REPOST

Disclaimers: All characters, places and events are the sole property of the Tolkien Estate. I receive no money for this piece of fiction, only the satisfaction of writing about the land and peoples that he so beautifully depicted.

Smoke and Mirrors Chapter 39

A ray of sunlight dealt a glancing blow across the features of the Ringbearer, causing him to blink and turn away upon his pillow. Frodo groaned and slowly opened his eyes. 'Here I've slept the day away once again,' he thought to himself. His window was open and a freshening breeze gently moved the curtains to and fro. He could hear voices fairly close by, perhaps on the patio beneath his window. He lay listening to what he now recognized as the voices of Faramir, Sam, Merry and Pippin. He strained to hear what they were talking about. Faramir was recounting a story in hushed tones, that seemed to have even Pippin, speechless. Frodo could catch a phrase here or a word there but was having difficulty hearing the full account being rendered. He sighed in frustration and growled to himself, "I am so tired of this room, its smell of sickness, no matter how often I am bathed or the linens changed. Certainly I am strong enough to join my friends for a bit of storytelling. I *did* make that short journey to Pippin's room yesterday, or was it the day before? Yes, well...I feel rather fit and a bit restless now, and I am weary of being cooped up in these quarters, as nice as they are, notwithstanding," he murmured to himself. He let his eyes roam the now minutely familiar room, and decided if he could make the arduous journey into Mordor that he most assuredly could manage getting himself up, dressed and outside with little or no trouble. Across the room was a wardrobe and he decided, with the stubbornness the Baggins name was known for, that this would be his first obstacle. He threw the covers back and slowly attempted to raise himself up on his thin and violently shaking, forearms. Although he was already panting from the effort, the sweat soaking his nightshirt, he was, if anything, only more determined to achieve his goal. At last he managed to sit up and he leaned back, exhausted, against the headboard. He was incredibly winded and decided a short break was in order.

"...and he stabbed you? Our cousin?....Frodo? Impossible!" he heard Pippin cry. Frodo was immediately all ears. Stabbed? He stabbed someone? Ridiculous! What a yarn Faramir must be spinning. He paused to hear what Faramir's reply would be.

"He did! See? Right here. I've just regained full use of the leg only this week. He's a force to be reckoned with, your cousin is."

"You have no idea," Frodo grumbled.

"You have no idea," chimed Merry.

"Just wait till I get my hands on you telling a tale like that to my baby cousin," Frodo mumbled. He sat, puzzled, 'I couldn't have done that, could I? I would surely remember something, and I don't recall anything like that ever taking place,' he mused. Of course, there *were* significant gaps in his memory of the last several weeks but, no...no, Faramir was a friend and he would never have done that. Unless...he had been so sick he had not been able to recognize friend from foe. The thought caused his eyes to grow very large. How *had* he lost the Lady Arwen's pendant? That had been a question that had been niggling at him ever since its return by the Queen.

"....and then he managed to elude Mr. Strider...I mean the King, and I, for hours." That sounded like Sam, Frodo thought with alarm.

"I simply must get out there and hear this tale of my deeds that I have no memory of doing," Frodo gasped through clenched teeth. He swung his legs over the tall bed and perched on the edge. The room pitched and swayed and, for a moment, Frodo was sure he would be ill. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, which helped to quell the rising nausea, and slid down to the floor, collapsing in a boneless heap. 'Wonderful,' he thought. “First, it's my arms, then the room won't hold still and now my legs won't work. If there wasn't some place I needed to be right now, this would all be very funny indeed,” he mumbled, his mouth curving up into a small smile. 'Fine, I shall crawl if I must, just like a baby,' he *did* laugh at that, a short giggle at his own expense. He made his way to the wardrobe and opened the doors. "Oh, dung beetles," he exclaimed. From where he sat on the floor, he could very clearly see his clothing, folded neatly, lying on the topmost shelf. He did laugh then, loud enough that he startled even himself and quickly covered his mouth with his hand. Of course, when he covered his mouth he fell over on his side with an 'oomph' because his one arm was too weak to support him alone, which caused him to laugh all the harder.

