Chapter 1 consists of three “challenge ficlets” from LiveJournal. The challenges came from cpsings4him, Elwen, and Febobe, and are all gentle Frodo h/c. (I'm afraid the third one turned a bit silly.) Chapter 2 is a longer challenge ficlet from the FrodoHealers Yahoo Group.  Future chapters will follow!

DISCLAIMER:  Of course.  The characters don’t belong to me, I just get to think about them day and night.

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Elwen asked for, “a little hurt/comfort or pampering fic; Frodo and/or Elrond centric would be nice but I just want to see hurts made better and comfort given."

SAFE

Frodo opened his eyes slowly, and the first thing he saw was an unfamiliar person smiling down at him. Where am I? He thought frantically, looking around the ornate room. What’s happened? He felt as if he was floating. His thoughts drifted, memories just out of reach. There had been pain, and cold... all had been dim, then... nothing. Nothing… A cool hand touched his brow, and ageless eyes looked deeply into his own.

“Welcome back, Frodo Baggins,” the person said. His voice was gentle, almost musical. Was he an Elf? Gildor and Glorfindel had golden hair, but this person’s locks were dark as night, and braided with gems. Frodo tried to move, but his limbs felt leaden... his thoughts sluggish. Was he dead? But he wouldn’t be this thirsty, would he?

As if reading his thoughts, the kind Elf slid a gentle hand behind Frodo’s back and lifted him slightly, causing a twinge of pain in Frodo’s left shoulder. A cup of water was held to Frodo’s lips, and he closed his eyes, savoring the cool liquid.

“How is the pain?” the Elf asked softly, laying Frodo back down.

“It is bearable,” Frodo whispered. He wanted to ask so many questions, but he was drowsy, and the bed was so very soft... How long since he had slept in a bed?

“When you wake again, it should be greatly eased,” the Elf assured him. “Do not let your mind be troubled. You have traveled far in darkness, but Light grows within you once again. You have done well.” He smiled as the remarkable blue eyes gazed at him trustingly, the small body relaxing.

“Where...” Frodo murmured, his eyes closing against his will.

“You are in Rivendell,” the Elf said, stroking the small brow with cool fingers. “You are safe, Frodo. Your friends are well, and you soon will be. Sleep now... shhhh…”

Safe... Rivendell… A gentle song from the Elf’s lips settled around him in a soothing wave of peace and healing. Frodo sighed deeply and slid back into gentle sleep, wrapped in Light and Music.

cpsings4him asked for, “post-Mount Doom blankets/coverings for Frodo and Sam.”  This tiny scene expands on something briefly mentioned in chapter 2 of my story "In the Keeping of the King".

NO SMALL TASK

“Here you are, Aragorn,” Gimli said, looking pleased. His arms full of cloth, he and Legolas approached the Ringbearers’ cots, set in a grove of trees somewhat away from the rest of the camp. "Finely made, and cleaner than most."

“Thank you,” Aragorn said gratefully. “Can you both assist me? We need to be very careful.” Three sets of battle-roughened hands worked gently, supporting first Frodo’s sleeping form, then Sam’s. Large, soft shirts were slid over the hobbits' heads, covering skin slowly healing from burns, bruises, and cuts. Gimli fought down the anger he felt every time he caught sight of the fading whip wheal on Frodo's side; he desperately wished to have had the chance to meet the orc responsible for this.

Aragorn was relieved. Although he felt that, during each day, the clean air and warm sunshine would help the hobbits to heal, he preferred that they be covered at night. They had both lost so much weight, any chill could be dangerous for them.

“Any trouble in finding these?” he asked curiously.

“Nothing worth mentioning,” Legolas said casually, exchanging an amused glance with the dwarf. When word had spread that the Ringbearers were in need, the entire camp had nearly erupted in violence. So many Men -- injured and whole -- rushed to contribute their shirt or cloak, Legolas and Gimli had been hard-pressed to suppress a number of fights. Finally, Éomer strode into the fray and suggested drawing lots, which had instantly calmed the Men. The two who had drawn the short straws had been nearly overcome by the honor... and would have yet another story to tell their families when they returned home.

“Good, good,” Aragorn murmured absently. He re-checked the bandage on Frodo's hand, then dipped a cloth in cool water to moisten the hobbits' lips. “You two make a good team. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll assign you to truly difficult duty...” He looked up wearily, and grinned at his friends. “...keeping Pippin in bed.”

Febobe (Frodo Baggins of Bag End) asked for, “Frodo looking...less than his best...due to illness. This can be either during illness or convalescence or what-have-you: I'm looking for mussed hair (head and feet), tangles, hobbit in need of a good bath and haircut and combing, anything of the sort...”

SEEING ISN’T ALWAYS BELIEVING

Before he retired for the evening, Aragorn went to check on Frodo. He knocked softly, and entered Frodo's room to discover his small patient standing next to his bed, wavering unsteadily in his nightshirt. Sam hovered worriedly nearby.

“You were right, he shouldn't be out of bed, Strider,” Sam said, relief showing in his eyes as the King entered the room. “Maybe he'll listen to you.”

Aragorn hid a smile as he recognized the stubborn glint in Frodo’s eyes.

“I’m perfectly well,” Frodo insisted.

“He’s dizzy just standin’ there,” Sam said to Aragorn. “And he’s been a bit off his head -- seein’ things that aren’t there, and suchlike.”

“Give me my clothes, Samwise Gamgee,” Frodo declared.

“No.”

Frodo lunged for a shirt laying on a nearby chair, but the sudden movement made him feel faint. He would have fallen had not both Sam and Aragorn quickly grabbed him.

“That’s all I need to see,” Aragorn said firmly.

“I feel perfectly---”

“Feverish,” Aragorn announced. He touched his hand to Frodo’s brow and shook his head. “You feel sick, look sick, and are sick.”

“I never look sick,” Frodo said smugly. “Bilbo never knew when I wasn’t feeling well.”

“Actually,” Sam said hesitantly, “Mr. Bilbo always knew when you were sick, sir. I used to hear him and my ma chucklin’ about how you thought you were foolin’ him.”

"That's pure nonsense."

“Frodo, have you ever looked at yourself in a mirror when you were sick?” Aragorn asked.

“Of course not,” Frodo fumed. “Why should I?”

“Hmmm,” Aragorn grinned. “Perhaps it’s time you found out just why Bilbo always knew.” He picked Frodo up and carried him over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. Frodo slowly raised his eyes and gasped in horror. What met his eyes was the most pitiful, scraggly looking hobbit he had ever seen. The apparition's hair, untended for days, stuck out at odd angles, his curls alternately mashed, corkscrewed, limp, or simply wild. The eyes that peered back at him were glazed, the face was flushed, and there were smears of jam on both cheeks.

“That’s not me,” Frodo declared suspiciously. “What kind of trick is this?”

“What’d I tell you?” Sam whispered to Aragorn. “He’s not thinkin’ clearly.”

“Hmmph,” Frodo muttered as Aragorn carried him back to bed. “I don’t think that was very funny. Just take that trick mirror out of here and leave me be.”

Aragorn just chuckled, and tucked Frodo under the covers. “Sam,” he said, “would you tell one of the attendants that we’ll need some water?” He smiled down at his stubborn patient. “Frodo, I think it’s time for that cool bath you’ve been insisting you don’t need.”

“Very well,” Frodo relented. “But it’s that hobbit in the mirror who really needs a bath, if you ask me."

This ficlet was my contribution to the FrodoHealers December 2004 Winter Challenge.

