Disclaimer: All characters and places depicted are the sole property of the JRR Tolkien Estate; my only claim to fame is this small piece of fiction. No copyright infringement is intended.

Medical Disclaimer: While extensive research has been done, none of the cures or procedures depicted in this story should be used without first consulting a medical professional. Also there may be graphic medical details and wee hobbit behinds in this chapter, so if that makes you squeamish, you'd better pass.

Chapter 10

The Wolf at the Door

Aragorn slowly lowered himself down next to the Maia who continued to stare off into the blizzard, waiting for his friend to continue his musings.

"So long ago it could have been forgotten, indeed *has* been forgotten by the Third Age," Gandalf murmured.

Aragorn waited patiently, knowing the wizard was aware of his presence and needed to continue at his own pace.

"The five of us came to Middle Earth together, as guides and to contend against the growing power of Sauron. We were to remain detached from the evil that so easily took hold of mankind, seeking instead to influence subtly, not force or intimidate, with our powers." He turned his gaze upon Aragorn and offered a small smile. "Saruman was one of my brothers in this undertaking and worked on the side of good until Sauron's voice began to play on his craving for power and his ego as the leader of our quintet."

"What happened to the others, Gandalf? Can they not form a united front to help fight against Saruman?" Aragorn asked quietly, feeling a glimmer of hope.

Gandalf smiled. "Radagast, myself and Saruman are all that remain. The others have gone beyond my sight yet still remain somewhere in Middle Earth. Radagast communicates with the creatures on these shores and still helps our cause even though it has its subtleties. He wishes no additional power beyond that which he has. Myself alone, remain able to combat Saruman," he murmured. He retrieved his pipe, filled, tamped and lit it as he continued to reflect. He shook his head as if to dispel memory and melancholy and return him to the present. "It is history, that is all. What matters now is Frodo and our own fight against evil," he looked at Aragorn. "To restore the rightful King and to begin a new reign of peace and prosperity in Middle Earth." He smiled. "How fairs Frodo?" he asked as he replaced thoughts of what could have been with those of what could yet be.

"He is resting. The damage to his body is extensive. His hip is swollen but, inexplicably seems to be healing remarkably fast," Aragorn said in wonder. Gandalf hummed, not sounding surprised at this. "His other injuries, most notably the pneumonia, continue to weaken him." A whimper drew Aragorn’s attentions back towards the cave. "He stirs." Aragorn rose and crossed to the hobbit's side, lifting him gently by the shoulders into his lap. He retrieved what remained of the soup and tea, mentally noting that more of both would need to be made, and began to slowly spoon the liquids into Frodo's small mouth. At first the swallows were tentative, hesitant, then, seized by sudden need and hunger, Frodo's mouth opened like that of a hungry bird and Aragorn spooned the sustenance at an increased pace into his friend. Aragorn smiled, satisfied that hunger and thirst had finally won out and he planned to take full advantage of it for as long as it worked on his side, hoping to strengthen and heal Frodo before the hobbit could withdraw, once again, into himself. Frodo slowly opened his eyes and stared up at his caregiver.

"Aragorn..." he whispered, not in fear, as before, but in thankfulness and trust.

The ranger smiled and sighed, relieved that the hobbit he knew seemed returned to them. He set the empty cup aside and felt the fevered forehead. A strained wet cough erupted from his friend as spittle flecked with blood, sprayed over the chin. The face paled as agony twisted his features and tears gathered and ran from the deep blue eyes. He looked up into Aragorn's face as if to ask why this had happened and pleading for any possible assistance. The look changed to one of acceptance and acknowledgement of the futility of the situation and the death he was certain awaited him. The latter, more than anything, alarmed Aragorn and he began to speak in urgent, beseeching tones.

"You are better, Frodo," he lied, deciding that Frodo did not need to remember his excursions from the other cave and the near loss of life due to the cold. Frodo coughed, choking on the thick phlegm that blocked his windpipe. His face became alarmed then resigned as his strength left him and he was unable to force breath into his battered lungs. Aragorn flipped him over, unmindful and uncaring of his injuries, tilting his head down as the small body suddenly went limp. When he felt this happen he again flipped Frodo over and forced his index finger between the bluing lips and down the narrow throat. It was at this moment that Sam awoke and, seeing the too still form of his master being brutally manhandled and intruded upon, launched himself with a shout, at the ranger. Aragorn, intent on extricating the plug of phlegm, did not see the alarmed and irate protector until he was hurled away from Frodo, a chestful of indignant gardener planted in his middle.

