Crying Rain 1/?

[finnyb]

Disclaimer: I do not own Frodo (or anyone else). Pity, that. Of course, given how I torture him, he’s probably glad! Oh, yes, and this involves a death, but the character--a baby--is dead before we meet her. Sorry!



Empty at first glance, the small dead-end alley, tucked close between a tavern on one side and a brothel on the other, was near to overflowing with refuse belonging to both neighbours. Rotting fruit and putrid meat, stale mead and overripe wine, blood and sweat, vomit and urine, semen and faeces, all smeared the stones and curdled in the heat still radiating from the much-grimed walls, though the sun had set several hours before.

A small, painfully thin hobbit, garbed in nothing more than an overly-large, dirt-crusted, torn shirt of some indeterminate colour, huddled in the rear of the alley. His roughly-chopped hair, far longer than hobbits normally wear it, its tangles matted together with sweat, hung free in front of slightly pointed ears, hiding what little of his downcast face the wane light didn’t obscure. The rest of his sunken form, leaning back into the corner with his legs spread and his knees raised achingly high, was lit only little better than his slightly elven features, by the ill light trickling in from the abutting street.

In skeletal arms he cradled a tiny baby, blue as his own lips from the chill air. The child, malformed and obviously stillborn, was still attached to the umbilical cord, trailing between the young hobbit’s legs to the foul-smelling placenta puddled beneath him.

Tearstains crusted his hollowed cheeks, and something more than mere exhaustion bruised the thin flesh underlining his blankly staring eyes. Fast-coagulating blood continued to seep from his torn--tortured--womb and pool around the dirtied mass of afterbirth.

As the dawn light spilled into the small alley the next morning, the hobbit’s body, and that of the bairn, were well-lit and stood out in stark contrast to the rough stone.

Those blankly staring eyes from the night before were now closed, tears seeping from beneath long, crusted eyelashes. The hobbit still held the child close, though his arms were shaking from the strain of being in the same position for so long. He was not about to give up the baby, dead though it was. It was his. Despite how he had dreaded its coming, the bairn was his nonetheless.

“Hey. You. Halfling.”

Blinking, the hobbit stared down the alley. “Yes?” he coughed, voice harsh.

“Whatcha doing there? That alley-way ain’t no place t’give birth.”

At the mention of “birth,” the hobbit’s eyes once again filled with tears that he refused to shed. “Better than the middle of the street.”

The tavern-keeper nodded. “That it is. At least there you don’t get run over. But why don’t you come inside, now. Nice warm room with a fire?”

Shaking his head, the hobbit somehow managed to gesture to the mess of afterbirth beneath him. “I’m afraid I cannot. I would not want to sully your establishment.”

“Silly hobbit. I’ve had lasses as were giving birth before. A hobbit-lad ain’t so much different.” Producing a large knife, the Man moved down the alley-way and knelt beside the halfling, not caring that his breeches were near to getting in the bloody mess. “Here. Let me just nip that cord and we’ll soon have you in a nice, warm bed.”

Eyelids once again falling closed, the hobbit nodded, barely feeling it when the Man removed the baby from his arms, picked him up, and moved inside.

“Come on, now...gently, gently...”

“He’s so little!”

“Aye. And had a rough time of it, by the looks.”

“The poor little lad.”

“Fetch the healer, would you? He’s burning up.”

Once the room quieted--apparently someone had gone for a healer, though he couldn’t imagine why--Frodo pried his eyes open, and wanted to cry from the pain. Somehow, though, he had a feeling he’d been crying enough lately, and he was not about to start doing so again. Not without great need, at any rate, and waking up in a strange bed to voices talking about him hardly constituted “great need” in his mind. “Strange,” yes, but “great need,” no.

Before he could figure anything else out, the door opened and a Man bustled inside. “Pregnant hobbit, did you say?”

“Well,” someone else answered, the tavern-keeper, perhaps, “he’s already given birth. Poor babe didn’t make it, and neither did he, barely.”

“Ah. So ye’d be wantin’ me t’clean up after ‘im.”

“That’s right. He’s burnin’ hisself right up, too.”

“Well, I’ll do what I can.”

