[Author's note: this is mainly based on the movies, with a touch from the books. I'm not much of a fanfic writer, but this has been running around in my head for a while, so I figured I'd give it a whirlIt starts slowly, so please bear with me. It does contain an original character (although, I don't personally believe it is a Mary Sue in the traditional sense), so if OC's are not your cuppa tea, best skip it.
Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own these characters, they belong to the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, yada, yada, yada.]
Heavy snowfall is rare in the Shire, even in the dead of winter, but for the past hour, a thick veil of snowflakes had obscured the outside world beyond my window. Even rarer was this kind of fall at this time of year, near March's end, when spring is just starting to think about throwing off the mantel of winter. Rain, perhaps, or sleet was more likely. But here it was, the kind of thick, snowy day where one wants nothing more than to burrow under a warm blanket in front of a crackling fire with a mug of hot cider, and a good book to keep one company. Alas, I was not to be so fortunate, as the sound of heavy pounding interrupted my simple pleasures, and with a weary sigh, I headed to the front of my home.
Upon pulling the door open and being greeted with a gusty wind of freezing cold that rushed across my face and chilled my bones, I was shocked to see what appeared to be a snow-covered apparition before me. I grasped its arm, and pulled it in, shutting the door swiftly behind it. The figure began unwinding the wraps around its head, dropping bits of snow on my front hall with every movement, and I saw that it was dour old Hamfast Gamgee, who at least had the grace to apologize profusely for the mess he was making.
"It's that sorry I am to be making a muck of your floor, mistress, but it's Mr. Bilbo himself what has sent me." He grimaced as a bit of snow from his collar slid down the back of his neck, and I reached for a nearby cloth to mop what was left from around his face, while he continued talking. "Thankee. Young Master Frodo has a bit of the chill that's going about, and Mr. Bilbo begs your pardon, and asks if you might be willing to brave the ill weather and take a look in on him." Hamfast raised his eyebrows questioningly, though he likely already knew what my answer would be.
"Aye, Gaffer, you know I'll come," I said calmly. "Give me a moment to gather my things." I paused, and thought for a moment. "I expect the weather is too foul to ride Cherry?" I had a small pony, given to me for services rendered by a farmer on the outskirts of Frogmorton, two years past. Cherry was a placid, bay-colored pony with a reddish splotch on his left flank, which I can only assume was the source of his name. I rode him regularly, traveling to the outlying towns, and his surefooted travel sense had often gotten me home on late nights after a long birthing, when I was too tired to stay awake in the saddle.
The Gaffer nodded grimly. "You can't see your hand in front of your face, and we'll need to walk close to thar fence to avoid losing our way. Yon pony won't be much help in that."
I bustled about, gathering together my things, and shoved my large covered basket into his hands. "Without Cherry, I'm afraid you'll have to be the one to carry my medicines, Gaffer." I began layering on jackets and neck scarves, until finally I was boiling under the weight of it all. "Let's go before I melt away from the heat of all this." I yanked on my gloves, pulled the door open and marched out into the bitter wind, with the Gaffer right behind.
It was chillingly cold outside, and after only a few minutes, my bare feet were numb and stiff. I wished for a moment to be one of the Big Folk, who it's told wear coverings upon their feet, even in warm weather. Why they would do so when the grass is green and soft to one's toes, I can't imagine, but in coldish weather like what I was walking through, it suddenly seemed highly desirable.
The Gaffer and I struggled on through the wailing wind and blowing snow, with the fence he had spoken of close on our left side. It was only a two or three mile walk to Hobbiton from my home in Bywater - a nice stroll of less than an hour or so in summer, but during the height of a snowstorm, it took quite a bit longer. After two hours of walking, the sense of relief I felt at seeing the lights of the nearby small town was near overwhelming.
I followed the Gaffer up the winding road that was Bagshot Row, and stood impatiently at his side as he pounded upon the green front door of the house at the top of the hill. It was immediately opened, and the master of Bag End stood before us, quickly gesturing for us to come out of the cold.
