A/N: Sorry I didn't upload this earlier! I've been busy all day and I
hadn't had the time to do anything about it. :)
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Chapter 6:
Bilbo sat on the corner of Frodo's bed trying to coax him into drinking at least a small amount of the liquids that he had prepared. The curtains were drawn, keeping at bay most of the light that pounded brightly at the window.
Another beautiful day had blessed the Shire with its warmth and clear skies. The enjoyable weather and comforting essence of fall was a stark contrast to the mood inside Bag End.
"No, Bilbo.I- I'll be sick again.if I try to eat." Frodo whimpered, pushing the steaming cup of broth away.
Bilbo sighed, barely masking a slight sob that somehow escaped him, "Oh please, Frodo?" he persisted, "Just take a little bit.the healer said it would help with the pain." He stroked the tweenagers damp curls soothingly; trying his best to comfort the small lad, despite the pain Frodo was in. "Frodo, do you recall the other night, when you asked me how I remained hidden on the barrels all the way to Dale?" he inquired absentmindedly. It didn't matter anymore whether or not he told Frodo about the Ring. "Might as well," Bilbo thought mournfully, "while there is still time." He blinked hard as unwelcome tears filled his eyes; he fought them fiercely, and had decided to stay strong for Frodo.
The tweenager nodded, "Yes," he spoke quietly, "I remember, Bilbo" he finished, closing his eyes again. No hint of enthusiasm or curiosity was detectable in his weak voice.
"Well, lad, since you're ill and stuck in doors, I thought it might make for a good story." The old hobbit tried a smile, hoping to see one grace Frodo's pale lips, just as his stories always had so many times before. Oh how he loved the lads' smile; it was the sun, where he was a berry that needed ripening. He would miss it so much. "Shall we, then?" he asked, fumbling with something in his pockets.
Frodo nodded slowly, shifting beneath the blankets.
Bilbo told the story of how the Ring came to him, not leaving any details out, and perhaps embellishing a little, hoping to get a rise out of his nephew. Though, he was blessed with no such luck, as Frodo's features remained stoic throughout the entirety of the tale.
"Watch this now, Frodo," Bilbo smiled, his eyes dancing with mirth. "Surely this will pique his interest!" Bilbo thought to himself. "Watch closely, dear boy, it's easy to miss!" he laughed lightly, hiding his hands behind his back as he slipped the gold band onto his ring finger.
Bilbo could hear a slight gasp escape Frodo, and the lad gave a cry of surprise, "Bilbo!" he called, "Bilbo, where did you go?" his eyes danced with fear, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest.
"I'm here Frodo!" Bilbo announced triumphantly, pulling the ring from his finger and reappearing in front of his nephew's eyes. His smile and bravado faded as he caught the look of shock and startled surprise that still lingered heavily on Frodo's face. He realized then that this might not have been the best of times to tell such a story. But he remembered Fosco's words from earlier that morning when he had returned to see Frodo. The healer had taken Bilbo aside, and told the old hobbit what he dreaded hearing: Frodo would not recover from this illness. Fosco had been vague, not really saying what the illness actually *was*; just confirming that it was not treatable, nor was there any way he would be able to recover from it. Bilbo was distraught and terrified upon hearing the morbid news, yet he was determined to remain strong for Frodo, through it all, until the end, which he feared would come all too soon.
Fosco had been so kind as to provide one last favor to the old bachelor and his dying tweenage nephew. He brought a small packet that contained a light- green powder. When mixed with water- or another suitable liquid, the powder would greatly reduce the severe pain that accompanied this ailment, which was unbearable in its latter stages, without something to numb it. The concoction made the patient drowsy, and eventually they slipped into a sleep from which they would not return. Taking the medicine shortened Frodo's dwindling hours, but it made them bearable for him, and Fosco had promised that the hobbit-lad would most likely be coherent to the end.
Bilbo thought sure that nothing ever had, nor would anything ever pain him as greatly as this was now: Watching his dear, young nephew, all he had in the world as a son, waste away and perish before his very eyes. There was nothing he could do. At that moment he cursed the Creator under his breath. "Why?" Bilbo thought ruefully, "Why Frodo?" When Iluvatar had bestowed so many long, happy years of life upon Bilbo himself, why had he now chosen to take young Frodo? The hobbit-lad's life was just beginning; he hadn't a chance to explore even a tiny portion of his full potential. How cruel it was to tear apart the roots of a flower that was, at last, posed to blossom- even after it had endured and survived the harshest of beginnings and emerged whole! "Why was the seed ever planted at all?" Bilbo found himself wondering angrily, "And why has such strife befallen this gentle soul during his young years? Did he not deserve at least *some* happiness?" He could control his tears no longer, and he turned away from Frodo's still form, and wept bitterly. "This will be the end of me," Bilbo decided, "I cannot go on without him." Bilbo marveled at how he had lived the majority of his life as a solitary bachelor, and yet after this remarkable young hobbit had become a large part his life, he thought existence impossible without him.
