Disclaimer: I own nothing! :)
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Chapter 5:
After seeing Mr. Fields off, Bilbo returned to Frodo's room as quickly as he could manage. He was relieved that the healer had come and gone, diagnosing Frodo's illness as nothing more than a stomach flu that was making its rounds, as similar ailments did every fall. Bilbo believed that this annual phenomenon had something to do with the change in the weather, the transition from summer to fall. Though, the cautionary statements that Mr. Fields had left him with were unsettling to Bilbo; and a fear of the worst-case scenario had begun to rise in the back of his mind.
The tweenager was still lying on his side, one arm hugging the affected area of his stomach, his eyes partially closed. "Now, Frodo," Bilbo began quietly, in his hands he held the small bottle that the healer had left, plus a spoon for taking the medicine, "This will keep you from being sick again." He said, removing the lid of the bottle and getting ready to pour some of the clear liquid into the spoon.
Frodo opened his eyes and struggled to focus on his uncle, "I don't want any, Bilbo." He protested.
"Come now; remember what the healer said. You mind me, and you'll be as good as new come next week." Bilbo promised, smiling. "Now just sit up a little so you don't choke on this."
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slightly, "No Bilbo. I can't. manage sitting up. It hurts too badly to do anything other than lie here." He pleaded.
"I know lad." Bilbo soothed, putting the medicine down on Frodo's nightstand and rubbing the tweenager's back gently. "It will just take a moment though, and then soon you will feel much better."
Frodo made no response, though he silently doubted that Bilbo `knew' how he felt, and he showed no sign of obeying.
"Frodo, don't make this harder than it has to be." Bilbo said, a tone of warning to his quiet voice. Inwardly he felt terrible about it. He thought that surely Frodo must think him the cruelest being on Middle-Earth, forcing him to move when he was in such pain and movement only caused the pain to escalate. But Bilbo realized that it couldn't be
helped, and the effects of the medicine would hopefully prove to be worth causing Frodo a few extra moments of discomfort.
"Frodo-" he began again.
"Alright!" Frodo resigned, his voice coming out a little harsher than he meant. Needless to say, he wasn't in the best of moods. "Please help me to sit up, Bilbo." He murmured, avoiding his uncles' eyes.
Bilbo nodded, carefully slipping one hand beneath the tweenager's shoulders for support, and using the other to pull him up. Frodo was unable to stifle his cries as Bilbo continued hoisting him into a semi-reclining position. Frodo felt so childish about the whole situation. Upon hearing Frodo's cries, Bilbo almost gave up several times, not wishing to hurt his nephew.
When Bilbo was done moving him, Frodo was still positioned on his left side, but propped up in bed so that he could swallow the medicine easily. The young hobbit blinked back tears of pain, holding one hand up, signaling that he needed a few moments to recover from the ordeal, the other hand still lingered defensively around the area
of his belly where the pain was greatest.
Bilbo nodded once more, retrieving a wet facecloth and wiping the sweat from Frodo's damp features while he allowed the tweenager time to catch his breath.
Frodo was eager to take the medicine so that he could lie down once more. After a few moments he gestured to Bilbo, beckoning him to his bedside.
"Alright, lad, I'm not sure how this will taste, but you have to try to keep it down." Bilbo spoke, kneeling beside Frodo's bed, smoothing damp curls from the young hobbits eyes, "Unfortunately it will not help with the pain, but it should prevent you from being sick on your stomach if you can manage to take it every few hours." he added, pouring a spoonful of medicine.
In his semi-conscious state, Frodo had heard little of what Bilbo said, but he was eager to try anything that may help. He was still feeling quite nauseated, and dreaded vomiting again due to the unbearable waves of pain, set off by the motion of heaving, that it sent shooting through his abdomen. "Alright, Bilbo.I'm ready to try some now." He gave his consent, his voice barely above a whisper.
Before Bilbo could put the spoon of medicine to Frodo's lips, the tweenager groaned loudly and bent inward as far as he could, trying to ease the sudden spasm pain that held him in its grips. It felt as though a knife was being driven into his belly, and slowly twisted while being forced deeper.
Bilbo could do nothing but stand by and try to offer comfort. He placed a hand on Frodo's shoulder, patting it reassuringly and whispering words of comfort into his nephews' small ear. He could feel Frodo's body stiffen beneath his hands as the young hobbit tried desperately to bear the pain in silence. But it soon became too much, and Frodo turned his face into his pillow, pressing into it as hard as he was able, and let out heart wrenching cries of anguish as they rose in his throat. He didn't want Bilbo to hear; and he thought, as a last resort, that he would at least try stifling them so as not to alarm his uncle.
