Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.
WARNINGS: This fic contains GRAPHIC medical detail and discussion of hobbit bodily functions plus bare Frodo flesh. Unless you're a card-carrying FrodoHealer, it might be best to pass this one up. :)
Author's Note: A belated birthday fic for Frodo Baggins of Bag End. And as usual, many of the treatments herein were inspired by her wonderful work.
*****
Bell was swimming in circles again, Frodo noted dully. In fact, she---or it might possibly have been a he, but since Sam had named her, a "she" she was going to remain---was presently bumping her small mouth against the glass of the large octagonal bowl as she stared at the bedridden hobbit from his bedside table with bulging, yet strangely sympathetic, golden orbs.
Frodo sighed, pulling his covers up more as he lay curled up on his side. Though on the road to recovery, he'd rarely felt so weak, and his stomach still felt queasy as he watched Bell swim in and out of the grass at the bottom of her home.
"I do believe she cares for you, Frodo," a warm voice said from the doorway. "And I must say I am not surprised that you have managed to work your halfling charms even on such as a fish."
Smiling wanly, Frodo watched the Lady Eowyn through watery eyes as she carefully set a silver tray with a steaming bowl on the bedside table and then turned to brush sweaty ringlets from his brow. Her hand was cool and soft, and it paused for several seconds as she gauged the degree of his fever.
"You are getting a little better every day, Frodo." Sitting down in a chair at his bedside, Eowyn picked up a small spoon and Frodo's eyes fell to the tray, which looked to contain a cup of smooth strained chicken broth, rice caudle heavy with cream, apples stewed into a soft mush and sprinkled with a little nutmeg, frothy egg flip, and a small tumbler of milk lemonade. "I'm sorry I had to disturb your rest, but it is far past time for you to eat. Now, let me sit you up just a bit and I shall do the work."
Frodo lacked the strength to even nod, simply closing his eyes for a moment in acknowledgment as the woman eased him over onto his back and placed pillows behind his shoulders to raise him up enough to eat. He noticed then that medicines and bottles and basins and various other supplies littered the top of every table in the room, while stacks of clean towels and linens adorned the chairs. Such a packed sickroom he had never seen, even in the Houses of Healing.
Now, the curtains in the room were drawn but their slight sway let Frodo know that now that the danger of contagion had passed, the window had been opened slightly, and rays of afternoon sunlight managed to filter through around the fabric's embroidered edges. The faint sound of children playing outside was music to Frodo's ears, as very recently, he'd never thought to hear it again.
"Lady Eowyn---" he managed to get out, before she placed a finger upon his dry, cracked lips.
"Just 'Eowyn,' Frodo. And sssh---do not try to talk. I know exactly what you are going to ask, and it will be at least another two or three weeks, dear heart, before you are even allowed to get up out of bed. By Lord Aragorn's orders, I am afraid." She smiled, dipping the spoon into slightly salty chicken broth and guiding it toward Frodo's waiting mouth. "I know you've had a rough time making do with only me and Aragorn and Gandalf and Legolas for conversation."
"And Bell," Frodo whispered, lips curving up in a smile.
"Of course."
Bell was the result of a recent trip taken by Frodo and Sam and Legolas and Gimli down to the docks to view the ships and fishing boats coming in. With the passing of the war, free trade had once again become important in Gondor, and the busyness of water vessels sailing to and fro and unloading their wares had quite enchanted Frodo.
Unfortunately, he had fallen desperately ill just a few days afterward with what Aragorn had termed the "miasma." There were a handful of other cases around the city among the harbor workers, and the other hobbits had been moved to the Tower and had not been allowed to see Frodo, both because of the danger of contagion, since no one quite knew how the miasma chose its victims, and also because Frodo required absolute rest and quiet. It had been a hard blow to Sam, to leave his master, but he'd tried to make up for it by sending Bell, whom he'd bought from a merchant down at the docks, to Frodo's room, so that "my master can have something nice to look at when he's feeling right sick."
Now the fish blew small bubbles as she rested motionless on the blue pebbles lining her bowl, and she imparted some relaxation to Frodo as he watched her.
Though not really hungry, he didn't resist as Eowyn spooned broth and creamy rice caudle into his mouth. At least it felt nice to be able to eat more substantial food again, as opposed to clear liquids or ice chips. He'd been so sick---sicker than he'd ever been in his entire life, save perhaps just after Weathertop.
According to Aragorn, they'd very nearly given up hope, as few survived this grave disease, and the fact that Frodo had was another testament to his uncommon strength. Frodo never wanted to relive those days again, but his memories were all too full of them.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Breakfast at Gandalf's house had been the usual affair that fine May morning: Sam sat watching Frodo eat while Merry and Pippin fought over who got the last of the egg-battered fried toast.