"Did you hear something?" asked Merry. Everyone paused to listen.

"Nothing, Mer'," Pip said indifferently. "So tell us what Frodo did to Saleth?" the tweener urged Faramir.

'Saleth?' mouthed Frodo to himself. 'Oh, this cannot be, this cannot be happening. How could no one have said anything to me all these weeks if I had caused such a melee?' Frodo thought. The clothes... ah yes, that cane over there should do the trick. Frodo made his way slowly to the corner of the room and wrapped his trembling hands about the cane. 'This will do nicely,' he thought.

*********
Aragorn sat with his legs stretched out in front of him propped on a cushioned footstool, a wine glass in his right hand and, with the left, he held his wife's delicate right hand. Across from him Saleth sat in much the same posture, minus the lovely Queen. Saleth had an odd expression on his face to which Aragorn was openly grinning. "They are a wonner," Saleth said with a slur. "So innocenn, charming and sweet ba also misch...mischee...trouble," he smiled. Aragorn and Arwen laughed. "...an stubborn. Still, I wounnot ever regret my time I have spen' with them, my Liesh," Saleth swallowed thickly. His eyes had a decidedly glassy look to them that proved, all the more, that the healer was well on his way to a serious headache.

"Yes, they are all that, and more," smiled Aragorn. "And now that all of the wounded have been tended, perhaps you should relax a bit and get to know them as other than patients," added Aragorn. "Tell me, Saleth, you don't drink much wine do you?" Arwen giggled and covered her mouth. Aragorn smiled at her then looked back at Saleth.

"Well...I sellom have time to myown. I...no, I don't drink mush. How did you know?" the healer asked with an innocent look.

Arwen snorted in a most un-Queenly fashion, which caused Aragorn to burst into loud, raucous laughter. Saleth looked from one to the other in confusion. Deciding he had missed a joke or some such, he too began a high giggling laugh, so as not to be rude to his hosts. This, of course, only caused the King and Queen to laugh harder. This would have continued except a huge crash disturbed the frivolity.

Aragorn rose instantly, "I wonder what that was?" he said as he took the stairs two at a time back towards the healing ward.

******
"I do *not* need help with this! I do NOT need help with this! I am perfectly fine except for being all sweaty, dizzy, nauseous and bruised," Frodo mumbled over and over as he poked the cane at the stacks of cloth high over his head. The bruises had come from falling hard against the cabinet when he had stood, on wobbling legs, and brandishing the cane, with equally trembling arms, over his head, at the errant clothing. His legs and arms had collapsed, causing him to fall. The cane had come crashing down, striking him across the temple, leaving him with a four-inch gash at his hairline and rendering him unconscious. Blood now mixed with sweat, as a prone Frodo watched it pool in front of his eyes. He was overcome with nausea, and he vomited violently, rolling away from it as it joined the blood and sweat on the floor. He righted himself; the room went ominously gray then black, then back to gray. He eyed the enemy shelf with loathing, and with a sudden burst of anger, raised the cane and made one last parting shot at it and his clothes. The cane connected hard with the shelf, jostling the whole wardrobe. Frodo looked up, hopeful that his last effort would yield his reward. Instead of the hard earned clothing, what fell on and about him were stacks of thick bound medical texts that had resided for time uncounted, on top of the old wardrobe. With a loud crash, each leather bound tome connected with a thud as it hit the prone figure on the floor below it. A dazed Frodo lay gazing at titles such as "Gondorian Cures by Leech Craft", and "Herbs--Common and Rare, of Middle Earth". All in all, Frodo was having a spectacular adventure, but *still* without leaving the confines of his healing cubicle or being suitably attired.