As the door clanged shut, the Man turned to Frodo and came over to the bed. “So. You’d be the hobbit-lad as gave birth in the alley-way last night, I take it.”

Frodo nodded, though he didn’t really remember, and though he barely had the strength for the movement.

“Well. Let’s see what we can do, here, then.”

The Man reached for him, and Frodo did the best he could to scoot away, though he could move only inches.

“Now, now, none o’ that. I’m a healer. I’m here to help you.”

“You...you’re a Man,” Frodo panted.

“That’s right, I am. And I’m the only healer hereabouts as knows anything about hobbits.”

“The...the King does.”

“I’ve heard tell he went and friended some o’ your folk, aye. But you ain’t one of ‘em. You’re just a poor hobbit-lad as needs my help.”

“No...no...you don’t understand...I’m Frodo...Baggins...”

“Well, nice to meet you, Frodo Baggins. Now, if you’ll just let me have a looksie...”

“No!” Frodo screamed, as loud as his tortured throat could handle. He remembered, now. “I want to see the King.”

“Now, now, none o’ that,” the Man repeated.

Frodo burst into tears. “I want the King,” he sniffed, his nose stopped up from repeated crying.

“The King, eh? You can’t be one o’ them hobbits as journeyed with the King. He’d not take a pregnant hobbit-lad with him journeying.”

Frodo sighed, tears still running down his face. “He didn’t know,” he whispered, so low the healer had to bend close to hear. “No one knew.”

“How’d it happen, lad?”

Squeezing his eyes shut again, he lied, mumbling, “I was raped. Back home in the Shire. Some Man.”

Save for the pain, Frodo would have smiled to himself. “Some Man” indeed. Well, the King *was* a Man...

Frodo jumped. While he’d been daydreaming, the healer had been examining him. “That hurt!”

“Sorry, lad. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Just trying to see how much damage was done, is all.”

Damage...Frodo hadn’t thought about that at all. Just about the pain...and the loss. But damage...now that he was properly awake, if fevered as the Man had told the healer, he could feel the damage. He’d never again birth another babe. Not that he desired another--he hadn’t wanted this one.

*Frodo slipped into the alley, glancing all around to make sure no one saw him. If they did, they didn’t care. A lone hobbit going into an alley-way was no one’s business but his own, evidently.

Before going any further, he glanced around the alley itself. None too clean, it was, but better than many he’d passed by on his way here. The rough stone walls were splattered with various unknown substances, as was the ground, but at least it all appeared dry and unlikely to stick to him, unlike some of the other alley-ways he’d seen on his way through the city.

“What brings you here, lad?” a rough voice croaked from further down the passage.

He jumped. “Oh! I...I didn’t see you there.”

“Obviously. But what brings you here?”

“I...I’ve a babe to get rid of.”

“You? A lad?” As Frodo moved further into the alley-way, the midwife nodded to herself. “Ah. A hobbit-lad. Well. That explains things. So,” she turned to business, “you want to be rid of it, do you?”

He nodded.

“It’ll cost you, you know.”

Nodding again, Frodo held out a palm-ful of gold coins. He knew it was more than the woman was likely to make in a month of working the various alley-ways of the city, but he didn’t care. He just wanted the baby out of him as soon as possible.

The woman’s eyes widened at the sight of all the coins. “Aye, that’ll be enough,” she whispered, voice trembling, as she reached for the gold.

“Now what?”

Tucking the gold away in a small pack, the woman turned back to him. Motioning to a somewhat-clean sheet Frodo’d failed to notice earlier, spread across the ground, she answered, “Just you pull down your breeches and lie right there, legs spread, and we’ll get to work. It’s bound to hurt,” she warned.

Frodo nodded as he shucked his breeches and laid down. “I know.”

“All the same, here’s a strip of leather. Just you bite down on that when the pain gets to be too much.”

As Frodo took the bit of leather in his mouth--and nearly spat it out again at the rancid taste--the woman knelt down between his legs and gently pushed his knees up and apart. Frodo let himself drift, imagining what it would be like to have the bairn he was trying to get rid of, and came to himself with a gasp of pain. He automatically bit down on the leather and barely managed to keep himself from screaming.

The next thing he knew, the old woman was wiping his brow with a rag soaked in tepid water. His eyes must have asked the question, for she replied “You passed out.”

