Too Long to Wait: Anniversary Illness
As spring brought white blossoms and an early heat wave to Minas Tirith, Aragorn was ever reluctant to leave Frodo, even for a few days. He lived in constant fear that the skin over Frodo’s abdomen could not possibly stretch any more and that the baby would be born at any time, though this early, he or she had nearly no chance of survival.
On this occasion, Aragorn had tarried too long in Emyn Arnen discussing with Prince Faramir solutions to the problem of miscreant bands of Easterlings, who had returned to their evil ways. As Aragorn entered the White city after an absence of two weeks, his heart fluttered coldly in his throat. Anything could have happened, and a message never would have reached him in time. Aragorn strode up the stone hewn steps, and the Captain of the Guard bowed, knowing exactly how to put his king at ease.
“Frodo is well,” he said with a smile.
Aragorn released a shuddering sigh, which eased the heavy throb in his chest. Often he wondered at the wisdom of loving so deeply, especially given that the one he loved was in a condition that could easily kill him.
“Thank you,” Aragorn said. “And all else?”
“One of our messengers was slain by a band of Easterlings.”
Aragorn’s eyes hardened and he rested his forehead on his index finger and thumb a moment before looking at the guard again. “I will go now and see to Frodo, but I will wish to speak to you in greater detail within the hour.”
Upon entering his and Frodo’s chamber, he found the hobbit in bed reading, the swell of his belly shockingly evident under the satin sheet. He was wearing one of Aragorn’s nightshirts, the oversized sleeves rolled up to his elbows because of the heat. Frodo let out a weak cry of joy at the sight of his lover, and Aragorn disguised his alarm over the dark circles under the hobbit’s eyes with a wide grin.
“I was beginning to worry!” Frodo said. “How was it?”
“Tiresome.” Aragorn bent down to kiss Frodo. “How are you feeling?”
“Koslorn has given me an herbal tea to help the pain in my back, but otherwise, I am feeling well.” Frodo’s breath came out in quick gasps, seemingly from the mere effort of talking.
Aragorn let his hand rest on Frodo’s brow. “How is your heart? Any rapid beat?”
“As long as I lie still, like a slug, I am all right, unless I die of boredom.”
“Your breathing?”
“Aragorn,” Frodo laughed. “Koslorn asks me these questions countless times a day. I am all right, I tell you! But come! The little one is moving, and you must feel!”
Aragorn knelt on the bed, crouching over Frodo, letting his hands rest on the hard, rounded belly. Sure enough, something under his hands fluttered, and he was shocked by the depth of emotion it inspired in him as tears welled in his eyes. If only he could be certain that everything would turn out all right -- that Frodo would come through the birth unscathed, that they should have a healthy boy or girl. What joy he or she could bring both of them! If not, when Aragorn died, the heirs of Eowyn and Faramir would take over as Stewards once again.
“Is there anything I can bring you?” Aragorn asked, kissing the top of Frodo’s head, burying his nose in lavender-scented curls.
“No, thank you,” Frodo said. “I have been well taken care of in your absence. But if you do not have to be elsewhere just yet, I would much enjoy your company. I missed you dreadfully.”
“You may have me for a short while.”
***
Frodo woke in the middle of the night too warm, yet he was shaking uncontrollably as if he had been submerged in icy water. Though he had grown accustomed to the constant ache in his lower back since his belly had become so enormous, this was different. This pain spread up his spine, centering on the back of his neck, rendering him to tears. His thighs ached as though he had walked for miles, his eyes burned, and worst of all, he was terribly thirsty.
Where was Aragorn?
Koslorn was getting some much deserved rest now that Aragorn had returned, and he would not check on Frodo until early the next morning. Aragorn’s side of the bed was empty, and Frodo wondered when he had left. Frodo scooted backward until he was pressed against the headboard, hoping the pressure would ease the pulsating pain in his neck and spine. The effort only sent his heart racing and caused the pain to explode with new intensity, spreading it up his jaw and over his face. Frodo whimpered helplessly, trying to catch his breath.
