Author's note: This was just a short Drabble I wrote when I wanted to get a feel for Frodo's relationship to his mother.
Fire crackled through the night air. Over the distant choir of insects, a single voice rose humming a soft lullaby. Frodo stirred. He was lying on his side. Fabric spanned beneath him, but it was not the soft sheets of his bed; it was course and thick with raised patterns that tugged against his fragile skin. But what pain they caused was nothing compared to the awful ache growing inside his head. It pounded and throbbed, like a monster trapped, thrashing to be released. Despite the blanket tucked around him, he shivered with cold.
A chair creaked beside him. His eyes flickered open. Firelight fell across the burgundy carpet. It wavered in long thin lines between bookshelves and end tables. He was in the parlour, lying on the couch. His mother sat beside him, less than an arm's length away. Her pale grey eyes glided towards his as he blinked.
Gently, she brushed the bangs from his face and ran a cool hand across his forehead. "How are you feeling, my love?"
"Miserable." His voice came out scratchy and he sniffled. "It hurts."
"I know." She ran her thumb across his brow in a soothing motion.
"Make it go away," he begged. "Please."
Her eyes welled with pity. "I can't. The fever has to run its course."
Frodo frowned. "I wish it would just kill me and get it over with."
Her lips contorted to a deep frown and her eyes filled with pain. "You're not going to die, sweetheart. Not today."
"But I will one day?"
"Everyone dies eventually." Her voice grew soft, remote. The candle flickered beside her, bathing her in shadow. "Death is a part of life, Frodo, as is pain and suffering. I wish it weren't so, but you will encounter all at some point or another, though they will pass, and greater things will come from their passing. Like spring that comes from winter, or roses from decay."
Frodo thought about this a moment, but it was difficult to concentrate through the pain. "I don't want you to die," he said, at last, voicing his greatest concern. "At least, not while I'm alive."
His mother gave a soft melancholic laugh. "That's one wish I hope does not come true. You're my son, Frodo, and I love you with all my heart. I would die contently, knowing you have many merry days left ahead of you. I hope one day you will find some comfort knowing that." Here she paused, letting her hand fall slowly from his head.
He stiffened, shivering once more.
"But no one is dying tonight." She pulled the covers to his chin, and tucked them gently around his shoulders. "Try and get some sleep, my love. With luck, you will feel better in the morning."