S.R. 1391, April 28
His heart racing, Aragorn quickly stood with Frodo lying limply in his arms, and rushed to the boy’s room, followed by a panic-stricken Bilbo.
“Get those blankets off the bed,” Aragorn said urgently. “The pillows, as well.”
Bilbo tore everything off the bed, and Aragorn lay the unconscious boy down. He knelt down and grasped Frodo’s hands in his own. He examined them quickly and discovered that the blood was coming from one long cut on Frodo’s right palm. He wrapped a clean, dry cloth tightly around the boy’s hand to stop the bleeding; as he did so, he could feel heat radiating from the small body.
“He’s burning up,” Aragorn murmured.
“What about his hand?” Bilbo asked anxiously. “We need to clean it and...”
“We will, Bilbo,” said Aragorn. “but the first thing is to get his fever down. At least the oil I used to clean my weapons will cause no harm, if some of it has entered the cut.” He didn’t tell the old hobbit, but if Frodo’s fever continued to burn this high, a cut hand would scarcely matter.
Gandalf entered the room carrying Bilbo’s favorite travel bag, now half-filled with ice. Aragorn picked up one of the blankets and covered Frodo up to his neck, then he and Gandalf carefully spread the shards of ice over the blanket. Bilbo and the wizard had worked hard at chopping up the ice, and there was more than enough to form a mound that completely covered Frodo’s body. Aragorn then took up a second blanket and laid it over the ice, creating a cold, insulating layer over the unconscious boy.
Bilbo knelt on the other side of the bed and gently stroked Frodo’s face. “My brave, brave lad,” he murmured.
“I have rarely seen such devotion and courage, Bilbo,” said Aragorn. “Frodo’s first and only thought was to confront that creature --- to protect you. Faced with such a frightening vision, most lads his age would have either cowered under the bed or run screaming out the front door and hidden in the garden.” He shook his head ruefully. “Most adults would have done likewise, I suspect.”
Bilbo had tears running down his face, and he picked up Frodo’s left hand and kissed it.
“He fought his fear,” Aragorn continued, “with a blazing, selfless spirit.” He looked up at Gandalf. “There is much about the nature of these hobbits that you have concealed from me.”
Gandalf smiled and sat down. “Indeed, there is much about the hobbits that remains concealed from me, even now, and I suspect that may always be so.”
Hoping that the ice pack would help bring down the fever, Aragorn reached under the blankets and pulled out Frodo’s right hand. He started to unwrap the cloth, but had to stop --- his anger at himself was so overwhelming that his own hands were shaking. How could he have left lethal weapons lying about where an inexperienced and innocent child could reach them? How could he have left Frodo alone at such a critical time? How could he help protect the entire Shire if he couldn’t even safeguard one child? He wished Bilbo would yell at him, or even ask him these very questions… but the old hobbit was focused solely on Frodo.
“Aragorn.” Gandalf’s hand settled on the Man’s shoulder, squeezing gently.
Aragorn took a deep breath and nodded his head. He had to concentrate. He continued unwrapping Frodo’s hand, then took the damp cloth that Gandalf handed to him and gently cleaned away the blood enough to see the cut clearly. He was relieved to see that the gash, while long, didn’t seem deep enough to need suturing.
“Bilbo, do you have any bandages? I’ll also need soap, and some antiseptic.” He looked at the hobbit and smiled. “It’s not deep, Bilbo. It looks worse than it is.”
Bilbo let out his breath in relief and stood up. “Thank you, Aragorn.”
Frodo was starting to shiver a little, and Aragorn felt his forehead.
“The fever is a bit lower,” he said to Gandalf. “I think it’s working. If only he has enough strength to awaken…” He stopped talking as Bilbo returned to the room, his arms laden with bandages and bottles, which he laid on the table.
“Here, Bilbo, you can help me,” said Aragorn. He and Bilbo worked together to clean and bandage Frodo’s hand properly.
“He’s shivering,” Bilbo said, concerned.
“I know.” Aragorn felt Frodo’s brow again. “Just a few more minutes.” He looked up. “Bilbo, why don’t you re-light the fire. We’re going to have to warm him up soon.” Bilbo leaped to obey, glad to be doing something --- anything. In a few minutes he had a blazing fire going in the hearth, and Aragorn piled blankets in front of the fire to warm them. By now, Frodo was shaking with cold.
“All right,” Aragorn murmured. He and Gandalf lifted the ice-laden covers from Frodo, then tucked the warmed blankets around him. Bilbo sat on the bed, stroking Frodo’s hand, and Aragorn sank into the chair, trying to relax a little. Suddenly he looked up at Bilbo, puzzled.
“What did Frodo mean, Bilbo? When he told you to ‘put it on’ and ‘disappear’?”
Bilbo smiled sadly, his eyes never leaving Frodo’s face. “It doesn’t matter,” he said softly.
Aragorn checked Frodo’s temperature and pulse frequently, and after an hour he began to feel a vague uneasiness. Although Frodo had stopped shaking, and the fever was no longer dangerously high, the boy’s pulse wasn’t as strong as it should be. From his own experience with this illness, he felt that the child should have regained consciousness by now.
“He’s very weak,” Aragorn murmured. “He used up much of his strength when…” He bowed his head in anguish, unable to remain silent any longer. “How could I have let this happen?”
The sound of a small sob from Bilbo pierced Aragorn’s heart like a knife, and without warning, he felt himself… change. There was something he suddenly knew --- something ancient, buried, forgotten. Without quite understanding why, he found himself placing his left hand over Frodo’s forehead and eyes, and his right upon the boy’s bandaged hand. He closed his eyes, and everything faded out. There was no longer any sound, or sight, or knowledge of where he was --- but somewhere ahead of him, he sensed a frightened child, tired and lost. He concentrated, focusing his entire being in an effort to make contact. He could almost… reach him. Frodo… come back, little one, come back to us… follow my voice… come back… that’s it, little one… that’s it… I’ve got you…
Aragorn suddenly felt the boy’s hand move slightly; startled, he opened his eyes to see Frodo looking at him. The blue eyes were glazed with exhaustion and fever, but there was no doubt that the boy was awake and alert.
Gandalf and Bilbo, watching, were only aware that Aragorn, kneeling by the bed, had suddenly gone very quiet and still --- then Frodo had awakened, and his eyes were riveted to Aragorn’s.
“I… I heard you,” Frodo whispered.
Aragorn bent low to hear the faint voice. “What did you hear, Frodo?”
“Teeth… mean…”
Aragorn gasped and stared at the boy in amazement. “You did hear me!”
Frodo’s eyes fluttered shut, and he sighed deeply as he slipped back into sleep. Aragorn was frozen in shock. He felt Bilbo’s eyes upon him, and looked up to see the old hobbit gazing at him gratefully. With a shaking hand, Aragorn pressed a finger lightly to the boy’s throat and was relieved beyond words to find a slightly stronger pulse.
“Teeth mean?” asked Bilbo with a small smile.
Aragorn could barely speak. “Tithen min,” he murmured. “'Little one'.”
“To call someone back from…” Gandalf chose his words carefully so as not to frighten Bilbo. “… from such a weakened state… is a rare gift, Aragorn.” The wizard looked at the Man thoughtfully. “I knew not that you could do this.”
Aragorn looked up at him in awe, his eyes filled with tears. “Nor did I,” he whispered.
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