Burden, 17/?
It's been two weeks since I posted the last chapter, so here, have some more! :)
Title: Burden, 17/?
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mpreg, implied non-con, sorta-hermaphrodite Frodo (you'll see what I mean)
Acknowledgment: Many, many thanks to lilybaggins for her ideas, squeeing, and research for this fic. :)
Summary: Pre-Quest, a young hobbit finds himself lost and in some trouble far from home.
A/N: In which Frodo's fever comes to a head and he meets someone new.
Burden, 1/?
Burden, 2/?
Burden, 3/?
Burden, 4/?
Burden, 5/?
Burden, 6/?
Burden, 7/?
Burden, 8/?
Burden, 9/?
Burden, 10/?
Burden, 11/?
Burden, 12/?
Burden, 13/?
Burden, 14/?
Burden, 15/?
Burden, 16/?
A small part of Frodo was aware that he was still feeling abominable and, in fact, was perhaps even feeling worse than before. The rest of him blissfully embraced the delirium, the distance between him and his pain/suffering?. But he was soon aware even this distance had its pains -he was burning. His entire being was on fire or immersed in fire -he couldn't tell which, but it did not make much of a difference either way. His mind fled, but even his dreams were dark and troubled, full of fear, pain, and despair.
Then he felt something new: a coolness that fought the fire. It was creeping over him slowly, more slowly than he'd like, but it was advancing all the same. He was almost completely engulfed when the movement stopped, and he tried to voice his complaint, but nothing came out. Then he felt something else -a cloth, perhaps?- smoothing some of the coolness over his exposed skin -his shoulders, he realized, almost startled to remember he had a body at all, and he was immersed in something up to his chest.
But the cloth didn't have the same effect as sitting in the stuff did, for he could feel the coolness beginning to warm to match his skin, and left his skin just as hot as before. Then the cloth left and he was abandoned to his heated misery. At least now he was aware of his body again, though that may not be entirely good, since it hurt all over. His head was resting on the edge of something, and he wondered if that was why the cool stopped partway up. If he could only get it off, perhaps then he would feel the coolness all over? It was worth a try.
He readied himself -he just knew that trying to move would hurt- and made one good effort to lift his head enough to free it of the edge. He succeeded, and his body listed sideways until he felt himself go under and he reveled in the relief washing over his skin. When his sigh emerged as bubbles, he realized that the coolness was water and he was now submerged. He could not breathe here, and he found it distinctly unlikely that he would be able to manage pushing himself up for air. The irony of him meeting his parents' fate was not lost on him, even as his mind began to swim from not breathing.
Then abruptly there was an arm hefting him up by the armpits, and he dangled limply from it as a hand patted his back with some force until a gasp was forced from him and he began to choke and cough. Mercy, did he ache so! A towel was patted over his face, drying up some of the rivulets, though more continued to run down from his hair. He was being sat back down in the water, his head again propped on the edge, but this time a pair of hands held it there.
A voice was demanding something of him, demanding 'why' from him. He struggled to open his eyes, seeing a blurry face before him that simply refused to focus itself, and he said simply, plaintively, "Hot."
The owner of the voice seemed to understand; he reached forward and the cloth was again smoothing the coolness over his exposed skin. "Does that help?" the voice asked.
Ah, he was starting to understand things again. Now if he could just make himself understood . . . "Face hot," he asserted, and a voice behind him laughed.
But the other did not laugh. Instead, Frodo hazily watched his movements as he wetted another cloth, folded it, and made to place it on him. "Close your eyes," the voice urged.
Frodo was only too happy to do so; he was beginning to add a pounding headache to his list of complaints. The cloth then settled itself over his forehead and eyes, and that felt very nice indeed. "Better," he sighed. He proceeded to doze there in the water, lulled by the swish of the cloth sweeping over him. At some point the hands stopped holding his head in place, and he could feel the water stirring as more was added.
How long he was in the bath he wasn't sure, but when he was finally lifted out, he no longer felt nearly so hot. He was wrapped in a towel and dried briskly while perched in someone's lap, then a shirt was pulled onto him and he was being lifted again, and this time he was deposited in bed. Hands helped him onto his side, where he curled up happily and was soon asleep.
Aragorn watched him sleep until well into the night, concerned that the fever would again worsen or he would otherwise sicken further. When nothing of the sort happened for several long hours, Aragorn dared to let himself hope that Frodo would finally begin to heal.
~~~~
Both Men were startled by a knock at the door. Halbarad answered it to find a woman standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. "Hello, good-looking. Is that Ranger buddy of yours around?"
"Right here, Allison," Aragorn said, coming to the door so Halbarad could escape.