TREASURES

“He’s turned the corner, Bilbo.” Healer Brownlock sighed with relief. She tapped the sleeping lad’s chest, nodded to herself, then lay her ear against the small chest and listened to the air moving in and out of the boy’s lungs. Finally, she straightened up and arranged the blankets so that her patient was warmly covered.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Gilly,” Bilbo murmured. He sank heavily into a chair, his eyes never leaving Frodo’s flushed face. Seeing his boy in such pain, frightened and delirious most of the time, struggling to breathe as his lungs filled with fluid… he shuddered as he recalled the week they had all endured.

Healer Brownlock pulled a number of stoppered bottles and flasks from her bag, and set them on the small table next to the bed. “Frodo’s fever is much less, but you need to keep him warm and quiet until he has fully recovered. This is for the cough...” She pointed to the dark-brown bottle. “His lungs are clearing nicely, but the cough will persist for some days. Continue to give him a spoonful or two, three or four times a day. This one is for pain, and I’m leaving a mild tonic to help him sleep, although I doubt he will need it. See that he drinks as much as possible -- water, juice, broth, anything. His appetite will return, but slowly, and you might need to encourage him to eat.”

Bilbo nodded wearily. “I’ll take care of him.”

The healer looked at Bilbo shrewdly. “You’ve hardly slept in days,” she observed. “Don’t wear yourself out; continue to let the neighbors assist you. Frodo’s not contagious, and isn’t a danger to anyone.”

“I should have warned him that the pool can be treacherous,” Bilbo said suddenly. “I don’t know what I would have done if---”

“Now now,” the healer tutted in her best professional manner. “The lad turned out to be stronger than any of us thought, Bilbo. And no one was to blame for what happened, not really.” She frowned darkly in the direction of the conjuror, Gandalf, who stood (or stooped, really) in the doorway of Frodo’s bedroom, watching quietly.

No, no one was to blame, not really, Gandalf thought. Except perhaps myself.

*~*~*~*~*

It had only been a week since the wizard had arrived in the Shire, on his way to visit his old friend Bilbo Baggins. Passing the Bywater pool, frozen over in this unusually cold January, he had brought his wagon to a stop so he could watch the youngsters slide on the ice. The tough soles of hobbit feet didn’t slide very well, but the children seemed to be managing nicely by sitting in large pans or on thin boards. A playmate would give a mighty push, and the laughing rider would go flying over the ice for a good distance. Most of the youngsters looked up at the wizard and stopped their play, only to resume after a moment’s gaping. Gandalf could see that his rather dubious reputation had been conveyed to the children by their suspicious parents. One of the older children, however, taller than some and dark haired, stood staring at him, a joyous expression on his face. Frodo Baggins, Gandalf recalled the name of the lad he had last seen in Buckland, years ago. It has been many years since I last saw him. Living with Bilbo now, I understand.

“Gandalf!” Frodo shouted, beginning to run toward him. Too late, Gandalf came out of his reverie to notice, from his higher vantage point, the dark shadow beneath the ice directly in the boy’s path. Too thin... With a crack! the ice had given way beneath Frodo, and the lad plummeted out of sight. There were shouts from the children, but by the time a large group began to run to where Frodo had disappeared, Gandalf had leaped from his wagon and reached the spot first. Quickly lying on his belly at the edge of the newly-formed hole, he plunged his staff into the water. Onlookers would later report a blinding flash, and then Gandalf was hauling the lad out, Frodo hanging on weakly to the end of the glowing staff.

As Gandalf grabbed Frodo and ran to the wagon, he realized that the soaked, half-frozen boy had gone limp in his arms. He quickly lay Frodo on his stomach on the cold ground, and pressed slowly and rhythmically on the small back. Once... twice... yet again… and the boy choked, coughing and retching.

“Here, sir.” The young hobbit Frodo had sent sailing across the ice in an oversized roasting pan was suddenly at Gandalf’s side, holding out a blanket in a shaking hand. “Is Mr. Frodo going to be all right?”

“He should be,” Gandalf replied, wrapping the now-shivering, semi-conscious boy in the blanket. “Would you send a healer to Bag End, Samwise? Quickly?” Too frightened to even wonder how the wizard knew his name, the child nodded vigorously and raced off. Gandalf lifted Frodo into the wagon, and before all of the children had even been told what had happened, he was gone -- traveling swiftly north toward Bag End.

*~*~*~*~*

“Frodo? Frodo lad, you need to wake up for a bit.”

Frodo struggled to wake fully from the frightening dream that had been gripping him. A spoon slid between his lips, and he swallowed something thick and syrupy.

“That’s right.” Bilbo’s voice. “Again, Frodo. One more, that’s it.”

His chest felt heavy, and everything ached. Frodo opened his eyes with an effort, to find that he was in his own bed, propped up with pillows. He swallowed a second spoonful automatically. Medicine…

“No!” Frodo tried to push the spoon away, but his limbs were too heavy. The sudden shout and motion started him coughing, and he felt Bilbo’s arms around him, raising him fully into a sitting position and patting his back gently.

“There now, that’s better,” Bilbo said softly as the coughing subsided. He lowered the boy back down onto his pillows, and looked worriedly into the blue eyes gazing at him in… was it fear? “Frodo lad, what is it?”

“Bilbo,” Frodo whispered through cracked lips, “no medicine. You… you can’t afford…”

Bilbo peered at the boy, puzzled. “I can certainly afford any medicines you need, Frodo. Don’t you know that? Why, we’ve been dosing you all week, whether you remember it or not. Just a few more days, and you should be…”

All week? Frodo tried to piece together the past days, but failed. Blurred, nightmarish memories drifted in and out… burning, freezing, can’t breathe… hurts... someone calling his name, weeping… Bilbo…

“Oh Bilbo, I had a terrible nightmare,” Frodo gasped. “I needed medicines… too expensive... you spent all your money, and had to sell Bag End.” Tears sprang to his eyes. “You were out in the cold, with nowhere to go, and it was all my fault…” He stopped, finding it strangely difficult to breathe properly.

“Nonsense,” Bilbo said reassuringly. He felt the boy’s forehead. The fever was going down, thank the stars, but the healer had insisted that Frodo stay quiet. He kept his tone light. “Dear lad, you don’t have to worry about expenses, now or ever. Haven’t you been listening, all these years, to your old uncle’s stories? They’re quite true, you know.”

“Are they?” Frodo asked. Like everyone else, he had only half believed the tales. “Are they, truly, uncle? Dragon treasure, and gold and…”

“You can be sure they are,” said a voice from the doorway.

“Gandalf?” Frodo asked weakly.

Gandalf entered the room. “Bilbo, why don’t you get some rest,” he said, smiling at his old friend. “I’ll stay with Frodo.”

“I’ll bring you some tea, then lie down for a few hours,” Bilbo said to Gandalf. He smiled at Frodo and left the room, weak with relief. He’s getting better at last, he thought. My dear lad...

“Gandalf,” Frodo whispered, “I thought I dreamed you, too.”

“I am here,” Gandalf told him, sitting in a large chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Heavy,” Frodo murmured. “Achy and…” He stared at the wizard. “Has it really been a week?”

Gandalf nodded. “Do you remember falling through the ice?”

“The ice… that was a week ago?”

“Yes.”

Frodo suddenly smiled at the sight of a number of lovingly-carved animals sitting on the table.

“Young Samwise brought them over, and insisted that they would help you get well,” Gandalf explained.

“Dear Sam,” Frodo sighed. He reached out and touched one of Sam’s treasures, his thoughts drifting back to that day on the ice. “Gandalf, I thought I saw… how did you make the water so warm?”

“What do you remember?” the wizard asked thoughtfully.

