FIC: MATHOM 5?
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: PG-13 for wee hobbit pain and suffering and graphic medical detail.
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. This fic contains no sex, no slash, and no profanity.
In this fic, Frodo is 22, just a few months shy of turning 23. And while Frodo and Bilbo are cousins, since Bilbo referred to Frodo in FOTR as his "favourite nephew," I may occasionally refer to them as such . . .
***
Frodo, feeling as weak and flushed as he could ever remember, clasped Bilbo's neck tightly and shut his eyes as his uncle bore him up the hill. A burning ache had settled in his legs and seemed to be spreading outward, and his throat was ever so sore.
"Nearly home, lad," Bilbo soothed, his breathing heavy from walking so quickly.
Outside the smial Hamfast Gamgee was pulling weeds from the garden, but as soon as he heard Bilbo's voice he turned, startled at the sight that greeted him. "Mr. Bilbo! What's happened?"
"Frodo is very ill . . . would you mind going to fetch the doctor? I don't dare leave him."
"Nossir, course not . . . I'll go straightaway."
"Thank you, Hamfast. Please tell him it's urgent. And Hamfast . . . it could be something contagious---best to keep your young ones away from Bag End for a while."
The Gaffer nodded, his eyes wide, and sped down the hill as quickly as his legs could carry him.
Frodo sighed with relief as they entered Bag End's round door and were once again surrounded by the familiar smells of home. He was feeling a bit better and surely everything would be all right now---why, he was likely making a big fuss over nothing more than a cold and a simple stomach upset. And his leg---probably just a bit of weakness from running so hard while feeling ill. And then he had gone and foolishly overreacted to it all.
Well, at least he he *thought*he was improving until Bilbo carried him past the kitchen toward his bedroom and the smells of baked chicken and mushrooms wafted out into the hall. On a good day Frodo would have been ecstatic for such a meal---indeed, Bilbo loved to try to "fatten him up,"---but this time, it was all he could do to bite his lip and keep the remaining contents of his belly in place.
Soon enough they reached his bedroom, and Frodo drew a great breath as Bilbo pulled the quilts back from his plump featherbed and gently settled the tweenager down. It was heavenly---the sheets were cool against his burning skin and the softness felt much better than a bed of nasturtiums.
But Bilbo was now looking down at him, his face creased with worry, and Frodo felt his face grow even hotter with shame. He'd disobeyed and left Bag End when told not to---and had given his uncle a terrible fright.
"I'm sorry, Bilbo." His voice was little more than a pained whisper. "Lotho and I, we . . . we got into another fight. I . . . I didn't mean to leave, Bilbo . . . I'm so sorry. I'll clean the cellar or do whatever to make it up to you, I promise."
The older hobbit's face relaxed as he caressed Frodo's cheek affectionately, surreptitiously also checking his temperature. "Shhhhh . . . lads will be lads where lasses are concerned, I suppose. We'll talk about it when you're feeling better. Now, Frodo, are you able to move your legs at all?" Bilbo waited, looking for all the world to Frodo as if he were hoping against hope that his nephew had been dreaming or imagining things when he'd been found alongside the road.
"I'll . . . I'll try, Bilbo." Experimentally he flexed his left ankle and tried to raise his left leg---the one that had been so stubborn earlier---but found that no matter how he gritted his teeth and concentrated, he could not raise it more than just slightly off the bed. His face wet with sweat, he stared up at Bilbo worriedly. "I still can't move it, Bilbo. I can barely move it at all . . ." Tears started in his eyes and rolled down one flushed cheek as he began to breathe rapidly. "I have the Bree palsy, don't I?"
"Ssssshhhh, my boy . . . calm down. We don't know that, and even if you do, Dr. Littlefield is on his way and he'll fix you up. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." Bilbo grabbed a handkerchief and wiped the tears away. But to the tweenager, his uncle's voice sounded shaky and uncertain no matter how he tried to hide it. "Now, let's get you undressed and more comfortable, shall we?"