"So when were you planning to return my equipment, hmm?" she demanded, crossing her arms and glaring at him. "It's been a day and a half, and I have a job to do which, I might add, is made far more difficult with the lack of certain tools."
"I wasn't sure I was done with them yet," Aragorn tried to explain, but she pushed past him and swept into the room, searching for her beloved bag. In so doing, she spied the hobbit curled on the bed and turned on Aragorn. "Don't tell me you used my instruments on her, poor thing. They're much too large!"
"Yes, I borrowed them for use on him. The need was dire, and I was careful."
"Him? He's one of those, then." Allison swept over to the bed and touched her hand to Frodo's cheek, his forehead, then brushed his hair carefully out of his face.
"'One of those'? You have seen such before?"
"Only a few times, and they always leave town before getting to term. I've always wondered if they could survive the birthing. Did he birth, or did he miscarry?"
"He gave birth, and has been unwell since, though he was in poor condition even before."
"He feels rather warm," she said thoughtfully in agreement. Then she smiled as Frodo's eyes slowly opened. "Hello, darling. I'm a midwife. Would it be all right if I took a look at you?"
When Frodo heard a female voice close by and felt a far smaller, far softer hand on his skin, he'd half-wondered if he'd gone mad. But no, she seemed quite real, and Aragorn seemed discomfited by her presence, if his stiff posture were any indication. She had a friendly face and seemed nice enough, he supposed it wouldn't do any harm . . . Slowly, he nodded his head in acquiescence.
"Splendid, dear. This won't take but a minute," she said with obvious delight as she began to gently feel down his neck, across his chest, and around his stomach, carefully pushing back the blanket just enough to have an unencumbered reach. She seemed pleased at what she found. "You're doing very well, sweetheart. Now, would you allow me to poke around your lass bits for a moment? I want to make sure the blunderer didn't do any damage with my instruments. If he'd asked, I would have given him the ones I've modified for hobbits." She threw a glare over her shoulder toward Aragorn.
Frodo blushed at her very straightforward reference to the parts he would rather not mention . . . then stiffened as he contemplated what such a request might require. "Would it involve any . . . implements?" he asked cautiously.
"No, none at all. Just my hand," she replied cheerfully, holding up one hand to demonstrate.
He looked at it a moment -my, was it smaller than Aragorn's!- and considered. No implements . . . what could it hurt? "All right," he said softly. "How do you want me to lay?"
"Just as you are on your side is fine. I'll just need you to lift up the top leg a little, then bend your knee and put your foot down so you don't have to hold your leg up. Yes, like that. Wonderful. Try to relax, and let me know right away if I'm hurting you." She had bent down to wash her hand in the basin, and when Frodo was settled, she patted his bent knee with the other hand and set to work.
Frodo tried not to think about the fact that it was a female touching him, though he had to concede she was quite skilled -he knew she was probing, but it felt nothing like the poking Aragorn would have been doing in her place. She looked thoughtful, and murmured, "Got a bit of a tear there, but it's healing now . . . nothing else noticeable . . ."
Then she was done and was rinsing her hand. After she'd done so, she tucked the blankets back over him, saying, "You did wonderfully, dear heart. I didn't find anything that would keep troubling you, so you should be feeling better very soon. If you aren't feeling better in a week, make sure one of these louts sends for me."
Frodo nodded drowsily. "Did they send for you this time?"
Allison laughed merrily. "No, I came to retrieve what that fellow over there decided to borrow and not return promptly."
"Oh," Frodo said, too tired for anything more complicated.
"Sleep, poppet. You'll be better before you know it." She rubbed his back to help him along, and he was soon sound asleep. She looked over at Aragorn. "Let me guess: the tear was infected."
Aragorn nodded. "I had to drain the abscess yesterday."
"Just yesterday? He seems too healed for it to have been yesterday." Allison looked down at Frodo fondly. "Resilient little folk."
Aragorn meekly handed her the leather bag, which she snatched from him as she stood. "Make sure you call for me if he isn't feeling better in a week's time. And for goodness' sake, get the lad a haircut!"
She vanished in a swirl of skirts and was gone as quickly as she came.
By the end of the designated week, Frodo was almost disappointed that his fever began to recede, as it would mean she wouldn't need to be called for. It had been nice to have someone gentle and obviously knowledgeable take a look at him; while Frodo was sure Aragorn did his best, he got the feeling at times that Aragorn was fumbling for the right answers that would make him feel better, while she exuded self-confidence and assurance that what she said would be the case. Even so, she reminded him of a kindly aunt more than a healer. And it had been so long since anyone used a term of endearment towards him, much less a handful of them! He had to admit, sweetheart had probably been his favorite . . .