"And to think, I thought I had to leave the Shire for adventure," Frodo whispered to himself, which caused him to fall back heavily with a giggle. He lay gasping and giggling, a sweaty, dirty, beaten hobbit of the Shire until the giggles slowed, then stopped as his voice hitched in a sob. His body shook as he tried, without success, to halt the tears that ran down his grimy cheeks. "Oh, why does it always have to be a struggle," he whimpered. "Why can't things just be simple, for once? I am so very, very tired of it all," he sighed dejectedly. "Get a hold of yourself now, Frodo. I'll not let a "wardrobe" come between me and my freedom from this room," he said, finding his sense of humor once again. "If I can not find my breeches, well, I suppose I'll just have to go without." He smiled. "After all, a nightshirt covers everything, barring a good, stiff wind," he said, still crying. He inched to the bedpost and began trying to pull himself to his feet. When he stood, many things happened at once; one, his mind began to fog, his thoughts becoming disconnected and confused. The room and his vision in general, took on a fuzzy gray appearance, black dots danced before his eyes. His surroundings, usually so familiar and safe, now became distorted, twisted, and threatening. And all of it spun and lurched about him, a frightening dreamscape in hues of black and gray. Frodo gaped in wonder and terror at what he now saw. His head thrummed with a powerful stabbing pain, and a low buzzing sound, that had an oddly calming effect over him, filled his ears. His vision narrowed to a gray field with a fuzzy black edge, but still he moved forward, placing one foot in front of the other, each step quavered as his legs shook violently, threatening to collapse. His breaths came in great panting gasps as he brought air raggedly in and out of his lungs. As he left the doorway he fell hard against a table, knocking it over with a loud crash. He paid it no heed as he caught himself and moved slowly along the wall out into the hallway. The long stone corridor stretched out before him, he bore to the left although he could no longer remember why or where he was going. Suddenly, he saw strange shapes running towards him and he backed up against the stonework in alarm. Panic seized him; his heart beating so rapidly he thought his heart would leap from his chest. A low keening began in the back of his throat born from sheer terror at the site of these gray beings. He tried to hear what they were saying to him, but they were all speaking at once and he covered his ears and cowered away from them. One of them reached out for him and spoke quietly but, by then, all he could hear was the buzzing. His vision narrowed and gray slowly became black as his eyes rolled up into his head.

**************
Aragorn, Arwen and Saleth met Merry, Pippin, Sam and Faramir at the junction of the two corridors that led to Frodo's room.

"We heard a crash," Faramir and Aragorn said in unison.

"Oh, I should never a' left him alone," Sam said as they ran towards Frodo's room.

"Nonsense Sam, I'm sure he's...fine," said Merry, the last word fell quietly as they rounded the corner and came upon the lone figure standing in the hall in front of them.
The entire group was momentarily struck dumb at the visage before them. Frodo was wearing a thin nightshirt, which clung to his body with sweat, blood and vomit. The right side of his face was crusted with old blood as fresh blood continued to weep from his hairline. His hair was plastered to his head, his face coated in a sheen of perspiration. His eyes were wide in panic and there was a total lack of recognition in the blue depths as they moved back and forth to each member of the group. He appeared not unlike a small animal being hunted. He drew breath in great, panicky gasps and leaned heavily against the wall for support. Everyone began talking or asking him questions at once and he covered his ears against the cacophony, shrinking away in terror. Frodo began to keen loudly as panic overtook him. Aragorn knew he needed to act quickly to stop things from escalating and to find out who had beaten and battered the hobbit. He waved the others off as he could see how overwhelmed Frodo was by the noise and crowd. Everyone stepped back and became silent with the exception of the occasional sob that could be heard coming from Sam. Aragorn smiled at Frodo, crouching down, his arms out, and approaching him as he would a small bird or animal that had become trapped. He could see the pulse beat at Frodo's throat moving at an alarming rate and see the throat itself, working to swallow as the hobbit gulped in panicky breaths. Frodo moved back against the wall but then his eyes lost focus, rolled up into his head and he slid down the wall to the floor, falling over in a boneless swoon.