“The...the babe?” he gasped, through a renewed wave of pain.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry lad, but you’re too far along. I couldn’t rid you of it.”

At that, the tears of pain he’d managed to hold back spilled down his cheeks. He was doomed. Doomed to have the child he did not want and likely to die birthing it.

“Is there no hope?”

Again, she shook her head. “Not unless your body rejects the babe of its own will. And I don’t think that likely, you being as far along as you are.”

Slowly...painfully...Frodo clambered to his feet, only then noticing the blood-soaked rag tucked between his legs. Squeezing his thighs together to keep it there, he apologised. “I am sorry, then, to have wasted your time. Keep the coin, as a token of my gratitude.”

“Thank you kindly, lad. Be sure to wash yourself well when you get home, to prevent anything from becoming infected.”

Nodding, Frodo pulled up his breeches and waddled out of the alley-way.*

He did not remember how he made it back to the palace that night, or how he managed to hide the heavy bleeding from Aragorn, much less the others, in the palace on one of their frequent visits to Gondor. He though Gandalf might have guessed something, but he did not know for sure, and the wizard hadn’t said anything, so Frodo hadn’t, either.

It had become increasingly hard, in the intervening months between the failed abortion and the birthing, to hide his condition from his friends, when they were in Minas Tirith, and especially from the King, as he was also a healer. But, somehow, he’d managed. Likely because the King was becoming more and more involved in running his land...and less and less involved with his friends.

After all, Frodo’d managed to sneak out of the palace on his own not once, but twice, first for the abortion and then to give birth. He supposed the alley-way wasn’t the best place he could’ve chosen, but he didn’t know where else to go, either.

He’d tried to find the alley-way with the midwife from before, but the birthing pains had become too strong before he’d managed to do so, so he’d ducked into the nearest alley and let nature take its course as the night went on.

And now he was here, in a strange room in a strange tavern with a strange healer poking and prodding around down there.

“Well, lad, you’ve managed to hurt yourself pretty bad. You’re not ever gonna have another babe. But I’m guessing you knew that already.”

Frodo nodded, wanting only to sleep.

“I can clean you up a bit and give you some herbs to put in your tea, but that’s about all I can do for you. And I hate to mention this, with you being so poorly and all, but have you any coin to pay for my services?”

Frodo shook his head. “Not on me. If...if you’ll let me go to the King, or go get him for me, I can pay.”

The healer shook his head in turn. “Naw. That’s all right, lad. I’ll let you off the hook this once. But,” he warned, “if I ever catch you in this position again...”

“You won’t. Believe me, you won’t,” Frodo whispered fervently.

“That’s a good lad.” The healer ruffled Frodo’s curls, then left the room, leaving a packet of herbs on the bedside table.

As soon as the healer left, so did Frodo, feeling he had to get out of there despite his increasing desire for sleep. Slowly, he worked himself up into a sitting position, his legs dangling over the side of the bed, then dropped his feet down until they touched the floor. He managed to stay standing only by means of holding on to the edge of the bed, but shortly managed to walk out of the room and creep down the stairs, holding on to the wall the whole way, the space between his legs hurting horribly. He could tell he was still bleeding down there, so he tucked the tail of his shirt between his legs and proceeded, much as he had after the attempted abortion, to waddle his way around.

In the tavern itself, there was such a ruckus it made his head spin. Between the brawl in one corner, the card games everywhere else, and the drunken singing from atop one of the tables--funny, Men did that, too--he could barely find his way to the door. But he managed, for once thanking his short height for allowing him to creep out unnoticed by anyone, including the tavern-keep.

Once out of the tavern, still clad in nothing but that overly-large shirt he’d worn into the city yesterday, when he’d been in too much pain to care, and oddly surprised that no one seemed to think his lack of breeches odd, he walked off at random, unknowingly passing the alley-way where he’d spent the night.

Staring at the ground, he didn’t notice the Man in his path until he ran right into him.

“Oouf!” he exclaimed, falling over backwards and whimpering in pain. Scrambling to his feet, still watching the ground, he whispered, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s all right...Frodo? Frodo, is that you?”

Nodding, Frodo glanced up at the man. Uh-oh. Aragorn.