At length, he turned back to Frodo's bed, noticing that the gentle rise and fall of the boys' chest was absent. Bilbo cried out, taking one of Frodo's still, cooling hands into his own and kissing it. He stroked back the chilled sweat-soaked locks, for the last time, and felt the pale cheeks that were once, not too long ago, graced with a rosy pink from the suns kiss but now contained only the grayish hue of death.
"Oh Frodo!" he wailed, "Poor, poor lad." Bilbo kissed the tweenagers small nose. He could feel his hands shaking violently as the full realization of what had happened began to sink in, "My dear child, why has this happened? I would have given the better portion of my years to ensure that you had another day." He sobbed. Bilbo was completely inconsolable, and knew that until the end of his numbered days, no one would ever be able to comfort him. "I will join you soon, my dear boy, I will see you again soon." He gasped, "Oh, soon Frodo! My poor dear boy!" he gathered Frodo's lifeless body into his arms, cringing at the cold feel of Frodo's still-damp nightshift.
He was sure that all of the Shire, and perhaps the creature beneath the Misty Mountains, and the Elves in Rivendell, even the Men in Dale, could hear his sobs as he mourned his great loss. All he could hear were his own cries echoing in his ears. It seemed to him that the whole of Middle-Earth was crying for the loss of this child.
**
Bilbo was jolted from his sleep to find that the cries from his dream were, in fact, real and someone in the room was calling for him.
"Bilbo!" Frodo cried, his small voice reaching out blindly into the darkness of the bedroom.
The horrible memories from Bilbo's all-too-real nightmare came flooding back, and were immediately washed away in a flood of fear-tainted relief as he realized that the cries were those of his ill nephew.
"Oh dear, Frodo, what is it, lad?" Bilbo answered, rising from his comfortable chair and stumbling through the darkness of Frodo's room, following the sounds of his nephew's cries. He finally reached Frodo's nightstand, lighting several more candles from the small one that he had kept burning throughout the night.
In the glowing yellow candlelight Bilbo could see that Frodo had somehow managed to prop himself up on one shaky elbow, the other hand clutched about the area of his right hip. He leaned heavily over the side of the bed, almost to the point of falling off. Bilbo could see his bright-blue eyes glistening with unshed tears; dark circles brought on by his suffering and fatigue outlined them.
"Bilbo," the tweenager panted, "Bilbo, I'm.going.. to be sick again, I think. I'm scared. I don't want t- to be alone when it happens." He whimpered, "I cannot bear it, it hurts terribly now, every moment. Laying still doesn't help anymore." The tears that his eyes held began to slide down his pale cheeks as he all but felt the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, and he knew what would soon inevitably follow.
Bilbo knelt beside the young hobbit, placing an empty pan beneath his chin. "'Tis all right, Frodo," he reassured his nephew, stroking Frodo's hair gently. "I'm here with you, just let it all come up now if you need to." He soothed, placing one hand on the tweenager's back, noting that the nightshirt was soaked through with Frodo's sweat; how hot the lads' body felt beneath his own cool hands alarmed him. Frodo's behavior was a reminder of how young the lad still was, though mature for his age, he was still a frightened child.
Bilbo felt Frodo's body shudder as his small shoulders heaved, bringing up what little liquid was in the boys' stomach. He saw the agonized expression that passed over his fine features. Frodo reached for Bilbo's hand, just to have something to hold on to, hoping to distract himself from the pain. He gripped it tightly as another heave seized him, and he coughed on the bitter bile that it brought up as it burnt his throat, eliciting from him a sharp, strangled cry.
"I'm so sorry, Frodo," Bilbo whispered, fighting a losing battle with his own tears. Though he knew that none of this was his fault, he still wished desperately that he could do something for the child. He had already resolved to send for Mr. Fields, as soon as Frodo would allow him to leave his side long enough to write a short note. Tomorrow was too long to wait, and Mr. Fields could lose a few hours of sleep if it meant that Bilbo wouldn't lose Frodo. "Hold on, lad, it'll be over soon." He promised, gently brushing loose tendrils of hair from the young hobbits eyes, and trying his best to keep Frodo's body still so as not to aggravate the tender area of his stomach.