"Come in, come in!" he cried, and pushed the door shut with a bang behind us. "Dreadful weather, dreadful. Who'd have thought we could have a snowstorm at the end of March? Here, Mistress Brockhouse, let me help you with that." With swift hands, he helped me unwind myself from the web of scarves that were frozen and entangled about my face and neck, and then led me towards the fire in the parlor, pushing me down in a seat in front of it.
"Warm yourself in front of the fire. Frodo can wait a bit longer. 't'wouldn't do to have you fainting on the poor boy," he chuckled, and then bustled back to the Gaffer who was standing by the front door. "Will you be staying, Master Hamfast? No? Well, I thank you greatly for this service, and shan't forget it anytime soon, I surely won't." After ushering the stolid gardener out the door, Bilbo hurried past me to the kitchen, calling back, "Not to worry, I have some tea on. That'll do to warm you up quickly enough!"
I took a moment to glance about the parlor I was sitting in, having never had the opportunity to visit Bag End before this night. It was a well-lived in room, with books and maps scattered about the nearby table, and comfortable chairs placed around the fireplace. I could imagine that Bilbo and his nephew spent many a pleasant evening in here, reading and discussing all manner of things. I gratefully wiggled my toes in front of the roaring fire, pleased to still have feeling within them.
Bilbo came trotting back into the room, with a small tea tray, complete with sandwiches and small cookies. "Drink, drink!" he cried, pressing a warm cup of tea into my cold hands. A sip of the soothing beverage made it clear that there was more than just tea in what he had given me, and the warmth of it slid down my throat, instantly filling my belly with fire. I cocked an eyebrow at the older Hobbit, and expressed my thanks.
"Not to do, not to do," he murmured. "It's my fault that you had to travel through such weather. I would never have sent out Hamfast if it had been snowing like this when he left. Well, there's naught to be done about it, as you're here now, and I thank you greatly for that. Frodo started feeling unwell just yesterday, and it's gotten rapidly worse. I'm likely worrying overmuch, but I love the lad dearly, and want him well again."
I nodded. "I will do what I can. It's a nasty cold going about, especially dangerous for the older folks." I swept a glance at him under my eyelashes, while taking another hasty sip of my tea. Here I was, speaking to one of the oldest Hobbits in recent memory, and yet he looked hale and healthy, and several years younger than he ought.
He merely smiled at me, and then leaned forward slightly, as if examining me more closely. "What is it?" I asked in surprise, glancing at him.
"Oh, it's nothing," he said settling back. "For a moment there, you reminded me greatly of your aunt."
My face burned upon hearing that, and I looked down at the teacup within my hands. It was a well-known secret within the Shire that Bilbo Baggins and my aunt, Camellia Proudneck, had had an ongoing relationship that had lasted for years until her death three winters past. They had been discreet, of course, and much latitude had been allowed them by the gossiping biddies in the surrounding areas, due to my aunt's widowed state, and Bilbo's avowed bachelorhood.
Flaunting an affair was one thing among Hobbit society, and would quickly earn you censure and outraged stares, but quietly arranged liaisons were commonplace among those that were unmarried, both young and old. They often led to the more permanent state of marriage, and were viewed indulgently as a part of single life by the majority of Hobbits, so long as they were kept private. Indeed, much of the traffic within my own small apothecary related to the purchase of contraceptive aids, and there was a great deal of usually good-natured gossip about town that centered around who had entered the shop, and why they might be there.
My aunt having such a relationship with the Hobbit who now sat before me, twinkling eyes and pleasant smile notwithstanding, was too strange a thought, though, and I stood up hastily, setting my teacup down with a clatter on the nearby sideboard. "I'd best look in on your nephew now."
He jumped to his feet. "Of course, let me show you the way." Bilbo led me towards the back of the burrow, and I paused to grab my large basket which had been left by the door. Bag End was a luxurious Hobbit hole by most comparisons, going deep under the hill, with thick wooden walls, and polished tile floors. It was dark in places, as such places tend to be; we were underground, after all. But it had a pleasant, homey feel, and I could sense that many happy generations had grown up here within its honeyed walls, among the good clean scents of earth and grass.
Bilbo paused before a door, and knocked gently before opening the door. "Frodo?" he said softly, peering in.
A slight, hacking cough answered him, and a voice replied, "I'm awake, Uncle."