Though it was March 13th and he should have expected his illness to strike as it had every year, he had held hope that he might be immune from it this year, given the drastic changes his body had undergone. Last year he had been so dreadfully ill, though it had lasted less than a day because of Aragorn’s tender and capable care. Now he did not see how he would bear it, given his weakened state. Oh, where was Aragorn? He could not see the clock, but he suspected it was still a long time until early morning.
Frodo slipped into an uncomfortable dream in which his body had been bound by a sticky rope and left to dangle from a great height over an abyss which reminded him of the Bridge of Khazaddum. An eerie hissing echoed up and down the abyss before his eyes made out the numerous bloated black shapes, so black that they were like inkblots in the already dark cavern. The giant spiders scampered gleefully over the ceiling, preparing to feed--
“Frodo…Frodo…answer me…please wake up.”
Frodo forced his burning eyes open. It was still night, but Aragorn had lit the oil lamps, illuminating the room. Frodo tried to speak, but his throat was too dry, and the effort of moving his lips caused the pain to reverberate in the back of his neck and down his back. He let out a weak groan. He shivered as a cool breeze brushed over him. Aragorn had peeled off his blankets.
“How long have you been burning with fever?” Aragorn’s cool hand fell on Frodo’s brow. “Do you have pain in your abdomen?”
Frodo wanted to ask Aragorn to put the blankets back on because he felt so cold and he didn’t want to start shivering again -- it would hurt so much -- but he could not speak.
“Koslorn will be here shortly with the herbs. It is your anniversary illness, is it not?”
Frodo nodded weakly and whispered, “Aragorn…please…stay…”
“I am here.” Frodo heard a catch in the Man’s throat. “It breaks my heart that you should suffer like this. I would do anything to put it on myself.”
Frodo watched through hazy vision as Aragorn wrung out a cloth in a basin. The water would be so cool on his skin, though he really needed it down his throat.
“…thirsty,” he croaked. “Please.”
But Aragorn did not hear him above the sound of Koslorn bursting through the door. “He is starting his pains? It is far too early, my lord. The child will not survive it, but we must do all we can for Frodo--”
“No, no,” Aragorn said in a hoarse voice. “It is his anniversary illness, only this time, given his condition, I am very concerned. His fever is higher than in previous years. Please give him something for the pain.”
“I dare not give him anything. It could be a risk to him and the child.”
Aragorn closed his eyes, as if gathering his patience. “That may be, but I will not allow him to suffer, Koslorn. I know you have been giving him something for his back pain.”
“That would be too weak for this kind of pain.”
“We must work to keep the fever down. I will massage his legs and back and anywhere else where he is hurting. You boil some water. Risk or not, I will give him some athelas.”
Frodo gasped as Aragorn’s strong hands began to knead his thighs. He whimpered in relief as the throb began to fade.
“All right, sweetie,” Aragorn said softly after a few moments. “Just tell me what hurts most.”
“My neck.”
Aragorn placed the cool, wet cloth over Frodo’s brow, causing the hobbit to tremble violently. The baby stirred restlessly inside him, and he fervently hoped that he or she could not feel the pain.
Aragorn placed another wet cloth behind Frodo’s neck, massaging, but instead of being soothing, great shock waves of sharp agony coursed down Frodo’s spine. Frodo could not help it - his cry pierced the night.
Aragorn retracted his hand, horrified tears springing to his eyes. “I am sorry!”
Before Frodo could respond, a cramping took his belly, so sharp, that it made the pain in his neck fade to the background. Frodo grabbed his abdomen and cried out again. Aragorn took Frodo’s cheeks in his hands, trying to keep him still. “Frodo, shh…we’ll make this go away. Please stay strong. I’m going to help you.”
“The stress has caused his pains to start,” Koslorn whispered.
“Do not try to stop it,” Aragorn said. “If he births now, the child will not be quite as big.”
“But it will have no hope of survival.”
“I care not,” Aragorn said. “I only care that Frodo should survive this. Let it go.”
