A thirteenth LOTR fic by Iorhael

Summary: Frodo was hurt by the troll’s spear. Yet nobody seemed able to heal him. That was because it was no ordinary wound. It was a deadly one with Saruman’s spell on it. Only Gandalf could save Frodo’s life. But then, the Wizard had fallen…

Rated: PG 13 for mild violence

AN: Written for Frodo’s New Year’s Mathom arranged by Baranduin, Trianne, and Gentle Hobbit. This one was requested by Anastasia.

~ Prologue ~

“What’s this spear, eh? Almost as big as an oliphaunt’s tusk it is!” The orc grunted as he attempted but failed to lift the terrible-looking, lengthy, metal bar.

“Ggrhh! Wonder who can use such a thing! Hoy there!” He let go of the weapon and snarled. “Get your lazy asses down here and give me a hand with this.” He was still grumbling when two or three other orcs approached him.

“What’s up, Boss?” Sneering, an orc dragged himself closer. “What do you want to do with that…”

“Silence!” The first one snapped, grabbing the other by the neck, and shoving him to the opposite end of the long spear. “You get that end and help me sink it into the water over there.”

The latter did not ask further as he knew which water his friend meant, and the use of it. He quickly gathered the spear’s other end, cursed a little as his hands were seared by the burning iron, and staggeringly bore it to the wooden barrel. Both orcs let go of the heavy weapon and submerged it to the bottom with a splash. The latter orc watched the air bubbles surface with great interest. It was always fun to see the finishing step of weapon making, be it swords, clubs, or arrows, when they soaked them in this enchanted water. Saruman had poured his most wicked spells into this liquid, the ones that could make anyone suffer gravely, if only touched by the tip of a treated weapon.

And the orc continued watching, drooling all over his chin, as his perverted imagination ran wild, mind vividly picturing the convulsing, tortured figure of the victim.

* * *

“I’m all right. I’m not hurt.”

Frodo breathed this out to his company, who rushed to him after the troll had been successfully killed. He had regained his consciousness even before Aragorn laid a hand on his shoulder. It was true that he was out of breath but Frodo felt grateful that the harsh impact was all he got--thanks to the protection of Bilbo’s mithril chain mail. He was not skewered, although as Aragorn later told him, the spear might have run through a boar.

No, he was really all right. He might have a little difficulty in breathing for a while. Otherwise, he was fine.

Frodo was given a thorough check afterwards, the light mithril coat lifted up to show mere bruises on the once translucent skin. And although all the fellowship agreed these black and blue marks would get blacker and bluer later on, they would not turn into a serious injury. The chain mail had done its job well in protecting Frodo’s life and the quest.

What they, including Frodo, did not realize was that the chain mail had pores within its fine weaving. These pores, however small, could still allow things to seep through.

Including the dried evil spell of Saruman brought by the hideous spear.

Frodo was again resurrected as if from death. He was standing up and walking but the spell had worked its way into his blood stream, to the nervous system, which would control whatever Frodo thought and how he behaved.

The hobbit would succumb to his own sufferings any time now.

* * *

And that had already begun.

Doom. Doom

The threatening stomping from the orcs' bare feet echoed still, following them.

Doom… doom.

However dimmed the sound, it still gave each member of the fellowship erratic heartbeats. And they ran.

And they ran.

Frodo huffed wearily, straddling the waist of Boromir, who had carried him up the stairs away from the falling bridge of Khazad-Dum and the Walls of Moria. The jostling that resulted from Boromir’s constant jog put unending pressure on his abdomen, making him wince every now and then as the spear-induced bruises gave him a gradually increasing racking sensation. Frodo grimaced as nausea steadily took over.

He removed his snaking hands from around Boromir’s neck and placed them on his shoulder. Then Frodo pushed away, trying to create space between his body and the human’s. Sensing the changes in Frodo’s position, Boromir absentmindedly tightened his hold. He did not heed any more of Frodo's maneuvers nor the movements of the others. What he wanted to do was to escape as fast as he could, saving himself and the Ringbearer.