“I fell…” Frodo whispered. “I swallowed some water, and couldn’t… I was so cold…” He started to cough again, and drank thirstily from a cup of water the wizard helped him to hold. “I saw a light, and then the water was warmer… I thought I was dying, and would… see my parents again, but…” Frodo sighed. “I heard you, calling to me. You wanted me to grab your staff. And then I saw that it was your staff making the light, and I tried to reach it…

“You did,” Gandalf said. I called out to him, yes -- but not out loud. Did he somehow hear me? Ah, this is a very special hobbit indeed. As I’ve suspected.

“You reached it, dear boy. But you swallowed half the pool before you did, and you’ve been rather a sick lad for some days.”

“I don’t remember very much,” Frodo frowned. He tried to take a deep breath, but it hurt too much. “My chest feels…”

“Yes,” the wizard said gently, “but you’re on the mend at last.” Very few recover from pneumonia, he thought grimly, but he kept fighting. We nearly lost him several times this week, but this boy showed more strength and spirit than nearly any hobbit I’ve ever met.

Frodo yawned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I want to know what happened, but... I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“It’s all right,” Gandalf said gently. “I will still be here when you wake up. There will be time for many tales.”

“Your staff...” Frodo murmured, closing his eyes. “I... I thought I saw...”

“Rest,” the wizard murmured. “We will talk later.” He sat gazing thoughtfully at the boy as he slid back into sleep. You saw what few have seen, Frodo Baggins. I am guardian of the Secret Fire, and release it only at need. But the more I learn of hobbits, the more I wonder if it is not they over whom I am truly guardian. Perhaps it is the Shire dwellers that possess the greatest and most secret fire -- the unquenchable spirit within them.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo returned, and handed the wizard a cup of steaming tea. “You look a thousand miles away.”

The wizard smiled and took the cup. “You’ve chosen well, Bilbo,” he said quietly. “You waited many years for a worthy heir, and there is no question that you have found him.”

Bilbo knelt next to the bed and took one of Frodo’s hands in his own. “He thought I couldn’t afford to care for him,” he murmured. “I think, of all my many relations, he’s one of the very few who only wanted my love -- and not my money.” He sighed. “I had thought to wait until he was older, but perhaps it’s time I spoke to him of what he will inherit. It may ease his mind.”

“It may. Go to your rest now, old friend. I will sit with him.”

“Call me if he needs anything,” Bilbo said. He kissed Frodo’s brow and rose to his feet.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf smiled, “you have already given this lad what he needs most, and it is most assuredly not gold or gems.”

Long after Bilbo had left the room, Gandalf sat lost in thought. Frodo does not yet realize the treasures that will one day be his... nor does Bilbo. If my suspicions are correct, he will inherit more than dragon gold. Much more.

I mentioned bananas on LiveJournal (and how I felt compelled to pull down all the little ‘strings’ attached to the fruit before eating it) -- and alchemilla challenged me to write a scene where the hobbits encounter bananas for the first time in Minas Tirith.  Couldn’t resist!

STUBBORN AS CAN BE (movie verse)

“I refuse,” Frodo declared.

Aragorn hid a smile and sat on the bed. Even after everything he’d been through in Mordor, Frodo’s spirit blazed as strong as ever. Perhaps even stronger. He and Sam had been tempered by fire, thirst, hunger, pain, weariness, and near death, and Frodo was still too weak to get out of bed unassisted. But weak in body only.

“Frodo,” Aragorn explained to his stubborn patient, “I know this fruit is strange in appearance, but it is the best thing for you right now. Your stomach is still recovering from lack of food, and we must ease you back to more solid fare. Besides...” He grinned. “Peeling them is good therapy for your hand.”

“Aragorn,” Frodo said unhappily, “maybe I should explain. We have a rhyme in the Shire about these... bananas. Pulled from the tree, stringy as can be...” He sighed. “There’s a lot more, all pretty grim. Apparently, the poet was quite ill after eating one of these.”

“I see,” Aragorn said thoughtfully. “I suspect your poet ate one before its ripening.” He slowly peeled the banana, and Frodo’s eyes widened at the smooth, golden fruit within, and the delicate aroma. “See? And only one string.” Aragorn pulled away the offending thread. “I promise this will not make you ill, Frodo. They’re delicious.” He broke off a bit of the top and popped it into his mouth.

“All right,” Frodo agreed tentatively, reaching for the fruit. “Maybe just a bit.” He took a small bite and chewed thoughtfully, finally smiling.

“Good,” Aragorn said, getting to his feet.

“What can you make with these?” Frodo asked suddenly, taking a larger bite. “Most fruits can be made into jams, and---“

“I will consult with the cooks,” Aragorn said solemnly. “I have heard of puddings, custards, even delicious breads made from bananas. Will you taste them if they are brought to you?”

“I’ll try to endure it,” Frodo said, his mouth full. He looked around. “Did you only bring one?”

This LiveJournal “hobbitpile” ficlet was written for Rubynye.

THE BEST WE HAVE (movie verse)

“Every morning, I wake in fear that one or more of them has been smothered during the night,” Boromir said, surveying the mass of hobbits. “They sleep as one,” he muttered, motioning to a stray hand or bright curl sticking out of the mounded blankets.

“I suspect that is part of the strategy,” Legolas replied.

“What strategy could there be in such cramped sleeping arrangements?”

“Have you not noticed, Boromir? Frodo is still recovering from his encounter with the Nazgûl.  No matter where he falls asleep, the others group around him in the same manner: Sam on one side, and Pippin on the other." Legolas then motioned to one of the hobbit-shaped lumps. "Merry always chooses last -- the least comfortable, outside position, facing the wind, or a direction from which danger might approach. Sam and Pippin feel fiercely protective of Frodo, but Merry, I deem, has appointed himself guardian of all three.”

“Aye,” Aragorn said, joining the hushed conversation. “There is nothing random here. The hobbits offer Frodo the best they have to give -- comfort, security, a sense of home and family amongst near-strangers...” He smiled down fondly at the mound of blankets. “It is these things that Frodo is risking everything to save, is it not?”

“It is Pippin’s watch,” Gimli said, coming over to his companions. He gazed down at the hobbitpile in consternation. “Which one is he?”

“Leave them be,” Boromir murmured. “I will stand watch this night.” Aragorn’s words echoed through his mind... The hobbits offer Frodo the best they have to give. Perhaps these halflings were not as simple and carefree as he had thought.

A chill wind suddenly blew through camp. Boromir unclasped his fur-lined cloak and lay it over the four hobbits. I, too, will give my best, he thought, and felt Aragorn’s hand clasping his shoulder in approval... and respect.

HEALING HANDS

Written in 2004 for Claudia's birthday

Frodo took a deep breath of fresh air, and the sweet, living fragrance of trees and grass made him smile. As he lay, slowly growing more aware, he realized that someone was rubbing his right foot in a most delightful way, strong yet gentle fingers kneading and pushing just right. He sighed, and the rubbing stopped suddenly. Opening his eyes, he beheld someone sitting on the bed next to him.

Frodo blinked in confusion and looked around at the open-air pavilion. Majestic green boughs swayed overhead, a warm breeze touched his face, and there was no pain... only peace, and the smiling face above him.

“Good morning, Frodo,” Aragorn said softly, smiling with joy and relief. “Merry said that would be just the thing to bring you all the way back to us.”

“Aragorn...”

“What do you require, Frodo? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Don’t...”

Aragorn leaned close. “Tell me.”

Still not quite awake after his long, deep sleep, thoughts blurred and drifting, Frodo could think of only one thing he required. He instinctively inched his left foot closer to his right, hoping that the fingers would resume the wonderful massage. A low, rich chuckle filled his ears, and both feet were swallowed by warm hands and gently caressing fingers.

Frodo closed his eyes again and sighed blissfully.

“Don’t stop,” he whispered.