"Pip, have you learned *nothing* about sharing during all of your trials? Hasn't war taught you to be generous to your elders?"
"I'm still a growing hobbit, Merry. I need nourishing foods far more than you do."
"I could do with some fried fish, Pip. How about it, Sam?"
"Mr. Merry, begging your pardon, I've grown a bit fond of Bell lately and wouldn't really like to see her end up in your stomach. Named her after my mum, after all."
Frodo watched them with a smile, still a bit shocked at his cousins' new inches in height, as he attempted to ignore his fierce headache and upset stomach. He blanched when he noticed Sam staring across the table at Frodo's mostly untouched plate. Though his appetite had returned nicely since the War of the Ring, the thought this morning of trying to eat the runny yolks of his fried eggs made him positively ill.
"I'm not hungry, Sam," he said in answer to his friend's unspoken question. "I'm tired and don't feel altogether well---I think I might be coming down with a cold."
"We were supposed to go to market this afternoon after lunch with the Lady Eowyn, Mr. Frodo, but I'll stay here and see to you. You should be off to bed now."
Frodo waved him off with a half-scowl, attempting to cover the fact that he'd just had the most awful chill. "No, no, I'll be fine. I'll just take a little nap and that will fix me right up."
********
Frodo tossed restlessly in his nest of covers, quite uncomfortable. He should have removed his clothing and put on his nightshirt, for the heavy fabric of his breeches felt all bunched up around his thighs, and he felt so hot and dizzy he knew he'd faint if he even tried to sit up.
The door opened slightly and the hobbit rolled onto his back to see who it was, squinting burning eyes until he realized the Lady Eowyn walked toward him. Quickly, he lifted his head to make sure all his clothing was still fastened, for it wouldn't do to be improperly dressed around a lady. A fish was one thing---a shieldmaiden of Rohan quite another.
Moving was definitely the wrong thing to do, for no sooner had he lifted his neck than what meager breakfast he'd managed to consume came frothing up past his lips, startling him and causing him to choke.
Eowyn was there within a moment, helping him turn completely onto his side and supporting his head as Frodo finished emptying his stomach out onto his bed linens and a good bit of his shirt.
"There, there, Frodo, just lie back and let me see to you." Quickly she eased him back upon his pillow and stepped away, returning moments later with two blissfully cool cloths, one of which she laid across his brow. Kneeling, she wiped his face and lips with the other, before setting it aside and bending to unbutton his clothing.
"Please, there's no need . . . I can do that," Frodo said, his cheeks turning red with shame. "Or Sam can---"
Eowyn shook her head, pulling off Frodo's breeches, which led to him seeking for and finally grasping a nice wad of clean bed linens to drape over his middle. "Please don't be embarrassed, Frodo. You have quite a high fever, and it is probably best if as few as possible come around you until we know what we are dealing with. I will call Aragorn to come have a look at you, since I know you feel comfortable with him."
He nodded weakly, allowing her to finish undressing him and change his bed linens and offer him something cool to drink. Such a fuss over a little cold, he reckoned.
********
If he'd been well enough, Frodo would have been terribly ashamed when he felt his bowels loosen---again---and release hot, foul-smelling liquid upon the freshly-laid bed linens. As it was, he no longer really cared for his own embarrassment; only yearned for a comforting touch much like his mother's when he was little.
He did, nevertheless, open his mouth to at least apologize to the Lady Eowyn, but no sound issued forth and Frodo quickly gave up, wondering dizzily if his working lips resembled Bell's as she zig-zagged merrily about in her bowl just a few feet away.
"Ssssh." Eowyn laid a cool hand on Frodo's forehead and pulled the covers back to expose him from the waist down. Raising his shoulders up just a bit, she eased his sweaty nightshirt off before lifting his legs by the ankles and removing the now-soiled bed pad they'd placed under his bottom.
Trying to stay awake, Frodo watched her through glazed eyes as she wadded the dirty linens up and disposed of them in a basket before grabbing clean towels and a kettle of warmed water . "Let us make you more comfortable, Frodo. Here, let me help you turn over . . . that's it, easy now."
He closed his eyes then, a tear of gratitude escaping as he felt her carefully wipe his bottom with a soft cloth and gentle hands before rubbing a cool, silky-textured balm over the raw flesh of his buttocks. He'd had diarrhea since the second day of falling ill, and instead of letting up, it seemed to be getting worse, leaving him weak and trembling and shivering with chill.
She didn't redress him in a clean gown, but instead, left him naked, simply replacing the bed pad and slipping cloth-wrapped hot-water bottles around his sides and up against his belly before covering him well with a clean sheet and blanket and dropping a familiar tasting, bitter tincture onto his tongue.
His back aching mercilessly but the chills lessened somewhat, the weary hobbit drifted off into an uneasy sleep for a time.
