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."