Chapter 5
Bilbo dozed on and off that night as he sat beside his nephew's bed. The tweenager's coughing grew harsher, and twice he coughed up startling amounts of phlegm. Around midnight, Frodo awoke and asked if he could have something to drink. "Of course my boy." Bilbo yawned. "Let me fetch Mr. Glassburrow, and I'll see if he can't make you a nice cup of tea." The old hobbit kissed the lad on the forehead, frowning as he still felt the amount of heat radiating from Frodo's skin. Frodo watched as his Uncle left the room and sighed, gazing up at the wood ceiling. He missed his bedroom at Bag-End more than ever now. True, the inhabitants at the Inn were very kind so far and so was the healer, but he still could not help feeling frightened. He missed hearing the clippers of Hamfast Gamgee in the garden outside of his window and little Samwise peeping in every so often.
When Bilbo returned, he carried a saucer and a chipped teacup. When Bilbo sat down again, he urged Frodo to sit up a bit so he wouldn't choke on the tea. "What kind is it?" Frodo asked in the midst of a cough.
"Chamomile." Bilbo replied. "Not too much at once now---there we are." He aided Frodo in sipping the tea, holding the edge of the cup to the tweenager's lips. The liquid was so refreshing sliding down, but he almost immediately started coughing again after his second mouthful. Bilbo fumbled for a handkerchief and held it to Frodo's mouth. "Spit lad." He encouraged, and Frodo spit up more phlegm, sobbing when he'd finished. "It's all right, my boy." Bilbo promised, once his nephew managed to get a good breath of air. Once Frodo was laying back against his pillows, he gazed longingly at his Uncle, who disposed of the soiled handkerchief.
"---glad you're here, Uncle." Frodo whispered after Bilbo took a seat again.
Bilbo clasped his hand around Frodo's and placed it against his cheek. "I'm glad I'm here too, love."
Frodo sighed, feeling sleepiness take over again. Bilbo looked up and noticed that his nephew's eyes were drooping, and caressed the burning forehead with the back of his hand. "I think," He began quietly, "that I ought to write a letter to your Auntie Esme and Uncle Saradoc."
Frodo gasped and tried to sit up. "No, Uncle!" He cried in a weak voice.
Bilbo stared. "Why not, my boy? You know they'd want to hear from me if you fell sick."
Frodo whimpered softly. "Because-because they told us not to go when we did. All they will say, Bilbo, is "We told you so." I know it!"
Bilbo rubbed Frodo's arm. "Nonsense, lad. Even if they do say that, I deserve it. I should have listened to them-you were clearly not as well as you appeared."
Frodo frowned before his cheeks suddenly turned a light shade of green. "I am going to be ill, Uncle." He choked. Bilbo immediately dashed across the room to grab the bed pan and held it under Frodo's head. The lad started to throw up, sobbing as he did so. Bilbo rubbed Frodo's back, promising that everything was going to be all right. When the fit ended, Frodo choked, "Oh no-there's blood in that."
Bilbo grimaced as he looked inside the basin, and sure enough, the lad was right. "Well, Frodo, that is usually what happens when one has pneumonia. Let me go and empty this and you just lay back and rest now."
"Don't leave me, Uncle Bilbo." Frodo begged.
"I'll be back in a minute, I promise. I don't want the smell of this to make you sick again." Bilbo kissed Frodo gently on the top of the head before hurrying to the privy to empty the basin. While he was gone, Frodo groaned. He had not felt this awful since the bout of flu he had caught the winter before. This, however, was ten times worse. His chest was so tight that he felt as though he could hardly breathe. Plus, every muscle in his tiny body ached to the dickens, and he felt hot and cold at the same time. When Bilbo returned with the empty basin in his hands, he took a piece of parchment from his travel pack and a quill.
"What are you doing?" Frodo whimpered.
"I am going to write a letter to your Aunt and Uncle, Frodo. I have to. Trust me, I've been called more names than anyone in the Shire, probably, so I can deal with a little bit of backlash from them."
Frodo actually smiled at his Uncle's comment. It was true-folks in Hobbiton were always talking about "Mad Baggins". Frodo had actually defended Bilbo once after a bunch of hobbit lads tortured Frodo one day as he was coming home from the market. He had received a pretty decent bruise over his right eye, which took nearly two weeks to heal. Bilbo had been very upset with him about that, but had hugged him and praised him all the same.
"Do you need anything, Master Baggins?" A voice called through the door. It was Mr. Glassburrow, the owner.
"Another fresh mug of tea would be wonderful, thank you, sir." Bilbo replied.
"I'll have it to you shortly." Frodo listened as Gilbo Glassburrow's footsteps grew fainter and fainter before turning to Bilbo again. He watched as his Uncle sat writing, using his knees as a table.
"Do not make it too dramatic," Frodo teased.
"Let's see. Too dramatic." Bilbo tapped the pen against his chin. "Our dear Frodo is very near death and...."
"Uncle!" Frodo cried. "How could you even jest about such a thing?" He broke into a fit of harsh coughing from speaking too much, and Bilbo patted his arm.
"Because I know you are a strong lad, and you've been through more illnesses than one can count. Now close your eyes my boy, and try to get some sleep."
Frodo nodded. "Will you sit with me through the night, Uncle?" He asked quietly.
"Of course, lad. Go to sleep, now. Your Uncle Bilbo is right here beside you."
Frodo smiled weakly, before reaching his hand out. Bilbo took the small hand in his own and kissed it lightly, before watching the lad burry underneath the warmth of the covers and drift away.