To be continued
WARNINGS: This fic contains GRAPHIC medical detail and discussion of hobbit bodily functions plus bare Frodo flesh. Unless you're a card-carrying FrodoHealer, it might be best to pass this one up. :)
Author's Note: A belated birthday fic for Frodo Baggins of Bag End. And as usual, many of the treatments herein were inspired by her wonderful work.
*****
Bell was swimming in circles again, Frodo noted dully. In fact, she---or it might possibly have been a he, but since Sam had named her, a "she" she was going to remain---was presently bumping her small mouth against the glass of the large octagonal bowl as she stared at the bedridden hobbit from his bedside table with bulging, yet strangely sympathetic, golden orbs.
Frodo sighed, pulling his covers up more as he lay curled up on his side. Though on the road to recovery, he'd rarely felt so weak, and his stomach still felt queasy as he watched Bell swim in and out of the grass at the bottom of her home.
"I do believe she cares for you, Frodo," a warm voice said from the doorway. "And I must say I am not surprised that you have managed to work your halfling charms even on such as a fish."
Smiling wanly, Frodo watched the Lady Eowyn through watery eyes as she carefully set a silver tray with a steaming bowl on the bedside table and then turned to brush sweaty ringlets from his brow. Her hand was cool and soft, and it paused for several seconds as she gauged the degree of his fever.
"You are getting a little better every day, Frodo." Sitting down in a chair at his bedside, Eowyn picked up a small spoon and Frodo's eyes fell to the tray, which looked to contain a cup of smooth strained chicken broth, rice caudle heavy with cream, apples stewed into a soft mush and sprinkled with a little nutmeg, frothy egg flip, and a small tumbler of milk lemonade. "I'm sorry I had to disturb your rest, but it is far past time for you to eat. Now, let me sit you up just a bit and I shall do the work."
Frodo lacked the strength to even nod, simply closing his eyes for a moment in acknowledgment as the woman eased him over onto his back and placed pillows behind his shoulders to raise him up enough to eat. He noticed then that medicines and bottles and basins and various other supplies littered the top of every table in the room, while stacks of clean towels and linens adorned the chairs. Such a packed sickroom he had never seen, even in the Houses of Healing.
Now, the curtains in the room were drawn but their slight sway let Frodo know that now that the danger of contagion had passed, the window had been opened slightly, and rays of afternoon sunlight managed to filter through around the fabric's embroidered edges. The faint sound of children playing outside was music to Frodo's ears, as very recently, he'd never thought to hear it again.
"Lady Eowyn---" he managed to get out, before she placed a finger upon his dry, cracked lips.
"Just 'Eowyn,' Frodo. And sssh---do not try to talk. I know exactly what you are going to ask, and it will be at least another two or three weeks, dear heart, before you are even allowed to get up out of bed. By Lord Aragorn's orders, I am afraid." She smiled, dipping the spoon into slightly salty chicken broth and guiding it toward Frodo's waiting mouth. "I know you've had a rough time making do with only me and Aragorn and Gandalf and Legolas for conversation."
"And Bell," Frodo whispered, lips curving up in a smile.
"Of course."
Bell was the result of a recent trip taken by Frodo and Sam and Legolas and Gimli down to the docks to view the ships and fishing boats coming in. With the passing of the war, free trade had once again become important in Gondor, and the busyness of water vessels sailing to and fro and unloading their wares had quite enchanted Frodo.
Unfortunately, he had fallen desperately ill just a few days afterward with what Aragorn had termed the "miasma." There were a handful of other cases around the city among the harbor workers, and the other hobbits had been moved to the Tower and had not been allowed to see Frodo, both because of the danger of contagion, since no one quite knew how the miasma chose its victims, and also because Frodo required absolute rest and quiet. It had been a hard blow to Sam, to leave his master, but he'd tried to make up for it by sending Bell, whom he'd bought from a merchant down at the docks, to Frodo's room, so that "my master can have something nice to look at when he's feeling right sick."
Now the fish blew small bubbles as she rested motionless on the blue pebbles lining her bowl, and she imparted some relaxation to Frodo as he watched her.
Though not really hungry, he didn't resist as Eowyn spooned broth and creamy rice caudle into his mouth. At least it felt nice to be able to eat more substantial food again, as opposed to clear liquids or ice chips. He'd been so sick---sicker than he'd ever been in his entire life, save perhaps just after Weathertop.
According to Aragorn, they'd very nearly given up hope, as few survived this grave disease, and the fact that Frodo had was another testament to his uncommon strength. Frodo never wanted to relive those days again, but his memories were all too full of them.
___________________________________________________________________________________
Breakfast at Gandalf's house had been the usual affair that fine May morning: Sam sat watching Frodo eat while Merry and Pippin fought over who got the last of the egg-battered fried toast.