“Where have you been?”

Just before he fainted dead away, he whispered, “Around.”

This time, he woke up in a bed, but someone was still wiping his forehead with a cool cloth. A *cold* cloth this time, he amended. He wanted to open his eyes and see who it was, but he just didn’t have the energy.

“Frodo.” Aragorn. “I know you’re awake. Come on, open your eyes.”

Cracking his eyes open just a bit, Frodo was just in time to watch as Aragorn lifted up his shirt--clean, he noted--and splayed a gentle hand across his sunken belly. The Man was obviously dismayed by the vast bruising there.

“Frodo. What happened?”

“You mean you can’t tell?” he asked miserably.

“I’d like to hear it in your own words, Frodo.”

“Fine. I was pregnant. I tried to get rid of it. That didn’t work. I gave birth.”

“And almost killed yourself in the process, it looks like,” Aragorn stated grimly.

Frodo shrugged, the movement causing a gasp of pain. “I suppose.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I know. Frodo, what possessed you to do it?”

“ ‘It’?”

“Give birth by yourself. You could easily have died. And if you hadn’t been found...and if I hadn’t run into you...I’m surprised that healer didn’t stitch you up, but it’s a good thing I did, or you would be dead of bloodloss by now.”

Frodo sighed, ignoring most of what Aragorn said. “I didn’t...didn’t want you to know.”

“I should have seen it. Should have known.”

Shaking his head, Frodo whispered, “No, Aragorn. Not your fault...” before he fainted again.

Once again, Frodo awoke, after who knew how much time had passed, this time to what appeared to be an empty room. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “Sorry.”

“Sorry? Mr. Frodo, sir, you don’t have no reason to be sorry.”

Frodo blinked. “Sam?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Frodo. How are you feeling?”

“I’m...I’m...sore,” he summarised. “Very sore.”

Sam picked up a cup from the bedside table. “Here. Aragorn left you this to drink, Mr. Frodo, sir. *Athelas*. He said it would help with the pain, he did.” Sam slipped a gentle arm beneath his shoulders and raised him just enough that he could sip from the cup. “Here. Just you drink this right down, now.”

Frodo did so, but had not the strength to drink more than half the cup. “I am sorry, Sam.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Frodo. Aragorn said you might not drink much.”

“Where is he?”

“Tending to business, I’d guess. Though I’d rather he were sleeping.”

“Ah. Yes. He is the King, now.”

“That doesn’t make him any less your friend, Mr. Frodo, sir.”

“I know, Sam. I know. When did you get here?”

“Yesterday. I came right up to your room when I heard you was doing poorly.”

“I’ve been out of it that long?”

“Yes, sir. Aragorn was right worried, he was, and so was I.”

“Well, I’m better, now,” he lied. “How’s Rosie?”

“Doin’ right fine, Mr. Frodo. Right fine.”

“Good.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Frodo, what happened?”

Frodo sighed. “You mean Aragorn didn’t tell you?” he asked, voice bitter.

Sam shook his head. “No, he didn’t say no word, Mr. Frodo, sir.”

Sighing again, Frodo rested a weary arm across his forehead, vaguely aware he was still fevered. “I gave birth, Sam. I left the palace and gave birth in a back alley.”

Sam blinked. “Why not in the palace?”

“I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“But Aragorn could have helped...”

“I know, Sam. But I’d hid it for so long, I didn’t want him to know. Besides, I thought I could handle it myself. I did with the abortion, after all.”

Once again, Sam blinked, then pulled himself up on the bed beside Frodo and held his hand. “Oh, Mr. Frodo, sir,” he breathed.

“Obviously, it didn’t work,” Frodo muttered.

“And so you managed to hide it from the King?”

Frodo nodded. “Yes. I managed to hide it from the King. When it was time for me to give birth, I went out into the city, hoping to find the same midwife who’d tried to rid me of the babe. I couldn’t find her, and the birthing pains came on so strong I just picked a random alley. The child was stillborn,” he added, before Sam could ask. “And come morning, the owner of the tavern on one side of the alley-way found me and brought me up to his room and fetched a healer.”

“And?”