HOPE

On LiveJournal, Claudia asked for... a friendship fic between Frodo and Aragorn ... It can be prequest (AU), or it can just be some special moment between them on quest, or post-quest.

Aragorn came across Frodo standing alone by the White Tree, looking troubled.

“What ails you, my friend?” he asked, coming to Frodo’s side. The king knelt, and looked into the hobbit’s blue eyes.

“Aragorn, remember that dream Boromir spoke of? About ‘the sword that was broken’?”

“Of course.”

“I know he was referring to your sword, but...”

“What is it, Frodo?”

“I feel like I’m the sword that was broken,” Frodo sighed. “Once strong and useful, but now...”

Aragorn said nothing, but wrapped his arms around Frodo. He felt the hobbit sag against him, weary and spent, and was honored at having earned this trust.

“We will find a way,” Aragorn promised. “You, too, can be made whole again, my brave friend.” Arwen is right, he realized. She wishes to offer Frodo passage to the West, and we must not delay any longer in telling him. She believes her mother has found healing there, and that Frodo would, as well. He wishes no reward for his deeds, no treasure or title; but this much we can do for him.

“We will find a way,” he repeated softly. “Trust me in this.”

“I do,” Frodo whispered. He rested a moment in the arms of his king, with hope rekindled in his heart.

TRUST

Written for the 2006 birthday of Mews
An AU scene: outside the east gate of Moria

Frodo stumbled again, and would have fallen had the one following close behind him and Sam not rushed forward to steady him.

"Stop, Frodo," their companion said. "You too, Sam. You are both injured and weary, and need tending." He scowled ahead in the direction Aragorn and the others had gone. What if he had not chosen to act as rear guard should the Orcs pursue them through the gates of those ill-fated mines? Was not Isildur's heir attentive to the needs of the Ringbearer and his servant?

"It is all right," Frodo said softly, seeing the his gaze. "Aragorn, too, is weary, but must now lead us as best he can. He only wishes us safely within the Golden Wood."

“Here he comes,” Sam said, relieved to see Aragorn running back to meet them.

"He should not have left you alone," the man insisted, his suspicions about this Ranger of the North not entirely at rest.

"He did not," Frodo said, turning to him. The hobbit's remarkable eyes shone suddenly. "He left us with you.” He suddenly grimaced in pain, his breath growing short.

Frodo was swept up into strong arms. Aragorn arrived and murmured an apology to the hobbits, then lifted Sam gently. Together, the men began to carry the injured hobbits to where the rest of the Fellowship waited.

“Faramir,” Frodo said, laying his head on the man’s chest, “you said at the Council, 'I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway' -- and you have proven yourself true to your vow. And a... a valiant friend."

“Thank you, Frodo,” Faramir said softly. I will never betray your trust, little one, he thought fervently to himself. I will see you safely to the Mountain of Doom.... and that cursed Ring to its destruction.

HALF ELVEN
Written for the 2005 birthday of Febobe (Frodo Baggins of Bag End)
Finally, someone besides Frodo needs a bit of recuperation...

“Well?” Frodo asked as soon as Aragorn exited the sickroom.

Aragorn smiled down at the hobbit.  “No visitors yet,” he said firmly.  “He needs rest.”

“Good heavens, Aragorn, it’s just a cold,” Frodo said in exasperation.  “The way everyone is tip-toeing around and looking grim, you’d think the Third Age was ending.”

“The Third Age is ending, you impertinent hobbit,” Aragorn chuckled.  “But you have to remember that Lord Elrond hasn’t been amongst this many mortals since... well, I have no idea.  He apparently picked up a small illness from someone in Minas Tirith.  In a way, half-Elven also means part-mortal.”

“But I just thought I could--”

“You can’t visit with him yet,” the King repeated.  “You’re still recovering from your ordeals, and I won’t have you catching anything.”

“He must be awfully bored,” Frodo fretted.

“On the contrary, having a cold is no doubt quite intriguing for an Elf.  Someone as long-lived as Lord Elrond no doubt believed that he would never encounter such new and fascinating experiences ever again.”

“New and fascinating experiences?  Like what?” Frodo asked, puzzled.

Suddenly, from the sickroom, came a thunderous sneeze, followed by an awed “My goodness!”

“Like that,” Aragorn grinned.

Based on a Febobe plot bunny:  At some point after the Quest, Sam and Elrond spend time together, talking about what it was like to stand inside the core of Mount Doom with a friend and see him lose the battle of will to the Ring.

A blend of movie- and book-verse.

FINDING PEACE

As soon as Sam awoke, and was assured that he was alive, and not dreaming, he insisted on tottering to Frodo’s room. Once there, he simply refused to leave -- except for those times when the healers needed to examine him or change his dressings. As the days passed, the staff of healers acknowledged among themselves that Sam seemed to draw strength just from watching his master sleep, and seeing him cared for with respect and tenderness. Sam ate and drank whatever was brought to him, and tried to sort out the many tales he was hearing about battles and death, valor and great deeds, Ents and armies and the astounding new height of Frodo's cousins. He answered questions from Gandalf, Aragorn, Merry, and Pippin about what had happened in Mordor, and at the Mountain. But there was one event he could speak of only with shame, and one person, in particular, felt he understood why.

“There you are, Samwise,” said a gentle voice from the door. “I was told to come here if I wanted to speak with you.”

Sam looked up to see Elrond standing in the doorway. “You want to speak with me, sir?” he asked in amazement. He started to slide down from the big chair so he could bow properly.

“Stay seated, my friend,” Elrond smiled. He drew up a second chair and seated himself in front of Sam. “I know your feet are still painful. May I see them?”

Sam raised his feet for inspection, and Elrond took them into his lap.

“They don’t feel too bad anymore,” Sam said, a bit embarrassed. “Strider isn’t letting me walk around much.”

“Strider,” Elrond said with a smile, “is very wise. As are you, to listen to him. I trained him in healing myself.”

“Did you?” Sam asked. “He took care of us the best he could, after Weathertop, and Moria. And he comes every day to see Mr. Frodo, even though he’s going to be king and all.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Elrond said, massaging Sam’s feet gently. He saw the opening in the conversation he had hoped for. “Aragorn has told me he felt great guilt when he realized that you and Frodo had gone alone to Mordor, and he could no longer protect you.”

“But he couldn’t have done anything about that!” Sam protested. “Especially when Mr. Frodo was determined to go off, no matter what. Strider couldn’t have stopped him.”

“Indeed, he could have done no more than he did,” Elrond said quietly. “Nor could you, Samwise.”

“Sir?”

“At the Cracks of Doom...” Elrond saw Sam’s eyes fill with sudden tears. “You could have done no more than you did.”

“I should have been quicker, or stronger,” Sam burst out. “I... I should have...”

“Should have what?” Elrond asked. “Fought your master for the Ring? Forced him to give it up? I stood in the same spot as you, Samwise, long ago. In that place I, too, had to watch as a noble and courageous friend was overcome by the strength of the Ring.”

“You... and that Isildur? You spoke of that at the Council.”

“Yes, Isildur. If I had tried to take the Ring from him, he would have fought, and perhaps killed me. If I had taken It by force, he might have lost his sanity, and I would surely have lost mine.”

“Mr. Frodo, he... he wasn’t himself,” Sam sobbed. “But when It was gone...” he smiled through his tears. “He was my master again. He was free.”

“Like Aragorn, you could have done no more than you did,” Elrond repeated. “Indeed, you – and Frodo – did more than most believed anyone would, or could."

Sam looked at his master’s peaceful face and took a deep breath, feeling a weight lift from him. Frodo slept quietly, his wounds healing, and would wake no longer pulled apart by a war being fought for his heart and mind... a war no one else could see, or understand. He had followed Frodo to the end of all things, and was with him still.