----
Continued here
Title: Burden, 17/?
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mpreg, implied non-con, sorta-hermaphrodite Frodo (you'll see what I mean)
Acknowledgment: Many, many thanks to lilybaggins for her ideas, squeeing, and research for this fic. :)
Summary: Pre-Quest, a young hobbit finds himself lost and in some trouble far from home.
A/N: In which Frodo's fever comes to a head and he meets someone new.
Burden, 1/?
Burden, 2/?
Burden, 3/?
Burden, 4/?
Burden, 5/?
Burden, 6/?
Burden, 7/?
Burden, 8/?
Burden, 9/?
Burden, 10/?
Burden, 11/?
Burden, 12/?
Burden, 13/?
Burden, 14/?
Burden, 15/?
Burden, 16/?
A small part of Frodo was aware that he was still feeling abominable and, in fact, was perhaps even feeling worse than before. The rest of him blissfully embraced the delirium, the distance between him and his pain/suffering?. But he was soon aware even this distance had its pains -he was burning. His entire being was on fire or immersed in fire -he couldn't tell which, but it did not make much of a difference either way. His mind fled, but even his dreams were dark and troubled, full of fear, pain, and despair.
Then he felt something new: a coolness that fought the fire. It was creeping over him slowly, more slowly than he'd like, but it was advancing all the same. He was almost completely engulfed when the movement stopped, and he tried to voice his complaint, but nothing came out. Then he felt something else -a cloth, perhaps?- smoothing some of the coolness over his exposed skin -his shoulders, he realized, almost startled to remember he had a body at all, and he was immersed in something up to his chest.
But the cloth didn't have the same effect as sitting in the stuff did, for he could feel the coolness beginning to warm to match his skin, and left his skin just as hot as before. Then the cloth left and he was abandoned to his heated misery. At least now he was aware of his body again, though that may not be entirely good, since it hurt all over. His head was resting on the edge of something, and he wondered if that was why the cool stopped partway up. If he could only get it off, perhaps then he would feel the coolness all over? It was worth a try.
He readied himself -he just knew that trying to move would hurt- and made one good effort to lift his head enough to free it of the edge. He succeeded, and his body listed sideways until he felt himself go under and he reveled in the relief washing over his skin. When his sigh emerged as bubbles, he realized that the coolness was water and he was now submerged. He could not breathe here, and he found it distinctly unlikely that he would be able to manage pushing himself up for air. The irony of him meeting his parents' fate was not lost on him, even as his mind began to swim from not breathing.
Then abruptly there was an arm hefting him up by the armpits, and he dangled limply from it as a hand patted his back with some force until a gasp was forced from him and he began to choke and cough. Mercy, did he ache so! A towel was patted over his face, drying up some of the rivulets, though more continued to run down from his hair. He was being sat back down in the water, his head again propped on the edge, but this time a pair of hands held it there.
A voice was demanding something of him, demanding 'why' from him. He struggled to open his eyes, seeing a blurry face before him that simply refused to focus itself, and he said simply, plaintively, "Hot."
The owner of the voice seemed to understand; he reached forward and the cloth was again smoothing the coolness over his exposed skin. "Does that help?" the voice asked.
Ah, he was starting to understand things again. Now if he could just make himself understood . . . "Face hot," he asserted, and a voice behind him laughed.
But the other did not laugh. Instead, Frodo hazily watched his movements as he wetted another cloth, folded it, and made to place it on him. "Close your eyes," the voice urged.
Frodo was only too happy to do so; he was beginning to add a pounding headache to his list of complaints. The cloth then settled itself over his forehead and eyes, and that felt very nice indeed. "Better," he sighed. He proceeded to doze there in the water, lulled by the swish of the cloth sweeping over him. At some point the hands stopped holding his head in place, and he could feel the water stirring as more was added.
How long he was in the bath he wasn't sure, but when he was finally lifted out, he no longer felt nearly so hot. He was wrapped in a towel and dried briskly while perched in someone's lap, then a shirt was pulled onto him and he was being lifted again, and this time he was deposited in bed. Hands helped him onto his side, where he curled up happily and was soon asleep.
Aragorn watched him sleep until well into the night, concerned that the fever would again worsen or he would otherwise sicken further. When nothing of the sort happened for several long hours, Aragorn dared to let himself hope that Frodo would finally begin to heal.
~~~~
Both Men were startled by a knock at the door. Halbarad answered it to find a woman standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. "Hello, good-looking. Is that Ranger buddy of yours around?"
"Right here, Allison," Aragorn said, coming to the door so Halbarad could escape.
