FIC: MATHOM 6?
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: PG
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 . . .
***
If Bilbo or Frodo Baggins had ever been struck dumb by any event, this was surely it. Frodo coughed violently as Bilbo rushed to his side, holding the tweenager's shoulders and patting his back as Frodo spat up the tangy tea and tried to regain some air in his lungs.
"There's a lad . . . easy now . . . sit up a bit, that's it, can you breathe?"
Frodo nodded, his heart pounding, as he gasped and held his burning nose. "What . . . what happened . . . I couldn't swallow, Bilbo . . . it came back up . . ." Suddenly he felt incredibly weak and sagged, letting Bilbo support him.
"I don't know, but the doctor should be here any minute." Gently his uncle took the cup away, setting it aside as he settled Frodo back down comfortably on the bed. As the tweenager's spine met the feather mattress a spasm of pain hit, causing him to arch his back slightly, and he gripped the sheets until the fit passed.
"Where does it hurt, lad?" Bilbo's eyes were creased with concern as he placed a cool compress on the feverish brow and moved to change the top sheet, which was now spattered with ginger tea.
"Everywhere . . . my head and back hurt . . . and I'm hot . . . and cold." As he spoke his eyes widened---his voice sounded deeper somehow. Why was that? He'd already gone through the "ripening" as his Uncle Saradoc had embarrassedly called it at the time. Hobbits were not terribly shy about bodily maturation, but in Brandy Hall, where nothing was private . . . well, it was a very trying time for a young hobbit. And Frodo was convinced he'd come out worse than most---while some of his friends had ended up with deep voices, he'd ended up with a more refined voice that still sounded squeaky on occasion when he was frightened or upset.
He was utterly convinced Freesia would have been much more friendly toward him if he only had a deeper, more hearty voice like Drasco or Lotho or maybe even Fatty. Of course, he admitted, he did not have Lotho's unfortunate complexion problems. But on the other hand, having one's aunts comment appraisingly about one's "porcelain" skin was not so pleasant for a lad, either, and really got Frodo riled up.
He shivered, coming back to the present and wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his gown, sighing. He already felt sticky all over despite Bilbo's earlier sponging. "Bilbo . . . I'm so thirsty . . ."
Bilbo bit his lip as he regarded the lad, unbuttoning the top of Frodo's nightshirt and wiping down his charge's chest. "I'm sorry, dear boy, but I think it's best if we wait until Dr. Littlefield gets here before I give you anything else. I don't want you choking again."
"Not even another tiny sip of the tea?" Just a few drops would have felt so good against his sore throat and perhaps taken his mind off the fact that his head and stomach were hurting so. "Just a tiny sip?"
"I'm afraid not quite yet, Frodo. But just as soon as the doctor says it's all right, if he arrives soon. Now rest, lad---you're wearing yourself out."
Feeling miserable, Frodo sniffled a bit and tried to turn over. But it was just too painful to move much and he quickly gave up, closing his eyes and trying to stretch against the near-constant burning sensation in his muscles. Bilbo, seeing his plight, gently rolled him onto his side and began to rub the small back.
Both hobbits started when a loud knock sounded at the door. Reassuring his charge he'd be right back, Bilbo ran to answer it, the patter of his feet disappearing for several long minutes before Frodo heard two sets of footsteps out in the hallway---and voices talking low.
"No, he can't seem to move it much at all . . ."
" . . . vomiting and feverish?"
". . . the choking was quite alarming . . ."
" . . . a clear-cut diagnosis from that, Mr. Baggins . . ."
". . . oh dear . . ."
" . . . likely bedridden for some time . . ."
The murmurs quieted and the footsteps resumed. Frodo opened his eyes to see Bilbo entering his room with a stocky older hobbit whom Frodo had met only a few times before. He had gray curls and, most astonishing to Frodo, a small amount of silky hair on his lower face----and though his beard was not full like Gandalf's, it nonetheless set the doctor apart as a Stoor hobbit from the Eastfarthing. Relatively new to Hobbiton, Dr. Littlefield was already renown for his unorthodox, yet seemingly effective, treatments.
"Well, what have we got here?" he asked kindly, approaching the bed with a gentle smile as he set his bag on the table and leaned over Frodo. Despite his weakness the tweenager had to resist the urge to reach up and grab the doctor's downy chin. "Mr. Baggins tells me you've been feeling quite poorly, young Frodo. Let's have a look and see what we can do for you."
Frodo tried to lay quiescent while Dr. Littlefield removed the compress and felt his forehead and cheeks. The doctor frowned a bit but schooled his features carefully when he caught the tween's eyes on him. "Yes, indeed, you've a temperature, young sir . . . and a nice black eye, as well. Your uncle tells me you got into a fight."
"Y--yes . . . I didn't mean to . . . he hit me, and then later . . . jumped on me and I had to defend myself . . ."