And Frodo knew that, and appreciated it as well, however hard it was to endure. He would have appreciated it more, though, if Boromir had decided to let him go instead. Frodo knew exactly what he would do. He would follow Gandalf, who was much more important than any quest…

Cold sweat drenched Frodo’s skin. His face, hands, feet. And his clammy fingers tremulously clasped Boromir’s neck while he tried his best to keep his torso from touching the man’s muscled side.

But Frodo's efforts were unsuccessful. His abused stomach kept banging at Boromir’s body, causing pain to spread all over his own. Frodo felt bile rise to his throat and his head was spinning.

He did not know whether he had slumped over Boromir’s shoulder (with the content of his stomach spilling all over it), or if he had sprawled backward, onto the floor. Blackness finally seized him.

* * *

“Stupid little hobbit!” Boromir jumped as ribbons of acrid fluid poured out of Frodo’s mouth onto his shoulder. The man stopped running spontaneously, shifted Frodo to the front of his chest, and ignoring the terrified look in Frodo’s eyes, shook him until the hobbit's teeth rattled.

“You – you are one ungrateful creature! I saved you from throwing yourself onto the pit to follow that silly wizard, now look what you’ve paid me with!”

Frodo no longer stared at the man, instead squeezing his eyes shut while trying to control the agitated feeling in his insides. But amidst the excruciating pain, confusion slowly crept into his mind. He might have sickened the man for throwing up all over him but Frodo was sure Boromir would not have behaved this cruelly to him.

Or would he?

A new wave of dizzying sensation flooded into Frodo’s head and a streak of white-hot pain slashed across inside his abdomen, forcing Frodo to hunch over. But his sudden movement alerted Boromir and he slammed Frodo down without warning. Frodo’s eyes widened as his back thumped down but he was too shocked to do anything but submit.

Boromir was startled when dampness suddenly gushed over the right sleeve of his armor and splattered to his cloak. But in contrast to Frodo’s befuddled thoughts, Boromir had concern for the hobbit, especially when he found that Frodo had blacked out. Shouting to the others , the Gondorian lowered Frodo down ever so gently, showing great care not to jolt the Ringbearer suddenly. The others arrived as he was wiping the vomit off Frodo’s lips and chin. Anxiety was on their faces too.

Sam was the first to kneel down at Frodo’s side.

“Mr. Boromir,” he called without averting his eyes from Frodo’s stiff form. “Whatever happened?” Sam noticed the stain and the remaining stench on Frodo’s shirt, and he yelled again. “Mr. Boromir! What’s wrong with Mr. Frodo? Is he sick? Why’s he sick?” Sam grabbed the piece of cloth Boromir was using to cleanse Frodo and continued doing it himself.

* * *

Frodo heard noises as if they came from afar. He struggled to understand what they – Frodo concluded it was the members of the fellowship – were saying, but his ears were blocked. Sighing in disappointment, Frodo gave up trying.

Until suddenly he felt a blow thrash hard on his right cheek. Gasping, Frodo opened his eyes and stared disbelievingly in a daze at…Sam?

“Sam?” Frodo choked, horrified. He lifted his body up, trying to ignore the throbbing pains in his stomach, his back, and the back of his head. His fingers flew to his cheek, still warm from the cruel slap, his lips splitting. Frodo felt blood when the tip of his tongue carefully brushed the corner of his mouth.

Sam was enraged. With the cloth in his hand, he wiped Frodo’s chin – still caked with vomit, and blood now – but the intent was not to clean it. Sam’s act was harsh and cold. Frodo shuddered, frozen with fear, as the gardener cupped his chin and directed him to look up.

“Frodo.” The voice was soul-less and the eyes were those of dead creatures. “Give it to me now. Give me the Ring.”

Startled, Frodo tried to pull back but in vain. Sam’s grip was too strong. Frodo’s jaw dropped open within Sam's fingers and his next protest was almost inaudible.

“What do you mean? Sa-, yor…”

“Quiet!” Sam released Frodo but then he boxed his master, this time on the left cheek, causing his ears to ring loudly.

Aragorn came up beside Sam after speaking with Boromir. He slowly undid Frodo’s shirt’s buttons and flipped the mithril shirt up.

“It must be the wound inflicted by the spear, Sam,” Aragorn said while checking for any signs of abnormality on Frodo’s stomach. “Must be worse than we thought.”