Bilbo bit back his own cries, of surprise and fear, as he heard the muffled screams, which were hardly muted by Frodo's pillow. He was rendered speechless by his nephews' sudden turn for the worse. The old hobbit felt himself shaking from fear, and he had to set the bottle of medicine down to avoid spilling it.
Eventually Frodo's cries were reduced to quiet sobs, and he removed his face from the pillow as he attempted to sit up in bed long enough to take the medicine. He opened his eyes to find Bilbo peering down at him, a look of grave concern on his face.
To Bilbo, Frodo's pale face looked like a field of snow, wet and glistening in the morning sun. His bright-blue, tear-filled eyes like two sapphires cast out into the middle of the field.
"Bilbo, it's hot." Frodo moaned, letting his head fall back heavily onto the pillow, "It's so hot, I don't know why...I don't know what's wrong with me, Bilbo." He carried on, his voice faltering. He was clearly confused and dreadfully frightened about what had just
happened. He probed his stomach gingerly with two small hands, touching the backs of them to his belly as he tried to gauge the temperature of it.
Bilbo shook his head, leaning in closer to his nephew, "I don't understand, Frodo. What's hot?" he asked, placing a hand on the tweenagers damp forehead and finding it to be almost the same temperature as it had been earlier, "You don't have very much of a
fever, lad. Where is it hot?" Bilbo persisted.
Frodo shook his head, "My stomach, Bilbo, my stomach feels so hot.oh and it hurts so much." He cried, a hint of panic evident in his voice. "No! Oh No, Bilbo. please. Please don't touch it. It hurts terribly when someone touches me there." Frodo begged, folding his arms over his abdomen defensively, effectively preventing Bilbo's hands from making contact with his sore belly. The agonizing pain that tortured him was unlike any other he had felt, it bore no similarities to previous stomach flu's that he had fallen ill with.
Though, he trusted the healer; knowing that Mr. Fields was well learned, a seasoned healer, and able to offer an objective point of view on the matter.
"Alright now, lad, I didn't know." Bilbo apologized, "I won't touch you anywhere that causes you pain." He soothed, trying to hide his concern so as not to panic Frodo. He picked up the bottle of medicine and the spoon; "Let's get this medicine in you, Frodo, before anything else happens."
Frodo nodded in agreement, he was ready to get it over with so that he could lie still once more. The medicine wasn't nearly as bad as he feared it would be. It wasn't exactly what one would call pleasant, but it wasn't bitter- nor was it too sweet.
"I'll be back in a moment, Frodo," Bilbo promised, "Mr. Fields said you need to take as many liquids as you can, so I'm going to go see to it that there are plenty liquids for the taking!" He smiled, patting Frodo's head fondly as he turned to leave, "If you need
anything at all just call for me."
Frodo then found himself alone in his room. The sun was well on its way to setting, though a few hours of daylight remained. Shadows grew long on his bedroom walls, little patches of darkness seeping in ahead of blackness, small envoys of the night. The daytime noises of birds, and the usual busy noises of Hobbiton's inhabitants as they
went about their day, were gradually winding down and being replaced by the serene evening sounds of crickets chirping and bullfrogs croaking, singing the last of their summer songs before the chill of fall arrived to drive them away. He could hear noises from the kitchen, though they seemed far off. Frodo's room itself was silent, save for the quiet noises of his hitched breathing. He felt detached from the world, despondent even. This illness that was consuming him had drained his energy with surprising speed, and he had grown so weary of fighting the pain and trying to be brave.
As Frodo lay there alone in bed, the tweenager's mind soon began to wander, and he thought back on his childhood. He wondered if the instability and sorrow that had been such a large part of his young life thus far, was foreshadowing how the rest of his years would play out. Though at the moment he hardly thought that he had any years left, as terrible as he felt, he thought sure that he would soon draw his last breath. Such morbid thoughts led him to think of his own mortality. It was commonly known that most hobbit lads and lasses of his age did not contemplate such things. To them Middle-Earth, and
all it had to offer, was a banquet, and they its guests of honor. Many of them had never experienced loss or pain on any significant level. It never occurred to the youngsters just how swiftly life could dismiss them or those they cared for. Frodo had experienced it;
long ago he had learned what a true loss felt like, and the emotional pain and turmoil that came along with it. It left him changed, whether it was for better or worse remained to be seen, because he was still so young, but he already showed signs of following a different path from others his age.
