He sighed deeply. It was one of the bad days and he'd taken to his bed that afternoon after luncheon, hoping to get through the inevitable sickness and get back to what passed, for him, as normal. But before
he drifted off to sleep---and despite his weakness---there was one thing he still had to do.
Throttle Samwise Gamgee.
It didn't matter that Sam had stewed rabbits for Frodo in Ithilien, carried him up Mt. Doom, or that Sam was about to become a father in a few months—he was a dead hobbit.
"SAM! Sam, come here please!" Frodo hollered as loudly as his recovering body was able. Swiftly, he heard running feet and Sam was in his room, his brown eyes wide with worry.
"Mr. Frodo, what do you need? Your Sam will fetch it straightaway."
"Sam, listen. The next time a healer knocks on the door, I *need* you to turn her away. I can't get *any* rest for the poking, prodding, and prying that they do! I know what's wrong with me---*you* know what's wrong with me—--so why are they here? Please don't let another one in, promise?" He shuddered.
"Easy Mr. Frodo, I'm right sorry. But I think they came from Rivendell, sir. I surely didn't call 'em and neither did Rosie---they must've tracked you down. And . . . how do you know the healer will be a 'she'?"
Frodo groaned. "Trust me, I know. They all are."
Feeling guilty for raising his voice now, Frodo sagged back into his soft bed. He was cranky and tired and irritable, and the flashbacks to the day before were nearly worse than his nightmares.
***
Sam had ushered the three healers into Frodo's room—all of them ducking to avoid the low ceilings as their eyes eagerly took in the smial's trappings.
"Well, would you look at this?" Healer Telcontar asked. "Isn't this tiny furniture the cutest thing ever? It's so cozy I could just move in here and set up shop."
A whimper issued from the bed at these words and the healers turned their attention to the small figure curled up upon it. Frodo lay on his side, his face pale and beaded with sweat, gazing at them with horror-stricken eyes as he grasped at something about his neck.
"No . . . please go . . ." he begged. "I just want to sleep. Please leave me alone."
Healer Claudia frowned and felt his brow. "Frodo, be sensible now," she soothed. "Ooooo—you are running a fever. Now open those adorable full lips and say, `Ahhhhh . . .'"
Perhaps, Frodo thought to himself, he could get rid of them faster if he complied. "Ahhhhh . . ."
"Hmmm . . . well, it not the quinsy and it's not respiratory . . . his little tongue looks nicely pink---not coated at all."
Impatient, the hobbit couldn't help but respond despite his sickness. "I *know* it's n . . . not respiratory. It's . . . an aftereffect of being stabbed by a blade of the Enemy."
Healer Ainur nodded knowingly. "Mmm-hmmm. That's what they all say. Could be a touch of dropsy or the cachexy. Now, let's just remove your nightshirt and take a gander while we palpate you . . ."
Frodo's eyes turned into saucers. "You'll do nothing of the sort!" he responded vehemently, crossing his arms and forcing the healers to pry them open.
"Oh my," Telcontar squealed. "What a lovely pendant. Look ladies---I wonder where he got it! I want one!"
"Queen Arwen . . . g . . . gave it . . ." Frodo said softly, his eyes beginning to tear over with exhaustion and pain.
"Didn't Arwen wear a pendant not unlike that?" Claudia asked, ignoring him. "Perhaps he had one made to copy it—it *is* rather attractive, though not what I'd expect a hobbit to enjoy wearing. But then I've heard these Bagginses are an unusual sort."
Telcontar nodded as she tried to undo the buttons of Frodo's gown. "Must . . . oof, Frodo, stop that . . . " There was quite a scuffle on the bed and a small shout from Frodo, but finally, Telcontar's bigger hands overpowered the small hobbit and he weakened, allowing her to pull the gown off over his head. As quickly as he was able, Frodo scooped the covers up and drew them tightly about himself.
Lowering her glasses, Ainur peered at the hobbit down the bridge of her nose and felt along his neck, ignoring the blue-eyed glare she was receiving. "Well, Claudia, Telcontar, what do you think? The ague? Can't be the pox---his skin is still as smooth and lovely as a newborn babe's. Feel."
They did---pulling the blankets from his chest and smoothing their hands over him and murmuring. "Yes, so very soft and unblemished . . . cannot be the camp fever, either. Perhaps the King's scrofula? Doesn't look like gout."
"I do *not* have Aragorn's scrofula, thank you . . ." came the emphatic statement from Frodo.