“And the healer did what he could, I begged for the King, the healer didn’t believe me, and once the healer left, so did I, hoping to make it back to the palace before anyone was the wiser. But I ran straight into Aragorn. Literally. And he brought me back and I’ve been here ever since.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry, Mr. Frodo, sir. So, so sorry.”

“It’s all right, Sam. I’m fine.”

“Actually, sir, no, you’re not. Aragorn said you’ve got a bad infection down there.”

“From spending the night in that alley, I guess. Oh, well. At least that explains the fever.”

“He’s real worried about you, Mr. Frodo.”

“Well, he doesn’t need to be.”

“Actually,” Aragorn broke in from the doorway, “I do, Frodo. And I would worry even if I didn’t need to.”

“Aragorn.”

“How are you feeling?”

“As I told Sam, sore.”

“I bet that’s an understatement. Am I right?”

Frodo sighed. “Yes.”

“Well, let’s see how you’re doing.”

“I’m doing fine, Aragorn. I’m just tired,” Frodo yawned.

“I know, I know. But I can’t let you go to sleep just yet. I need to examine you first.”

Frodo cringed. “It’s going to hurt, isn’t it?”

Aragorn nodded. “It might. But I’ll do my best to be gentle.”

“Do you have to?”

Nodding again, Aragorn smoothed a hand over Frodo’s much abused belly. “I am sorry, Frodo, but I do need to do this.”

“All right. But, Sam, could you please leave?”

“Are you sure, Mr. Frodo, sir?” Sam asked, worriedly, as he scrambled down off the bed.

“Yes, Sam. I’m sure.”

“Okay. Just you holler if you need me, Mr. Frodo,” Sam told them both as he opened the door.

“I will, Sam. I will,” Frodo assured the other hobbit.

“Sam, please leave. I need to examine Frodo now.”

Glancing down at the chamber pot, Frodo whispered, “Please...” in Aragorn’s direction, then glared pointedly as Sam.

Taking the hint, Sam scrabbled out of the room.

Repeating his pointed glare, only this time at Aragorn as the Man set the chamber pot beneath him, Frodo whimpered. Aragorn made no move to leave or even turn his back, and Frodo asked, “Aragorn, please, leave?”

Aragorn shook his head. “No, Frodo. You might need my aid.”

“I think I can do this by myself, Aragorn,” Frodo insisted, struggling to set himself up against the pillows.

“Very well.” Aragorn propped him up against the pillows. “I will be here if you need any assistance.”

“Can you not even turn around?”

“No, Frodo, you might need my help.”

Frodo sighed. This was going to be so embarrassing. “All right. Just, please, close your eyes.”

“No, Frodo.”

Sighing once again, Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and tried to relax the muscles down there so he could go in the chamber pot. Only a few drops came out and, biting his lip, he gasped in pain.

“Frodo?”

He started to answer, but his gasp shortly turned into a whimpered scream as a few more drops trickled out.

Aragorn, who had turned slightly to the side in courtesy, turned back to the bedside. “Frodo, what’s wrong?”

Before he could even try and elaborate, the door slammed open and Legolas, with Sam fast on his heels, ran into the room.

“Mr. Frodo, sir, what’s wrong?”

Frodo merely turned his face into the pillows.

Aragorn rested a hand on Frodo’s head and glared the others out of the room. Legolas shepparded Sam out the door, pausing long enough to advise Aragorn that he would be waiting in the hallway, should Aragorn have need of him. Aragorn nodded shortly, not even pausing to wonder what Legolas was doing there.

Hurriedly, the King knelt down beside the bed, one of Frodo’s shivering hands in both his own. “What happened?”

Frodo shook his head, still burying his face in the pillows. “Nothing,” he muttered.

“Frodo, a minute ago, you had to go. Now you don’t. And you sound like you’re in pain. What happened?”

“It hurt. Okay?” Frodo groaned into the pillow.

“What hurt? And how?”

“Going. It hurt. Burned,” Frodo elaborated.

“All right. I’m going to have to examine you now.”

“No,” Frodo whimpered, curling up around himself.

“Frodo, I need to examine you.”

Frodo curled up even tighter. “Aragorn. Please?”

“Frodo, I need to do this. I’ll be as fast--and gentle--as I can.”

Frodo sighed. “Okay. Just...be careful?”

