Chapter 2
When Frodo awoke, it was almost midnight and he felt miserable. His whole body ached, his head was pounding, and he needed to go to the bathroom. He stood up and the room spun, making his stomach roil in complaint. Frodo gripped the back of the chair to keep himself from falling and closed his eyes until he felt his equilibrium returning. He shuffled to the bathroom just in time to be sick.
When the need to retch finally passed, Frodo sat on the floor and thought wearily, 'At least I won't have to clean it up.' After he finished his business in the bathroom, he uncertainly made his way to the kitchen to make some tea in hopes of settling his stomach. He still wanted to attempt the trip to Buckland in the morning, though if his present condition continued he wouldn't make it out of Hobbiton. Frodo realized that it would just make things worse if he tried to go and didn't make it. He'd likely freeze to death by the side of the road. No, if he still felt this poorly in the morning, he would delay his trip by another day.
The aroma of the ginger tea reassured him somewhat; perhaps it would prevent him from throwing up again. 'I should probably eat something,' he mused as he sipped the tea. Frodo hadn't eaten anything since his half- hearted attempt at breakfast, but was reluctant, not wanting to further irritate his stomach. Not to mention the mere thought of food was nauseating. Maybe he'd try something in the morning.
When he finished the tea, he shuffled back to his room with a pitcher of water and a glass. Every time he'd been ill in the past, the healer always emphasized the need for fluids, so he brought the water just in case he was still unwell when he awoke in the morning. After building up the fire so it would last and piling extra blankets on the bed, Frodo gladly went to sleep, genuinely hoping his symptoms were just a chill and would be gone come morning.
~~~~~~~
Cold. Frodo's first feeling upon waking was of extreme cold, in spite of being fully clothed, with his winter coat still on, no less, and buried beneath several heavy blankets. 'Did the fire go out?' he wondered dimly and wearily lifted his head to check.
Bad idea. The motion made his head spin, sending his stomach reeling, and soon everything that had still been in his stomach was all over the bedclothes.
Frodo waited long moments until he was sure the urge had passed before trying to move again. He poured himself a glass of water to rinse out his mouth and slake his thirst, and found his throat was raw and sore. He finished the glass but poured no more-he doubted he could swallow it. Then he dragged himself out of bed, resolving to change the linens, and thankful he hadn't soiled his clothes; he felt cold enough without having to undress.
As he supported himself against the bed Frodo tried to pull off the dirty bedding-he might as well do it while he was standing there. Plus it had the added benefit of allowing him to hold himself upright until the room's spin slowed enough that he could figure out where the linen closet *was*. He tugged weakly at the sheets and blankets, willing them to at least drop to the floor out of the way. But the stubborn linen resisted his repeated efforts until he finally gave up, defeated.
Frodo sagged against the bed and slid to the floor, his aching limbs no match for the bedsheets or gravity. He huddled on the floor, his back against a bedpost. 'I should be able to take care of myself,' he thought bitterly. 'I am, after all, of age. A grown hobbit doesn't need to be fussed over.'
Even as he tried to convince himself of this, he found himself longing to have Bilbo there to comfort him, change the sheets, and get whatever he needed until he was feeling better. The thoughts of Bilbo strengthened him somewhat, and he pondered what to do next.
'Can't change the sheets . . . maybe I should go to the couch . . . no, that room is too big. Would take to much effort to keep the fire going . . . a chair, then?' he mused. The fire in his room was dying quickly, he'd have to build it up again if he was going to camp out in the chair in here, unless . . . that's it! His study was perfect. Relatively small room, oversized armchair, next door to the bathroom-just in case. It never hurt to be prepared. With that settled, Frodo stood up with renewed determination to prove he can take care of himself, even when ill.
He made it to the linen closet without incident, and pulled half a dozen quilts and blankets out to make his nest in the chair. After leaving the bedding on the chair and starting a fire, he continued to the kitchen, one quilt wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Frodo prepared another pitcher of water, made more ginger tea in hopes it would be more effective the second time around, and puzzled over what he could soothe his throat with. But his memory proved to have as many holes as a tea strainer and after a few moments of thought completely forgot what it was he had been thinking about. So he gave up that endeavor and made his way back to his study with his supplies.
As Frodo made himself comfortable in the chair and laid out the pitchers and cups on the convenient end of his desk, his thoughts strayed to Merry and his former plans to visit Brandy Hall. 'Oh, well,' he mused ruefully, 'guess I'll be spending Yule alone after all. They probably won't even notice I'm not there. I never did tell them I was coming . . .' Soon he fell back to sleep.