"Of course not, my dear," Claudia replied, now pressing the hobbit's small stomach and eliciting a wheeze from him. "Could be a touch of the bilious fever or scotomy. He might need a good purgative to keep the bowels cleansed."
"I'm quite certain my bowels are just dandy. SAM!" Frodo pulled on all his energy to yell as loudly as he was able, but was quite certain his friend was outside planting peas and could not hear. Curling up into a shivering ball, he closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear. He did not want to be purged, palpated, disemboweled, or whatever horrible things they were planning. Suddenly he jumped, finding his voice despite his weakness. "I'll . . . I'll thank you *not* to t-touch that, ma'am!"
"Surely you're not that sensitive about your hand, Frodo. How did you lose that finger, anyway? Farming accident?"
"I am not a farmer. I happened to have . . ."
Ainur interrupted him. "With all the dirt on these fingernails and you aren't a farmer? Bah!! You really should be more careful around those pony-drawn plows, you know. I hope you don't plan on farming again anytime soon, because you obviously aren't . . ."
"But I told you I'm not a farmer---you see, this creature . . ."
Claudia patted Frodo's head and smoothed his hair back, playing with his curls. "Rest, rest, Frodo. You've just a wee case of chlorosis---we'll clear it up in in a few weeks with lots of turnip and parsnip stew---"
"A . . . a few WEEKS? But I . . . don't like turnips. Can't I have a bit of the mushroom soup Rosie cooks up for me?"
This time it was Telcontar who shook her head. "Mushroom soup is for sissies. No, you need a good big vat of turnip stew to strengthen your constitution and put some rosiness into those sweet cheeks. Samwise Gamgee!!"
The last thing Frodo heard before he drifted off into blessed darkness was Telcontar calling for Sam and ordering turnip stew.
***
"And that's it, Sam," Frodo told his best friend, his eyes a bit teary, as he lay in the bed, once again resting comfortably. "The ship will sail soon, and I shall go with it."
"But Mr. Frodo, you can't go where your Sam can't follow!"
Frodo smiled, patting his friend's hand lightly, his eyes seeming to look far away. "That's just it, Sam---I have to go where *they* can't follow. It's the only solution, I fear. You cannot always be torn in two---whether to keep the healers out of Bag End or let them in."
He took a deep breath. "No, I shall go sailing, sailing over the Sea, far, far away from them . . ."
*The End*
he drifted off to sleep---and despite his weakness---there was one thing he still had to do.
Throttle Samwise Gamgee.
It didn't matter that Sam had stewed rabbits for Frodo in Ithilien, carried him up Mt. Doom, or that Sam was about to become a father in a few months—he was a dead hobbit.
"SAM! Sam, come here please!" Frodo hollered as loudly as his recovering body was able. Swiftly, he heard running feet and Sam was in his room, his brown eyes wide with worry.
"Mr. Frodo, what do you need? Your Sam will fetch it straightaway."
"Sam, listen. The next time a healer knocks on the door, I *need* you to turn her away. I can't get *any* rest for the poking, prodding, and prying that they do! I know what's wrong with me---*you* know what's wrong with me—--so why are they here? Please don't let another one in, promise?" He shuddered.
"Easy Mr. Frodo, I'm right sorry. But I think they came from Rivendell, sir. I surely didn't call 'em and neither did Rosie---they must've tracked you down. And . . . how do you know the healer will be a 'she'?"
Frodo groaned. "Trust me, I know. They all are."
Feeling guilty for raising his voice now, Frodo sagged back into his soft bed. He was cranky and tired and irritable, and the flashbacks to the day before were nearly worse than his nightmares.
***
Sam had ushered the three healers into Frodo's room—all of them ducking to avoid the low ceilings as their eyes eagerly took in the smial's trappings.
"Well, would you look at this?" Healer Telcontar asked. "Isn't this tiny furniture the cutest thing ever? It's so cozy I could just move in here and set up shop."
A whimper issued from the bed at these words and the healers turned their attention to the small figure curled up upon it. Frodo lay on his side, his face pale and beaded with sweat, gazing at them with horror-stricken eyes as he grasped at something about his neck.
"No . . . please go . . ." he begged. "I just want to sleep. Please leave me alone."
Healer Claudia frowned and felt his brow. "Frodo, be sensible now," she soothed. "Ooooo—you are running a fever. Now open those adorable full lips and say, `Ahhhhh . . .'"
Perhaps, Frodo thought to himself, he could get rid of them faster if he complied. "Ahhhhh . . ."