Frodo nodded, trying to find a comfortable position in bed; he felt as if a miniature bonfire had suddenly sprang up under his back. With nimble fingers Bilbo began to divest Frodo of his clothing, frowning at the slight beginnings of bruises on the delicate skin.
"I really didn't mean to leave, Bilbo . . . I don't know what came over me," Frodo rambled, noticing Bilbo's expression. "And Lotho wasn't with Freesia at all---he was with Amaryllis. I made a fool of myself, as usual . . a total, utter fool of myself . . . I couldn't even best him in a fight . . ."
Bilbo chuckled a bit, trying to lighten the mood as he pulled Frodo's breeches off. "Lad, if I had a Shire penny for everyone who embarrassed themselves over someone of the opposite gender . . . well, I've a story to tell you when you're feeling up to it."
"Tell me now."
The older hobbit shook his head. "When you're feeling better---right now you need to rest." He paused a moment, shaking his head. "Although I'm not at all certain how to explain to the doctor the black eye you're developing."
Frodo sighed, and suddenly a burning sensation shot down his leg and he whimpered, his body jerking slightly. Immediately his uncle was kneading the leg and in a minutes' time, the dire pain was replaced by a prickly sensation.
"Better now?" Bilbo asked, and Frodo nodded. Rising, the older hobbit fetched towels and a basin of room-temperature water and added a few packets of chamomile to it before settling on Frodo's bed and gently wiping the tweenager's feverish body down. It did feel nice, Frodo had to admit---he felt sticky with sweat. Then he felt another sensation---his stomach was rebelling again. "Bilbo . . ."
His uncle immediately helped Frodo turn onto his side, holding his head over a hastily grabbed bowl as the tweenager vomited.
The punishment seemed to go on forever until the young hobbit's stomach was completely empty, after which Bilbo wiped his face and neck and settled him back among his pillows. Frodo lay there breathing rapidly, his head beginning to ache right behind his eyes. He grimaced---didn't he already feel bad enough without the headache?
Bilbo swiftly finished sponging his nephew down and eased a soft nightshirt over him, trying to be as gentle as possible when Frodo winced at his touch.
"I'm sorry, Bilbo . . . it . . . it hurts to be touched. My skin feels like it's on fire."
"I know, lad. Now, how about a cup of tea to ease your stomach and wash the bad taste out of your mouth?"
Frodo nodded, quite thirsty, and patting the tween's shoulder, Bilbo went to fetch the promised drink.
As he stared at the ceiling beams, Frodo imagined how soothing something to drink would feel to his sore throat. And his mind wandered to thoughts of his cousins at Brandy Hall. He hoped with all his heart that Merry was still all right and had managed to avoid getting the Bree palsy. *And maybe I don't have it either,* Frodo thought to himself. After all, Bree palsy was supposedly a dreadful illness, and so far, Frodo felt rather ill, but he had felt far more miserable symptoms from other illnesses he'd had: the runs . . . or pain in his ears . . . or terrible stomach cramping . . . or difficulty breathing as he'd had when he was stricken with pneumonia as a youngster.
"Here we go." Bilbo made his way back into the bedroom with a tray and sat carefully on the bed. "Let me help you."
"That's all right . . . I think I can drink it myself."
His uncle nodded skeptically. "All right, let me just sit you up a bit and I'll let you try while I tidy the room up, then."
Frodo nodded, letting Bilbo prop him up on pillows. He took the warm cup and sipped from it as he watched the older hobbit fussing about, laying stacks of towels on the desk, opening the curtains, gathering clean sheets, fluffing pillows . . .
The tea was tangy and sweet and felt good washing over Frodo's tongue---and then it happened. Suddenly the warm liquid was not going down his throat at all, as it definitely was meant to, but back up---through his nose, at the same time also going down into his windpipe. The young hobbit sat in shock for a moment, watching the tea dribble out of his nostrils onto his sheets, and then he began to choke.