"I lost Isildur to the Ring, but you did not lose Frodo.”

“No, sir," Sam said with a relieved smile. "Except for that one moment, when the Ring took over at last, I didn’t ever lose him. Gandalf said not to, and I never did.”

“Gandalf didn’t doubt you, nor did I,” Elrond said gently, He smiled at the hobbit. “Well done, Sam.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sam whispered.

Written for the 2007 birthday of Lilybaggins

FEELING SAFE

A few days after Strider started traveling with the hobbits, Merry and Pippin began to feel that they could trust him. Out of Frodo's hearing, they pulled the Ranger aside to explain what was happening at night. The reason the hobbits all slept with Frodo between them, they said, wasn't just to protect him -- as Strider had first assumed -- it was to ensure that one of them would wake up whenever Frodo started... sleep-walking. It didn't happen every night, but often enough, since leaving the Shire, to have begun to alarm them. They believed that when Frodo's dreams were disquieting, full of dark, vague shapes watching and hunting for him, he would unconsciously seek safety.

After that, Strider would watch with interest as, in the dark of night, Frodo would occasionally get up and wander about the camp -- to all appearances wide awake and alert. At least one of the other hobbits almost always awoke fairly quickly, and gently guided him back to his bedroll. When the others were too worn out to wake, and he found Frodo asleep next to Bill or under a bush, Strider would gently carry him back to the nest of blankets and hobbits, and Frodo would settle down again, never waking.

So Strider wasn't surprised when, one cold night on watch, he heard a rustle and stir from where the hobbits lay asleep. Frodo sat up and appeared to look around, then got to his feet. He walked about for a few minutes, then for the first time, came over to where Strider sat. If he hadn't seen this behavior before, Strider would have sworn an oath that the hobbit was awake -- but Frodo's eyes were a bit unfocussed as he stood silently before him.

Finally seeming to come to a decision, Frodo knelt on top of Strider's long legs and settled against his chest, as if on a bed. He then curled up in a ball, and seemed to be reaching for a blanket. Strider shifted position slightly to wrap his cloak warmly around the little one. Frodo sighed, and soon lay quietly. A few minutes later, Sam suddenly sat up and looked about. Strider smiled and indicated Frodo, who was sleeping soundly in his arms. Sam lay down again, and Aragorn regarded Frodo, smiling. It was clear to him that he had become one of those whom Frodo trusted to keep him safe and secure. It was a trust which Aragorn would strive to prove himself worthy of keeping.

Written for the 2007 birthday of Gentlehobbit

TOUCH

Lord Elrond came to see him before he slept, and that hand laid softly to his brow was the last bit of reassurance Frodo needed. For indeed it was touch -- gentle hands and arms – that had truly anchored him that day, and guided him fully back to the living world.

Sam’s hand, warm and solid, when his friend had run excitedly to his bedside, eyes wide with amazement and happy tears. Pippin and Merry flinging themselves on him when Sam led him to his cousins, their bodies trembling with joy and long-suppressed fear relieved at last. Bilbo’s exuberant and longed-for hug when they finally met in the Hall of Fire. Even Strider’s hand on his shoulder, brief but firm, before Bilbo hauled the Ranger away to get help with his latest poem.

More than food or drink, or his walk amongst the trees, the touch of friends and family had reassured Frodo that the dim shadow world into which he had nearly been lost had been dispelled... at least, for now. And so, that first night in Rivendell... well, the first night he remembered, anyway, Frodo let himself relax. He fell into sleep at peace, trusting, as he had not for many weeks, that morning would come, and with it, a warm sun shining.

A double drabble for the 2007 birthdays of Angiet and Dreamflower

LIKE HOME

I’ll never forget my first trip to Bag End. Frodo had been living there for a few months when my parents gave in to my pleas to let me visit and “make sure he’s not lonesome.”

Frodo had been thrilled to see me, and couldn't wait to show me around. His bedroom was wonderful – large and airy, and already there were piles of books everywhere. His eyes fairly glowed with pleasure, and... pride. By the end of my visit, I was both sad and happy; it was obvious that Frodo wasn’t coming home again, but equally obvious that Bag End now was his home.

“It’s his own place, Merry lad,” Bilbo told me quietly. “A home where he can learn who he is, and someday be his own master. He deserves no less.”

I smiled fondly as I moved the last chair into position in the Crickhollow sitting room, and looked around, pleased with what Fatty and I had accomplished in so short a time. Frodo might only be coming here to stay for a few days, at best... but for as long as he was here, it would look and feel like home. He deserved no less.

Written for the 2007 birthday of Mews.
Post-Quest, Minas Tirith

BATTLES WON AND LOST

“Final round. Think you can handle one more, Frodo?” Merry asked, scribbling away on the paper in front of him.

Draining his tankard, Frodo concentrated mightily through the ale-induced fog that had once been his brain, and nodded. He watched Merry add things to the already long list, fascinated by the way the quill’s feather was waving around and around and...

“Here you go.” Merry held up the paper and pointed.

“Lobelia Shackville-Bagensh,” Frodo slurred.

“You’re out,” Merry pronounced, pointing to another line. “Your turn, Pip.”

Pippin took another swig of ale and stared at the words in front of him, blinking rapidly.

“Bucklebury Ferry,” he read very slowly and carefully.

“Good for you,” Merry said. “Last time we played, you didn’t get past the ninth turn.”

“Wait a minute, mine had seven shyllables, and he only had six!” Frodo protested.

“Irrelevant.” Merry waved him off and held up the paper again. “Sam, here’s your last one.”

“What is that?” Sam asked in horror.

“Our new king,” Merry explained.

“His name is Strider,” Sam informed him haughtily, in a tone he never would have taken if not drunk as a skunk.

“This is the name he’ll be known by,” Merry explained. “You can do it, Sam; I’ve only given you six syllables, the same as Pip.”

“I told you Pip only had sixth,” Frodo said, vindicated. He slid dizzily to the floor and sat there, confused. “Where did Sham go?”

“Mr. Frodo needs me,” Sam said desperately. “I can’t be playin’ this silly game anymore, Mr. Merry.”

“You don’t want Pip to win, do you?” Merry asked shrewdly.

“Don’t let him win, Sham!” Frodo yelled from under the table.

Sam took another drink and stared at the paper, willing his eyes to focus. “El, umm, Elessar Telcontar.”

“Perfect,” Merry said admiringly. “You and Pip can really hold your ale.”

Sam frowned. “But no one’s named that. Strider’s name is...” He thought hard. “Strider!” he said triumphantly. “Hah, I win.”

“No, I win,” Pippin corrected him. “I won, didn’t I, Merry?”

“You and Sam both did.”

“You shouldn’t have tried to trick Sham,” Frodo scowled up at Merry. He tried to swat his cousin on the leg, but missed. “Strider’s name is Strider. You should know that by now.”

Aragorn stepped into the kitchen and looked around. Sam, Pippin, and Merry sat at the table, huge tankards in front of each of them. Frodo was sitting on the floor, looking indignant.

“Hullo, Strider.” It took Sam three tries to stand up. “Isn’t that still your name?”

Aragorn motioned to a barrel near the table. “Is that the gift the Rohirrim sent for the Ring-bearers?”

“Yes,” Pippin said happily.

Frodo started giggling.

“This binge may have been a bit premature,” Aragorn admonished. “Frodo and Sam are barely out of bed as it is.” He strode over to Frodo, knelt, and gathered the tipsy hobbit into his arms.

“Argorn,” Frodo whispered loudly into his ear, “Pip won. Sham did too, I heard him.”

“Of course he did.”

