A/N: Next chapter! And good news: I *will* be able to post the next (and
sadly, last) chapter before I leave for home Saturday afternoon. Yay! :)
Many thanks for all of the enthusiastic reviews!
Chapter 9
Frodo slept for most of the next few days, exhausted from his battle with the fever and dehydration. When he was awake, he acted normally, though feeling rather weak and tired, with no sign of any lasting problems as a result of his illness. This was a relief to both the Gaffer and the midwife.
Lyonola Chubb stayed at Bag End for the first three days, wanting to be on hand in case of a relapse or recurrence of the high fever. She had not yet decided when she thought it would be safe to leave her patient, but the decision was made for her when one of the Hobbiton ladies went into labor. Before she left, she gave Sam instructions to make sure Frodo drank lots of fluids, and keep him in bed for at *least* three more days, just in case.
Sam was allowed to assume the care of Frodo as his primary responsibility, though the Gaffer or Mrs. Gamgee would check up on the two from time to time throughout the day. Sam carefully minded all of Miss Chubb's instructions, much to Frodo's chagrin. He fussed over Frodo constantly, virtually shoving all manner of liquids down his throat. Luckily for him, Frodo hadn't thrown up again, but by the end of the second day after the midwife left, Frodo had had enough.
"Sam! Stop already!" he cried in frustration as Sam tried to persuade him into having more tea. "You've made me have soup and tea for all six meals today and-" he cut off Sam's objection with a wave of his hand- "and you've forced me to drink gallons more of water and tea and anything else liquid. I am simply demanding not to be given any more! I would like to be able to sleep without have to go to the bathroom half a dozen times in the middle of the night!"
Sam blushed and looked down at his hands, somewhat abashed. "I-I guess you have a point, Mr. Frodo," he admitted.
Frodo laughed a little and pulled Sam down to sit next to him on the bed. "Honestly, Sam, I appreciate all you've been doing for me; I wish I could repay you somehow. But I am getting better, so you don't always have to wait on me hand and foot, okay?" He made Sam look him straight in the eye to make sure his words were taken the way he intended. Sam nodded, and Frodo hugged him slightly. "You look tired. Why don't you go to bed?" Sam rubbed a hand across his eyes and started to say something but yawned instead. "I think that's all the answer I need," Frodo said with a smirk. He patted the half of his bed he wasn't currently occupying. "Here, make yourself comfortable. There's room enough for both of us. And I'll be right back," he said, slipping out of bed and heading, of course, to the bathroom. He really *was* feeling better; not entirely back to normal, but no longer absolutely miserable.
By the time Frodo returned to his room, Sam was already fast asleep. He had wrapped himself in one of the quilts and lay very close to the edge on the other side of Frodo's bed, having pushed all of the blankets on the bed over to Frodo's side. 'Silly hobbit,' Frodo chuckled to himself as he climbed back into bed, rearranging the blankets so they covered both himself and Sam. Soon he, too, was sound asleep.
Frodo awoke to the sound of a shrill wind whistling through the window and rattling the windowpanes. In the dim light of early morning, he could see the heavy clouds that heralded snow and bad weather. 'The Gaffer was right,' he mused. It came as no surprise; the Gaffer was hardly ever wrong when it came to weather. Two days ago he'd predicted a nasty winter storm would come within a few days' time, so he'd prepared for it, stockpiling firewood and other basic supplies at both his own home and Bag End. Frodo shivered a bit just listening to the wind, and scooted closer to Sam, to share in his warmth. The younger hobbit was sound asleep, seemingly unbothered by the wind's mournful wailing. Frodo soon followed his example.
Both were startled awake about midmorning by a loud bang echoing through the smial. Frodo's first thought-'What was *that*?!'-was followed closely by a second-'Why is Sam still in bed?' He spoke the first aloud. "What was *that*?!"
"A shutter pro'ly came unlatched," Sam responded drowsily a moment later. They both listened in silence to the insistent staccato the shutter pounded against the side of the hole. Frodo took the time to puzzle out the mystery of why Sam was still in bed. 'He's usually up at about sunrise, but of course I can't blame him if he wanted to sleep in-he looked really tired last night...though habits are hard to break ...' He rolled over to face the subject of his train of thought and noticed Sam was shivering. The fire had burned low, but the air was still warm enough; he still had the blankets and quilts over him, so why was he cold? Then Frodo realized with a sinking heart what was wrong. He reached out and touched Sam's back lightly; it was quite warm to the touch. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry," he breathed.
Sam stirred slightly and answered, " 'Tisn't your fault, Mr. Frodo. I probably caught it from my relations. It's been going around."