Bilbo pushed into the room, motioning for me to follow. I stepped in cautiously, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Frodo's room was of a decent size, with a single bed placed against the right-hand wall, and a small fire on the opposite. Unlike much of the rest of Bag End, it appeared to be exceptionally tidy, especially for a young Hobbit; a response, perhaps, to the chaos of the rest of the burrow, and the upheaval that had occurred already in his short life.
"Frodo lad, this is the healer, Mistress Brockhouse, come to take a look at you and get you back up and about," Bilbo told his nephew, before turning to me. "Do you need anything from me?"
I thought for a moment. "If you could start some water boiling, that would be a help. And do you have any peppermint leaves? I fear I've run out, and it's both an aid in healing colds, as well as helping to mask the flavor of certain medicines." There was an annoyed snort from the nearby bed, which I chose to ignore. Hobbits, as a rule, especially the male ones, can be contentious about taking medicine, and there have been more times than it bears thinking that I've had to enlist the help of a female relative or two to assist in pouring a draught down a recalcitrant patient's throat. I hoped that wouldn't be necessary this time, as there was a decided lack of female relatives about to perform such a duty, although I suspected Bilbo himself would do in a pinch.
Bilbo nodded and said, "I'll see what I can find." He exited the room, leaving me alone with the younger Hobbit.
I turned toward the fire, and using the poker, stirred it up to increase the light. "I'm sorry about this, but I need more light to see what I'm doing." I seized a candle from above the mantle, and lit it as well.
"That's all right," Frodo said quietly from behind me. "My uncle worries too much. I'm really not that sick."
"I'll be the judge of that," I said sternly, holding the candle above my head, and looking him over. Before me sat a handsome young Hobbit, much older than I had expected, just exiting his tweens and on the cusp of adulthood. Curly brown hair tangled in a mass about his delicately drawn face, and even now, he brushed a few untidy locks out of his eyes as he gazed back at me. He had soft pink lips and large blue eyes that I suspected many a lass in Hobbiton and Bywater had been sighing over for years. Those eyes were especially bright with fever now, and his face was pale and wasted with the sickness that was racking him. I laid a cool hand on his forehead to gauge the fever's strength. It was high, and his skin burned to the touch.
I placed the candle on the table beside Frodo's bed, and sat down on the edge of the mattress. "Give me your hand, please," I said firmly. Holding two fingers against his wrist, I checked his heartbeat, which was strong and healthy. Demanding next that he stick out his tongue, I held the candle close to his face, and looked down the back of his throat. It was red and raw from coughing, and a gentle massage of the glands in his neck showed them to be swollen from infection. Standing, I went to where I had left my basket. I pulled out a long wooden tube, shaped like an ear trumpet used by the deaf. It had been made especially for me by one of my patients, to my exact specifications.
"What is that?" Frodo asked, as I carried it back towards him.
"It's for listening to your lungs. Now, sit up straight, and off with your shirt, please." He stared at me in surprise, and then complied, blushing slightly as he did so. I had a sneaking suspicion that the nearby young lasses had gotten no farther than sighing over this young fellow, more's the pity, and then pushed the thought quickly away. He was well-formed, though, with a wiry strength in his arms and upper chest. A little fattening up would do some him good, though, and I made a mental note to mention that to his uncle.
I placed one knee on the bed, and leaned forward. "Breath in and out deeply, please. This may feel a little cold." Placing the ear trumpet against his chest caused his flesh to shiver and his nipples to grow hard. I tore my eyes away from that rather compelling sight, and attempted to focus on his breathing. Definitely congested, and he was having difficulty breathing; if not taken care of, it could turn into something worse.
Pulling back, I looked down on him. "Well, you're well on your way to developing a healthy case of bronchitis or pneumonia if you're not careful." Frodo's eyes widened and I hastened to reassure him. "Not to worry, though. Your uncle got me here in time, and if we lower your fever, and do something about that cough, we should knock this out of you in no time." I dumped the ear trumpet into my basket, and heaved it up by its handles. Giving him my most reassuring smile, I told him I'd be back in a little while.
I found Bilbo puttering about in the kitchen, making a late supper for himself while a small pot of water bubbled merrily on the fire. He glanced toward me while slicing the bread before him, and asked, "Well? Not so bad off then?"
