A/N: And here's the next chapter! Many thanks to everyone who reviews, and
a few thanks to those who read it and don't review.... wink Yes, I know
there are lurkers out there who read and don't review. I was one of them
for several months just a little while ago... but then I learned the error
of my ways, shall we say? :p Okay, enough rambling, I know you want to
kill me over that cliffhanger, so here throws chapter as peace offering
don't kill me, okay?
Chapter 7
"Mr. Frodo?"
Sam spotted his quarry lying in the armchair, apparently asleep. His face was flushed, though as a result of the firelight or a fever, Sam couldn't be sure from where he stood in the doorway. Closing the door behind him, Sam approached the chair and carefully observed the scene before moving to do anything.
Several logs of firewood were on a quilt in front of the chair, a pitcher and a teapot were perched on the edge of the desk closest to the chair, where Frodo lay curled like a contented cat. Sam gingerly put a hand to Frodo's forehead to see if he had a fever. Startled, he quickly withdrew it. Frodo felt *very* warm, and his skin felt dry. He stirred slightly under Sam's touch, but did not awaken.
Sam debated with himself for a few moments; should he go fetch the healer or was Frodo not ill enough to need the healer? He realized that his hands were probably pretty cold from being outside all day for the trip home, so perhaps it wasn't that *Frodo* was *warm,* it was that *he* was *cold.* It was better to be safe than sorry, but Sam decided finally to see if he could rouse Frodo enough to ask if he was all right. Sam pulled out his handkerchief and wetted it with the lukewarm water from the pitcher. Kneeling in front of the chair, he gently wiped Frodo's face with the cloth, both to wake him up and help to bring down his fever, if he did indeed have one.
After a few minutes of Sam's careful ministrations, Frodo sighed softly and opened his eyes. He had to blink several times before he could focus on the face in front of him. "Sam?" he whispered.
"Yes, it's Sam, Mr. Frodo. How do you feel?" he asked, momentarily ceasing his motions with the cloth.
Frodo closed his eyes again as the room spun around him. "Hot," he said hoarsely. "Thirsty."
"I can pour you a glass of water," Sam offered, already reaching for the pitcher and a glass.
"No," Frodo shook his head slightly. "Hurts to swallow."
"But you have to drink something," Sam insisted, concerned. He poured a glass despite Frodo's protests and helped prop him up on his elbow, noticing Frodo's damp clothing and that he was (still) wearing his winter coat. As Sam tried to hand him the glass, Frodo held him back with his other hand as he turned pale and hunched over. Sam moved back to avoid colliding heads as Frodo leaned forward and seemed like he was going to throw up. It started as dry heaves, and soon gave way to harsh coughs. The coughing lasted for what seemed like hours to Sam, but it finally stopped, leaving Frodo shaking with weakness and gasping for breath. Sam insisted that he drink the water and had Frodo lean against him while slowly drinking it, then helped him lie back down.
Having made up his mind, Sam made sure Frodo was as comfortable as possible and stood. "I'm going to get the healer," he stated, watching for Frodo's reaction. When he merely nodded in assent, Sam knew Frodo was more ill than he would ever verbally admit. Frodo's resistance to bringing in the healer was a reliable measure of how he felt: the better he felt, the more he resisted. His complete lack of protest was more worrying to Sam than anything he had seen. Sam hurried out the door, headed toward Hobbiton. He stopped briefly at his home, to explain his delay to his father and gain permission to stay the night at Bag End, which was granted without hesitation. As Sam continued on to Hobbiton, his gaffer headed up to Bag End to do what he could for the ill young master.
Chapter 7
"Mr. Frodo?"
Sam spotted his quarry lying in the armchair, apparently asleep. His face was flushed, though as a result of the firelight or a fever, Sam couldn't be sure from where he stood in the doorway. Closing the door behind him, Sam approached the chair and carefully observed the scene before moving to do anything.
Several logs of firewood were on a quilt in front of the chair, a pitcher and a teapot were perched on the edge of the desk closest to the chair, where Frodo lay curled like a contented cat. Sam gingerly put a hand to Frodo's forehead to see if he had a fever. Startled, he quickly withdrew it. Frodo felt *very* warm, and his skin felt dry. He stirred slightly under Sam's touch, but did not awaken.
Sam debated with himself for a few moments; should he go fetch the healer or was Frodo not ill enough to need the healer? He realized that his hands were probably pretty cold from being outside all day for the trip home, so perhaps it wasn't that *Frodo* was *warm,* it was that *he* was *cold.* It was better to be safe than sorry, but Sam decided finally to see if he could rouse Frodo enough to ask if he was all right. Sam pulled out his handkerchief and wetted it with the lukewarm water from the pitcher. Kneeling in front of the chair, he gently wiped Frodo's face with the cloth, both to wake him up and help to bring down his fever, if he did indeed have one.
After a few minutes of Sam's careful ministrations, Frodo sighed softly and opened his eyes. He had to blink several times before he could focus on the face in front of him. "Sam?" he whispered.
"Yes, it's Sam, Mr. Frodo. How do you feel?" he asked, momentarily ceasing his motions with the cloth.
Frodo closed his eyes again as the room spun around him. "Hot," he said hoarsely. "Thirsty."
"I can pour you a glass of water," Sam offered, already reaching for the pitcher and a glass.
"No," Frodo shook his head slightly. "Hurts to swallow."
"But you have to drink something," Sam insisted, concerned. He poured a glass despite Frodo's protests and helped prop him up on his elbow, noticing Frodo's damp clothing and that he was (still) wearing his winter coat. As Sam tried to hand him the glass, Frodo held him back with his other hand as he turned pale and hunched over. Sam moved back to avoid colliding heads as Frodo leaned forward and seemed like he was going to throw up. It started as dry heaves, and soon gave way to harsh coughs. The coughing lasted for what seemed like hours to Sam, but it finally stopped, leaving Frodo shaking with weakness and gasping for breath. Sam insisted that he drink the water and had Frodo lean against him while slowly drinking it, then helped him lie back down.
Having made up his mind, Sam made sure Frodo was as comfortable as possible and stood. "I'm going to get the healer," he stated, watching for Frodo's reaction. When he merely nodded in assent, Sam knew Frodo was more ill than he would ever verbally admit. Frodo's resistance to bringing in the healer was a reliable measure of how he felt: the better he felt, the more he resisted. His complete lack of protest was more worrying to Sam than anything he had seen. Sam hurried out the door, headed toward Hobbiton. He stopped briefly at his home, to explain his delay to his father and gain permission to stay the night at Bag End, which was granted without hesitation. As Sam continued on to Hobbiton, his gaffer headed up to Bag End to do what he could for the ill young master.