Koslorn looked at Aragorn. “My lord, I mean no disrespect, but you must know that even the smoothest birth will kill Frodo in his state right now. We must stop the pains if we can.”
Aragorn stared at Frodo, swallowing several times before nodding. Frodo closed his eyes, letting out a resigned sigh. This was it. He was not going to live past this night. Behind his eyelids, he saw the garden in front of Bag End, could picture Sam fingering a red rose, a proud smile on his round face.
Oh, Sam, Frodo groaned internally. I did not want it to end this way. I wanted to see the Shire again, to see you, to see your little ones. And now I will not even get to see my little one.
“I am not being wise.” Aragorn drew a shaky hand over his brow. “You are right, Koslorn. I am reacting emotionally when Frodo needs my clear mind.”
Aragorn propped pillows under Frodo’s feet and knees until the hobbit’s abdomen was tilted upward. Frodo groaned and clutched his abdomen as a new pain ripped over him. He had never felt pain like this. This was separate from the ache that pervaded his neck and spine, which had faded to a dull throb. He swallowed frantically, trying not to vomit.
“Sweetie.” Aragorn placed his hand on Frodo’s brow again. The tremulous quality in Aragorn’s normally commanding voice turned Frodo’s chest cold with fear. If Aragorn had lost hope, then there was no hope to be had. “You must swallow this.” He stuck some dry and bitter leaves under the hobbit’s tongue. “This will make you feel better.”
Frodo wanted nothing more than to soothe Aragorn. He couldn’t bear to see the pale anxiety on his lover’s face. If Aragorn was not strong, then what could he clutch for strength?
“I’m all right, Aragorn, all right,” he said, biting his lip to hold back a gasp as a new contraction clenched his abdomen. His stomach rolled, and he nearly vomited the leaves he had just swallowed. He lay gasping while his stomach slowly stabilized.
Aragorn held the wet cloth over Frodo’s brow, and the hobbit shuddered, clutching Aragorn’s hand.
“Lie with me…Please.”
Aragorn climbed into bed. Careful to move Frodo as little as possible, he snaked his hand around the hobbit’s shoulder, drawing him close. Now Frodo had an anchor, something to clutch, and the pain faded slightly.
“Koslorn, prop more pillows under his feet. They still need to be higher than his abdomen.”
Aragorn kissed Frodo’s damp brow. “I’m right here, sweetie.”
Frodo marveled because Aragorn had never once in the ten years they had lived together called him by such a tender endearment, much less done so several times within an hour.
***
The sun flooded the chamber with bright light, waking Frodo. The first thing he noticed was that the pain had faded, leaving his muscles flaccid and weak. His nightshirt was damp, the curls on his brow stale and limp from dried sweat, but he felt good, relieved, as he often did after violent illness when he woke up to find himself well again. Aragorn’s arms were still securely locked around him, one arm below the bulge of his belly, the other over his upper chest. His head was nuzzled against the top of Frodo’s head. When Frodo stirred, Aragorn gently kissed his curls.
“How do you feel?”
“Much better. The pain…it’s gone.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.” Frodo frowned slightly, as his back still ached, though at least now the pain was bearable. “Well, most of it, at any rate.”
“My heart is glad…you cannot imagine how glad.”
“You were worried,” Frodo said with a smile, rubbing his foot down the length of Aragorn’s thigh. “I’ve never seen you so worried. A hobbit could get used to such care.”
“Yes, you hairy-footed creature,” Aragorn murmured, kissing Frodo’s ear. “Naught else would tear me from the serious issues our kingdom faces.”
Aragorn’s hands found Frodo’s swollen belly, and he massaged it until Frodo nearly purred with contentment. Little Ellohir or Primula chose that moment to give a mighty, well-aimed kick. Aragorn gasped and withdrew his hand before chuckling in Frodo’s ear. “We know now that he or she must have hobbit feet to deliver such a wicked kick.”
“Indeed,” Frodo said, nuzzling his cheek against Aragorn’s neck. He was only happy that the child, hobbit feet or no hobbit feet, had come through that night of pain seemingly strong and healthy.
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