I shook my head. "Not so bad off, no. I'm a little concerned about the congestion in his lungs, but I have some medicines that should help quite a bit. And that fever needs to be taken down immediately." I began making an infusion of willow bark tea expressly for that purpose, and then dug about in my basket for my large jar of cherry syrup.
"Have you a smaller bottle or jar with a lid?" I asked Bilbo, holding up the jar before me.
"Surely, surely," he replied, pulling a thin bottle with a cork out of the cupboard against the far wall. I carefully poured the syrup into the bottle, filling it full. "What's that then?" he asked curiously.
"Syrup, boiled down from wild cherry bark. It's especially efficacious at making the nasty stuff in one's lungs come flying out. You'll likely want to find some old cloths for your nephew to cough into over the next few days." I peeked at the willow bark infusion, but it wasn't quite ready.
Bilbo made a slight face, and then pointed at the steeping tea. "And this? What is its purpose?"
"Willow bark is best for headaches, and reducing fevers. I'll add the peppermint leaves in a moment, to help mask the revolting taste of it, and we'll wait for it to cool before giving it to Frodo. If the fever doesn't break tonight, you'll need to keep giving this to him."
Bilbo held up a finger. "One moment, please." He left the room, and came back with a scrap of paper, pen, and ink. "Now, tell me everything that must be done after you are gone, or I'm likely to forget."
Reading and writing among Hobbits was somewhat uncommon, and most of my instructions had to be learned by rote by the patients or their caretakers. It was a pleasant task to simply tell Bilbo what needed to be done, and have it written down, while I continued to work over the willow bark medicine.
"You know, my dear," he paused for a moment, "you are impressively knowledgeable about herbs and their uses. I suppose you have your aunt to thank for that, but have you given any thought to writing a book on the subject?"
I blinked in surprise. "Write a book? Me? Why, no, I've never thought of such a thing."
Bilbo chuckled. "I can recommend it as a way to keep one occupied on long, lonely nights, and it is truly a refreshing way to organize one's mind. My own book is only in the beginning stages at this point, but I've enjoyed every minute so far."
"Indeed. I shallgive some thought to the matter." I added the finished tea to a small tray, along with the bottle of cherry syrup, and a spoon. "I'm off to give Frodo his medicine."
"The room across from his is made up for you. The storm has gotten only worse, and I see no way that you can get home tonight," he called after me, as I left the room.
I grimaced, thankful he couldn't see my face. It was to be expected, and it wasn't the first night I had stayed in a stranger's home. Staying the night with two bachelors was a different matter, but there was no changing the situation. While my own reputation was viewed as less than spotless by some in the Shire for varying reasons, I doubted that one night spent in the Baggins' burrow could make it that much worse.
Tapping gently on the door to Frodo's room with my one free hand, I pushed my way in, and set the tray on the table beside his bed. He made a face at it, and then began coughing; wet, bubbly coughs that left him weak.
"And that's why you need to take your medicine," I commented archly. "You're not going to give me a hard time, are you?"
"No, I wouldn't dream of it." A sweet, languid smile crossed his face, and I had a sudden vision of how he might look at a lover with whom he had just spent his passion. It was a look that curled my toes, and to cover my confusion, I made a great to-do of pouring the syrup into the spoon, and chided myself internally for imagining things that weren't there.
He meekly swallowed the spoon of medicine that I gave him, and slowly sipped the tea, making only the occasional face. I pulled a chair up next to his bed, and sat down to ensure that he drank it all. Frodo managed one strangled sip after another, until two-thirds of the way through, he paused, balancing the cup upon his blanket-covered knee.
"How is it that I've never met you? I thought I knew nearly everyone in Hobbiton and Bywater," he asked curiously.
I knew this to be a stalling tactic, but was willing to play along for a little while. "I only moved to Bywater permanently three years ago, when my aunt passed on, and I took over her home and apothecary. Prior to that, I lived with my husband's family in Greenfield."
"Greenfield? But that's all the way at the tip of the North Farthing. I hear that the country there is wild and untamed, at least, compared to Hobbiton." He gulped down a large swallow of the tea, nearly finishing it.
