Disclaimers: I do not own The Lord of the Rings. J.R.R. Tolkien does.
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Frodo coughed and sputtered. The coughs grew worse. Would they ever cease? The doorbell rang. He walked into the entrance hall and opened Bag End's front green door, letting in a most unusual healer.
"Yes! I'm here on your behalf!" The healer said, all smiles. He shook the poor hobbit's hand. "Fester McCoughsan, at your service."
"McCoughsan?" Frodo asked, hoarsely. "Is that a real name?" He coughed again.
"Yes. You are sick!" McCoughsan said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "That won't do at all. We'll get to it right away! Here! Sit down!" McCoughsan led Frodo into the parlor. Frodo honestly didn't know who this man was or what he was doing here… and all these instruments he brought. Was this a bad time? "I am here to take care of you."
"Thank you." Frodo said, still misunderstanding the man's name. "McCoughsan?"
"Take this!" McCoughsan passed to Frodo a vial filled with purple liquid. The liquid smelled distinctly like daffodils. Frodo doused the drink in one sip. The trick worked, if only for a moment. He collapsed on the floor, unsure what was going on—
Frodo woke up in his bedroom. There was Bilbo, feeling his forehead. How long did he sleep?
"Frodo, what is it?" Bilbo asked, curious.
"McCoughsan. Sick." Frodo mumbled.
"Frodo, it's almost your twenty-second birthday! How could you be sick?" Bilbo asked, curious.
"It happens." Frodo sputtered, unable to keep the coughs down.
"I see, and whose McCoughsan?" Bilbo asked him.
Frodo's eyes widened. Seriously? Had he dreamt the whole thing? He must have. At the same time, he didn't want to get out of bed.
"Well, you stay in bed until you feel like getting up." Bilbo walked around his bed, grabbing a few letters off the bedside table. "Yes. There we here! I'll see you when you get up." He walked out of the room.
"Ugh! What a nightmare." Frodo said, glad the horrid dream had reached its end.
The End.
*.*.*
Thanks for reading. :)