First, I cannot say how terribly sorry I am for the huge delay in posting this chapter. I have no excuse accept the overwhelming demands and twists of fate of real life issues. I hope I can continue to dodge the rotten tomatoes and assorted other vegetables thrown my way for my tardiness.

Disclaimers: None of the characters or places in this story are mine, all rights belong to the Tolkien Estate. No financial compensation was received, only the joy of writing this AU story. Hope you enjoy.

Medical Disclaimers: Medical procedures and cures used in this piece of fiction, are also mostly of a fictitious nature and should not be used at home. Consult a licensed medical professional before being foolish enough to try these on yourself.

Chapter: 8

"A Visit To Mistress Bogs"

Strider had unwound the gauze on the forearm and sat studying the gash that he had so carefully stitched. He wore a concerned look upon his face as Gandalf entered the room.

"He sleeps," Strider said, in answer to the unspoken question. "When I arrived and saw the head wound, I thought my skills would be in short use, that he would perish before the night was through. Odd that what vexes me more is this simple gash on his arm," He looked up at Gandalf, worry evident on his handsome features. "The skull pressure has been relieved and I was able to pull the bone back into place when I placed the tube. I will be able to remove the tube perhaps tomorrow and close the wound. The arm, however, is another matter." He sat back and continued to study the small, inflamed limb. "He is so small," he murmured.

"True, but he has a mighty spirit and matching stubbornness," said the wizard. "What do you need, Aragorn? What can I do to help you cure him?" asked Gandalf.

At the mention of his given name gray eyes darted quickly towards the door then back to the wizard. "Do not address me so when we are unsure of who may be listening," he hissed.

Gandalf smiled. "These fine folk are of no threat to you, my friend. Nevertheless, I will abide by your wishes," he bowed his head slightly. Aragorn could not help but grin at the gesture.

"In answer to your query, I need herbs and plants that I do not have in my healers pouch. Without them I fear the infection will soon reach Frodo's heart and claim his life," he said sadly. A crash from the doorway caused both to jump up and spin around. A very frightened looking Samwise stood looking at the broken crockery at his feet.

"Die?" he whispered.

"Sam, we did not hear your approach," said Strider as he bent to help pick up the sharp fragments, and cursing himself mentally for forgetting how quiet hobbits could be if they wished it.

"I'm not some small child that you need to be protectin', sir," he said indignantly. "I wish only to be told the truth about my master, no holds barred, if you take my meanin'," he said angrily, as he swatted Strider's hands away and abruptly removed the remaining shards and scones onto the tray. Strider sat back on his haunches.

"Very well, Samwise. I am in need of many curative plants that are not in my healers pouch. I need them very soon or the infection from the cut on your master's arm will claim his life," he said rather clinically.

"Now, that weren't so hard were it?" Sam's voice quavered.

"Sam? Oh, I thought I'd heard a crash. What happened dear? Oh, never mind. Run and fetch the dustpan and broom. At least it weren't the fine china or Mr. Bilbo'd have me then," Bell continued to cluck. With a last angry glance at Strider, Sam rose and hurried to get the dustpan, a towel and broom. After the shattered tea set was cleaned up, the floor wiped clean and more tea and scones brought, Strider beckoned to Sam and Bell to join he and Gandalf at the small table within sight of Frodo's bed.

"First, we will have to remove the stitches and reopen the wound. Then we will soak it and try to drain as much of the infection as possible," Strider said, knowing what reaction was forthcoming.

"That'll be mighty painful, won't it, sir?" asked Sam, his eyes wide.

"Yes Sam, it will be *very* painful. It will be your job to hold Frodo steady as I do this. He must not move his arm, or we could cause further damage to the delicate tissue and inflict even further pain on him," Strider instructed.

"Aye, I understand Mr. Strider," Sam said in a resigned voice. They moved to the bed and pulled the arm from beneath the covers. Bell and Sam gave a gasp upon seeing the wound. The arm was swollen three times its normal size and bright red lines crawled up the arm towards the shoulder. A thick yellow puss was leaking between the neat stitches that Strider had placed earlier. Frodo was drenched in sweat and Sam could feel the heat radiating off of his Master as he fought the fever that consumed him.