“It’s not Merry’s fault that Cousin Lobelia has such a complistrated lash name,” Frodo continued. “Aren’t I right?”

“Of course you are,” Aragorn said soothingly. He carried Frodo to the bedroom, followed by the three other hobbits. Sam staggered to a chair, Pippin hiccuped his way to another, and Merry stood, not that steady on his feet himself, watching Aragorn seat Frodo on the bed.

Frodo pulled on Aragorn’s tunic. “Poor Merry, he only got to have one teenshy weenshy mug before his handwriting started getting fuzzy and he had to stop. But we left enough for you and Gandalf and Migli and Leglas.”

“That is very generous,” Aragorn said. “However, those ceremonial tankards are hardly ‘mugs’.”

“Aren’t they wonderful?” Pippin beamed.

“Have Frodo and Sam had anything to eat?” Aragorn asked.

“’Course,” Pippin said. “Drinking without eating is... well...” He looked confused. “Who would do that?”

“Good.”

“Mr. Frodo, I can’t see my lips,” Sam said worriedly.

“I can, Sham,” Frodo said encouragingly. He pointed in Sam’s general direction. “They’re right there.”

“Frodo, opening that barrel might have waited a few more days,” Aragorn tried again. He drew Frodo’s ale-splashed shirt over his head, and gently lay his small friend down. “Your stomach, and Sam’s, are hardly used to such ill treatment after so long with little food or drink.”

“Ale is food and drink,” Merry declared.

“That’s right,” Sam nodded vehemently. “Lots of barley and... and other things in there.”

“You win,” Aragorn sighed.

“Pip and Sham won,” Frodo insisted. He yawned hugely and closed his eyes.

Aragorn smiled in defeat.

“Of course they did.”

Written with Gentlehobbit for the 2007 birthday of Claudia.

DISCLAIMER: Professor Tolkien’s wonderful characters don’t belong to me, I just get to think about them day and night.

Master Back-Walker

Aragorn, one hand poised to knock on the partially-opened door, heard what sounded like an agonized groan coming from inside the hobbits’ sitting room. Hastily pushing the door fully open, he froze at the sight before him. Lying on his stomach on the thick rug in front of the hearth was Frodo, and...

“Pippin,” Aragorn said cautiously, “what are you doing?”

“Hullo, Strider,” Pippin said cheerfully. “Let me just...” He hopped lightly down to the floor and bowed slightly. “Is there something you need?”

“Were you just walking on Frodo?”

Frodo opened his eyes, a blissful smile on his face. “Haven’t you ever had anyone do that for you?” he asked. “It feels quite wonderful.”

“If you say so,” Aragorn said dubiously.

“Oh, it does!” Frodo exclaimed. “Here, I’ll show you.” He got to his feet and motioned to the rug.

“I don’t think--”

“It’s all right,” Pippin assured him. “Frodo is an expert. He taught Merry and me everything we know.”

The hobbits were looking at him with such joyful expectation, Aragorn didn’t feel he could refuse them. Taking a quick look up and down the corridor, which was mercifully empty, he stripped off his outer tunic and folded it across a chair just inside the door. As the hobbits nodded encouragingly, he walked over to the rug and lay down on his stomach.

“Here, Pip, help me,” Frodo said, stepping carefully up onto Aragorn’s back. “Hold my arm so I don’t slip.” With skill that came from years of practice, he quickly got his balance, and Pippin stepped back. Frodo then walked slowly and carefully along the King’s spine, pushing in with his toes and heels, and leaning just so...

crack!

“Ohhh,” Aragorn groaned.

“Too much?” Frodo asked, worried.

“My goodness,” Aragorn sighed.

“Keep going, Frodo,” Pippin advised his cousin. “Strider’s had King duties all day. Can you imagine how exhausting that must be?”

“It must be dreadful,” Frodo agreed. “Wil Whitfoot gets tired just presiding over the Fair. And that’s only held every seven years!”

“Strider, you’ll want to hold fairs in Minas Tirith,” Pippin said, sitting by the King’s head. “You need to know who has the nicest cows and sheep, and who bakes the best pies, and maybe there can be archery and...”

Aragorn sighed again, ready to agree to anything. Frodo’s sturdy feet had reached his upper back. He breathed deeply, in and out, as Frodo pressed now harder, now softer, and suddenly realized that he was feeling more relaxed than he had in days.

“Your muscles aren’t nearly as tense now,” Frodo said finally, giving the King’s back one last traverse. “You really should arrange for a good back-walking at least every other day.”

“He’s right, Strider,” Pippin agreed. “Whatever will you do when we go home?”

“Frodo’s not going home,” Aragorn murmured. “Ever.”

“Well, of course he is,” Pippin chided gently. “You can’t keep him from seeing Bilbo and the Shire.”

“Yes, I can,” said Aragorn before he could stop himself.

Frodo merely chuckled. “Pip, we really ought to teach someone to walk over Aragorn’s back. We won’t be here to do it ourselves, but...”

“Yes, you will,” Aragorn mumbled.

“...but there must be someone small enough or light enough who could do it. If not hobbits, then who…?”

He and Pippin looked at each other and, as one, said, “Lady Arwen!” They chuckled at the smile that bloomed on Aragorn’s face.

And so it came to be known, among the denizens of Minas Tirith, that the Queen of Gondor practiced the much-prized art of back-walking, after the style of the pheriannath, upon her husband the King. This technique was much sought after, and healers and apprentices came from afar to learn the skill from her. For, after all, Queen Arwen had received her training from none other than the Master Back-Walker himself, the Ring-bearer -- Frodo Baggins of the Shire.

DISCLAIMER:  Professor Tolkien’s wonderful characters don’t belong to me; I just get to think about them day and night.

___________________________

Took Blood

Gandalf looked down tenderly at the drowsy hobbit who sat on the bed next to him. It had been a long day.

“Well, it could have been worse,” Frodo yawned, gazing at the space where his finger had been.

“It certainly could have,” Gandalf said softly. “Isildur was killed, as was Déagol, and Sméagol is no more. Sauron’s essence has been dissipated for all time.” He smiled. “Of the Ring-bearers, only you, Bilbo, and Sam survived.”

“But why?” Frodo asked. “It can’t just be because we’re hobbits; Sméagol and his cousin were, too... in a sense.”

“Took blood,” Pippin said smugly.

“But I don’t have any, Mr. Pippin,” Sam reminded him.

“That doesn’t matter,” Pippin said earnestly. “Think of all the exposure to Took blood you’ve had, Sam! Your father worked for Bilbo, and you work for Frodo, and you live so close to them, and then there are all the times I’ve visited Bag End, and--”

“That must be it,” Merry grinned. “Took blood must be contagious, like a disease.”

“Now wait a minute, that’s not what I meant,” Pippin protested.

"Yes, it is."

“Why couldn’t the secret be in their Baggins blood?” Sam ventured.

“No, it’s definitely Took magic,” Pippin declared, unshaken. “It helped me face Sauron in the seeing stone, and survive under that troll. Powerful stuff.” His face lit up. “Sam, one of your children should marry a Took. That would protect your family forever!”

“My children?” Sam chuckled. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here, Mr. Pippin. I don’t--”

“Shhh,” Gandalf whispered, his finger to his lips. Frodo had fallen fast asleep against him with a smile on his face.

“I wish Tooks really did have some magic to help him,” Pippin sighed.

“You helped him plenty, Mr. Pippin,” Sam smiled. “You really did.”

This story was written by Shirebound and Mews for the 2007 birthday of Aprilkat, as a sequel to the short story "Frodo Laughed" written by Mews in her Livejournal.  Kittens have been brought to Frodo’s bed in Minas Tirith to cheer him. Movie-verse.