"Pip, have you learned *nothing* about sharing during all of your trials? Hasn't war taught you to be generous to your elders?"
"I'm still a growing hobbit, Merry. I need nourishing foods far more than you do."
"I could do with some fried fish, Pip. How about it, Sam?"
"Mr. Merry, begging your pardon, I've grown a bit fond of Bell lately and wouldn't really like to see her end up in your stomach. Named her after my mum, after all."
Frodo watched them with a smile, still a bit shocked at his cousins' new inches in height, as he attempted to ignore his fierce headache and upset stomach. He blanched when he noticed Sam staring across the table at Frodo's mostly untouched plate. Though his appetite had returned nicely since the War of the Ring, the thought this morning of trying to eat the runny yolks of his fried eggs made him positively ill.
"I'm not hungry, Sam," he said in answer to his friend's unspoken question. "I'm tired and don't feel altogether well---I think I might be coming down with a cold."
"We were supposed to go to market this afternoon after lunch with the Lady Eowyn, Mr. Frodo, but I'll stay here and see to you. You should be off to bed now."
Frodo waved him off with a half-scowl, attempting to cover the fact that he'd just had the most awful chill. "No, no, I'll be fine. I'll just take a little nap and that will fix me right up."
********
Frodo tossed restlessly in his nest of covers, quite uncomfortable. He should have removed his clothing and put on his nightshirt, for the heavy fabric of his breeches felt all bunched up around his thighs, and he felt so hot and dizzy he knew he'd faint if he even tried to sit up.
The door opened slightly and the hobbit rolled onto his back to see who it was, squinting burning eyes until he realized the Lady Eowyn walked toward him. Quickly, he lifted his head to make sure all his clothing was still fastened, for it wouldn't do to be improperly dressed around a lady. A fish was one thing---a shieldmaiden of Rohan quite another.
Moving was definitely the wrong thing to do, for no sooner had he lifted his neck than what meager breakfast he'd managed to consume came frothing up past his lips, startling him and causing him to choke.
Eowyn was there within a moment, helping him turn completely onto his side and supporting his head as Frodo finished emptying his stomach out onto his bed linens and a good bit of his shirt.
"There, there, Frodo, just lie back and let me see to you." Quickly she eased him back upon his pillow and stepped away, returning moments later with two blissfully cool cloths, one of which she laid across his brow. Kneeling, she wiped his face and lips with the other, before setting it aside and bending to unbutton his clothing.
"Please, there's no need . . . I can do that," Frodo said, his cheeks turning red with shame. "Or Sam can---"
Eowyn shook her head, pulling off Frodo's breeches, which led to him seeking for and finally grasping a nice wad of clean bed linens to drape over his middle. "Please don't be embarrassed, Frodo. You have quite a high fever, and it is probably best if as few as possible come around you until we know what we are dealing with. I will call Aragorn to come have a look at you, since I know you feel comfortable with him."
He nodded weakly, allowing her to finish undressing him and change his bed linens and offer him something cool to drink. Such a fuss over a little cold, he reckoned.
********
If he'd been well enough, Frodo would have been terribly ashamed when he felt his bowels loosen---again---and release hot, foul-smelling liquid upon the freshly-laid bed linens. As it was, he no longer really cared for his own embarrassment; only yearned for a comforting touch much like his mother's when he was little.
He did, nevertheless, open his mouth to at least apologize to the Lady Eowyn, but no sound issued forth and Frodo quickly gave up, wondering dizzily if his working lips resembled Bell's as she zig-zagged merrily about in her bowl just a few feet away.
"Ssssh." Eowyn laid a cool hand on Frodo's forehead and pulled the covers back to expose him from the waist down. Raising his shoulders up just a bit, she eased his sweaty nightshirt off before lifting his legs by the ankles and removing the now-soiled bed pad they'd placed under his bottom.
Trying to stay awake, Frodo watched her through glazed eyes as she wadded the dirty linens up and disposed of them in a basket before grabbing clean towels and a kettle of warmed water . "Let us make you more comfortable, Frodo. Here, let me help you turn over . . . that's it, easy now."
He closed his eyes then, a tear of gratitude escaping as he felt her carefully wipe his bottom with a soft cloth and gentle hands before rubbing a cool, silky-textured balm over the raw flesh of his buttocks. He'd had diarrhea since the second day of falling ill, and instead of letting up, it seemed to be getting worse, leaving him weak and trembling and shivering with chill.
She didn't redress him in a clean gown, but instead, left him naked, simply replacing the bed pad and slipping cloth-wrapped hot-water bottles around his sides and up against his belly before covering him well with a clean sheet and blanket and dropping a familiar tasting, bitter tincture onto his tongue.
His back aching mercilessly but the chills lessened somewhat, the weary hobbit drifted off into an uneasy sleep for a time.
To be continued