"Sam!" He shouted and tossed the gardener aside like a rag doll and, once again, grabbed the unconscious ringbearer, forcing his finger again down the throat. Frodo's body bucked once as the healer's efforts forced him to struggle for air. Aragorn, without thinking, hurriedly placed his mouth over Frodo's creating a tight seal. But instead of forcing air into the empty lungs, he began to suck the air from them. Frodo bucked again, his eyes fluttering weakly as Aragorn suddenly turned and retched into the dirt at his side. Gandalf ran to his side, extracting a narrow flask from the folds of his robe, as he ran. He tipped the dazed ranger's head back and deposited two drops of the liquid onto his tongue. The reaction was immediate as Aragorn's eyes cleared and he looked down at the large deposit of mucous beside him. A weak wheeze drew his attentions back to his charge. He snatched the flask from the wizard's outstretched hand and, dipping his finger into the contents and withdrawing enough of the mirovir to sprinkle into Frodo's mouth. The hobbit's breathing became stronger, though still filled with the rails of his disease, and Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief as he felt the muscles of the small body move beneath his hands.

"Your healing methods can be most unorthodox, Aragorn. You frightened me badly and I feared we had lost both of you," the Istari said shakily. Aragorn merely nodded as he slumped protectively, over the unconscious hobbit.

"I have seen the Breath of the Iluvatar given before to patients thought beyond help, but this...this...just what did you do, my friend, to save our Frodo?" the wizard asked in confusion.

"Many years ago Arwen, then a child of a mere 2000 years, while laughing and singing, inhaled a piece of fruit. It became lodged in her windpipe. Elrond told me her last look into his face was one of anguish at putting her father through the grief that was sure to follow. This look stirred a great anger within him and he grabbed her, throwing her to the floor, and began striking her back in an attempt to dislodge the item. Arwen would not give up the morsel and quickly lost consciousness. He peered into her throat and surmised that the breath of life, or of Illuvatar,” would only force the food further into her lungs, speeding her death. As he looked into her calm face a vision of Arwen, grown full and glowing with love and hope, came to him causing him to wonder at his gift of foresight. It was in that moment that he was overcome with feelings of desperation and a need for Arwen to see this vision fulfilled. He placed his mouth over hers, sealing the edges, and inhaled in an attempt to draw the object from her throat. The suction exerted was such that the piece of fruit flew from Arwen's throat into his own, which he then spat aside. He then gave the breath of life, refilling her empty lungs, and bringing her back to him." Aragorn's reverie faded as he smiled up at Gandalf. "She awoke, her eyes filled with love, and as if from a deep, dream filled sleep."

Gandalf smiled in wonder. "The story must have influenced you greatly for you to remember it for use now." His gaze shifted to Frodo whose chest rose slowly as another breath was taken.

"It came to me unbidden. I felt a great calm and knew what had to be done."

"I thought you were attackin' 'em and I had to stop you. Mr. Frodo was so frightened earlier of all of us. He musta got to me. I thought the two of you were fightin'", came a small voice. "I coulda' killed him. I *am* a ninnyhammer, jes' like me Gaffer is always a sayin'", a single sob erupted from the gardener as he looked over at his Master's body.

"Sam, are you injured?" Aragorn asked as he swiveled around to study the forgotten hobbit.

"No sir, but you tossed me a fair piece, ya did. I ain't flown so since fallen from our hay wagon when I was a youngun," Sam smiled. His gaze shifted back to Frodo and he scuttled over to his Master's side. Tenderly he took the cold hand in his warm, calloused one as his eyes became moist. "He's gonna die, ain't he?" he whispered sadly.

Aragorn started and looked sharply at the gardener. "No Sam, he is not," he said determinedly. "But I will need you to keep faith and work beside me if we are to succeed."

Sam straightened, his face grim, "Jes' feelin' sorry for meself. I won't let nothin' happen to you, Master," he squeezed the cold hand. "We're not lettin' you get away from us that easy. A fight you want? Fine, a fight it is," he said angrily.

Gandalf smiled and moved to add more wood to the fire. The remaining members of the Fellowship began to stir. Pippin looked over at Sam, hoping to see the gardener stirring his fry pan with breakfast and, momentarily, disappointed to see it was not to be. His eyes flew to his cousin noting Frodo's pallor and stillness. He grabbed Merry who came instantly awake and jumped up to run to Frodo's side.