He found strange comfort in his belief that if he were to die now then he would soon be reunited with the two people he loved and missed the most. Though he cared a great deal for his devoted, though sometimes overbearing, uncle Bilbo, he missed his parents terribly. He spoke of it only when grief overcame him and he couldn't remain
silent on the matter without bursting. Frodo kept his silence for fear of seeming ungrateful to all of the people who had cared for him since his parents' passing. He wished so much that things could have been different, though he knew that wishing was folly and wouldn't change reality, no matter how much he wanted it to.
Suddenly he whimpered, feeling the pain in his stomach begin to grow again. He swallowed hard as he felt waves of nausea overcome him, and he earnestly wished that the medicine would work faster. Frodo curled up as best he could, hugging his small knees to his chest, and tried to put his mind at ease while he waited for Bilbo to return.
In the kitchen Bilbo stood, over his cooking stove, heating a small pot of broth. He stirred it absentmindedly, wondering if it was too soon to call Mr. Fields back to Bag End.
He didn't want to appear panicky, but Bilbo didn't at all like the way things were looking. He had nursed Frodo through many a childhood illness over the years, and he had never seen the poor little hobbit-lad suffer so. Though Mr. Fields was a very respectable healer, Bilbo couldn't help but think that perhaps Fosco had made a mistake this time.
He was roused from his thoughts as he realized that his fingers that held the spoon were burning. He immediately dropped the spoon, cursing himself for not paying attention. He sucked on his fingers, trying to relieve the pain. Bilbo shook his head as he removed the bubbling pot from the fire; it had become much too hot. Now it would have to cool before he could offer it to Frodo. He sat it on the windowsill, and opened the shutters, allowing the cool evening breeze to drift through, blowing about the billows of steam like stout winds filling a ships' sails.
Bilbo looked out of the window, past the black hull of the pot with its steaming white sails, and off into the gentle landscape of the Shire with its rolling hills and small forests dotted with every shade of green, yellow, and even orange. He smiled, despite the heavy
weight on his heart, and the fear that haunted his mind.
At length, Bilbo tore his gaze away from the beauty of his homeland and resolved that if Frodo were any worse by morning, or if he woke up worse during the night, that he would use his best judgment and send for Mr. Fields without delay.
He hastened to prepare various offerings of tea, juice, and cool, fresh water for what he thought would surely be Frodo's delight.
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A/N: Ok, chapter 5 :) I've already posted this on the Yahoo group, but I wanted to give people here a chance to read it if they want to. Please let me know what you think! :) I'll try to post chapter 6 tomorrow!
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Chapter 5:
After seeing Mr. Fields off, Bilbo returned to Frodo's room as quickly as he could manage. He was relieved that the healer had come and gone, diagnosing Frodo's illness as nothing more than a stomach flu that was making its rounds, as similar ailments did every fall. Bilbo believed that this annual phenomenon had something to do with the change in the weather, the transition from summer to fall. Though, the cautionary statements that Mr. Fields had left him with were unsettling to Bilbo; and a fear of the worst-case scenario had begun to rise in the back of his mind.
The tweenager was still lying on his side, one arm hugging the affected area of his stomach, his eyes partially closed. "Now, Frodo," Bilbo began quietly, in his hands he held the small bottle that the healer had left, plus a spoon for taking the medicine, "This will keep you from being sick again." He said, removing the lid of the bottle and getting ready to pour some of the clear liquid into the spoon.
Frodo opened his eyes and struggled to focus on his uncle, "I don't want any, Bilbo." He protested.
"Come now; remember what the healer said. You mind me, and you'll be as good as new come next week." Bilbo promised, smiling. "Now just sit up a little so you don't choke on this."
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head slightly, "No Bilbo. I can't. manage sitting up. It hurts too badly to do anything other than lie here." He pleaded.
"I know lad." Bilbo soothed, putting the medicine down on Frodo's nightstand and rubbing the tweenager's back gently. "It will just take a moment though, and then soon you will feel much better."
Frodo made no response, though he silently doubted that Bilbo `knew' how he felt, and he showed no sign of obeying.
"Frodo, don't make this harder than it has to be." Bilbo said, a tone of warning to his quiet voice. Inwardly he felt terrible about it. He thought that surely Frodo must think him the cruelest being on Middle-Earth, forcing him to move when he was in such pain and movement only caused the pain to escalate. But Bilbo realized that it couldn't be
helped, and the effects of the medicine would hopefully prove to be worth causing Frodo a few extra moments of discomfort.
"Frodo-" he began again.
"Alright!" Frodo resigned, his voice coming out a little harsher than he meant. Needless to say, he wasn't in the best of moods. "Please help me to sit up, Bilbo." He murmured, avoiding his uncles' eyes.