To be continued
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: PG-13 for wee hobbit pain and suffering and graphic medical detail.
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. This fic contains no sex, no slash, and no profanity.
In this fic, Frodo is 22, just a few months shy of turning 23. And while Frodo and Bilbo are cousins, since Bilbo referred to Frodo in FOTR as his "favourite nephew," I may occasionally refer to them as such . . .
***
Frodo, feeling as weak and flushed as he could ever remember, clasped Bilbo's neck tightly and shut his eyes as his uncle bore him up the hill. A burning ache had settled in his legs and seemed to be spreading outward, and his throat was ever so sore.
"Nearly home, lad," Bilbo soothed, his breathing heavy from walking so quickly.
Outside the smial Hamfast Gamgee was pulling weeds from the garden, but as soon as he heard Bilbo's voice he turned, startled at the sight that greeted him. "Mr. Bilbo! What's happened?"
"Frodo is very ill . . . would you mind going to fetch the doctor? I don't dare leave him."
"Nossir, course not . . . I'll go straightaway."
"Thank you, Hamfast. Please tell him it's urgent. And Hamfast . . . it could be something contagious---best to keep your young ones away from Bag End for a while."
The Gaffer nodded, his eyes wide, and sped down the hill as quickly as his legs could carry him.
Frodo sighed with relief as they entered Bag End's round door and were once again surrounded by the familiar smells of home. He was feeling a bit better and surely everything would be all right now---why, he was likely making a big fuss over nothing more than a cold and a simple stomach upset. And his leg---probably just a bit of weakness from running so hard while feeling ill. And then he had gone and foolishly overreacted to it all.
Well, at least he he *thought*he was improving until Bilbo carried him past the kitchen toward his bedroom and the smells of baked chicken and mushrooms wafted out into the hall. On a good day Frodo would have been ecstatic for such a meal---indeed, Bilbo loved to try to "fatten him up,"---but this time, it was all he could do to bite his lip and keep the remaining contents of his belly in place.
Soon enough they reached his bedroom, and Frodo drew a great breath as Bilbo pulled the quilts back from his plump featherbed and gently settled the tweenager down. It was heavenly---the sheets were cool against his burning skin and the softness felt much better than a bed of nasturtiums.
But Bilbo was now looking down at him, his face creased with worry, and Frodo felt his face grow even hotter with shame. He'd disobeyed and left Bag End when told not to---and had given his uncle a terrible fright.
"I'm sorry, Bilbo." His voice was little more than a pained whisper. "Lotho and I, we . . . we got into another fight. I . . . I didn't mean to leave, Bilbo . . . I'm so sorry. I'll clean the cellar or do whatever to make it up to you, I promise."
The older hobbit's face relaxed as he caressed Frodo's cheek affectionately, surreptitiously also checking his temperature. "Shhhhh . . . lads will be lads where lasses are concerned, I suppose. We'll talk about it when you're feeling better. Now, Frodo, are you able to move your legs at all?" Bilbo waited, looking for all the world to Frodo as if he were hoping against hope that his nephew had been dreaming or imagining things when he'd been found alongside the road.
"I'll . . . I'll try, Bilbo." Experimentally he flexed his left ankle and tried to raise his left leg---the one that had been so stubborn earlier---but found that no matter how he gritted his teeth and concentrated, he could not raise it more than just slightly off the bed. His face wet with sweat, he stared up at Bilbo worriedly. "I still can't move it, Bilbo. I can barely move it at all . . ." Tears started in his eyes and rolled down one flushed cheek as he began to breathe rapidly. "I have the Bree palsy, don't I?"
"Ssssshhhh, my boy . . . calm down. We don't know that, and even if you do, Dr. Littlefield is on his way and he'll fix you up. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about." Bilbo grabbed a handkerchief and wiped the tears away. But to the tweenager, his uncle's voice sounded shaky and uncertain no matter how he tried to hide it. "Now, let's get you undressed and more comfortable, shall we?"