Frodo whimpered, and his body tensed once more. He leaned heavily into his uncles' arm, crying out in anguish as his stomach twisted and rebelled. He retched again, but the action brought forth no fluids, only excruciating pain. He gagged on his own spit as the heaves came faster and a horrible dull, popping noise filled the dense warm air of his dark bedroom, signifying that Frodo's stomach was completely empty.
Bilbo spoke gently to the sick little tweenager, rubbing his back in slow circular motions. That was all he could do for Frodo, the lad must let the vomiting run its course before he could rest once more.
At last Frodo's heaving ceased and he moaned loudly as the pain beset him anew. He immediately went limp, gasping for breath. The last spell had spent the remainder of his energy, and he collapsed back down onto his mattress, shaking violently.
Bilbo was surprised when both of Frodo's small, trembling hands reached up, taking one of his larger ones and pulling it to his chest. He held his uncles hand there tightly, as if deriving some comfort from it. Bilbo was alarmed to feel the rapid fluttering of his nephew's heart through the sweat-soaked nightshift.
Several minutes passed, and Frodo's breathing became more labored as another spasm of pain wrenched his tender belly. Frodo removed Bilbo's hand from his chest and pressed it firmly to his forehead. He cried out, and his right hand moved swiftly down to the painful area of his stomach, and he groped helplessly at the clothing that lay between his hand and his body, as if somehow by touching his abdomen that it would ease the pain. Bilbo could feel Frodo's warm, shallow breaths on the back of his hand, he winced as the tweenager pressed the hand as hard as he was able and held his breath, trying to get through a particularly bad spell of pain.
"Bilbo!" Frodo wailed, "Bilbo, here, feel it," he offered, carefully guiding his uncle's hand down to his stomach, letting it rest lightly on his abdomen. Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin at the feel of Frodo's belly.
"Oh, Frodo!" Bilbo cried, his voice breaking as fear seized his entire being, "How long have you been like this?" he inquired, cupping Frodo's small, damp face in his hand.
"I don't know, I woke up and it felt so much worse than before," Frodo whispered, swallowing hard as he forced himself to focus on his uncle, "Oh I'm going to die, Bilbo!" he gasped, writhing in agony on the bed as the pain returned even more intense than before, "I-I'm going to see Mama and Papa," he groaned, trying to keep his eyes focused on Bilbo, "I l- love you. Bilbo, I'll miss you. so much."
"No, no, Frodo.don't you dare say such a thing." Bilbo begged, feeling tears spring anew in his eyes as he remembered his dream, "You're going to be just fine, I'm leaving right now to get the healer." He hoped he wasn't too late.
"Please don't go, Bilbo, I don't want to be alone. it hurts so badly." The tweenager pleaded weakly, "Get a knife, Sting even, I'll cut half of my body off to make it stop!" he panted, clutching fistfuls of bed sheets and trying not to scream in agony.
"Oh stop it, Frodo!" Bilbo nearly yelled at his nephew, frustrated by his unwillingness to try to survive, "You'll do no such a thing! I'm going right now, and you just lie there and wait. I shall return as quickly as I'm able!" Bilbo promised, kissing the tweenager gently on the forehead and rising to his feet before Frodo could get another word in.
Bilbo rushed from Frodo's room, down the hall and to the left, making a sharp turn into his study. He searched the drawers of his desk franticly for paper. In his current state of haste and panic, he could find no paper, so he reluctantly tore a sheet from the back of a red book that he had been recording the events of his adventures in. He scribbled a quick note on the paper, clenched it tightly in his fist, and flew out of the front door.
As he was making the trip to the nearest neighbors' house, his mind was working out exactly what he would say to Mr. Fields. He intended on having some less-than-kind words with the healer for this mistake that had nearly- and still could, cost his dear nephew his life. Little did he know that Fosco Fields wasn't at fault, nor was his treatment of Frodo inappropriate- after all, Fosco hadn't wished to discourage Bilbo before he was certain that there was no hope.
