cool cloth on your head. You’re burning up.”
***
Aragorn returned to his chamber. There was naught that could be done about his heavy heart. He knew well that Frodo was sorry, yet it left him aching inside. He would not stay angry with Frodo, this he knew. The memory of nearly losing him during the dark days just after Ellohir’s birth was far too fresh.
He knew he could go into their room now and take Frodo in his arms, and yet it would not change the next time Frodo was careless. And the next.
Alia tucked Ellohir into bed.
“You are still here?” Aragorn asked in surprise. “Where is Frodo? He usually puts Ellohir to bed.”
Alia was pale with concern. “I do not know, my lord. He ran off so quickly this afternoon. But I am worried. I’ve sent for Koslorn - Ellohir has a fever.”
Aragorn crossed the chamber in seconds, heart in his throat, and set his hand on the baby’s brow. “And Frodo has not been back?”
“I have not seen him, my lord. Not since this afternoon.”
Aragorn lifted Ellohir, hugging him close to his heart, rocking him, and Alia continued, “I’ve been putting cool cloths on his head, but he will not eat.”
Aragorn felt a sickening tug of worry. He had been harsh with Frodo, so it followed that the hobbit might wish to be alone for a time - but it was not like him to leave Ellohir for this long. Ellohir was crying, but it sounded weak. His baby skin was hot to the touch.
Koslorn came then. “Ellohir is ill, is he? Where is Frodo?”
“I do not know where Frodo is.” Aragorn knew his voice was short, but uneasiness filled his heart. Nothing would keep Frodo away from Ellohir if he were ill. Nothing.
“That seems unlike him to be abroad this late.”
Again, Aragorn felt that unpleasant hitch in his stomach. Perhaps something had happened to him. Frodo’s illnesses came suddenly sometimes, and he may have collapsed somewhere far from aid.
“Alia,” he said. “Inform the guard outside our chamber that I wish Frodo to be found.” He dropped his voice, speaking only to Koslorn. “He will be irked with me, but I care not. In my heart I do not feel all is well.”
Alia bowed and left the chamber.
***
Frodo lay in a burning half dream. The harsh linen sheets scratched his skin, and he was so thirsty. The sun had already set, and he lay in quiet darkness. He could not stop shaking, though a strong fire crackled in the fireplace.
He swayed on the brink of Mount Doom, filled with heady power, the Ring a burning brand around his finger. He had the power to command the fires to leap out of the chasm and swallow them all. He could soar out of the mountain and swallow the world with his eye. The Shire would become a barren wasteland and he would take mean pleasure in the terrified screams coming from his neighbors who had gossiped about him all these years. He would enjoy wielding a whip himself.
“…right in here.”
“Oh, no. Yes, I shall take him.”
Strong arms lifted him.
“Aragorn?”
“Nay, not the king. I am but a guard, but you are missed dearly at the Citadel.”
“Ellohir…sick?” Frodo was not sure he could bear to hear the answer, but he knew he had to.
“I know not, Master Baggins, but I imagine he is just fine.”
Frodo sagged into the guard’s arms, so relieved that at least this guard at least had not heard anything about Ellohir being ill.
***
Frodo woke to sunlight streaming over the crisp yellow sheet in which he was tucked, and the brightness hurt his eyes, which felt crusty, difficult to open. As he adjusted to his surroundings, his heart lurched and he sat up straight in bed, just as he had done when he realized he had slept through the council with Aragorn.
“Ellohir!” he cried, turning cold inside. He had slept through the night, and one night was far too long for a baby with a high fever.
Aragorn startled from where he had been sleeping in his chair.
“Ellohir - is he well?” Frodo asked, clutching his sheet to him until his knuckles paled.
“He is sleeping.” Aragorn’s voice was gentle as he crawled onto the bed and put the back of his hand on Frodo’s cheek. “His fever has broken. As has yours.” He released a tense sigh. His eyes looked bleary from lack of sleep.
“So he was ill,” Frodo said, his muscles turning soft with relief. “And I was not here with him.”
“He is just fine,” Aragorn said, smoothing Frodo’s curls from his damp brow. “Forget not that he is half a hobbit and made of stern stuff.” He managed a weary smile.
Frodo clasped Aragorn’s hand with both of his. “I am very sorry-“
“Hush,” Aragorn said, continuing to run his fingers through Frodo’s curls. “It does not matter.”
Often it filled Frodo with hot guilt, how easily Aragorn forgave him, but this time he was only grateful that he was safe at home again, that Ellohir had recovered, and that Aragorn was here, his face soft with kind concern.
“Come. Get some sleep at least.” Frodo tugged at Aragorn’s hand. “You look as if you’ve not slept all night.”
Aragorn laughed, shaking his head. “I might as well. Ellohir will soon wake. And the only thing worse than a hobbit’s healthy appetite is a hobbit’s appetite after recovering from illness.”
“Yes,” Frodo said, his voice merry with teasing. “And speaking of which, I should very much like some pancakes, sausages, strawberries - oh, and do not forget the buttered mushrooms…”
Aragorn cuffed Frodo’s cheek softly before pulling the hobbit into a firm embrace and kissing the back of his head. “Sleep, darling.”
In moments, they had both fallen into a deep, blissful sleep.