Aragorn lost no time rushing to Frodo's side and picking him up, he ran back into the room Frodo had struggled so hard to escape. He stopped, momentarily stunned, at the shambles and havoc he saw before him. Tables were overturned, huge volumes of medical lore lay strewn across the floor, covers and clothing lay twisted and soaked in vomit. He turned and moved down the corridor to the next empty room. The rest of the company had converged upon him as well, clamoring around their friend and his feet until Aragorn had to yell loudly for them to back away just so he could treat the hobbit. They parted, momentarily taken aback at the tone of command the King possessed as Aragorn rushed down the corridor. After gently laying Frodo on the bed he turned and, unceremoniously, closed the door on the three upturned faces of the indignant hobbits, allowing only Faramir, Saleth and the Lady Arwen to attend him. Faramir quickly stoked the fire and placed three coppers of water on to boil. Arwen retrieved bandages, blankets and toweling to use in the bathing and bandaging of the unconscious hobbit, while Saleth, now completely sober, gathered tinctures, medicinal herbs, and suturing materials onto a tray for the King's use.

The hot water was poured into a small tub that had been brought, and mixed with cool. A clean nightshirt was laid across the end of the bed and all made ready for the hobbit. Aragorn cut the soiled nightshirt off of Frodo's body, not wishing to pull it over his head until he had sutured the cut. "He has bruises everywhere," he exclaimed. He turned to Faramir and grasped the Steward's arm, "Find out who did this to him and bring him to me, *now*," he hissed. Faramir left long enough to summon the guard to perform a thorough search for any intruders and then returned to his King. "He has three large bumps on his head, along with this gash, but I can find no other serious injuries," Aragorn sighed. "Who would do such a thing?" He asked no one in particular. "The injuries make no sense. Aside from the bumps and the cut, he is all right. His panic and confusion were probably caused by these," he said as he indicated the contusions on the head. "He probably has a concussion as well," he murmured. He gently lifted Frodo and, moving to the tub, lowered him into the water. Frodo let out a small sigh and Aragorn watched to see if he would regain consciousness. When he did not, he began lathering the hair and gently rinsing the lather from the tangled curls, careful not to touch the laceration. He next lathered a flannel and washed the rest of the small form. The face was left for last and, as he wiped away the filth and blood, the blue eyes opened slowly. Frodo stared up into the face of the King for long moments before swallowing weakly and speaking.

"Aragorn?" he whispered.

"Yes, little one, you are safe now," Aragorn said smiling. Frodo frowned in confusion, but was too exhausted to further question the King. Arwen helped Aragorn wrap Frodo in the toweling and carefully dry the small body. When Frodo opened his eyes again, Arwen smiled gently down at him.

"My Lady?" he squeaked, his face coloring bright red and she smiled again at his obvious embarrassment.

"Fear not, Frodo, Aragorn alone tends to you, but it would be my honor to assist him, if it is not asking too much?"

Frodo gulped, "No...no, that is .... fine, thank you, my lady," Frodo replied hesitantly. Arwen smiled again. A smiling Aragorn dressed him in a clean nightshirt and lay him under the crisp linens and comforters on the bed. He prepared his needle, threading it with the sterilized horsehair to suture the cut. Saleth brought a small pot of healing balm to be applied to the cut once it was sewn.

"Frodo, who attacked you, my friend?" he asked casually as he prepared to make the first stitch.

"Attacked, Aragorn?"

"Yes Frodo. Who beat you and left your room in a shambles?" queried the King, watching Frodo's face closely.

"Why, no one, Aragorn," Frodo replied to the surprised trio.

Aragorn's eyebrows shot up, "No one? Then how came you to be with a concussion and so many bruises?" Aragorn asked, looking very confused.

Frodo blushed furiously and closed his eyes. He gulped and when he opened his eyes again, tears filled them and began running down his cheeks to the pillow. "I did it," he said in a low voice. Arwen smiled gently as she heard his confession, standing behind her husband.