Carefully, toweling was placed beneath the limb. A small whimper escaped Frodo's chapped lips at the movement of the arm. Small instruments had been scalded in water and soaked in athelas and lay by the bed on another towel. Strider gave a nod to Sam, Gandalf who was holding Frodo's legs down, and Bell, who sat at the head of the bed murmuring quiet reassurances into the unconscious hobbit. Strider expertly cut and removed the stitches causing a gasp of pain to escape from Frodo as he instinctively tried to move away from the instigator. The wound had tried to knit and would have to be reopened. Strider grimaced as he saw this and selected a small, very sharp knife from his instruments. He looked up at Sam, Bell and Gandalf, his eyes full of pain at what he was about to subject Frodo to. "This will be the most painful part. Be prepared, he will struggle violently but you must hold him steady," he warned. Sam gulped but nodded to the healer that he was ready. He would do anything to save his Master's life, even if it meant causing him more pain to do it. Strider washed the wound with the athelas water and then bent over the small limb. He quickly sliced into the gash, reopening the wound. Frodo released a blood-curdling scream and began fighting with all his remaining strength to withdraw his arm. His huge blue eyes opened and locked with Sam's. Sam was crying so hard he could barely focus on the task at hand. Frodo continued to cry out begging them to stop. His face was covered in sweat and tears tracked down his flushed features to rest on the pillow. At last he took one last gasp and lost consciousness.

Strider reached down and gently felt for a pulse on Frodo's wrist. The beat was fast, but steady and he resumed his previous task. The wound had made a popping sound as he had cut into it, and now a thick, viscous ickor soaked the toweling beneath it. Sam gagged at the sight and thought he might throw up, but swallowed convulsively and looked away. Strider flooded the wound with the athelas water, flushing as much of the exudates as he could from the cut. Gandalf brought a low chair to the bedside and the arm was then laid into the athelas bath. Strider sighed as he rose to wash his hands. "The arm must stay in the bath so as much of the infection can be washed out of Frodo's system," he said wearily. "Do you know of anyone from whom I could acquire medicinal botanicals necessary to treat Frodo?" he asked. They looked at him with puzzled expressions. He frowned slightly.

"What Strider means to ask is if there is anyone who grows herbs around Hobbiton that he might buy some from," explained Gandalf who winked at the confused Strider.

"Oh, well there's the Widow Bogs," volunteered Bell. "I'm sorry Mr. Strider, we weren't bein' rude or nonesuch. It's jes' that sometimes you speak...well, a might above us, is all," she blushed and Sam nodded.

"No apologies are necessary, Bell. In fact, it is I who owes you and Sam the apology. Especially Sam," he turned to the confused gardener. "Sam, sometimes I forget you are a full grown hobbit and wish to protect you about certain aspects of Frodo's care. It is not my intent to belittle you. I know how much you love your Master, and I will try to be more forthright...uh, up front about his health," he smiled.

Sam smiled back. "Thankee sir."

"Now how do I find this Widow Bogs?" Strider asked Bell.

"Well sir, you could send my Samwise to fetch what ya need or I could go," she offered.

"While I am loathe to leave Frodo alone...uh, I mean, right now, I will need to go as I alone truly know what I need. Plus she may have some things I have yet to think of but will see at her shop," he explained.

"There aint no shop to speak of, Mr. Strider, it's just her smial. She's a bit odd and don't cotton to company much, but she's got a right soft spot, she does, for Mr. Frodo. Always has had and afore that, Mr. Bilbo. I could take you there if'n you think it'd be safe to be leavin' Mr. Frodo, an all," Sam offered.

"I've taken care o' plenty who've had the fits afore, Mr. Strider. Me cousin Darcy's had 'em since she was a wee lass, and Mr. Frodo would be looked after right proper whilse you was gone. The arm's a soakin' and I'll keep a keen eye on 'em so's he don't move none. Mr. Gandalf can help me if'n there's any holdin' down to be done, aint that right sir?" Bell offered.

Gandalf nodded. "Of course. I would be most happy to spend some time with Miss Bell." Bell blushed furiously, and Gandalf chuckled. "We will look after Frodo while you retrieve the necessary medical supplies."