"But I still feel responsible, with you taking care of me and all," Frodo countered. "Well, now I get to take care of you. Neither of us will be going anywhere with that storm." Sam would have objected, but a wave of nausea swept over him, and he fought back the urge to throw up. Frodo observed his situation and handed him a basin, which Sam took gratefully. "All right. I'll get you some tea, after I take care of that blasted shutter. And don't"-he continued, shaking a reproving finger at Sam-"even *think* about getting up or I'll have your hide." Sam nodded meekly and Frodo left the room. He dashed back in half a moment later. "I think I'll need some clothes," he said sheepishly. Had he not felt as dizzy and nauseated, Sam would've laughed outright at the mental picture of Frodo out in the wind, trying to refasten the shutter, in his nightshirt. Frodo left again after a minute or two, this time fully-and warmly-dressed.
The cause of all the noise was the shutter on the study's small window; it had managed to work loose of its latch. It took Frodo a couple of tries to wrestle the recalcitrant shutter back to its proper place with the wind swirling around him, trying to push him face-first into the frozen crust of snow on the ground.
By the time Frodo got back in Bag End, his fingers felt like icicles and his ears and feet were numb. He stood as close to the kitchen fire as he could get without burning himself or singeing the hair off his feet, warming himself while waiting for the kettle to boil. It seemed to take forever; Frodo was beginning to feel tired from his exertions and just wanted to crawl back into bed and go to sleep.
Sam was awake and half sitting up against the pillows when Frodo finally came back, tea pot and cups in hand. "All right, Sam, time for some tea!" he said with as much cheerfulness as he could muster. He hoped Sam would cooperate-he didn't have the energy to force Sam to do anything. Frodo may be older, but Sam was stronger.
Sam looked at him miserably; his face seemed to turn a little green at the thought, and he slowly shook his head. Frodo sighed as he put the tea things on the table next to the bed. "Sam, you must drink something. How about just some water?" Sam still shook his head. 'How can I get him to drink something?' Then Frodo had an idea. It was rather immature, but it just might work...
Frodo crossed his arms and said, "Fine. But I'm not drinking anything until you do." 'Please let this work,' he pleaded inwardly.
Sam took the bait, his face now holding a look of astonishment and bewilderment. "That's...that's not fair! That's blackmail!" Sam spluttered weakly.
Laughing now, Frodo answered, "Yes, it is. But if it gets you to cooperate... It's for your own good, you know."
Sam sighed, resigned. "All right, I'll drink something." He shot Frodo a glare. "But only so you will."
Frodo patted his shoulder and handed him a cup of the ginger tea. "That was the idea."
Many thanks for all of the enthusiastic reviews!
Chapter 9
Frodo slept for most of the next few days, exhausted from his battle with the fever and dehydration. When he was awake, he acted normally, though feeling rather weak and tired, with no sign of any lasting problems as a result of his illness. This was a relief to both the Gaffer and the midwife.
Lyonola Chubb stayed at Bag End for the first three days, wanting to be on hand in case of a relapse or recurrence of the high fever. She had not yet decided when she thought it would be safe to leave her patient, but the decision was made for her when one of the Hobbiton ladies went into labor. Before she left, she gave Sam instructions to make sure Frodo drank lots of fluids, and keep him in bed for at *least* three more days, just in case.
Sam was allowed to assume the care of Frodo as his primary responsibility, though the Gaffer or Mrs. Gamgee would check up on the two from time to time throughout the day. Sam carefully minded all of Miss Chubb's instructions, much to Frodo's chagrin. He fussed over Frodo constantly, virtually shoving all manner of liquids down his throat. Luckily for him, Frodo hadn't thrown up again, but by the end of the second day after the midwife left, Frodo had had enough.
"Sam! Stop already!" he cried in frustration as Sam tried to persuade him into having more tea. "You've made me have soup and tea for all six meals today and-" he cut off Sam's objection with a wave of his hand- "and you've forced me to drink gallons more of water and tea and anything else liquid. I am simply demanding not to be given any more! I would like to be able to sleep without have to go to the bathroom half a dozen times in the middle of the night!"
Sam blushed and looked down at his hands, somewhat abashed. "I-I guess you have a point, Mr. Frodo," he admitted.
Frodo laughed a little and pulled Sam down to sit next to him on the bed. "Honestly, Sam, I appreciate all you've been doing for me; I wish I could repay you somehow. But I am getting better, so you don't always have to wait on me hand and foot, okay?" He made Sam look him straight in the eye to make sure his words were taken the way he intended. Sam nodded, and Frodo hugged him slightly. "You look tired. Why don't you go to bed?" Sam rubbed a hand across his eyes and started to say something but yawned instead. "I think that's all the answer I need," Frodo said with a smirk. He patted the half of his bed he wasn't currently occupying. "Here, make yourself comfortable. There's room enough for both of us. And I'll be right back," he said, slipping out of bed and heading, of course, to the bathroom. He really *was* feeling better; not entirely back to normal, but no longer absolutely miserable.