Frodo nodded, trying to find a comfortable position in bed; he felt as if a miniature bonfire had suddenly sprang up under his back. With nimble fingers Bilbo began to divest Frodo of his clothing, frowning at the slight beginnings of bruises on the delicate skin.
"I really didn't mean to leave, Bilbo . . . I don't know what came over me," Frodo rambled, noticing Bilbo's expression. "And Lotho wasn't with Freesia at all---he was with Amaryllis. I made a fool of myself, as usual . . a total, utter fool of myself . . . I couldn't even best him in a fight . . ."
Bilbo chuckled a bit, trying to lighten the mood as he pulled Frodo's breeches off. "Lad, if I had a Shire penny for everyone who embarrassed themselves over someone of the opposite gender . . . well, I've a story to tell you when you're feeling up to it."
"Tell me now."
The older hobbit shook his head. "When you're feeling better---right now you need to rest." He paused a moment, shaking his head. "Although I'm not at all certain how to explain to the doctor the black eye you're developing."
Frodo sighed, and suddenly a burning sensation shot down his leg and he whimpered, his body jerking slightly. Immediately his uncle was kneading the leg and in a minutes' time, the dire pain was replaced by a prickly sensation.
"Better now?" Bilbo asked, and Frodo nodded. Rising, the older hobbit fetched towels and a basin of room-temperature water and added a few packets of chamomile to it before settling on Frodo's bed and gently wiping the tweenager's feverish body down. It did feel nice, Frodo had to admit---he felt sticky with sweat. Then he felt another sensation---his stomach was rebelling again. "Bilbo . . ."
His uncle immediately helped Frodo turn onto his side, holding his head over a hastily grabbed bowl as the tweenager vomited.
The punishment seemed to go on forever until the young hobbit's stomach was completely empty, after which Bilbo wiped his face and neck and settled him back among his pillows. Frodo lay there breathing rapidly, his head beginning to ache right behind his eyes. He grimaced---didn't he already feel bad enough without the headache?
Bilbo swiftly finished sponging his nephew down and eased a soft nightshirt over him, trying to be as gentle as possible when Frodo winced at his touch.
"I'm sorry, Bilbo . . . it . . . it hurts to be touched. My skin feels like it's on fire."
"I know, lad. Now, how about a cup of tea to ease your stomach and wash the bad taste out of your mouth?"
Frodo nodded, quite thirsty, and patting the tween's shoulder, Bilbo went to fetch the promised drink.
As he stared at the ceiling beams, Frodo imagined how soothing something to drink would feel to his sore throat. And his mind wandered to thoughts of his cousins at Brandy Hall. He hoped with all his heart that Merry was still all right and had managed to avoid getting the Bree palsy. *And maybe I don't have it either,* Frodo thought to himself. After all, Bree palsy was supposedly a dreadful illness, and so far, Frodo felt rather ill, but he had felt far more miserable symptoms from other illnesses he'd had: the runs . . . or pain in his ears . . . or terrible stomach cramping . . . or difficulty breathing as he'd had when he was stricken with pneumonia as a youngster.
"Here we go." Bilbo made his way back into the bedroom with a tray and sat carefully on the bed. "Let me help you."
"That's all right . . . I think I can drink it myself."
His uncle nodded skeptically. "All right, let me just sit you up a bit and I'll let you try while I tidy the room up, then."
Frodo nodded, letting Bilbo prop him up on pillows. He took the warm cup and sipped from it as he watched the older hobbit fussing about, laying stacks of towels on the desk, opening the curtains, gathering clean sheets, fluffing pillows . . .
The tea was tangy and sweet and felt good washing over Frodo's tongue---and then it happened. Suddenly the warm liquid was not going down his throat at all, as it definitely was meant to, but back up---through his nose, at the same time also going down into his windpipe. The young hobbit sat in shock for a moment, watching the tea dribble out of his nostrils onto his sheets, and then he began to choke.
To be continued