Sam gazed hopefully at Aragorn and then at Frodo’s body. But the hope in his eyes did not last long when he saw what Aragorn did. Nothing marred the flawless skin. Frodo’s abdomen was as smooth and taut as ever. Maybe, thought Sam. He had never seen Frodo’s bare upper body before.

“This is strange,” mumbled Aragorn, clearly bewildered. “Frodo has to be in pain but his body doesn’t show it.” Aragorn pressed several areas of the stomach and Frodo’s body did appear to be in agony, at least from the strangled moans his lips let out and the knitted brow his face revealed.

* * *

Frodo was stunned for a moment and that did not help him at all. Sam had looked like someone ready to tear his clothes apart and rip the Ring off him.

But someone stopped him.

Aragorn.

Frodo looked up; his chest felt like it was exploding with surges of hope and withheld tears.

“Strider,” he whispered as the former ranger bent down to him, taking Sam’s place. “It – it hurts.”

“What hurts, Frodo?”

Frodo’s throat constricted at the gentleness of the human’s voice. He helped the man open his clothes to look at his injury.

But something damnable happened when Aragorn’s eyes caught sight of the golden band dangling from Frodo’s neck. Frodo barely registered what the man said as the next thing he knew, Aragorn reached for the Ring. When Frodo shrank away, the man started to beat him senseless.

All the others could see was Frodo’s raspy breaths and his continued thrashing. Frodo never said anything and not once was he awake. And now the hobbits were standing around him. Sam felt his knees ready to give any time now.

“Strider, please,” his voice trembled. “There must be something we can do.”

“He is delirious,” informed the man. “And I have yet to know what makes him so. Right now, please give some space for him to breathe.” The other hobbits nodded solemnly and stepped back.

* * *

“Oh, no! Please!” Frodo pleaded, panting heavily as streams of blows and kicks rained down on him, until suddenly a warm hand rested on his forehead.

“Frodo. Wake up.” The voice was authoritative and demanding. Strange though, it did not give Frodo the slightest feeling of fear. Frodo was just happy to oblige and he opened his eyes and…

“Gandalf?” He refocused his eyes, and yes – yes it was Gandalf.

“But – but you fell,” Frodo stuttered.

“Indeed I did,” Gandalf replied softly. “But your plea has called me back. And it seems nobody here can see what’s wrong with you.”

Frodo looked around in terror.

“I don’t want the others. They are only after the Ring. They all tortured me to get It!”

“Ssh…” Gandalf placed his hand back on Frodo’s head, stroking one eyebrow to calm the raving hobbit. “Nobody wants to take the Ring from you, Frodo.”

“But… but…”

“You are sick, my dear,” Gandalf carried on. “But your wound is not for their eyes to see. It hides in the depths. Now you must trust me to heal you.”

“I have always trusted you, Gandalf,” Frodo said in a small, puzzled voice.

“This time I might hurt you.”

“But you never want to have my Ring.”

“Oh no, Frodo. I rejected It when you offered It to me, remember?”

“All right,” Frodo sighed deeply. The warmth from Gandalf’s hand made him drowsy.

But all of a sudden, as Gandalf drew his staff close to his body, Frodo could feel lightning strike him from the top of the staff, right into his chest. And Frodo felt a searing pain like he never had before. The piercing scream Frodo made now reached into his companions’ ears, and they saw Frodo arch his back in abysmal agony.

A moment later, when the thunder had receded, Frodo lay quietly, in peace. He seemed to be in a deep slumber.

“Is he dead?” Sam broke the silence.

Instead, Frodo’s eyes flew open.

“Gandalf?” he whispered.

There was no Gandalf, of course. The beloved wizard had fallen into the abyss. There was only Sam and Aragorn and the others. Sam dashed forward and held Frodo in his warmest hug.

“Mr. Frodo, you’re alive! Thank the Valar, you’re alive!”

Frodo cringed a little, recalling his bad delusions. But then he remembered they were only a dream.

“And thank Gandalf,” thought Frodo silently. A single tear escaped and rolled onto his cheek. Gandalf had been back from death to save him. But why did he not stay? Frodo leant forward to Sam, hoping that that warm hand would be back.

Finish

AN: My greatest appreciation for Celandine and Gentle Hobbit for the patience to beta it.