"What has happened?" Pippin asked anxiously. Sam looked at the two hobbits then to Aragorn and Gandalf. They shrugged slightly, giving Sam helpless looks.

"Nothin' ya need worry about now. Strider here, saved him but it ain't done yet. There's work ta do ta get him better and with Strider's gift to be a healin' those that're poorly, Mr. Frodo's gonna be dancin' a jig in no time," Sam said with a grin.

Merry and Pippin looked at each other then over at their cousin, each having a very hard time imagining Frodo, at the moment, doing any kind of dance, then back at Sam, wondering if the gardener had been into Aragorn's powders. They turned to the ranger and asked what they could do to help in the care of their cousin. Pippin, frostbitten hands forgotten, threw the socks carelessly aside and began gathering snow to melt. All of Sam's pans were quickly filled with snow and placed on the fire. As they moved with purpose about their tasks, Frodo lay to the side, wrapped snuggly within Boromir's cloak. Glances were constantly shot his way, all thoughts never far from the battle he was waging.

Sam made thick gravy with bits of dried meat, flour, water and salt and sat it aside. He then made dough not unlike the night before, and rolled the sticky balls in fat placing them in the fry pan with a sizzle. Soon plates of fried biscuits covered in the thick, meaty gravy were in front of everyone and being hungrily devoured. The pans were washed and refilled with snow and soon pots of hot water sat everywhere. Aragorn moved to Frodo's side and slowly unwrapped the right leg leaving the rest of the small body covered warmly. He broke athelas into a pan of warm water, wet a flannel and gently washed the leg and foot. Grime quickly colored the water a dull gray and more was brought by Boromir who, wordlessly, replaced it. He dried the leg and covered it moving on to the left. Sam took up cups of water and placing his cloak under Frodo's shoulders, began to ladle the healing liquid lovingly over the dirt filled curls. He rubbed the scalp gently with his rough fingers, mindful to avoid the bump on the back of Frodo's skull. After he was satisfied that the hair was as clean as it was going to get, he took his nightshirt and squeezed the water from his Master's hair and finger combed the snarls free.

Sam smiled down into the quiescent face. His Master looked to be at peace and with a quick glance at Aragorn he saw that the ranger agreed. They finished bathing the hobbit at about the same time and Sam rose to retrieve hot water for tea. Aragorn touched Frodo's forehead lightly and was pleased to feel that the fever had dissipated. Sam walked towards him, carrying two steaming mugs, and sat down besides his Master. "I need to see to my medicinal tea and another mustard plaster, Sam. Call me if he awakens," the ranger said. Sam nodded, not thinking his friend to be doing this for some time yet. "His fever is lower," he said out loud to the group. "We can only wait, which is the hardest part of illness, to see how he truly fairs."

Each member of the Fellowship gradually moved to the fire circle. Gimli had removed his mail and was carefully cleaning each line of mesh as Merry and Pippin watched him. "Snow is especially hard on armor," the dwarf explained distractedly.

"Aye, and on weapons as well," Boromir said with an expectant glance in Frodo's direction. He pulled an oilcloth out of his pack with a sigh, and began to wipe down the beloved sword for the third time in as many days. Strider watched from the cave entrance, smoking and flanked by both Legolas and Gandalf. They glanced at each other with a smirk knowing that until Frodo awoke and could receive the full focus of the group’s energies, there would be boredom and restlessness. Aragorn suddenly felt sorry for the hobbit as he looked at the others, knowing how the ringbearer would be inundated with good intentions once awake. Frodo had disliked being the center of attention before his injuries and it seemed he could not escape even while unconscious.

Gandalf cleared his voice and began to discuss Saruman's possible part in Frodo's accident and subsequent illnesses with the group, thinking that at least they might be able to work out a strategy to combat the wizard while Frodo slept. He mused that a good story was always an excellent diversion for boredom. Sam listened halfheartedly as he placed warmed rocks next to his Master's body.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He felt warm, almost too warm, his brain chided, but Frodo ignored the complaint deciding, instead, that he felt comforted and almost comfortable for the first time in many days. His body still thrummed with the unique pain that only trauma can bring, but it was somehow different - manageable. He struggled, trying to force his fog filled brain to focus. The nightmare. He remembered the nightmare, the one thing he would have given anything to forget and push from him. The arduous crawl to the cavern, the cold, the fall, then blessed oblivion.