A WARM SUN SHINING

Frodo lay back against the soft pillow, the smallest kitten warm and calm on his chest.

I don't even know where I am, or if this is real. The thought, coming into his head so suddenly, made him tremble, and he felt panic fluttering like a trapped sparrow in his chest.

"Sir?" Sam sensed his distress and understood his feelings, as always. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Sam, it's all so overwhelming," Frodo whispered. As a few memories and images came flooding back, his breathing grew erratic.

"I felt the same when I woke up and saw Gandalf. I thought I was dead."

"Are you sure we're not?" Frodo asked anxiously.

"I'm sure," Sam said. "Here, you just need to watch this little 'un for a few minutes." He kept his voice low and soft. "Put your hand on her, just there. Feel her breathing, sir? So even?"

Frodo lay his hand on the kitten's back, feeling the even breaths and rumbling purr. The little one stretched out and exposed her belly, and Frodo started laughing again. He gently rubbed the velvety fur. The expression on his face softened, and Sam could see his master's breathing slow to the rhythm of the kitten's.

Frodo looked at Sam wonderingly. "Where are we?"

"This is Minas Tirith."

"Boromir's city?"

"Yes, Mr. Frodo." Sam's smile was a bit tremulous.

But Frodo wasn't ready to think more about Boromir just yet, and his thoughts drifted instead to the fact that the rest of the Fellowship had come through safely.

"Aragorn was dressed so fine," he said at last. "Is he king yet?"

"I don't know," Sam frowned. "Gandalf said we were in the keeping of the King, but Strider said he was waiting for us to wake up before 'the ceremonial' could take place."

Just then the two other kittens, clearly feeling ignored, climbed up Frodo's legs and tried to find places of their own on his chest.

"Pushy little things, aren't they?" Sam grinned. "Are they too heavy, sir?"

"Not at all." Frodo smiled, relaxed and calm once more. He and Sam watched as the two kittens squirmed about their sister, trying to get comfortable. They finally decided on Frodo's lap where they curled together into a warm, wriggling ball, and their purring could be plainly heard -- a low, humming vibration. The first "little 'un", as Sam had called her, retained her place of honor on Frodo's chest.

The kittens settled for the moment, Frodo's attention was caught by the open window, its silken curtains fluttering in a light breeze. Sunlight flooded the room, bathing everything in a golden hue.

"I thought we'd never see the sun again," Frodo said quietly. He lifted his left hand and examined the bandages.

"Does it hurt?" Sam asked anxiously.

"No, my dear Sam," Frodo said. "I feel very tired, but not in any pain." Suddenly his eyes widened in wonder. "Sam, I remember the eagles! For a moment I could breathe clean air, and the wind was fresh, and. . ." He looked around the room. "And then I was here."

"That's right, sir," Sam said. "I can scarce believe it myself." He yawned.

Frodo could tell that Sam also felt weary. It wasn't only Sam, he reflected, who had become so attuned to his companion's thoughts and feelings during the quest.

"Sam," he said, stroking the kitten's back with two fingers, "you are tired and chilled. Come, you can get into the bed next to me."

Sam flushed. "Oh, now, that wouldn't be. . ."

"Proper?" Frodo interrupted. He did not raise his voice, not wishing to disturb the kittens, but he gave Sam a stern look that stopped him in mid protest. "Sam Gamgee, you've been my friend and comrade through such hardships as no hobbit should ever have to suffer. Nothing could be more proper than that we share the warmth and comfort we have here."

He smiled and drew back the counterpane and sheet, shifting a bit to make room. "Come, Sam, I hear the servers bringing our luncheon."

Sam hesitated for only a moment longer, then, bashfully, blushing, he clambered up onto the bed and sat beside Frodo, with one of the plump feather pillows at his back, and the downy coverlet and sheet to cover his feet and legs. He put out a tentative hand to rub a kitten's head, and felt himself relaxing even more.

There was a polite rapping on the door.

"Come in," Frodo called. The door opened, and the servers entered with a heavily laden wheeled cart.

Sam tensed a bit, as though he were preparing to get out of bed to help serve. Frodo laid his hand on Sam's arm, pressing gently. "Sam, truly, you can relax."

There were two maidservants in crisp white dresses and aprons, as well as the server who pushed the cart, and all of them nodded and smiled. The maid with carrot-gold hair that escaped in tendrils from beneath her snowy coif, said, "Indeed, little masters, we're to serve you and see to your every need. You have only to speak and your wishes will be met. I am Aredhel, and this is Sirith."

Frodo and Sam looked at the girls curiously, as they were the first maidens of the race of Men they had seen, but their attention was diverted when Aredhel came to the bed and began to gather the kittens, who protested with sleepy squeaks.

"Please, do not take them," Frodo said.

"We will not, but they must be moved in order to serve your luncheon, lord," she said. Her face was freckled, and when she smiled, she showed dimples. "Shall I put them at your feet?"

"All right."

Aredhel settled the two from his lap on the counterpane, against his feet, then gently lifted the "little 'un" from her cosy place on Frodo's chest and tucked her against her brothers. The furry huddle squirmed for a few seconds, then settled down again.

Sirith, who was a bit taller, with large brown eyes and a quiet manner, brought a wooden tray with short legs at its four corners and set it over their laps, like a table. It was quite large enough to serve them both, and Sam marveled at its construction, leaning over to inspect the legs, as Aredhel fetched large, round platters made of silver that were covered with silver domes. She set one in front of Frodo and the other in front of Sam and lifted away the domes with a flourish.

Sam gasped and Frodo stared. Set on the silver platters were plates only slightly smaller, made of pure white china, each containing at least a dozen portions of different foods, some in their own small serving-bowls.

"Lord Aragorn suggested that the fare be light, but plentiful," Aredhel said, with a pleased smile at their reaction. "When you have eaten your fill, just let us know what pleases you most, and we will see to it that larger portions are available for your next meals." She set a pitcher of water on the table next to the bed, along with two matching goblets.

"We are at your service," Frodo said, but the girls only blushed and curtseyed before exiting with the server.

"Lord Aragorn will make a very wise king," Frodo said, looking over the food appreciatively. He picked up a silver fork, sized perfectly for him, and urged Sam to do the same.

Sam inhaled deeply, feeling a rush of wonder that he and his master had survived to once again breathe fresh air, feel soft, clean sheets, see warm, bright sunlight, and eat delicious food. Just then his stomach rumbled, and Frodo laughed delightedly.

"Now I know we're not dead," he chuckled. "Tuck in, Sam. The roast potatoes are lovely."

It was all lovely. Besides the delicately herbed roast fowl and potatoes, there were new peas, a fragrant loaf of soft bread, several different soups, and whipped, flavored ices with cream. The hobbits ate with relish, enjoying new tastes along with familiar ones.

"I know who might enjoy the rest of this cream," Frodo said, spying three tiny faces peering at him over the lip of the tray. The little female put her paws on the tray's edge and peered at the dishes as though debating climbing up amongst them. Although still sleepy, the kittens had come to claim their share of the feast. Frodo set the bowl on the counterpane, and all three kittens were soon lapping up the sweet cream.

At last every morsel was done, and the two hobbits and three kittens yawned nearly in unison. Sam insisted that Frodo remain where he was and took it upon himself to scramble down from the bed and set the tray and empty dishes on the table. With only a bit of hesitation this time, he returned and lay down next to Frodo.

* * *

A quarter hour later, Aragorn came to check on his friends, and the sight before him brought a smile to his lips. Frodo and Sam lay side by side, fast asleep, limbs entwined as must have brought them comfort in the cold, dark lands of the East. Two of the kittens slept at Frodo's feet, but the smallest was curled between Frodo's chin and shoulder, busily washing her paws. She looked up and prrrupped, and the King of the West bent to stroke her soft head before bestowing a gentle kiss on the brow of each hobbit, safe at last in his keeping.