"So when were you planning to return my equipment, hmm?" she demanded, crossing her arms and glaring at him. "It's been a day and a half, and I have a job to do which, I might add, is made far more difficult with the lack of certain tools."
"I wasn't sure I was done with them yet," Aragorn tried to explain, but she pushed past him and swept into the room, searching for her beloved bag. In so doing, she spied the hobbit curled on the bed and turned on Aragorn. "Don't tell me you used my instruments on her, poor thing. They're much too large!"
"Yes, I borrowed them for use on him. The need was dire, and I was careful."
"Him? He's one of those, then." Allison swept over to the bed and touched her hand to Frodo's cheek, his forehead, then brushed his hair carefully out of his face.
"'One of those'? You have seen such before?"
"Only a few times, and they always leave town before getting to term. I've always wondered if they could survive the birthing. Did he birth, or did he miscarry?"
"He gave birth, and has been unwell since, though he was in poor condition even before."
"He feels rather warm," she said thoughtfully in agreement. Then she smiled as Frodo's eyes slowly opened. "Hello, darling. I'm a midwife. Would it be all right if I took a look at you?"
When Frodo heard a female voice close by and felt a far smaller, far softer hand on his skin, he'd half-wondered if he'd gone mad. But no, she seemed quite real, and Aragorn seemed discomfited by her presence, if his stiff posture were any indication. She had a friendly face and seemed nice enough, he supposed it wouldn't do any harm . . . Slowly, he nodded his head in acquiescence.
"Splendid, dear. This won't take but a minute," she said with obvious delight as she began to gently feel down his neck, across his chest, and around his stomach, carefully pushing back the blanket just enough to have an unencumbered reach. She seemed pleased at what she found. "You're doing very well, sweetheart. Now, would you allow me to poke around your lass bits for a moment? I want to make sure the blunderer didn't do any damage with my instruments. If he'd asked, I would have given him the ones I've modified for hobbits." She threw a glare over her shoulder toward Aragorn.
Frodo blushed at her very straightforward reference to the parts he would rather not mention . . . then stiffened as he contemplated what such a request might require. "Would it involve any . . . implements?" he asked cautiously.
"No, none at all. Just my hand," she replied cheerfully, holding up one hand to demonstrate.
He looked at it a moment -my, was it smaller than Aragorn's!- and considered. No implements . . . what could it hurt? "All right," he said softly. "How do you want me to lay?"
"Just as you are on your side is fine. I'll just need you to lift up the top leg a little, then bend your knee and put your foot down so you don't have to hold your leg up. Yes, like that. Wonderful. Try to relax, and let me know right away if I'm hurting you." She had bent down to wash her hand in the basin, and when Frodo was settled, she patted his bent knee with the other hand and set to work.
Frodo tried not to think about the fact that it was a female touching him, though he had to concede she was quite skilled -he knew she was probing, but it felt nothing like the poking Aragorn would have been doing in her place. She looked thoughtful, and murmured, "Got a bit of a tear there, but it's healing now . . . nothing else noticeable . . ."
Then she was done and was rinsing her hand. After she'd done so, she tucked the blankets back over him, saying, "You did wonderfully, dear heart. I didn't find anything that would keep troubling you, so you should be feeling better very soon. If you aren't feeling better in a week, make sure one of these louts sends for me."
Frodo nodded drowsily. "Did they send for you this time?"
Allison laughed merrily. "No, I came to retrieve what that fellow over there decided to borrow and not return promptly."
"Oh," Frodo said, too tired for anything more complicated.
"Sleep, poppet. You'll be better before you know it." She rubbed his back to help him along, and he was soon sound asleep. She looked over at Aragorn. "Let me guess: the tear was infected."
Aragorn nodded. "I had to drain the abscess yesterday."
"Just yesterday? He seems too healed for it to have been yesterday." Allison looked down at Frodo fondly. "Resilient little folk."
Aragorn meekly handed her the leather bag, which she snatched from him as she stood. "Make sure you call for me if he isn't feeling better in a week's time. And for goodness' sake, get the lad a haircut!"
She vanished in a swirl of skirts and was gone as quickly as she came.
By the end of the designated week, Frodo was almost disappointed that his fever began to recede, as it would mean she wouldn't need to be called for. It had been nice to have someone gentle and obviously knowledgeable take a look at him; while Frodo was sure Aragorn did his best, he got the feeling at times that Aragorn was fumbling for the right answers that would make him feel better, while she exuded self-confidence and assurance that what she said would be the case. Even so, she reminded him of a kindly aunt more than a healer. And it had been so long since anyone used a term of endearment towards him, much less a handful of them! He had to admit, sweetheart had probably been his favorite . . .
----
Continued here