"Yes," I said, plucking absently at a loose thread on the coverlet covering his bed. "Yes, there are wild things that sometimes roam into that part of the Shire. My husband was killed by one; what exactly, we never knew. No one saw it happen." To my embarrassment, my voice shook slightly, even after all this time.
Frodo's hand lifted, and he touched my arm gently. "I am sorry," he said, his voice low. My eyes rose to meet his, and I saw only compassionate understanding on his face. He did understand, I knew, having heard that he had lost his parents at a very early age. Our gazes held, until I suddenly became aware that we had been staring at each other for far too long, and pulled away.
Clearing my throat, I continued, "And as for why we haven't met since then, well, unless you're sick or about to have a baby, there isn't much reason to meet me." I smiled, and pointed firmly at the cup in his hand. "Now finish up, and then rest for a while. I'll check in on you in a few hours."
He drained the cup, and handed it to me, an impish grin on his face. "I'll sleep happily, if you promise to never give me anymore of that awful stuff again."
"I'll do my best, but no promises," I cautioned, and left the room.
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The room across the hall was a mirror copy of Frodo's room, and Bilbo had apparently been busy while I tended to his nephew, as there was a small fire banked in the hearth, and a fresh pitcher of water next to the washing basin. I gave my face a good scrubbing, glad to get the feel of the wind and snow off my face. Bilbo had also even left a small tray, with a late-night snack of sandwiches and cookies for my repast. Truly, a gracious host. I ate quickly, and then with a weary sigh, lay down on the bed for a brief nap.
I woke a few hours later, and it took me a moment to realize where I was. I sat up slowly, and rubbed my weary eyes. It was time to check on Frodo, I remembered, and I crept quietly across the hall to his room.
The fire in the hearth was little more than coals, but it was enough for me to see by. I stood next to Frodo's bed, and felt his forehead. It was very hot, and I knew that rather than going down, the fever was getting worse. I relit the candle I had used before, and checked the pitcher of water on his chest of drawers. It was full, and I silently thanked Bilbo. He'd also left a pile of rags next to Frodo's bed, and I grabbed one of those and dipped it into the tepid water.
Thus began a long night of carefully sponging his upper body, and changing cool compresses on his forehead. Frodo was unaware through most of it, only occasionally making a small sound or cough, or moving restlessly. Once, as I pressed a cool cloth against his cheek, he murmured, "Mother," and my heart ached for him.
The night wore on, and I would occasionally peek out his door to see if dawn's light could be seen from the parlor down the hall, but it seemed slow in coming. Finally, exhausted, I sat down in the chair for a few minutes to rest, and found myself waking what seemed like hours later. Reproaching myself for being neglectful, I jumped to my feet to check on my patient, only to find him awake, and looking at me with concerned eyes.
"Well, you seem more yourself," I said, laying my hand against his forehead. "Ah. Your fever has broken, finally." I lightly touched the glands under his neck, and was pleased to see that the swelling was down dramatically. He was on the mend, then. Youth had many advantages, not the least of which was the ability to bounce back from illness with amazing speed.
"Were you here all night?" Frodo asked.
I picked up the chair, placing it back in its accustomed place by the wall. "You were very sick, and needed someone to watch over you." He coughed and grimaced, and I bent down and handed him one of the dry rags by his bed. "You'll need this soon enough," I said wryly. "Make sure you take the cough medicine regularly. I've left instructions with your uncle on how often."
"You're leaving then?"
I nodded. "You should be better soon, if you do as your uncle tells you. And if not, he knows where to find me." I gazed down at him, finding myself wanting to catch one more glimpse of those beautiful blue orbs of his. To my surprise, he leaned forward and grasped my hand, squeezing it tightly within his own, and looked up at me, his eyes full of some emotion that I couldn't quite read.
"Thank you," he said simply, and then lay back, exhausted.
I smiled at him, and then quietly
left the room. A fascinating young Hobbit, Frodo Baggins. Such fascination could
prove dangerous on my part, though, and it was perhaps for the best that I would
likely not be seeing him again anytime soon. With a soft sigh, I went back to
the room across the hall, and prepared for the difficult journey home.