"Hmmm . . . well, it not the quinsy and it's not respiratory . . . his little tongue looks nicely pink---not coated at all."
Impatient, the hobbit couldn't help but respond despite his sickness. "I *know* it's n . . . not respiratory. It's . . . an aftereffect of being stabbed by a blade of the Enemy."
Healer Ainur nodded knowingly. "Mmm-hmmm. That's what they all say. Could be a touch of dropsy or the cachexy. Now, let's just remove your nightshirt and take a gander while we palpate you . . ."
Frodo's eyes turned into saucers. "You'll do nothing of the sort!" he responded vehemently, crossing his arms and forcing the healers to pry them open.
"Oh my," Telcontar squealed. "What a lovely pendant. Look ladies---I wonder where he got it! I want one!"
"Queen Arwen . . . g . . . gave it . . ." Frodo said softly, his eyes beginning to tear over with exhaustion and pain.
"Didn't Arwen wear a pendant not unlike that?" Claudia asked, ignoring him. "Perhaps he had one made to copy it—it *is* rather attractive, though not what I'd expect a hobbit to enjoy wearing. But then I've heard these Bagginses are an unusual sort."
Telcontar nodded as she tried to undo the buttons of Frodo's gown. "Must . . . oof, Frodo, stop that . . . " There was quite a scuffle on the bed and a small shout from Frodo, but finally, Telcontar's bigger hands overpowered the small hobbit and he weakened, allowing her to pull the gown off over his head. As quickly as he was able, Frodo scooped the covers up and drew them tightly about himself.
Lowering her glasses, Ainur peered at the hobbit down the bridge of her nose and felt along his neck, ignoring the blue-eyed glare she was receiving. "Well, Claudia, Telcontar, what do you think? The ague? Can't be the pox---his skin is still as smooth and lovely as a newborn babe's. Feel."
They did---pulling the blankets from his chest and smoothing their hands over him and murmuring. "Yes, so very soft and unblemished . . . cannot be the camp fever, either. Perhaps the King's scrofula? Doesn't look like gout."
"I do *not* have Aragorn's scrofula, thank you . . ." came the emphatic statement from Frodo.
"Of course not, my dear," Claudia replied, now pressing the hobbit's small stomach and eliciting a wheeze from him. "Could be a touch of the bilious fever or scotomy. He might need a good purgative to keep the bowels cleansed."
"I'm quite certain my bowels are just dandy. SAM!" Frodo pulled on all his energy to yell as loudly as he was able, but was quite certain his friend was outside planting peas and could not hear. Curling up into a shivering ball, he closed his eyes, wishing he could disappear. He did not want to be purged, palpated, disemboweled, or whatever horrible things they were planning. Suddenly he jumped, finding his voice despite his weakness. "I'll . . . I'll thank you *not* to t-touch that, ma'am!"
"Surely you're not that sensitive about your hand, Frodo. How did you lose that finger, anyway? Farming accident?"
"I am not a farmer. I happened to have . . ."
Ainur interrupted him. "With all the dirt on these fingernails and you aren't a farmer? Bah!! You really should be more careful around those pony-drawn plows, you know. I hope you don't plan on farming again anytime soon, because you obviously aren't . . ."
"But I told you I'm not a farmer---you see, this creature . . ."
Claudia patted Frodo's head and smoothed his hair back, playing with his curls. "Rest, rest, Frodo. You've just a wee case of chlorosis---we'll clear it up in in a few weeks with lots of turnip and parsnip stew---"
"A . . . a few WEEKS? But I . . . don't like turnips. Can't I have a bit of the mushroom soup Rosie cooks up for me?"
This time it was Telcontar who shook her head. "Mushroom soup is for sissies. No, you need a good big vat of turnip stew to strengthen your constitution and put some rosiness into those sweet cheeks. Samwise Gamgee!!"
The last thing Frodo heard before he drifted off into blessed darkness was Telcontar calling for Sam and ordering turnip stew.
***
"And that's it, Sam," Frodo told his best friend, his eyes a bit teary, as he lay in the bed, once again resting comfortably. "The ship will sail soon, and I shall go with it."
"But Mr. Frodo, you can't go where your Sam can't follow!"
Frodo smiled, patting his friend's hand lightly, his eyes seeming to look far away. "That's just it, Sam---I have to go where *they* can't follow. It's the only solution, I fear. You cannot always be torn in two---whether to keep the healers out of Bag End or let them in."
He took a deep breath. "No, I shall go sailing, sailing over the Sea, far, far away from them . . ."
*The End*