Aragorn sat back, still holding the curved needle and horsehair thread, "*You* did it...how?" he shook his head. "Perhaps you are still disoriented from the head injury. I do not understand how someone so small and ill could create such total chaos to his room and himself," he said.

"It began simply enough," began Frodo, his eyes seeking understanding as he looked to each person in the room, who looked worriedly down at him. "I overheard Faramir talking out on the patio..."

"Oh Frodo, no...I am sorry if I upset you," began Faramir.

"No...you did not really upset me, well, too much," Frodo grimaced, "But I became more and more curious as to what you were speaking of and I was so tired of being in my sickroom. Oh Aragorn, might I be allowed outside? I promise I won't overdo and will sit quiet, but I cannot tolerate another day trapped in this room," Frodo's eyes began to tear up, "Hobbit's need fresh air, sunshine and green things growing or they...they..."

"They what, Frodo?" Aragorn asked gently, smiling.

"They do foolish acts attempting to get those things," Frodo said blushing again.

"I see. Please continue with your explanation of what happened today," Aragorn said, as he bent and began to take his first stitch.

"Well, I could hear the stories, or at least bits and pieces of them...*ouch*, that *hurt*, Aragorn," Frodo cried plaintively.

"I am sorry, Frodo, but only a few more, no more than ten, I should think, and we will be done," Aragorn said with a smirk.

"Ten! I think not. Just give me a bandage and I'll hold it there awhile," Frodo tried to move backwards, away from Aragorn, but found he had no strength to move.

"Hold still, Frodo, and I will try to be more gentle," Aragorn said with concern, as he saw how truly weakened Frodo was. "Continue please."

"What? Oh, right. Well, I wanted to go out and hear the stories...Ouch!" Frodo's eyes flashed, "and I was so restless and so I tried to get out of bed and to the wardrobe to get my clothes...OUCH! You did that one deliberately rough!" Frodo gasped. Faramir looked from Frodo to Aragorn in alarm.

"No Frodo, I would not do that to you," Aragorn said, but Frodo could see raw anger in the King's eyes. Aragorn made to make another stitch but Frodo turned his head. Arwen placed a light hand on Aragorn's shoulder.

"I will not allow it until I've told my explanation because I can *see* that you are angry with me," Frodo said heatedly. His vision dimmed and he began to breathe rapidly as he struggled to move away, even as weak as he was. Anger had given him enough strength to move slightly, but his face paled at the effort and beads of sweat formed on his brow and lip.

Aragorn's face changed rapidly from anger to concern and he reached out and drew Frodo to him. "Peace, Frodo. I am sorry, little one," he crooned as a strangled sob issued from Frodo's throat. "Oh, what have I done? I am so sorry. I am ashamed to have let my emotions interfere with my care for you. Please forgive me, my friend," he ran his fingers threw the silky curls until he felt the small body begin to relax in his arms, then he laid the limp form back against the pillow. Aragorn had tears in his eyes. "You know I would do nothing to truly harm you," he whispered, "but I *did* become angry at the thought of you trying to get up and dressed to walk outside without assistance," he sighed. "Allow me to finish the suturing of the cut and then you may finish your story," he said dejectedly. Frodo nodded, but he eyed the needle warily as Aragorn prepared to take the next stitch. 'His color is still too pale and his breathing still ragged,' thought Aragorn, ‘and *I* caused it,‘ he further berated himself. He gently made the next few stitches while Frodo's eyes looked fearfully up at him. Frodo did not cry out, as he had, but Aragorn could see the hobbit's jaw clench each time a stitch was made. Frodo was determined to *not* cry out and show any weakness. ' He is as stubborn as I am,' thought Aragorn. At last, the suturing was done, the balm applied and a bandage affixed. Aragorn sat back and looked into Frodo's face as Saleth brought hot tea for both of them.