** END **

Just a Dream

Written for the 2007 birthday of Febobe, who posted this ficlet request: "Frodo and the fever-stick."  (A fever-stick is the Middle-earth equivalent of... well, a rectal thermometer.  Written with love, and for a bit of AU fun.)

Frodo blinked awake, and smiled to see Sam sitting next to him.

“How are you feeling, sir?” Sam asked. He took his master’s left hand, relieved that it was once again fully warm. “Are you sleeping well enough?”

“I am, except for a strange, recurring dream,” Frodo yawned. “At least, I think it’s a dream; I can never quite remember all the details.”

“About those Black Riders?” Sam asked anxiously. He hoped his master didn’t remember too much of what he had endured for the past several weeks.

“No, not riders, or... or that awful dim coldness...” Frodo murmured. “Something worse. I dreamed that a dark-haired Elf was... that he wanted to...” He shook his head. “Never mind, Sam, I’m sure it wasn’t real. Shire healers don’t have any such... devices, and I can’t imagine that the Elves do, either.” He frowned, wriggling his bottom slightly.

“You need your rest,” Sam said hastily. “Try to sleep a bit more, and I’m sure you won’t have that... er, that dream again.” He drew the blankets up to Frodo's chin, then blew out the candle. If he had to barricade the door, he would. Lord Elrond might be in charge and all, but he wasn’t coming near his master again, if he could prevent it. At least, not with that thing in his hand.

A double-drabble (200 words) set in post-Quest Minas Tirith

The line of dialogue is from The Return of the King

It was my place – not his – to take the Ring to Mordor. My ancestor, Lúthien, descended to the very depths of Angband and charmed Morgoth into sleep. She and Beren cut the Silmaril from his crown. Their blood is my blood. Could I not have dared the same as they? Are my love and courage any less? Morgoth was gone, but Sauron remained; yet his power was diminished, poured into the Ring. Surely, bearing it, I could have overborne him as Lúthien did to Morgoth, and seen the Ring to its destruction.

But before I realized that it was I who should have stood forth at the Council and claimed this task, Frodo was gone -- fled into the Dark Lands with no power to prevail save the resilience of his race, and the love of a servant. And so he paid the terrible price that should have been mine.

He took my place, although my beloved does not agree. And so I now offer my place in return; it is all I have to give, in poor payment of my debt.

“But in my stead you shall go, Ring-bearer, when the time comes, and if you then desire it.”

Note:  Movie-verse.

HEALING TAKES MANY FORMS

“I fear you did your job too well.” Aragorn shook his head in amusement.

“Is something amiss, my Lord?” Faramir asked, puzzled. “All four hobbits are still recovering from their injuries, Frodo and Sam most of all. I had hoped that the softer linens would be soothing to their skin as they heal from their ordeals.”

“They are soothing indeed,” Aragorn said, “and that is the problem. The feather pillows, brushed cotton sheets, and down-filled blankets you procured for them are so luxuriant, they scarcely wish to leave their beds at all. They need to regain their strength with healthful walks and exercise.  However…” He sighed.  “They are so content, I find that I cannot bring myself to disturb them.”

“If I may,” Faramir said, “I believe that their instincts are correct; they are regaining things just as important as physical strength.  Perhaps it is rest and quiet, soft beds and leisure, good meals and the comfort of one another, that they need most at this time.”

“Perhaps,” Aragorn conceded.

“Besides,” Faramir chuckled, “they have walked enough in recent months, have they not?”

Aragorn smiled. “You show great wisdom, my friend.”

“Nay, it is our guests who are wise in this matter. ‘It's just plain hobbit sense’, as Sam would say.”

The sweet sound of laughter burst forth from the hobbits’ room, followed by a peaceful silence.

“They will ring the bell I gave them if they need anything, my Lord,” Faramir said. “But I deem that, at the moment, they have all that they require for healing.”

Written for the 2014 birthday of Cairistiona.

Taking Matters Into Their Own Hands

“Honey?” Pippin asked.

“That’s for a sore throat, Pip,” Frodo said.

“Cherry?”

“Good for coughs, that is,” Sam nodded knowingly. “Not so much for pain.”

“But willow bark is so bitter,” Pippin said stubbornly. “Why can’t Master Elrond give Strider one of the good ones first, and then sneak the willow bark into his tea?”

“We don’t even know if Master Elrond has anything like that in mind,” Merry said.

“Yes he does,” Frodo said darkly. “We should hide Aragorn under the bed and pretend he’s wandered off somewhere.”

“Frodo,” Merry said patiently, “just because you were plied with potions just a few weeks ago is no reason to assume that--”

“Gentlemen!” Aragorn interrupted. The conspiratorial huddle of hobbits next to his bed looked his way for the first time in several minutes. “While I appreciate your concern, I have not requested -- nor do I need -- any potions for pain, coughs, or any other ailment.” He sat up with difficulty, cradling his splinted wrist, to survey his bandaged knee. “In fact, I scarcely need this ‘bed rest’ the master of this House has advised. A Ranger knows how to disregard pain.”

“So you are in pain,” Merry declared triumphantly.

“And why do you have to disregard it anyway?” Pippin asked curiously. “You’re not rangering right now, are you?”

“No, but--”

“At least now your boots will be repaired,” Merry assured him. “I’m not surprised you slipped on those rocks near the waterfall, with them as worn as they were.”

“I should have been more careful,” Aragorn admitted. “Our journey here was a long one, as were my wanderings before we met in Bree. I neglected to notice that my boots were no longer as reliable as I am used to.”

“Bare feet are much more practical anyway,” Sam said boldly.

“Absolutely,” Pippin agreed, lifting one for Aragorn’s inspection. The Ranger studied the meticulously brushed fur and the youngster’s wriggling toes, hard-pressed to keep from grinning. The pride the hobbits took in their feet had become obvious to him during their journey. Even after Frodo had been wounded, Sam and his cousins ensured that his feet were regularly and tenderly cared for -- something he had observed that Frodo found to be quite soothing.

Frodo noted the Man’s pallor, and urged him to lie down again, which Aragorn did with a resigned sigh. He heard hobbit voices quietly murmuring in the background, but found his attention wandering. He felt dizzied and battered, and also quite embarrassed. To make it to Rivendell unscathed only to be injured in a place he had visited dozens of times in his youth was a bit humiliating.

He was startled out of his musings by the creak of bedsprings. Something had obviously been decided without consulting him, as Merry and Sam had both climbed up on the bed. With only an exchange of looks and nods between them, they began to massage his bare feet. Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, but a stern look from Frodo kept him quiet. The two hobbits’ nimble, skilled fingers manipulating his toes, arches, and tops of his feet was, he realized, very calming, and a wonderful distraction from the pain. As they worked, he found his limbs and whole body relaxing so much that he slowly felt himself drifting into a drowse.

“Good job, lads, that should be enough for now,” he heard Frodo’s voice from a distance. “Pip, guard the door and don’t let any of those potions find their way in here. Merry, will you stay with him? Sam, let’s you and I visit the kitchens and see what’s going on there. Aragorn will be hungry later, and a good supper will be very strengthening. Later on we can...”

Aragorn heard no more as he sank into a deep sleep. When he awoke hours later, it was to the delicious smells of soup and freshly-baked bread. Opening his eyes, he was met by four smiling faces. And not a potion in sight.
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Another ficlet about the hobbits tending to Aragorn is "Master Back-Walker" (chapter 13 of this series "Seeing Isn't Always Believing").