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A/N: Thanks for reading! :) If you haven't read it before, then leave a review and let me know what you think. Any ideas about how I could make it better, more interesting, etc? I hope to get chapter 7 finished by tomorrow. :)
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Chapter 6:
Bilbo sat on the corner of Frodo's bed trying to coax him into drinking at least a small amount of the liquids that he had prepared. The curtains were drawn, keeping at bay most of the light that pounded brightly at the window.
Another beautiful day had blessed the Shire with its warmth and clear skies. The enjoyable weather and comforting essence of fall was a stark contrast to the mood inside Bag End.
"No, Bilbo.I- I'll be sick again.if I try to eat." Frodo whimpered, pushing the steaming cup of broth away.
Bilbo sighed, barely masking a slight sob that somehow escaped him, "Oh please, Frodo?" he persisted, "Just take a little bit.the healer said it would help with the pain." He stroked the tweenagers damp curls soothingly; trying his best to comfort the small lad, despite the pain Frodo was in. "Frodo, do you recall the other night, when you asked me how I remained hidden on the barrels all the way to Dale?" he inquired absentmindedly. It didn't matter anymore whether or not he told Frodo about the Ring. "Might as well," Bilbo thought mournfully, "while there is still time." He blinked hard as unwelcome tears filled his eyes; he fought them fiercely, and had decided to stay strong for Frodo.
The tweenager nodded, "Yes," he spoke quietly, "I remember, Bilbo" he finished, closing his eyes again. No hint of enthusiasm or curiosity was detectable in his weak voice.
"Well, lad, since you're ill and stuck in doors, I thought it might make for a good story." The old hobbit tried a smile, hoping to see one grace Frodo's pale lips, just as his stories always had so many times before. Oh how he loved the lads' smile; it was the sun, where he was a berry that needed ripening. He would miss it so much. "Shall we, then?" he asked, fumbling with something in his pockets.
Frodo nodded slowly, shifting beneath the blankets.
Bilbo told the story of how the Ring came to him, not leaving any details out, and perhaps embellishing a little, hoping to get a rise out of his nephew. Though, he was blessed with no such luck, as Frodo's features remained stoic throughout the entirety of the tale.
"Watch this now, Frodo," Bilbo smiled, his eyes dancing with mirth. "Surely this will pique his interest!" Bilbo thought to himself. "Watch closely, dear boy, it's easy to miss!" he laughed lightly, hiding his hands behind his back as he slipped the gold band onto his ring finger.
Bilbo could hear a slight gasp escape Frodo, and the lad gave a cry of surprise, "Bilbo!" he called, "Bilbo, where did you go?" his eyes danced with fear, and his heart pounded heavily in his chest.
"I'm here Frodo!" Bilbo announced triumphantly, pulling the ring from his finger and reappearing in front of his nephew's eyes. His smile and bravado faded as he caught the look of shock and startled surprise that still lingered heavily on Frodo's face. He realized then that this might not have been the best of times to tell such a story. But he remembered Fosco's words from earlier that morning when he had returned to see Frodo. The healer had taken Bilbo aside, and told the old hobbit what he dreaded hearing: Frodo would not recover from this illness. Fosco had been vague, not really saying what the illness actually *was*; just confirming that it was not treatable, nor was there any way he would be able to recover from it. Bilbo was distraught and terrified upon hearing the morbid news, yet he was determined to remain strong for Frodo, through it all, until the end, which he feared would come all too soon.
Fosco had been so kind as to provide one last favor to the old bachelor and his dying tweenage nephew. He brought a small packet that contained a light- green powder. When mixed with water- or another suitable liquid, the powder would greatly reduce the severe pain that accompanied this ailment, which was unbearable in its latter stages, without something to numb it. The concoction made the patient drowsy, and eventually they slipped into a sleep from which they would not return. Taking the medicine shortened Frodo's dwindling hours, but it made them bearable for him, and Fosco had promised that the hobbit-lad would most likely be coherent to the end.
Bilbo thought sure that nothing ever had, nor would anything ever pain him as greatly as this was now: Watching his dear, young nephew, all he had in the world as a son, waste away and perish before his very eyes. There was nothing he could do. At that moment he cursed the Creator under his breath. "Why?" Bilbo thought ruefully, "Why Frodo?" When Iluvatar had bestowed so many long, happy years of life upon Bilbo himself, why had he now chosen to take young Frodo? The hobbit-lad's life was just beginning; he hadn't a chance to explore even a tiny portion of his full potential. How cruel it was to tear apart the roots of a flower that was, at last, posed to blossom- even after it had endured and survived the harshest of beginnings and emerged whole! "Why was the seed ever planted at all?" Bilbo found himself wondering angrily, "And why has such strife befallen this gentle soul during his young years? Did he not deserve at least *some* happiness?" He could control his tears no longer, and he turned away from Frodo's still form, and wept bitterly. "This will be the end of me," Bilbo decided, "I cannot go on without him." Bilbo marveled at how he had lived the majority of his life as a solitary bachelor, and yet after this remarkable young hobbit had become a large part his life, he thought existence impossible without him.