"All right, Frodo, finish your tale," he said gently.

"Do not be angry with me," Frodo said weakly, somewhere between a plea and a warning.

"I will listen to all of what you say before passing judgment," Aragorn said evasively, and smiled.

"Very well. As I was saying, I wished to hear more of this story that Faramir was telling. I managed to get to the wardrobe but my clothes were up too high to reach. So, I found a cane and began to poke at them, hoping to cause them to fall so I could get properly dressed. Well, first the cane came down and struck me across the temple because my arms were too weak to control it. Then when I tried again I shook the shelf enough that the books on top came crashing down upon me. After that, I gave up on the clothing and decided to go out in my nightshirt, but I was so terribly tired and dizzy and my vision was so hazy...I don't remember much after that except that a horde of ghostly shapes attacked me. Their voices were loud and high pitched and they all spoke at once, it was very frightening," Frodo said in a breathless rush.

Aragorn chuckled, "Yes, I can imagine it was. But that "horde" was all of your friends and kin running to see what all the commotion was about." He grew somber, "I am not angry. I am concerned that you would do such a thing, but no longer angry," he sighed. "I will send in the rest of the 'horde' to see you, but then you must rest until tomorrow."
Frodo made to object, but Aragorn held up his hands. "No arguments. By tomorrow I promise I will have come to some sort of reckoning for this act of blatant rule breaking, and my judgment will be final, Frodo Baggins," he said menacingly.

"Aragorn, please..." Frodo's voice broke.

"Be at peace, Frodo, I will be fair, you have my word," Aragorn smiled and gently tousled the dark curls. "Now, if you will drink this tea..." Frodo groaned.

"Yes, it's medicinal and no, it does not taste bad," Aragorn said knowingly. He lifted Frodo's shoulders up and held the cup to his lips. Frodo took a tentative swallow then, deeming it palatable, drank the rest of it without complaint. Aragorn lowered him back onto the pillows. Frodo eyed him through heavy lidded eyes.

"Remember what I said, Aragorn."

"Concerning what, my friend?"

"About hobbits needing air and green growing things," Frodo yawned.

"I remember, Frodo."

"You...will...consider it, then?" Frodo asked quietly.

"Yes, Frodo, I'll consider it. Now rest awhile, I'll check on you soon," Aragorn smiled down at him.

"Strider?"

"Yes, Frodo?"

"Was that a sleeping draught you gave me?" asked Frodo, groggily.

"Of course, little one, but you are also exhausted, my friend," he replied with a smile.

Frodo smiled slowly and closed his eyes. He slept.

Aragorn explained the situation to the worried hobbits. Sam was furious at his master's attempt at escape while Merry and Pip were in awe of their cousin's determination and fortitude. They filed into the room to see Frodo, more for reassurance sake than anything else. Sam took Frodo's hand and held it gently. Tears filled his eyes at the site of his battered master. Merry and Pip could not restrain smiles at the thought that all this damage to their cousin and his room had been wrought by Frodo himself, but still gently laid kisses upon their kin’s forehead before leaving the room.

Frodo slept late into the afternoon. When he awoke it was to intense pain. His head thrummed with the beat of his heartbeat and every muscle in his body ached and trembled at the slightest movement. Slow tears slid down his face onto the pillow. He knew that all hopes of leaving the sickroom had now been dashed due to his clumsy attempts to escape it. He craved the feel of the cool earth beneath his feet and to smell the fragrant blossoms that Sam had lovingly planted beneath his window.

"Weep not, Frodo, I have come to a decision concerning your earlier activities and your request to leave this room."

Frodo startled and turned his head towards the voice...a mistake as the movement caused him to gasp at the sudden pain and wave of vertigo that assaulted him.