Aragorn moved the chamber pot back to the floor, then gently rolled Frodo over onto his back. Carefully, he pressed all around Frodo’s bruised abdomen, wincing himself when Frodo flinched from the pain. “I’m sorry this hurts so much.”

Frodo shrugged into the pillow. “It is all right.”

Before he continued his examination, Aragorn paused, thoughtfully, and asked, “Frodo, why are you so thin? You are far too thin for one who has just given birth. Particularly for a hobbit who has just given birth.”

Once again, Frodo sighed. “I did not want you to find out I was pregnant.”

“So you’ve been starving yourself?” Aragorn guessed.

Frodo nodded. “Yes.”

“Forgive me for asking this, but did the babe survive?”

Frodo shook his head. “No. It was born dead.”

“I am sorry.”

“Aragorn, I had not wanted the child. I tried to rid myself of it, remember?”

“I am still sorry. Losing a child is not something I would want anyone to face, whether they wanted it or not.”

“I understand.”

“Now, you say it hurt to go?”

“Burned,” Frodo corrected. “It burned.”

“Then I think I know what the problem is, and without further examination.”

Frodo sighed with relief. “And?”

“And you are not going to like it. You have an infection of the bladder, that part of you that holds the urine before you go.”

“I know what the bladder is, Aragorn,” Frodo reminded the Man, impatiently. “So what do we do about it?”

“You must drink lots of water, and tea with special herbs, and, above all, you must make yourself go. I know, I know,” he hurried to add before Frodo could say anything, “it will hurt, very much. But you must make yourself go nonetheless. Speaking of which, you should go now, if you can.”

“No, Aragorn.” Frodo shook his head. “I cannot. And I will not.”

“You must!”

“Anything else, I will do. But I will not do that.”

“Very well. For the moment, you do not have to go. I must clean you up in any case. There is another infection down there, as well.”

“So Sam said. I conjectured that it is because of the filth of the alley I was in.”

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, that would likely be the case. The hole out of which the child came is badly infected. There is much pus down there, and it needs cleaned and bandaged several times a day. It may hurt,” he warned.

“Nothing could hurt as much--”

“As going does right now?”

“Yes.”

“Did it not hurt when the abortion was attempted?”

“Yes, that hurt. Very much.”

“This may feel much like that.”

“Then I should be used to it.”

Gently, Aragorn pushed Frodo’s legs apart and raised his knees. Carefully, he took an *athelas*-soaked rag from the basin on the bedside table and dabbed around the birthing hole. Frodo gritted his teeth together in pain but did not say a word until Aragorn finished.

“You are right. That hurt. But not so bad as giving birth, itself.”

“You need not have suffered alone.”

“But I could not tell you.”

“Tell me, Frodo, were you pregnant on the Quest?”

Frodo nodded. “Not the whole time, but part of it.”

“And yet you made yourself continue anyhow?”

“I was the only one who could.”

“I am sorry, Frodo. Sorry you felt you had to do this alone. And sorry you lost the babe. But most of all, I am glad, that you did not die along with the child. You very well could have, you know.”

Once again, Frodo nodded. “I know. And I wished to, many times, the pain was so great.”

“I am not surprised. But you are home now, and safe.”

“And,” Frodo added, “I can never have another child. Not that I desire one.”

“And for that, too, I am sorry. Children are a joy. You deserve to know that joy.”

“Perhaps I do. But there is too much damage, both from the abortion and the birth itself. The healer the tavern-keeper called in said so.”

Aragorn looked down at Frodo sorrowfully. “I am afraid he was right, Frodo.”

“That is all right. I never wanted a child in the first place.”

“Then why did you not attempt to rid yourself of the babe earlier?”

“I could not. We were on the Quest. I obtained what help I could from the Elves, but that was difficult, as I did not want you--or the others--to know I was with child.”

“The Elves know of such things. Surely they could have helped rid you of the child, and with much less pain than that which you attempted.”

“And they would have told you. And the others,” Frodo added, as an afterthought. “I could not bear the thought that you might find out. And now,” he sighed, “you have found out anyway.”

“I do not think you could have hidden this from me forever, Frodo, no matter how busy I have been. And I am sorry I have been so busy...too busy to help a friend.”