"We bes' be goin', Mr. Strider. Widow Bogs lives a bit out a' the way and sooner we we're gone, sooner we're back, as me Da always says," Sam urged.

"All right, Sam. Let me check Frodo one last time and we'll be on our way." He crossed to the bed and gently placed his hand on Frodo's forehead, although there was little need. He could tell before he touched him that Frodo's body burned with fever. His curls lay damp across his heavily perspiring face and twin blooms of color disturbed an otherwise pale complexion. The poor hobbit was panting lightly, his brows pulled into a perpetual frown, as his small tongue would occasionally swipe at the parched lips. Strider wrung out a cool cloth and washed the sweat from the cherubic countenance, which caused Frodo to sigh in contentment. Next, he poured a cup of cool water and reached under his shoulders, slowly raising him, and brought it to the dry lips. Frodo instinctively swallowed, drinking greedily and whimpering when the cup was withdrawn. "Bell, if you would soak some towels in cool water and lay them over his body. And see that he drinks as many fluids as he can take," he said worriedly.

"Aye, sir," she said with a smile and raised eyebrow. "Don't you worry none, I'll take good care of 'em," she said sensing Strider's indecision about leaving his charge in the care of anyone other than himself.

Strider smiled ruefully. "I guess I've become quite the mother hen myself haven't I?" he chuckled. "I have grown quite fond and not just a little protective, of this young one," he murmured as his hand reached out and pushed a sweaty lock from the forehead, "Very well," he said abruptly, "We should go, Sam."

"Aye," Sam said, although he too, seemed to be fighting a battle of his own about leaving his Master. He walked to the bedside and gently took the hot hand in his own. Carefully, he bent and kissed it as he whispered, "Back soon, Master. You mind me Mum and Mr. Gandalf, now sir," he fisted tears from his eyes, turned quickly and left the room before he could change his mind.

As Sam led Strider through to the back of Bag End he stopped and looked up at the ranger. "Um, Mr. Strider sir, if it'd be all right I think we should cut across country a bit, if 'n you don't mind," Sam said uneasily.

Strider smiled down at the hobbit's obvious discomfort. "Sam, is there a problem?" he asked gently.

"Well sir, it's like this. Shire folk are a bit, urm, wary o' the Big Folk, no offense to you and yours, o' course," Sam said hurriedly.

"None taken, Sam. You think it might be easier if we avoid the townspeople altogether," he stated.

"Yessir, if'n that'd be all right, that is. Widow Bogs lives out aways from town anyway so's we would still need to do some hikin' if'n we was to go through Hobbiton. But it would make things a might less..." he hesitated.

"Less scandalous," Strider volunteered.

"Yessir. I mean them ol' harpies don't need no more fodder for the gossip wheel, if ya take my meanin'," Sam smiled.

"I prefer cutting across country anyway, Sam. I enjoy a hike and I do live in the wilds most of the time. I avoid villages whenever possible," Strider smiled. Sam seemed happy with this and they set off across the many rolling grass hills that surrounded Hobbiton. Sam set a very fast pace, wanting to get to the Widow Bogs smial quickly and back to his Master. Strider could see that the hobbit would quickly exhaust himself and tried to think of something that could be used as a distraction to slow Sam down to a more normal walk. Although he knew how the hierarchy of hobbit society worked and about the intricacies of the family trees that hobbits prided themselves on, he thought this would be a pleasant distraction that Sam would have a vast knowledge of.

"Sam, tell me about this Widow Bogs," he said after a few moments of contemplation.

"Well, she's right odd but nice. She used to be a Banks, ya know," Sam whispered conspiratorially.

Strider raised his eyebrows. "A Banks? Why is that important?"

Sam gave him a strange look. "The Thain's wife was a Banks, Mistress Eglantine was. That's Master Pippin's Mum," Sam said, as if this explained everything.

Strider noted that Sam's pace had slackened a bit as the hobbit warmed to his subject, and placed a look of total confusion on his face. "Sam, you must remember I am not a hobbit so I do not understand about hobbit society. And what is a Thain? And who is this Pippin, you speak of?" he asked with a chuckle.