Aragorn stood in the doorway and crossed to Frodo’s bedside in quick strides, to sit beside him. Gently he wiped the tears from Frodo's face and poured a cup of cool water for him to drink. He raised Frodo's head and shoulders slowly and brought the cup to the hobbit’s cracked lips. Frodo hesitated to drink even though his throat ached with want for the beverage. Aragorn looked down at him puzzled. Frodo's face had gone pasty white, his eyes were squeezed shut and his breaths came in short, ragged pants. "Frodo? Frodo, answer me, please." Aragorn said with concern, his voice wavered slightly.

"I...I believe I am going to be ill, Strider," Frodo answered in a small voice. None to soon, Aragorn drew a basin from a nearby table and placed it under Frodo's chin as he retched until his body collapsed against the King in a sweaty slump. He began to weep in great gulping sobs that he could not control. He clung to Aragorn's tunic willing the pain and vertigo to stop. Aragorn held him close, as he would a small child, and rubbed soothing circles on his back.

"I am sorry, my friend, that you are so miserable. You have a serious concussion, but the unpleasant side effects should pass if you remain still and rest," he murmured in a gentle voice.

Frodo continued to weep, unable to control the sobs that shook his frame. "I don't suppose I shall see Sam's flowers or breathe the fresh air for quite sometime, will I Aragorn? Oh, I am so weary of this captivity. I find even though my body continues to slowly heal, my spirit is breaking with each moment I lie in this bed," he said with a dispirited whisper.

Aragorn was distressed at the defeated sound of the hobbit's words. "You must not give up hope, Frodo. Soon you will be able to walk amongst the many beautiful gardens that Sam has so diligently restored to their original splendor."

"But not today," Frodo whispered. He stilled in Aragorn's arms and the King laid him gently back onto the pillow. Frodo had a faraway look in his eyes that reminded Aragorn of a time shortly after Gandalf had fallen in Moria. Frodo, and the rest of the Fellowship, had made it to Lothlorien and everyone had joined together to reminisce about the wizard. Stories and anecdotes were being shared and everyone was bonding in the bittersweet moment, everyone except Frodo. Aragorn had found Frodo amongst the roots of a giant mallorn, curled up into a tight ball. He had not heard Aragorn's approach and was gazing off into the distance. He had not responded when Aragorn had tried to rouse him and Aragorn had carried him to the healer's flet where he had lain for several days. Frodo’s grief had been so all encompassing that he had not eaten or slept for many days, and had finally had to be fed by Sam and Aragorn. He had offered no resistance, causing the ranger and gardener to become even more concerned with each passing moment. He had simply sat, while they had spoon-fed him each small bite, staring inwardly in an unfocused, glassy gaze that had both frightened and unnerved the Fellowship. Eventually, Frodo had, very slowly, come back to himself, regained his strength, but never spoken of the incident. Aragorn had not pressed the Ringbearer knowing he was already under extreme stress carrying the Ring.

Now, as Aragorn looked down upon the former Ringbearer, he was seized with a feeling of deja vu. He shuddered at the vacant stare the blue eyes now held. "Frodo?"

"I am afraid I really am rather tired, Aragorn. Would you mind terribly if I were to rest for a bit?" Frodo asked in a slow whisper. He looked up at the King, but the eyes held no spark.

"Of course not, Frodo," Aragorn whispered. "But first drink this willow tea to help with your headache, all right? I'm afraid it is rather bitter, although I did try to sweeten it with honey," Aragorn said, trying to fill the sudden silence.

"Of course," was the only response. Aragorn's eyes never left Frodo's face, and Frodo never objected to receiving the tea. He did not quail or fight, as was his usual manner when receiving healing draughts, especially bitter ones, which should have been a relief to the King, but as he helped the hobbit to drink the tea, Aragorn's stomach lurched with sudden dread. After the tea, Frodo moved over onto his side, facing away from the King. "Goodnight, Strider," he said quietly.

Aragorn rested his hand on the small shoulder, "Goodnight, Frodo," he murmured. He slowly rose and walked to the doorway. He paused to look back at the curled figure, a worried frown on his face, and then closed the door quietly.

TBC