Bilbo nodded, carefully slipping one hand beneath the tweenager's shoulders for support, and using the other to pull him up. Frodo was unable to stifle his cries as Bilbo continued hoisting him into a semi-reclining position. Frodo felt so childish about the whole situation. Upon hearing Frodo's cries, Bilbo almost gave up several times, not wishing to hurt his nephew.
When Bilbo was done moving him, Frodo was still positioned on his left side, but propped up in bed so that he could swallow the medicine easily. The young hobbit blinked back tears of pain, holding one hand up, signaling that he needed a few moments to recover from the ordeal, the other hand still lingered defensively around the area
of his belly where the pain was greatest.
Bilbo nodded once more, retrieving a wet facecloth and wiping the sweat from Frodo's damp features while he allowed the tweenager time to catch his breath.
Frodo was eager to take the medicine so that he could lie down once more. After a few moments he gestured to Bilbo, beckoning him to his bedside.
"Alright, lad, I'm not sure how this will taste, but you have to try to keep it down." Bilbo spoke, kneeling beside Frodo's bed, smoothing damp curls from the young hobbits eyes, "Unfortunately it will not help with the pain, but it should prevent you from being sick on your stomach if you can manage to take it every few hours." he added, pouring a spoonful of medicine.
In his semi-conscious state, Frodo had heard little of what Bilbo said, but he was eager to try anything that may help. He was still feeling quite nauseated, and dreaded vomiting again due to the unbearable waves of pain, set off by the motion of heaving, that it sent shooting through his abdomen. "Alright, Bilbo.I'm ready to try some now." He gave his consent, his voice barely above a whisper.
Before Bilbo could put the spoon of medicine to Frodo's lips, the tweenager groaned loudly and bent inward as far as he could, trying to ease the sudden spasm pain that held him in its grips. It felt as though a knife was being driven into his belly, and slowly twisted while being forced deeper.
Bilbo could do nothing but stand by and try to offer comfort. He placed a hand on Frodo's shoulder, patting it reassuringly and whispering words of comfort into his nephews' small ear. He could feel Frodo's body stiffen beneath his hands as the young hobbit tried desperately to bear the pain in silence. But it soon became too much, and Frodo turned his face into his pillow, pressing into it as hard as he was able, and let out heart wrenching cries of anguish as they rose in his throat. He didn't want Bilbo to hear; and he thought, as a last resort, that he would at least try stifling them so as not to alarm his uncle.
Bilbo bit back his own cries, of surprise and fear, as he heard the muffled screams, which were hardly muted by Frodo's pillow. He was rendered speechless by his nephews' sudden turn for the worse. The old hobbit felt himself shaking from fear, and he had to set the bottle of medicine down to avoid spilling it.
Eventually Frodo's cries were reduced to quiet sobs, and he removed his face from the pillow as he attempted to sit up in bed long enough to take the medicine. He opened his eyes to find Bilbo peering down at him, a look of grave concern on his face.
To Bilbo, Frodo's pale face looked like a field of snow, wet and glistening in the morning sun. His bright-blue, tear-filled eyes like two sapphires cast out into the middle of the field.
"Bilbo, it's hot." Frodo moaned, letting his head fall back heavily onto the pillow, "It's so hot, I don't know why...I don't know what's wrong with me, Bilbo." He carried on, his voice faltering. He was clearly confused and dreadfully frightened about what had just
happened. He probed his stomach gingerly with two small hands, touching the backs of them to his belly as he tried to gauge the temperature of it.
Bilbo shook his head, leaning in closer to his nephew, "I don't understand, Frodo. What's hot?" he asked, placing a hand on the tweenagers damp forehead and finding it to be almost the same temperature as it had been earlier, "You don't have very much of a
fever, lad. Where is it hot?" Bilbo persisted.
Frodo shook his head, "My stomach, Bilbo, my stomach feels so hot.oh and it hurts so much." He cried, a hint of panic evident in his voice. "No! Oh No, Bilbo. please. Please don't touch it. It hurts terribly when someone touches me there." Frodo begged, folding his arms over his abdomen defensively, effectively preventing Bilbo's hands from making contact with his sore belly. The agonizing pain that tortured him was unlike any other he had felt, it bore no similarities to previous stomach flu's that he had fallen ill with.
Though, he trusted the healer; knowing that Mr. Fields was well learned, a seasoned healer, and able to offer an objective point of view on the matter.
"Alright now, lad, I didn't know." Bilbo apologized, "I won't touch you anywhere that causes you pain." He soothed, trying to hide his concern so as not to panic Frodo. He picked up the bottle of medicine and the spoon; "Let's get this medicine in you, Frodo, before anything else happens."