Dawning filled Sam's eyes. "Sorry, Mr. Strider, I near forgot you didn't know how hobbits are, so ta speak. You bein' here almost made me forget you didn't know nothin'...uh, I mean...know..." Sam stuttered, his face turning bright red.

"It's alright, Sam. Please explain. It sounds interesting," he smiled again watching the little hobbit squirm.

"Well, genealogy is the life blood of hobbit society, so ta speak. Hobbits are learned from the very start about all their family trees and how everyone else in the Shire is related to everyone else. The family Banks, if you was ta' listen to gossip, which, o' course I would never do, is known for fraternizin' with Elves and Men," he huffed then looked up at Strider. As if realizing his blunder his eyes grew very wide and his face paled noticeably which only caused Strider to laugh harder.

Strider held up his hand to ward off the inevitable apologies and said "Continue."

"Well...Mistress Bogs is a relation of them Banks and Mistress Eglantine. Mistress Eglantine is married to the Thain, Master Paladin Took. Master Pippin, or Peregrine is his birth name, is his son and Mr. Frodo's cousin." Strider nodded to indicate he still followed the thread of the narrative. "The Tooks, and I mean no disrespect o' course, are more likely to be adventurous, which most hobbits find odd or strange, as they aint, if you take my meanin'," Sam concluded.

"And the Thain?"

"Oh, well he's the one that holds authority oer all the lands, properties and hobbits of the Shire. There's been a Thain since the North Kingdom fell at Fornost."

"Ah, I see. Thank you, Sam. Very interesting. Now, let's talk more about Mistress Bogs," he prompted.

"Well, she came from out about Waymoot, which is near Tuckburough. So she was already looked at as odd, bein' as she weren't from these parts, but then she sets off to learn herself more about herb lore than she could get from the Shire. She was 'bout my age and she buys herself a nice pony and breeches. *Breeches*, and on a female, at that. She, all alone mind you, leaves the Shire in search of knowledge. A young lass leavin' like that, with no one to accompany her and dressed like a lad ta boot. Well, you can imagine what a ruckus that caused in Hobbiton," Sam snorted. "Well, it made her even more of an outsider, if you see what I'm sayin'. She was gone a long time, almost six months, then returns with all these books and scrolls and starts growin' her garden. It's well known around these parts that she's the best there is in all o' the Shire when it comes to her herbs and medicines. Even the healers and midwives all go to her for advice and what not."

"It sounds like she was greatly rewarded by her journey," Strider mused.

"Oh, aye. And no one knows where it was she went. Mistress Bogs is an odd one, but she's friendly and generous as can be. I've always liked her but she has a way o' always sayin' everything on her mind, which can be a little unnervin' and embarrassin'," Sam grinned.

"She sounds fascinating and most unusual for a hobbit," smiled Strider.

"We'll be there in no time. Now, let me tell you a little 'bout them Tooks..." Sam began. They walked, unobserved, over the deep verdant hillside. Occasionally a loud laugh could be heard that was decidedly unhobbit like.

*******

'Frodo's late,' Blossom Bogs thought, as she checked the window for the fourth time that hour. 'He's never late. Every Mersday 2:00 for afternoon tea. It was Mersday, wasn't it? Her quick mind checked off the days. Yes, it was Mersday.' For fifty years she had had tea at 2:00, first with Bilbo and then Frodo, when he had come to live with her old friend. She smiled fondly at the recollection. Bilbo had been so nervous inviting Frodo to come and live with him, but the lad had taken immediately to the old scholar, they being cut of the same cloth. She and Bosco, her late husband, had felt some easing of the heartbreak of their inability to have their own children by watching Bilbo's joy at adopting the dear boy. Later, they had grown so close that he had become like their own child that Bilbo shared with them. And Frodo loved them, as he would have his own parents. Not once had he not walked up the dusty path with a huge grin, twinkling eyes, and a cheery hello and embraced her and her husband, before he had died, every Mersday promptly at 2:00 pm. She looked one last time through the window and sighed. It had never been out of a sense of obligation that Frodo had continued to tea with the old hobbitess; they had always looked forward to their teas, even down to the planning of the menu they would have the following week. She left the tea things on the table in case Frodo still showed, and curled up on the settee, with a quilt, in front of the fire.