When Frodo awoke, it was almost midnight and he felt miserable. His whole body ached, his head was pounding, and he needed to go to the bathroom. He stood up and the room spun, making his stomach roil in complaint. Frodo gripped the back of the chair to keep himself from falling and closed his eyes until he felt his equilibrium returning. He shuffled to the bathroom just in time to be sick.
When the need to retch finally passed, Frodo sat on the floor and thought wearily, 'At least I won't have to clean it up.' After he finished his business in the bathroom, he uncertainly made his way to the kitchen to make some tea in hopes of settling his stomach. He still wanted to attempt the trip to Buckland in the morning, though if his present condition continued he wouldn't make it out of Hobbiton. Frodo realized that it would just make things worse if he tried to go and didn't make it. He'd likely freeze to death by the side of the road. No, if he still felt this poorly in the morning, he would delay his trip by another day.
The aroma of the ginger tea reassured him somewhat; perhaps it would prevent him from throwing up again. 'I should probably eat something,' he mused as he sipped the tea. Frodo hadn't eaten anything since his half- hearted attempt at breakfast, but was reluctant, not wanting to further irritate his stomach. Not to mention the mere thought of food was nauseating. Maybe he'd try something in the morning.
When he finished the tea, he shuffled back to his room with a pitcher of water and a glass. Every time he'd been ill in the past, the healer always emphasized the need for fluids, so he brought the water just in case he was still unwell when he awoke in the morning. After building up the fire so it would last and piling extra blankets on the bed, Frodo gladly went to sleep, genuinely hoping his symptoms were just a chill and would be gone come morning.
~~~~~~~
Cold. Frodo's first feeling upon waking was of extreme cold, in spite of being fully clothed, with his winter coat still on, no less, and buried beneath several heavy blankets. 'Did the fire go out?' he wondered dimly and wearily lifted his head to check.
Bad idea. The motion made his head spin, sending his stomach reeling, and soon everything that had still been in his stomach was all over the bedclothes.
Frodo waited long moments until he was sure the urge had passed before trying to move again. He poured himself a glass of water to rinse out his mouth and slake his thirst, and found his throat was raw and sore. He finished the glass but poured no more-he doubted he could swallow it. Then he dragged himself out of bed, resolving to change the linens, and thankful he hadn't soiled his clothes; he felt cold enough without having to undress.
As he supported himself against the bed Frodo tried to pull off the dirty bedding-he might as well do it while he was standing there. Plus it had the added benefit of allowing him to hold himself upright until the room's spin slowed enough that he could figure out where the linen closet *was*. He tugged weakly at the sheets and blankets, willing them to at least drop to the floor out of the way. But the stubborn linen resisted his repeated efforts until he finally gave up, defeated.
Frodo sagged against the bed and slid to the floor, his aching limbs no match for the bedsheets or gravity. He huddled on the floor, his back against a bedpost. 'I should be able to take care of myself,' he thought bitterly. 'I am, after all, of age. A grown hobbit doesn't need to be fussed over.'
Even as he tried to convince himself of this, he found himself longing to have Bilbo there to comfort him, change the sheets, and get whatever he needed until he was feeling better. The thoughts of Bilbo strengthened him somewhat, and he pondered what to do next.
'Can't change the sheets . . . maybe I should go to the couch . . . no, that room is too big. Would take to much effort to keep the fire going . . . a chair, then?' he mused. The fire in his room was dying quickly, he'd have to build it up again if he was going to camp out in the chair in here, unless . . . that's it! His study was perfect. Relatively small room, oversized armchair, next door to the bathroom-just in case. It never hurt to be prepared. With that settled, Frodo stood up with renewed determination to prove he can take care of himself, even when ill.
He made it to the linen closet without incident, and pulled half a dozen quilts and blankets out to make his nest in the chair. After leaving the bedding on the chair and starting a fire, he continued to the kitchen, one quilt wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Frodo prepared another pitcher of water, made more ginger tea in hopes it would be more effective the second time around, and puzzled over what he could soothe his throat with. But his memory proved to have as many holes as a tea strainer and after a few moments of thought completely forgot what it was he had been thinking about. So he gave up that endeavor and made his way back to his study with his supplies.
As Frodo made himself comfortable in the chair and laid out the pitchers and cups on the convenient end of his desk, his thoughts strayed to Merry and his former plans to visit Brandy Hall. 'Oh, well,' he mused ruefully, 'guess I'll be spending Yule alone after all. They probably won't even notice I'm not there. I never did tell them I was coming . . .' Soon he fell back to sleep.