Frodo nodded in agreement, he was ready to get it over with so that he could lie still once more. The medicine wasn't nearly as bad as he feared it would be. It wasn't exactly what one would call pleasant, but it wasn't bitter- nor was it too sweet.
"I'll be back in a moment, Frodo," Bilbo promised, "Mr. Fields said you need to take as many liquids as you can, so I'm going to go see to it that there are plenty liquids for the taking!" He smiled, patting Frodo's head fondly as he turned to leave, "If you need
anything at all just call for me."
Frodo then found himself alone in his room. The sun was well on its way to setting, though a few hours of daylight remained. Shadows grew long on his bedroom walls, little patches of darkness seeping in ahead of blackness, small envoys of the night. The daytime noises of birds, and the usual busy noises of Hobbiton's inhabitants as they
went about their day, were gradually winding down and being replaced by the serene evening sounds of crickets chirping and bullfrogs croaking, singing the last of their summer songs before the chill of fall arrived to drive them away. He could hear noises from the kitchen, though they seemed far off. Frodo's room itself was silent, save for the quiet noises of his hitched breathing. He felt detached from the world, despondent even. This illness that was consuming him had drained his energy with surprising speed, and he had grown so weary of fighting the pain and trying to be brave.
As Frodo lay there alone in bed, the tweenager's mind soon began to wander, and he thought back on his childhood. He wondered if the instability and sorrow that had been such a large part of his young life thus far, was foreshadowing how the rest of his years would play out. Though at the moment he hardly thought that he had any years left, as terrible as he felt, he thought sure that he would soon draw his last breath. Such morbid thoughts led him to think of his own mortality. It was commonly known that most hobbit lads and lasses of his age did not contemplate such things. To them Middle-Earth, and
all it had to offer, was a banquet, and they its guests of honor. Many of them had never experienced loss or pain on any significant level. It never occurred to the youngsters just how swiftly life could dismiss them or those they cared for. Frodo had experienced it;
long ago he had learned what a true loss felt like, and the emotional pain and turmoil that came along with it. It left him changed, whether it was for better or worse remained to be seen, because he was still so young, but he already showed signs of following a different path from others his age.
He found strange comfort in his belief that if he were to die now then he would soon be reunited with the two people he loved and missed the most. Though he cared a great deal for his devoted, though sometimes overbearing, uncle Bilbo, he missed his parents terribly. He spoke of it only when grief overcame him and he couldn't remain
silent on the matter without bursting. Frodo kept his silence for fear of seeming ungrateful to all of the people who had cared for him since his parents' passing. He wished so much that things could have been different, though he knew that wishing was folly and wouldn't change reality, no matter how much he wanted it to.
Suddenly he whimpered, feeling the pain in his stomach begin to grow again. He swallowed hard as he felt waves of nausea overcome him, and he earnestly wished that the medicine would work faster. Frodo curled up as best he could, hugging his small knees to his chest, and tried to put his mind at ease while he waited for Bilbo to return.
In the kitchen Bilbo stood, over his cooking stove, heating a small pot of broth. He stirred it absentmindedly, wondering if it was too soon to call Mr. Fields back to Bag End.
He didn't want to appear panicky, but Bilbo didn't at all like the way things were looking. He had nursed Frodo through many a childhood illness over the years, and he had never seen the poor little hobbit-lad suffer so. Though Mr. Fields was a very respectable healer, Bilbo couldn't help but think that perhaps Fosco had made a mistake this time.
He was roused from his thoughts as he realized that his fingers that held the spoon were burning. He immediately dropped the spoon, cursing himself for not paying attention. He sucked on his fingers, trying to relieve the pain. Bilbo shook his head as he removed the bubbling pot from the fire; it had become much too hot. Now it would have to cool before he could offer it to Frodo. He sat it on the windowsill, and opened the shutters, allowing the cool evening breeze to drift through, blowing about the billows of steam like stout winds filling a ships' sails.
Bilbo looked out of the window, past the black hull of the pot with its steaming white sails, and off into the gentle landscape of the Shire with its rolling hills and small forests dotted with every shade of green, yellow, and even orange. He smiled, despite the heavy
weight on his heart, and the fear that haunted his mind.
At length, Bilbo tore his gaze away from the beauty of his homeland and resolved that if Frodo were any worse by morning, or if he woke up worse during the night, that he would use his best judgment and send for Mr. Fields without delay.
He hastened to prepare various offerings of tea, juice, and cool, fresh water for what he thought would surely be Frodo's delight.
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A/N: Ok, chapter 5 :) I've already posted this on the Yahoo group, but I wanted to give people here a chance to read it if they want to. Please let me know what you think! :) I'll try to post chapter 6 tomorrow!