As she watched the flicker of the flames dance along the edge of the wood she remembered back to when she and Bilbo had become friends, and how it had, inexorably, changed her life forever. She had been in her tweens, about twenty summers, she recalled, and had just moved to Hobbiton from Waymoot. Of course, she was an outsider, and was treated as all newcomers were to a small, tight knit community; she was ignored. This never bothered Blossom because she was a reclusive bookworm. She preferred her books to hobbit companionship and had no interest in Hobbiton society. She indulged her passion of reading all she could about herb lore and gardening, in general. But she quickly exhausted the Shire's meager supply of books and, after being told of Bilbo Baggins and his vast library, had sought him out. They had become immediate friends and Bilbo had loaned her many of his texts on not only herb lore and gardening, but books on Elves and the ancient stories and prose of the Numenorians. She had learned Sindarin and Quenya and finally, had exhausted even Bilbo's seemingly endless supply of texts. She had decided she needed more information and formulated a plan to go to Rivendell. Bilbo had said he would take her, but had become ill with pneumonia. So she proposed to go alone, an idea that upset the older hobbit to no end. She had finally resorted to lying to the invalid so that he wouldn't worry. She had gone into Hobbiton and purchased a wondrous pony, she had named Pansy. Pansy had been her dear companion up until the poor animal had finally succumbed not but a year ago, a memory that still brought tears to Blossom's eyes. She had donned breeches, easier for riding than skirts and surprisingly comfortable, and all the accoutrements necessary for a very long trip, including one of Bilbo's maps to the Last Homely House. When she had reached the Fords of Bruinen, she had camped and waited for the border guards to find her and ask what her business was with the Elves.

She had contentedly camped for two days knowing she was being watched and studied, before being approached by three handsome, dark haired elves. They had asked her if they could be of service in any way and she had asked for an audience with Lord Elrond Halfelven. She smiled as she recalled the raised eyebrows and curious glances this had elicited. They had ridden off, returning that evening to retrieve her, and taken her to Rivendell. There she had been warmly welcomed perhaps for the first time in her life. The irony had not been lost on the hobbitess that she was more accepted by these ethereal beings than by her own kind. She had stayed for six months and learned all there was to learn about herb lore and the elven healing arts, and then, regretfully, left and returned to the Shire to practice what she had so excelled at. If she had been thought odd or strange before it was nothing compared to how she was received after her journey. First, she had been welcomed and then chastised soundly, by a very irate, yet relieved, Bilbo. After he had finished his scolding he had asked for every detail of her journey and had sat smoking his pipe, totally entranced. While Bilbo had always been a kindred spirit, he was more like a brother to Blossom that anything else. Blossom had met her darling Bosco completely unexpectedly and unlooked for.

While Blossom was beautiful by hobbit standards, with black hair and blue eyes that constantly sparkled with intelligence, she was reclusive, scholarly and outspoken; all qualities not looked for in a wife by the hobbit gentry. She had long since known that she would never marry but that thought had never bothered her. She had yet to find anyone, other than Bilbo, that she could carry on a meaningful conversation with, let alone tolerate for the rest of her life. She enjoyed her seclusion, choosing to live outside of Hobbiton, where she could grow her plants and read her books to the exclusion of all else. Her smial was proof enough of this, showing no housekeeping abilities whatsoever and, at its best, resembling nothing short of a well-ordered mess. But fate had had other plans for Blossom Banks. One eve, Overlithe, she thought, Bilbo had told her of a great dance that was to be had at the Party Tree. Blossom had tried to beg off, but Bilbo had been unrelenting, stating that Blossom needed some form of distraction and fun other than her gardening and books. Finally, he wore her down and she had agreed to meet him at the festivities. Once there, she had to admit, she had had a wonderful time. She met many residents who were curious about her and she them, and had made a positive impression on many of the Hobbiton townsfolk.