Bilbo dozed on and off that night as he sat beside his nephew's bed. The tweenager's coughing grew harsher, and twice he coughed up startling amounts of phlegm. Around midnight, Frodo awoke and asked if he could have something to drink. "Of course my boy." Bilbo yawned. "Let me fetch Mr. Glassburrow, and I'll see if he can't make you a nice cup of tea." The old hobbit kissed the lad on the forehead, frowning as he still felt the amount of heat radiating from Frodo's skin. Frodo watched as his Uncle left the room and sighed, gazing up at the wood ceiling. He missed his bedroom at Bag-End more than ever now. True, the inhabitants at the Inn were very kind so far and so was the healer, but he still could not help feeling frightened. He missed hearing the clippers of Hamfast Gamgee in the garden outside of his window and little Samwise peeping in every so often.
When Bilbo returned, he carried a saucer and a chipped teacup. When Bilbo sat down again, he urged Frodo to sit up a bit so he wouldn't choke on the tea. "What kind is it?" Frodo asked in the midst of a cough.
"Chamomile." Bilbo replied. "Not too much at once now---there we are." He aided Frodo in sipping the tea, holding the edge of the cup to the tweenager's lips. The liquid was so refreshing sliding down, but he almost immediately started coughing again after his second mouthful. Bilbo fumbled for a handkerchief and held it to Frodo's mouth. "Spit lad." He encouraged, and Frodo spit up more phlegm, sobbing when he'd finished. "It's all right, my boy." Bilbo promised, once his nephew managed to get a good breath of air. Once Frodo was laying back against his pillows, he gazed longingly at his Uncle, who disposed of the soiled handkerchief.
"---glad you're here, Uncle." Frodo whispered after Bilbo took a seat again.
Bilbo clasped his hand around Frodo's and placed it against his cheek. "I'm glad I'm here too, love."
Frodo sighed, feeling sleepiness take over again. Bilbo looked up and noticed that his nephew's eyes were drooping, and caressed the burning forehead with the back of his hand. "I think," He began quietly, "that I ought to write a letter to your Auntie Esme and Uncle Saradoc."
Frodo gasped and tried to sit up. "No, Uncle!" He cried in a weak voice.
Bilbo stared. "Why not, my boy? You know they'd want to hear from me if you fell sick."
Frodo whimpered softly. "Because-because they told us not to go when we did. All they will say, Bilbo, is "We told you so." I know it!"
Bilbo rubbed Frodo's arm. "Nonsense, lad. Even if they do say that, I deserve it. I should have listened to them-you were clearly not as well as you appeared."
Frodo frowned before his cheeks suddenly turned a light shade of green. "I am going to be ill, Uncle." He choked. Bilbo immediately dashed across the room to grab the bed pan and held it under Frodo's head. The lad started to throw up, sobbing as he did so. Bilbo rubbed Frodo's back, promising that everything was going to be all right. When the fit ended, Frodo choked, "Oh no-there's blood in that."
Bilbo grimaced as he looked inside the basin, and sure enough, the lad was right. "Well, Frodo, that is usually what happens when one has pneumonia. Let me go and empty this and you just lay back and rest now."
"Don't leave me, Uncle Bilbo." Frodo begged.
"I'll be back in a minute, I promise. I don't want the smell of this to make you sick again." Bilbo kissed Frodo gently on the top of the head before hurrying to the privy to empty the basin. While he was gone, Frodo groaned. He had not felt this awful since the bout of flu he had caught the winter before. This, however, was ten times worse. His chest was so tight that he felt as though he could hardly breathe. Plus, every muscle in his tiny body ached to the dickens, and he felt hot and cold at the same time. When Bilbo returned with the empty basin in his hands, he took a piece of parchment from his travel pack and a quill.
"What are you doing?" Frodo whimpered.
"I am going to write a letter to your Aunt and Uncle, Frodo. I have to. Trust me, I've been called more names than anyone in the Shire, probably, so I can deal with a little bit of backlash from them."
Frodo actually smiled at his Uncle's comment. It was true-folks in Hobbiton were always talking about "Mad Baggins". Frodo had actually defended Bilbo once after a bunch of hobbit lads tortured Frodo one day as he was coming home from the market. He had received a pretty decent bruise over his right eye, which took nearly two weeks to heal. Bilbo had been very upset with him about that, but had hugged him and praised him all the same.
"Do you need anything, Master Baggins?" A voice called through the door. It was Mr. Glassburrow, the owner.
"Another fresh mug of tea would be wonderful, thank you, sir." Bilbo replied.
"I'll have it to you shortly." Frodo listened as Gilbo Glassburrow's footsteps grew fainter and fainter before turning to Bilbo again. He watched as his Uncle sat writing, using his knees as a table.
"Do not make it too dramatic," Frodo teased.
"Let's see. Too dramatic." Bilbo tapped the pen against his chin. "Our dear Frodo is very near death and...."
"Uncle!" Frodo cried. "How could you even jest about such a thing?" He broke into a fit of harsh coughing from speaking too much, and Bilbo patted his arm.
"Because I know you are a strong lad, and you've been through more illnesses than one can count. Now close your eyes my boy, and try to get some sleep."
Frodo nodded. "Will you sit with me through the night, Uncle?" He asked quietly.
"Of course, lad. Go to sleep, now. Your Uncle Bilbo is right here beside you."
Frodo smiled weakly, before reaching his hand out. Bilbo took the small hand in his own and kissed it lightly, before watching the lad burry underneath the warmth of the covers and drift away.