By the time Frodo returned to his room, Sam was already fast asleep. He had wrapped himself in one of the quilts and lay very close to the edge on the other side of Frodo's bed, having pushed all of the blankets on the bed over to Frodo's side. 'Silly hobbit,' Frodo chuckled to himself as he climbed back into bed, rearranging the blankets so they covered both himself and Sam. Soon he, too, was sound asleep.
Frodo awoke to the sound of a shrill wind whistling through the window and rattling the windowpanes. In the dim light of early morning, he could see the heavy clouds that heralded snow and bad weather. 'The Gaffer was right,' he mused. It came as no surprise; the Gaffer was hardly ever wrong when it came to weather. Two days ago he'd predicted a nasty winter storm would come within a few days' time, so he'd prepared for it, stockpiling firewood and other basic supplies at both his own home and Bag End. Frodo shivered a bit just listening to the wind, and scooted closer to Sam, to share in his warmth. The younger hobbit was sound asleep, seemingly unbothered by the wind's mournful wailing. Frodo soon followed his example.
Both were startled awake about midmorning by a loud bang echoing through the smial. Frodo's first thought-'What was *that*?!'-was followed closely by a second-'Why is Sam still in bed?' He spoke the first aloud. "What was *that*?!"
"A shutter pro'ly came unlatched," Sam responded drowsily a moment later. They both listened in silence to the insistent staccato the shutter pounded against the side of the hole. Frodo took the time to puzzle out the mystery of why Sam was still in bed. 'He's usually up at about sunrise, but of course I can't blame him if he wanted to sleep in-he looked really tired last night...though habits are hard to break ...' He rolled over to face the subject of his train of thought and noticed Sam was shivering. The fire had burned low, but the air was still warm enough; he still had the blankets and quilts over him, so why was he cold? Then Frodo realized with a sinking heart what was wrong. He reached out and touched Sam's back lightly; it was quite warm to the touch. "Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry," he breathed.
Sam stirred slightly and answered, " 'Tisn't your fault, Mr. Frodo. I probably caught it from my relations. It's been going around."
"But I still feel responsible, with you taking care of me and all," Frodo countered. "Well, now I get to take care of you. Neither of us will be going anywhere with that storm." Sam would have objected, but a wave of nausea swept over him, and he fought back the urge to throw up. Frodo observed his situation and handed him a basin, which Sam took gratefully. "All right. I'll get you some tea, after I take care of that blasted shutter. And don't"-he continued, shaking a reproving finger at Sam-"even *think* about getting up or I'll have your hide." Sam nodded meekly and Frodo left the room. He dashed back in half a moment later. "I think I'll need some clothes," he said sheepishly. Had he not felt as dizzy and nauseated, Sam would've laughed outright at the mental picture of Frodo out in the wind, trying to refasten the shutter, in his nightshirt. Frodo left again after a minute or two, this time fully-and warmly-dressed.
The cause of all the noise was the shutter on the study's small window; it had managed to work loose of its latch. It took Frodo a couple of tries to wrestle the recalcitrant shutter back to its proper place with the wind swirling around him, trying to push him face-first into the frozen crust of snow on the ground.
By the time Frodo got back in Bag End, his fingers felt like icicles and his ears and feet were numb. He stood as close to the kitchen fire as he could get without burning himself or singeing the hair off his feet, warming himself while waiting for the kettle to boil. It seemed to take forever; Frodo was beginning to feel tired from his exertions and just wanted to crawl back into bed and go to sleep.
Sam was awake and half sitting up against the pillows when Frodo finally came back, tea pot and cups in hand. "All right, Sam, time for some tea!" he said with as much cheerfulness as he could muster. He hoped Sam would cooperate-he didn't have the energy to force Sam to do anything. Frodo may be older, but Sam was stronger.
Sam looked at him miserably; his face seemed to turn a little green at the thought, and he slowly shook his head. Frodo sighed as he put the tea things on the table next to the bed. "Sam, you must drink something. How about just some water?" Sam still shook his head. 'How can I get him to drink something?' Then Frodo had an idea. It was rather immature, but it just might work...
Frodo crossed his arms and said, "Fine. But I'm not drinking anything until you do." 'Please let this work,' he pleaded inwardly.
Sam took the bait, his face now holding a look of astonishment and bewilderment. "That's...that's not fair! That's blackmail!" Sam spluttered weakly.
Laughing now, Frodo answered, "Yes, it is. But if it gets you to cooperate... It's for your own good, you know."
Sam sighed, resigned. "All right, I'll drink something." He shot Frodo a glare. "But only so you will."
Frodo patted his shoulder and handed him a cup of the ginger tea. "That was the idea."