Bilbo had danced with her three or four times before being swept away by some of the more marriage minded lasses, and she had found a nice, quiet corner where she sat and watched the lovers in their various courtship rituals. While many of the gentle hobbits admired her beauty, few wanted to ask her to dance deeming her just to different for their tastes. Then she had been approached by a handsome lad who had asked her if she would like to dance. At first, she thought he had spoken to someone behind her, even going so far as to look around to see to whom he was speaking. When she spun back around, an embarrassed blush on her cheeks, he had been grinning at her with a most impish twinkle in his eyes. She had been escorted to the floor and after the initial awkwardness and niceties, had found him to be a delightful conversationalist. They had danced the rest of the dances with each other and then he had walked her home along the flower-lined pathway. She had thought never to see him again, deciding it had only been one very enjoyable evening that she would otherwise never have had. But he had called on her the very next day and soon they were seeing each other most every week. Bilbo was thrilled for his good friend and had them over often for dinner or just quiet evenings of story telling. When they had finally married, Bilbo had been the best man at their wedding. They had shared forty-five wonderful years together. Bosco had been the perfect complement to her bookish, quiet persona. He was outgoing and well accepted by all of Hobbiton, always a gentlehobbit but also able to down a few ales and tell a few jokes at the Green Dragon with the other hobbits. She smiled again. She missed him desperately. Even after three years she still expected him to come up behind her and kiss her on the cheek while stealing fruit or vegetables with the other hand.

A loud knocking broke her reverie and she jumped excitedly to her feet.

"Frodo Baggins, you should be ashamed of yourself, keeping an old woman waiting!" she laughed as she swung the door open. But it wasn't her dearest Frodo but his good friend and gardener Samwise Gamgee that greeted her startled gray eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, Sam. I thought you were Frodo," she smiled but her smile froze at the frightened look in his eyes. "What's happened, Sam? Is he all right? Oh dear, come in, come in. I have tea ready. Le me just get you some..." she stopped. "Please, Sam, I'm ever so worried. Frodo never misses tea on Mersday. What's happened?" she whispered.

"Mistress Bogs, there's been an accident and Mr. Frodo, well, he's hurt right bad." Sam could no longer hold back his tears and now great gasping sobs wracked his body.

"Oh Sam," she said as she pulled him tightly to her. So grief stricken was Sam that he did not even think about his 'place' or how embarrassed he should feel being comforted by this gentle old hobbitess. She nestled him to her and crooned in his ear as she would a child who had been frightened by a passing thunderstorm.

Sam wiped his eyes and pulled back. "I'm so sorry, Mistress Bogs. You must think me terribly outta line, oversteppin' like that," he sniffed as he tried to compose himself.

"Nonsense, Sam. You're Frodo's best friend, surely you know that. And as to the 'overstepping', when have I ever paid any heed to 'class' or the other silly rules of Hobbiton society?" She smiled shakily. "But, you mustn't keep me in the dark any longer, dear, dear Sam. Where's my Frodo?" Her voice broke and tears formed in her eyes.

"Well, he fell and we've been takin' care o' him, but he's got a infection and oh, I plumb forgot..." Sam bounded towards the front door then stopped short of opening it. "Urm, Mistress Bogs I brought with me a healer who needs your help. He's been takin' right good care o' Mr. Frodo, but needs some o' your herbs to help him out," Sam hesitated.

"Well, Sam, why did you leave him outside? I would be more than happy to give him anything I have, but I'm coming with you," she looked at Sam in confusion.

"Well, Mam, he aint a Hobbiton healer, I jes thought you otta know," Sam tried to explain.

"Sam, this is ridiculous. I don't care where he's from, just let him in." She crossed to the door pushing Sam aside and swung it open. There, on the porch, Strider sat smoking his pipe and waiting to be introduced to the mysterious Widow Bogs. He looked up at the sound of the door opening.

Blossom broke into a huge smile, "A! Ed' i'ear ar' elenea! Cormamin lindua ele lle! Nae saian luume', Du'nedain," she said happily as she rushed to him and circled her small arms around his neck in a tight embrace.

********

Translation:

A! Ed' i'ear ar' elenea! Cormamin lindua ele lle! Nae saian luume', Du'nedain.

Ah! By the sea and stars! My heart sings to see thee! It has been to long, Dunedain.

To be continued…

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