“It is all right. You are the King, now. It is no surprise that you have not the time to spare for a mere hobbit.”

“A very special hobbit, Frodo.”

“A hobbit who failed in his duty on the Quest.”

“That Ring would have corrupted any who held it, Frodo. It is a wonder you were not taken sooner. And it is not your fault, whatever you say. It is not your fault.”

Sighing, Frodo shook his head. “It is kind of you to say so, but I know it is not true. It is my fault. It is only because of Gollum that the Ring was finally destroyed. He is the hero in this matter, not me.”

“Frodo, I would debate you on this, but not until you are better. You have lost much blood, and are very weak. The infections will only make you weaker. You need to rest, as much as you can, and eat and drink as much as possible, as well. Do you think you can do that?”

“Strider...” Frodo whispered, in his rising fever lapsing back to the first days of the Quest, before he knew he must go beyond Rivendell. “I am...not hungry, Strider.”

“Nonetheless,” Aragorn answered, worried, as he rested a gentle hand on Frodo’s forehead, “you must eat. Or at least drink some warm broth. I can have some brought up to you. Please, Frodo.”

Before Frodo could answer, his eyes slipped closed as he slid into a restless sleep.

When next he woke up, he kept his eyes closed and remained very still, listening to the conversation being carried on somewhere around him.

“How’s he doin’, Aragorn?”

“Poorly, I’m afraid, Sam. He has not woken for many hours, and it is an unnatural sleep. Too, the infections are no better, and I cannot make him drink the special herbal teas when he is asleep. His fever is also much higher, and I am worried that it may go higher yet. He already called me ‘Strider’ earlier.”

“Oh, dear. None of that’s any good, is it?”

“No, Sam, it’s not.”

Finally deciding to move, Frodo groaned as he tried to shift positions in the bed. Moving hurt!

“Frodo?” Aragorn.

And fast on his heels, “Mr. Frodo, sir?” Sam.

Winching his eyes open, Frodo glanced around. The room appeared empty, save for Sam and Aragorn, both of whom were leaning over him, concern in their eyes.

“I’m...I’m fine, Strider,” he mumbled.

Aragorn picked a cup up off of the bedside table. “Do you think you can drink some broth?”

Frodo shook his head. “My throat hurts. Probably,” he hastened to explain before Aragorn could make to examine him again, “because of all the screaming.”

“Screaming?”

“You do not think it possible to give birth without a sound, do you?”

“Ah. Yes, that could explain matters. Still, the broth may help with that, as well.”

“Water would be better. Or ice chips.”

“We got some water right here, Mr. Frodo, sir!” Sam exclaimed.

Aragorn nodded. He put the cup of broth down and picked up one filled with water, then eased a gentle arm behind Frodo’s shoulders, propping him up enough that he would be able to drink. “Here, Frodo. Nice cool water.”

Gratefully, Frodo sipped the water, wishing he could gulp it down but knowing he’d pay for that in pain if he did so. When the cup was about half emptied, he shook his head. “Enough.”

Aragorn eased him back down onto the pillows, then set the cup aside. “Frodo, as I said earlier, you need to go. Do you think you can manage to do so, now?”

Eyes wide, Frodo shook his head. “No.”

“Would it help if I sent Sam out of the room?”

“No, Strider, it would not help. I cannot and will not go. Not for you or any Man. Or hobbit,” he added as Sam opened his mouth.

“Or Elf?” Aragorn suggested, going to the door and opening it to reveal Legolas standing there, looking as worried as possible for an Elf.

“Or Elf.”

“Mr. Frodo, sir, you need to go.”

“I cannot, Sam. The pain is too much.”

“More pain than giving birth was?” Aragorn questioned.

“A *different* pain. Not more, not less. Just different.”

“If you managed to handle the birthing, then surely you can manage to go.”

“Strider, as you said, I could easily have died--”

“Mr. Frodo, sir!”

Frodo sighed. “Yes, Sam. I could have died. Came very close to doing so, I do believe.”

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, you did. And if not for that tavern-keeper and his healer, and the stitches I put in, you very likely would have, you lost so much blood.”

“I am sorry.”

“That is over and past, now, Frodo.”