And now he was here, wherever here was. He cared not. He only knew he felt surrounded on all sides by soothing murmurs, warm touches and the tender embrace of love and hope. His mind drifted deeper as he felt, faintly, the touch of cloth and warm water. A low murmur accompanied each stroke and even though he wished to clearly hear what was being said and see who his benefactors were Frodo’s thoughts could not weave through the haze and converge to full wakefulness. He decided he didn't really need to know, that, in reality, he already knew who cared so gently for him. It was the same murmured reassurances and light touches that always came when he needed help and succor. The touches, the ministrations that never failed to sustain his body and spirit were those given, always freely, by his friends.

He quailed at the thought of how he had almost lost this forever, that he had doubted even for one moment, the love that was so generously showered upon him whenever the need arose. He was filled with a deep self-loathing, and guilt. He needed to tell them, he needed to explain. His mind began to battle upward as it tried to break the surface of consciousness to beg for understanding and the forgiveness that was always freely given. His struggles translated themselves to the physical as he fought against his haven of unconsciousness. A cold sweat covered his face as his head moved restlessly back and forth. A whimper of frustration escaped his lips. The cloth was back. A murmured reassurance and a gentle coolness on his forehead attempted to calm him. Sam. It was the whispered voice of his best friend, his constant defender, protector and ally and one that he had so carelessly tossed aside with suspicion and doubt. Frodo fought harder to break through his fog. He had to tell Sam how it had all been a mistake, a monstrous error that he desperately needed to rectify.

Water, no - tea was brought to his dry lips followed by spoonfuls of a rich broth, and he swallowed. There was usually pain, excruciating pain when he accepted food, drink or a healing touch and he braced himself for it. But, to his amazement, it never came. He relaxed and the cup returned. He drank greedily. Murmur's chided him and the cup was removed. He whimpered plaintively and it returned. He swallowed slowly, first the delicate taste of tea, then the thick broth. The broth was wonderful and he swallowed quickly, gulping as only a starving man can. More murmurs, a tone of joy and delight then he felt himself gently pulled into a large, warm lap. Blankets were pressed about him and the smell of pipeweed, sweat and pine filled his nostrils.

To his side smaller hands combed through his curls accompanied by an unending string of words that overlapped and filled him with a familiar warmth. He heard his name called repeatedly but still could not get his eyes to open and let them know that he was there, that he heard them and that he desperately needed to speak back to them. The voices seemed to draw away and he felt himself being lowered down onto a soft bedroll. Anger and frustration filled him until he heard a beloved voice, gruff, though not, that he yearned for. An old friend, a friend that he had disparaged and now needed desperately to hear his silent plea. There was a pause then a quick footstep to his side. Questions then a light touch of a gnarled hand upon his forehead.

"Frodo? Frodo, I can hear you my dear boy." He heard the words clearly in his head.

"Help me, Gandalf. Wake me. I must now awake!" Frodo fairly shouted. Another light touch and Frodo's eyes sprang open. Deep blue fastened onto tear-filled gray as Frodo cried out in surprise and relief finally releasing all the fear and suspicion that had kept him from those who loved him and understood him more than he did himself.

to be continued--

Not too many reviews this time :( What do ya think, are people losing interest?

Thanks to all who *did* leave comments and kudos, I love you all (even those who just like to read and not review, I was a lurker once and so I *do* understand)

girlofring1 - Hey, how was this chapter? He *is* getting better, as per your wishes (bows and grovels) Loved your fic "Echoes of the Past" and am looking forward to your next endeavor.

FrodoBaggins87 - Glad I could deliver that *fragment* of hope...Hope you found this chapter very hopeful. Thanks so much for reviewing and hanging in there.

Kelllie - Hey little buddy, good to hear from you! So pleased you enjoyed the chapter and thank you, thank you for such wonderful praise. You, my friend, give my muse such hope and happiness it only makes me want to write all the more.

Althea - Hi sweetie, thanks for reviewing. Thank you so very, very much for saying you love this story!! Sometimes I doubt myself and worry that I am boring people. But then I get kudos from people like yourself and I feel a burst of happiness and energy to continue on. Thanks so much, really.

Endymion2 - Welcome back to my little private fan club. LOL. Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Decided it was time to interject some hope and see our favorite hobbit finally begin to come to his senses. Looking forward to talking to you again.