At length, he turned back to Frodo's bed, noticing that the gentle rise and fall of the boys' chest was absent. Bilbo cried out, taking one of Frodo's still, cooling hands into his own and kissing it. He stroked back the chilled sweat-soaked locks, for the last time, and felt the pale cheeks that were once, not too long ago, graced with a rosy pink from the suns kiss but now contained only the grayish hue of death.
"Oh Frodo!" he wailed, "Poor, poor lad." Bilbo kissed the tweenagers small nose. He could feel his hands shaking violently as the full realization of what had happened began to sink in, "My dear child, why has this happened? I would have given the better portion of my years to ensure that you had another day." He sobbed. Bilbo was completely inconsolable, and knew that until the end of his numbered days, no one would ever be able to comfort him. "I will join you soon, my dear boy, I will see you again soon." He gasped, "Oh, soon Frodo! My poor dear boy!" he gathered Frodo's lifeless body into his arms, cringing at the cold feel of Frodo's still-damp nightshift.
He was sure that all of the Shire, and perhaps the creature beneath the Misty Mountains, and the Elves in Rivendell, even the Men in Dale, could hear his sobs as he mourned his great loss. All he could hear were his own cries echoing in his ears. It seemed to him that the whole of Middle-Earth was crying for the loss of this child.
**
Bilbo was jolted from his sleep to find that the cries from his dream were, in fact, real and someone in the room was calling for him.
"Bilbo!" Frodo cried, his small voice reaching out blindly into the darkness of the bedroom.
The horrible memories from Bilbo's all-too-real nightmare came flooding back, and were immediately washed away in a flood of fear-tainted relief as he realized that the cries were those of his ill nephew.
"Oh dear, Frodo, what is it, lad?" Bilbo answered, rising from his comfortable chair and stumbling through the darkness of Frodo's room, following the sounds of his nephew's cries. He finally reached Frodo's nightstand, lighting several more candles from the small one that he had kept burning throughout the night.
In the glowing yellow candlelight Bilbo could see that Frodo had somehow managed to prop himself up on one shaky elbow, the other hand clutched about the area of his right hip. He leaned heavily over the side of the bed, almost to the point of falling off. Bilbo could see his bright-blue eyes glistening with unshed tears; dark circles brought on by his suffering and fatigue outlined them.
"Bilbo," the tweenager panted, "Bilbo, I'm.going.. to be sick again, I think. I'm scared. I don't want t- to be alone when it happens." He whimpered, "I cannot bear it, it hurts terribly now, every moment. Laying still doesn't help anymore." The tears that his eyes held began to slide down his pale cheeks as he all but felt the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat, and he knew what would soon inevitably follow.
Bilbo knelt beside the young hobbit, placing an empty pan beneath his chin. "'Tis all right, Frodo," he reassured his nephew, stroking Frodo's hair gently. "I'm here with you, just let it all come up now if you need to." He soothed, placing one hand on the tweenager's back, noting that the nightshirt was soaked through with Frodo's sweat; how hot the lads' body felt beneath his own cool hands alarmed him. Frodo's behavior was a reminder of how young the lad still was, though mature for his age, he was still a frightened child.
Bilbo felt Frodo's body shudder as his small shoulders heaved, bringing up what little liquid was in the boys' stomach. He saw the agonized expression that passed over his fine features. Frodo reached for Bilbo's hand, just to have something to hold on to, hoping to distract himself from the pain. He gripped it tightly as another heave seized him, and he coughed on the bitter bile that it brought up as it burnt his throat, eliciting from him a sharp, strangled cry.
"I'm so sorry, Frodo," Bilbo whispered, fighting a losing battle with his own tears. Though he knew that none of this was his fault, he still wished desperately that he could do something for the child. He had already resolved to send for Mr. Fields, as soon as Frodo would allow him to leave his side long enough to write a short note. Tomorrow was too long to wait, and Mr. Fields could lose a few hours of sleep if it meant that Bilbo wouldn't lose Frodo. "Hold on, lad, it'll be over soon." He promised, gently brushing loose tendrils of hair from the young hobbits eyes, and trying his best to keep Frodo's body still so as not to aggravate the tender area of his stomach.