Legolas walked into the room. “Frodo, you must go to the bathroom.”

“No. It hurts too much.”

Legolas crouched down next to the bed and took one of Frodo’s hands in both his own. “Frodo, you *must* go.”

“Legolas, I cannot go.”

The Elf released Frodo’s hands, took one of his own, and rubbed it gently across Frodo’s sore belly. “Aragorn, could you get the chamber pot?”

Aragorn nodded, doing so. “And Sam, you may stay, but only if you stay out of the way and quiet.

Sam nodded and scooted into a corner.

Legolas began singing softly in Elvish.

Without realising it, Frodo began to relax beneath the Elf’s soothing ministrations. Before he knew it, even those muscles down there relaxed and a thin stream of urine trickled out. Frodo gasped in pain and whimpered, clenching those muscles again, and the trickle petered out. Legolas shushed him and continued singing.

“We’ve got to get him to go,” Aragorn reminded the Elf. “He’s been holding it for hours and if he keeps on holding it he’ll make himself even more sick.”

Legolas nodded. “I know. I’m doing the best that I can.”

“Do you know anything particularly soothing?”

Nodding once again, Legolas answered, “Yes. But I’m afraid that would put him to sleep again.”

“Do you know anything more persuasive?”

Legolas shook his head. “Nothing that I would dare use. These are meant for Elves, remember.”

Before Aragorn could ask anything else, Legolas changed songs and began gently rubbing soothing circles over Frodo’s tense belly. Once again, before Frodo realised it, those muscles were once again relaxing, and a fitful stream of urine trickled out. This time, though Frodo gasped in pain and tried to withdraw, Legolas kept him in place with one hand as best as he could while the hobbit writhed in pain. Aragorn did his best to keep the chamber pot in place but soon had to give up and duck out of the way as Frodo writhed and the stream of urine sprayed the bed.

When the stream finally trickled to a stop several minutes later, Frodo relaxed onto the bed, just before Aragorn swept him up into his arms. “Not yet, little one,” he murmured to the weak hobbit. “We need to get you--and the bed--cleaned up first.”

“Strider?”

“Yes, Frodo. I am here. Come, we must get you cleaned and changed. Sam!”

“Sir?”

“Could you go get Frodo a fresh shirt?”

Sam nodded and scurried out of the room.

Aragorn carried Frodo into the bathing chamber, asking Legolas, over his shoulder, if he could change the bed. Legolas nodded as Frodo whimpered.

“It is all right, Frodo. We must just get you all cleaned up.” Taking a bucket of lukewarm water, Aragorn set it down beside the tub, then grabbed a clean rag and clambered into the tub still holding Frodo in his arms. “Hush, Frodo,” he whispered, dipping the rag in the water and running it up and down Frodo’s arm. He cared not for any water damage to his clothes, only for the cleaning of Frodo, who still whimpered in pain.

Carefully, he cleaned between the hobbit’s legs, wincing at the mixture of pus and blood that stained the cloth. Stretching, he managed to grasp another rag without leaving the tub and continued cleaning Frodo with it, taking care to not get the pus and blood where they could make the bladder infection worse, if he could at all help it. Carefully, he explored Frodo’s birthing hole with gentle fingers, ensuring that the stitches he’d had to put there earlier were still in place.

When he was finally finished, he gathered Frodo’s dozing body in his arms once more and entered the hobbit’s room, pleased to note that Legolas had, in the meantime and likely with Sam’s help, changed the sheets on the bed and that there was a new shirt ready for the hobbit as well.

“Here we go, Frodo,” he murmured, setting the hobbit down long enough to envelope him in the shirt, then arranging him more comfortably on the bed, with a thick towel between his legs to catch the blood and pus that continued to leak out.

Legolas sat on the edge of the bed, still singing in Elvish, though yet another different song, this time. Frodo blinked wearily, murmuring, “Strider?” before he drifted off to sleep.

Aragorn nodded. “I would have liked to get some tea or broth inside him, but he needs the sleep, too. I thank you, Legolas, for all the help you have been this eve.”

Nodding in turn, Legolas only shrugged. “He is one of the Fellowship. Nay, he is the Fellowship, for without him the Fellowship would not exist. I do only as I would for any of you, should you have need.”