"Ah, I see. Well, I do hope his parents taught him a lesson for that one. A lad your age---probably an argument over a lass, am I right?" the doctor asked kindly, winking, as he peered into Frodo's throat and felt his neck and shoulders.
Frodo felt his face turn red---he certainly didn't want to discuss such things with the older generation---and especially with this hobbit he barely knew. But the conversation *was* distracting him from the fact that he felt as if he was about to throw up again.
The doctor, however, didn't seem to expect an answer from him, instead continuing his examination with a watchful eye. "I expect you're feeling rather ill with that fever. Are you sick to your stomach? Headachy?"
"Y--yes. But I'm sure it's from my bruises . . ."
"Perhaps so." Dr. Littlefield leaned over the tweenager and gently grasped his shoulders. "Now, Frodo, I just want to see if you can hold your head up for me."
Hold his head up? Only small babes couldn't hold their heads up---Frodo well remembered his Aunt Esmeralda directing him how to hold his cousin when Merry was just a tiny tot. "Watch his head," she'd said, placing the wriggling bundle in Frodo's lap.
Thinking back on it, Frodo frowned up at Dr. Littlefield, his eyebrows knitting together. "I'm not a baby," he murmured.
"Of course you're not, Frodo. This will only take a moment."
"All right." The tweenager grimaced as his shoulders were raised off the bed, and to his horror, his head flopped back limply. He started, his eyes widening. The fight with Lotho must have tired him out much more than he realized. In fact, he felt exhausted and hoped this examination would be over soon so he could curl up and go to sleep. And so that Bilbo would stop wringing his hands in the corner and realize Frodo had something simple like a bad cold or perhaps just a fit of the vapors.
The doctor eased Frodo back down and folded the bedclothes away from his lower body, carefully picking up the young hobbit's legs. The left leg ached terribly, and despite the gentle touch Frodo could not hold back a whimper of pain. When asked to move the limb, he could only make it twitch the tiniest bit and looked up at Dr. Littlefield with large fearful eyes. "I can't move it . . . but I don't . . . I don't have the Bree palsy, do I? It's just from running while I had a cold, right?"
Dr. Littlefield resettled Frodo's legs and tucked him back in snugly. Ruffling his patient's curls, he straightened and stood away from the bed, thoughtful.
"Well, doctor?" Bilbo asked, his face wrinkled with worry. "Please tell us . . . Frodo must know as well."
"Mr. Baggins, it's as I suspected when I first heard your nephew's symptoms. Please don't be frightened, either of you . . but it looks as if Frodo is indeed suffering from the Bree palsy."
To be continued
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: PG
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 . . .
***
If Bilbo or Frodo Baggins had ever been struck dumb by any event, this was surely it. Frodo coughed violently as Bilbo rushed to his side, holding the tweenager's shoulders and patting his back as Frodo spat up the tangy tea and tried to regain some air in his lungs.
"There's a lad . . . easy now . . . sit up a bit, that's it, can you breathe?"
Frodo nodded, his heart pounding, as he gasped and held his burning nose. "What . . . what happened . . . I couldn't swallow, Bilbo . . . it came back up . . ." Suddenly he felt incredibly weak and sagged, letting Bilbo support him.
"I don't know, but the doctor should be here any minute." Gently his uncle took the cup away, setting it aside as he settled Frodo back down comfortably on the bed. As the tweenager's spine met the feather mattress a spasm of pain hit, causing him to arch his back slightly, and he gripped the sheets until the fit passed.
"Where does it hurt, lad?" Bilbo's eyes were creased with concern as he placed a cool compress on the feverish brow and moved to change the top sheet, which was now spattered with ginger tea.
"Everywhere . . . my head and back hurt . . . and I'm hot . . . and cold." As he spoke his eyes widened---his voice sounded deeper somehow. Why was that? He'd already gone through the "ripening" as his Uncle Saradoc had embarrassedly called it at the time. Hobbits were not terribly shy about bodily maturation, but in Brandy Hall, where nothing was private . . . well, it was a very trying time for a young hobbit. And Frodo was convinced he'd come out worse than most---while some of his friends had ended up with deep voices, he'd ended up with a more refined voice that still sounded squeaky on occasion when he was frightened or upset.
He was utterly convinced Freesia would have been much more friendly toward him if he only had a deeper, more hearty voice like Drasco or Lotho or maybe even Fatty. Of course, he admitted, he did not have Lotho's unfortunate complexion problems. But on the other hand, having one's aunts comment appraisingly about one's "porcelain" skin was not so pleasant for a lad, either, and really got Frodo riled up.
He shivered, coming back to the present and wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his gown, sighing. He already felt sticky all over despite Bilbo's earlier sponging. "Bilbo . . . I'm so thirsty . . ."
Bilbo bit his lip as he regarded the lad, unbuttoning the top of Frodo's nightshirt and wiping down his charge's chest. "I'm sorry, dear boy, but I think it's best if we wait until Dr. Littlefield gets here before I give you anything else. I don't want you choking again."
