A White Coverlet to Cool a Hobbit's Toes 5

[claudia603]

Title: A White Coverlet to Cool a Hobbit’s Toes
Author: Claudia
Pairing: N/A
Rating: G
Summary: After the quest, Frodo observes snow on the top of the mountain. He remembers Caradhras and wants to experience it under better circumstances.
A/N: For shirebound




Frodo’s ankle throbbed like the stings of thousands of wasps. It continued to swell until it was nearly twice the size of his other ankle. Aragorn carried him through the deepening snow and into the cave. He settled him on a mound of furs, wrapping a heavy blanket around his shoulders. The fire crackled and warmed his face. Despite the pain, he felt sleepy. Faramir followed them into the cave. He looked worried.

“The storm is worsening.”

Aragorn nodded. “I know. But we’re prepared for the night. Faramir, hold Frodo in your lap, if you will. I will wrap up his ankle.”

Frodo might have protested being coddled, but even with blankets covering his shoulders, he shivered from the cold and the pain and in truth, being cradled by a much larger, warmer person appealed mightily.

“I’m going to lift you now,” Faramir said to him. “I will try not to hurt you.” True to his word, he lifted Frodo with utmost gentleness and settled him in his lap, readjusting and snuggling the blankets around him. “You shiver still, Frodo.” He spoke then to Aragorn. “We must get him down the mountain, my Lord. Being injured like this so soon after recovering from all he’s been through…I fear for him in this cold weather…should our fire go out--”

Aragorn rifled through his pack. “You know as well as I do that we cannot travel in such a storm. It would be folly. We’d likely end up at the bottom of a cliff and not discovered again until spring. Here we have a strong fire and plenty of kindling, we have blankets, and we have more than enough food. We shall wait out the storm until morning. By then, not only will the storm be finished, but possibly the snow will be on its way to melting. It is spring, after all.”

“I am all right,” Frodo said. “And Aragorn is right. I’d much rather stay here covered in blankets than attempt that trek down in the dark and snow.”

Aragorn took a cloth from his pack. He stepped outside the cave and filled it with snow. He bound it to Frodo’s ankle. “This should bring down the swelling. I know it is cold but I hope you can endure it for a time.”

“Thank you. I am otherwise so warm and cozy that I can hardly pay mind to one cold foot. And cold is better than pain. And pain…well, it is better than feeling nothing at all.” Frodo’s throat caught a little at that last.

Aragorn smiled at him as if he understood exactly what Frodo meant. “My friend, I would have you feel again. But if it is within my power, it will not be pain that you feel.”

Frodo nodded, deeply moved by the kindness of his friends. “Thank you. Now, I should very much like to hear a tale. What do you say?”

“What sort of tale?” Aragorn asked.

“I do not know any off hand,” Faramir mumbled.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Prince Faramir. I am quite certain you do.” Frodo twisted around to peer at Faramir’s face. “You were the rascal who did not attend to his studies because he was busy chasing dragons!”

Faramir laughed. “But these are not the serious types of tales that you no doubt want to hear.”

“Fie on serious tales,” Frodo laughed. “Come, Faramir, tell us a tale about when you were a young rascal of the Citadel.”

“Yes, Prince Faramir,” Aragorn said as he stirred the fire and began to boil water in a kettle over it. “Tell us a tale of your youth.”

Faramir laughed. “Very well.” For a time all they heard was the pleasant crackle of fire on kindling, but in time Faramir spoke again. “When I was a lad of about eight summers, Boromir and I were to have instruction in sword play. Boromir of course was very gifted at sword play and loved to attend and was praised by our instructor and our father every day. I, on the other hand, was clumsy and inept and earned only growls from the instructor and keen glances of disapproval from Father. So one day when it was time to go, I slipped away before Boromir noticed. I knew the best possible place to hide.”

Frodo snuggled against Faramir, drowsy and content.

“And where was that?” Aragorn asked. “I imagine that you know the Citadel far better than I do.”

Faramir laughed. “Well, it was where you might expect a bookish lad to hide – the library. I crawled inside and hid in a musty corner surrounded by old scrolls. And then I had a terrible fright. As I started to touch one of the scrolls, it was snatched from me and I stared up into the face of an old man with a long gray beard and thick, bushy eyebrows and a stern gleam in his eyes.”

“Gandalf!” Frodo said in delight. “I had wondered how old you were when you first met Gandalf.”

Faramir laughed. “Indeed. He gaze down at me very sternly and I thought for certain that I was in for it, that he would drag me to my father, who would not be so amused. But instead Gandalf (or Mithrandir as we called him) laughed, and it was a joyful sound and it made my heart glad.

“Well, Master Faramir, he said to me, I see you’ve found the best room in the Citadel.”

“Yes, sir, I said back to him.”

“What would you like to know? For you must have come here for knowledge. Am I right?”

“I want to know everything, I said to him, I want to know about Elves and magic and dragons and—”

“Imagine if you and I had been friends as lads,” Frodo said. “Gandalf must have thought he had escaped incessant questions from curious hobbit lads only to find the same thing in Gondor.”

“I can well imagine the mischief you and I would have gotten into if we were friends as lads,” Faramir laughed. “But Gandalf was very kind to me and he told me tales until the sun went down, and I got in frightful trouble from my father later for skipping my lessons.”