Frodo whimpered, and his body tensed once more. He leaned heavily into his uncles' arm, crying out in anguish as his stomach twisted and rebelled. He retched again, but the action brought forth no fluids, only excruciating pain. He gagged on his own spit as the heaves came faster and a horrible dull, popping noise filled the dense warm air of his dark bedroom, signifying that Frodo's stomach was completely empty.
Bilbo spoke gently to the sick little tweenager, rubbing his back in slow circular motions. That was all he could do for Frodo, the lad must let the vomiting run its course before he could rest once more.
At last Frodo's heaving ceased and he moaned loudly as the pain beset him anew. He immediately went limp, gasping for breath. The last spell had spent the remainder of his energy, and he collapsed back down onto his mattress, shaking violently.
Bilbo was surprised when both of Frodo's small, trembling hands reached up, taking one of his larger ones and pulling it to his chest. He held his uncles hand there tightly, as if deriving some comfort from it. Bilbo was alarmed to feel the rapid fluttering of his nephew's heart through the sweat-soaked nightshift.
Several minutes passed, and Frodo's breathing became more labored as another spasm of pain wrenched his tender belly. Frodo removed Bilbo's hand from his chest and pressed it firmly to his forehead. He cried out, and his right hand moved swiftly down to the painful area of his stomach, and he groped helplessly at the clothing that lay between his hand and his body, as if somehow by touching his abdomen that it would ease the pain. Bilbo could feel Frodo's warm, shallow breaths on the back of his hand, he winced as the tweenager pressed the hand as hard as he was able and held his breath, trying to get through a particularly bad spell of pain.
"Bilbo!" Frodo wailed, "Bilbo, here, feel it," he offered, carefully guiding his uncle's hand down to his stomach, letting it rest lightly on his abdomen. Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin at the feel of Frodo's belly.
"Oh, Frodo!" Bilbo cried, his voice breaking as fear seized his entire being, "How long have you been like this?" he inquired, cupping Frodo's small, damp face in his hand.
"I don't know, I woke up and it felt so much worse than before," Frodo whispered, swallowing hard as he forced himself to focus on his uncle, "Oh I'm going to die, Bilbo!" he gasped, writhing in agony on the bed as the pain returned even more intense than before, "I-I'm going to see Mama and Papa," he groaned, trying to keep his eyes focused on Bilbo, "I l- love you. Bilbo, I'll miss you. so much."
"No, no, Frodo.don't you dare say such a thing." Bilbo begged, feeling tears spring anew in his eyes as he remembered his dream, "You're going to be just fine, I'm leaving right now to get the healer." He hoped he wasn't too late.
"Please don't go, Bilbo, I don't want to be alone. it hurts so badly." The tweenager pleaded weakly, "Get a knife, Sting even, I'll cut half of my body off to make it stop!" he panted, clutching fistfuls of bed sheets and trying not to scream in agony.
"Oh stop it, Frodo!" Bilbo nearly yelled at his nephew, frustrated by his unwillingness to try to survive, "You'll do no such a thing! I'm going right now, and you just lie there and wait. I shall return as quickly as I'm able!" Bilbo promised, kissing the tweenager gently on the forehead and rising to his feet before Frodo could get another word in.
Bilbo rushed from Frodo's room, down the hall and to the left, making a sharp turn into his study. He searched the drawers of his desk franticly for paper. In his current state of haste and panic, he could find no paper, so he reluctantly tore a sheet from the back of a red book that he had been recording the events of his adventures in. He scribbled a quick note on the paper, clenched it tightly in his fist, and flew out of the front door.
As he was making the trip to the nearest neighbors' house, his mind was working out exactly what he would say to Mr. Fields. He intended on having some less-than-kind words with the healer for this mistake that had nearly- and still could, cost his dear nephew his life. Little did he know that Fosco Fields wasn't at fault, nor was his treatment of Frodo inappropriate- after all, Fosco hadn't wished to discourage Bilbo before he was certain that there was no hope.
-----------------
A/N: Thanks for reading! :) If you haven't read it before, then leave a review and let me know what you think. Any ideas about how I could make it better, more interesting, etc? I hope to get chapter 7 finished by tomorrow. :)