"Not even another tiny sip of the tea?" Just a few drops would have felt so good against his sore throat and perhaps taken his mind off the fact that his head and stomach were hurting so. "Just a tiny sip?"
"I'm afraid not quite yet, Frodo. But just as soon as the doctor says it's all right, if he arrives soon. Now rest, lad---you're wearing yourself out."
Feeling miserable, Frodo sniffled a bit and tried to turn over. But it was just too painful to move much and he quickly gave up, closing his eyes and trying to stretch against the near-constant burning sensation in his muscles. Bilbo, seeing his plight, gently rolled him onto his side and began to rub the small back.
Both hobbits started when a loud knock sounded at the door. Reassuring his charge he'd be right back, Bilbo ran to answer it, the patter of his feet disappearing for several long minutes before Frodo heard two sets of footsteps out in the hallway---and voices talking low.
"No, he can't seem to move it much at all . . ."
" . . . vomiting and feverish?"
". . . the choking was quite alarming . . ."
" . . . a clear-cut diagnosis from that, Mr. Baggins . . ."
". . . oh dear . . ."
" . . . likely bedridden for some time . . ."
The murmurs quieted and the footsteps resumed. Frodo opened his eyes to see Bilbo entering his room with a stocky older hobbit whom Frodo had met only a few times before. He had gray curls and, most astonishing to Frodo, a small amount of silky hair on his lower face----and though his beard was not full like Gandalf's, it nonetheless set the doctor apart as a Stoor hobbit from the Eastfarthing. Relatively new to Hobbiton, Dr. Littlefield was already renown for his unorthodox, yet seemingly effective, treatments.
"Well, what have we got here?" he asked kindly, approaching the bed with a gentle smile as he set his bag on the table and leaned over Frodo. Despite his weakness the tweenager had to resist the urge to reach up and grab the doctor's downy chin. "Mr. Baggins tells me you've been feeling quite poorly, young Frodo. Let's have a look and see what we can do for you."
Frodo tried to lay quiescent while Dr. Littlefield removed the compress and felt his forehead and cheeks. The doctor frowned a bit but schooled his features carefully when he caught the tween's eyes on him. "Yes, indeed, you've a temperature, young sir . . . and a nice black eye, as well. Your uncle tells me you got into a fight."
"Y--yes . . . I didn't mean to . . . he hit me, and then later . . . jumped on me and I had to defend myself . . ."
"Ah, I see. Well, I do hope his parents taught him a lesson for that one. A lad your age---probably an argument over a lass, am I right?" the doctor asked kindly, winking, as he peered into Frodo's throat and felt his neck and shoulders.
Frodo felt his face turn red---he certainly didn't want to discuss such things with the older generation---and especially with this hobbit he barely knew. But the conversation *was* distracting him from the fact that he felt as if he was about to throw up again.
The doctor, however, didn't seem to expect an answer from him, instead continuing his examination with a watchful eye. "I expect you're feeling rather ill with that fever. Are you sick to your stomach? Headachy?"
"Y--yes. But I'm sure it's from my bruises . . ."
"Perhaps so." Dr. Littlefield leaned over the tweenager and gently grasped his shoulders. "Now, Frodo, I just want to see if you can hold your head up for me."
Hold his head up? Only small babes couldn't hold their heads up---Frodo well remembered his Aunt Esmeralda directing him how to hold his cousin when Merry was just a tiny tot. "Watch his head," she'd said, placing the wriggling bundle in Frodo's lap.
Thinking back on it, Frodo frowned up at Dr. Littlefield, his eyebrows knitting together. "I'm not a baby," he murmured.
"Of course you're not, Frodo. This will only take a moment."
"All right." The tweenager grimaced as his shoulders were raised off the bed, and to his horror, his head flopped back limply. He started, his eyes widening. The fight with Lotho must have tired him out much more than he realized. In fact, he felt exhausted and hoped this examination would be over soon so he could curl up and go to sleep. And so that Bilbo would stop wringing his hands in the corner and realize Frodo had something simple like a bad cold or perhaps just a fit of the vapors.
The doctor eased Frodo back down and folded the bedclothes away from his lower body, carefully picking up the young hobbit's legs. The left leg ached terribly, and despite the gentle touch Frodo could not hold back a whimper of pain. When asked to move the limb, he could only make it twitch the tiniest bit and looked up at Dr. Littlefield with large fearful eyes. "I can't move it . . . but I don't . . . I don't have the Bree palsy, do I? It's just from running while I had a cold, right?"
Dr. Littlefield resettled Frodo's legs and tucked him back in snugly. Ruffling his patient's curls, he straightened and stood away from the bed, thoughtful.
"Well, doctor?" Bilbo asked, his face wrinkled with worry. "Please tell us . . . Frodo must know as well."
"Mr. Baggins, it's as I suspected when I first heard your nephew's symptoms. Please don't be frightened, either of you . . but it looks as if Frodo is indeed suffering from the Bree palsy."
To be continued