They could not see the sun through the storm, the light outside the cave dimmed to an increasingly darker gray until it faded altogether into total darkness. The wind howled and whistled as it continued to sweep snow past the cave. Frodo felt safe and warm, cuddled in Faramir’s arms with the firelight bathing his cheeks. He wondered what the other hobbits were doing right now and whether they were worried. Of course Gandalf would have surely told them where he was by now. Gandalf! Frodo wondered if Gandalf would come get them if the storm got out of control. He imagined him riding Shadowfax, melting the snow before him with his staff.

A howl separate from the wind suddenly cut into the night.

“What was that?” Frodo asked, alarmed. “Are there wolves in these parts?”

“Certainly,” Faramir said. “We are in the mountains.”

“But not Wargs?”

Faramir laughed. “Nay, not up here. Fear not. These wolves do not bother people. They are more frightened of us than we should be of them.”

“How is your ankle, Frodo?” Aragorn asked.

“I do not feel it much,” he said.

“That is well. I should let you know that I brought one of Minas Tirith’s finest wines,” Aragorn said. “It is my thought that we should have a mug of warmed wine and fear no outside noises.”

“That sounds splendid,” Frodo said.

Aragorn heated the wine until it was just warm enough not to lose its potency. Faramir adjusted the blankets around Frodo so that he was thoroughly warm and settled.

“Are you weary of my weight on you?” Frodo asked.

“Nay. It is not a burden and it is only a privilege to offer you comfort.”

The heated wine was sweet and warmed him inside, and Frodo’s cheeks heated. He barely felt the pain or cold of his ankle.

“Between the three of us,” Faramir said. “We have enough tales to keep us for years. Frodo especially.”

“I do not wish to talk about anything on the quest,” Frodo said, shivering.

“Of course. I am sorry. I would never ask that of you.”

“What about a Shire tale?” Aragorn asked. “We rarely had the time to exchange such tales while on quest. Tell us of Frodo the mushroom thief.”

“Mushroom thief?” Faramir asked, raising his brows.

“I was the worst rascal in Buckland for a time, I must admit,” Frodo said.

“Tell us.”

“It was always a sore thing to be a young hobbit lad with an ever yawning stomach, always hungry, always wanting to eat, and hobbits have a passion for mushrooms that surpasses the greed of most Big People…er…present company excepted of course. At any rate, it was rumored that Farmer Maggot had the best crops in the Shire. Fat mushrooms, tall mushrooms, button mushrooms, succulent mushrooms…he had them all.”

“Which kind was your favorite?” Faramir asked.

“I never saw a mushroom that I did not wish to devour,” Frodo laughed.

And so the three friends took turns telling light and mischievous tales from their childhood. Even Aragorn had caused a bit of trouble in Rivendell at times. Frodo knew there had been a reason why Elrohir and Elladan teased him about a golden teapot and Master Elrond’s herbs and many sick bellies.

The heated wine, soothing voices of his friends and crackling of the fire soon lulled Frodo into a deep sleep still in Faramir’s arms.

The next morning snow drifts like fallen clouds glittered bright in the sun like pearls and gems.

Frodo wiped his sleepy eyes, looking around him. The fire had burned low and it was bone-chilling cold in the cave. He rubbed his hands together, watching his breath form in clouds before him. Faramir and Aragorn stirred and woke.

“The sun shines and already the icicles are beginning to melt,” Faramir said. “We should be able to make it down the mountain today.”

Frodo caught a faint whimpering or whining in the distance, but he could not tell where it came from. The cave made for strange sound patterns. It came not from the horses. They had eaten and were swishing their tails in contentment. Frodo strained to hear it again.

“What is it, Frodo?” Faramir asked. “Does your ankle pain you?”

“Do you hear that sound?”

“I hear nothing,” Faramir said, puzzled.

“I think it is coming from outside.”

Aragorn added, “My hearing is keen but is no match for a hobbit’s ears. If a hobbit hears something, it is well to check it out. I will go look.” Aragorn ducked out of the cave.

“Shall we follow him, do you think?” Frodo asked, rolling to a sitting position. His ankle flared with pain, and he cried out, clutching at it.

“Easy,” Faramir said, gasping his shoulders, steadying him.

“It was easy to forget that I am hurt after such a pleasant night.”

After a time he returned, carrying something white and furry and wriggling.

“What on earth –” Frodo began. “Is that a baby wolf?” He looked around in apprehension. “Isn’t its mother somewhere around?”

“He appears to be lost. Perhaps he got disoriented in the storm.”

Aragorn sat beside Frodo, and Frodo dared to touch his fur, stroking it as he would a normal puppy.
“My goodness, he has soft fur, but we must find his mother or he will perish. Unless…” And Frodo smiled. He petted the wolf pup, noting the luxurious fur beneath his hand. “Unless we take it back with us.”

Aragorn’s eyebrows raised. “You would have a wolf in Minas Tirith?”

“It would make a good pet for a king,” Faramir said.

“No army would dare invade,” Frodo laughed. “Not when it is known that the King has a wolf as a pet.”

Faramir laughed. “I am quite certain rumors would flourish into more – that the king has an entire army of Wargs that he has bent to his will.”

“You would really wish to bring the pup with us?” Aragorn asked Frodo.

“Yes,” Frodo realized that the pup had fallen into a deep slumber in his arms. “He…well, I would not have him perish without his mother.”

“Then it shall be done,” Aragorn said.

Go on to last part