A/N: Well, sorry this is a little later than I promised! I had a setback
*cough* I accidentally. . .saved over the chapter yesterday, so I had to
start over. I like this one better though! :) Sorry it is a bit. . . long!
I tried to provide plenty of information from all points of view. . .
otherwise I suppose this would be nothing but Frodo-angst. :)
Thank all of you so, so much for the lovely reviews! :) I'm glad you're enjoying the fic! And, I haven't forgotten about "And In The Darkness Bind Him". There are still at least two chapters left in that fic. I got distracted writing this one, and then ff.net was down, and it's just been one thing after the other. (I'm just full of excuses today! :p ) But, I promise that I will update that story as soon as I possibly can, maybe even before I post another chapter of "September".
Manc Admirer: It isn't the Ring. :) That's a good guess though; I suppose the Ring would be capable of doing such things to the poor hobbit! But this illness is something that quite a few people experience in their lifetime- I hope it never happens to me! But it is fairly easily treated if diagnosed early on. Of course, in the Shire they aren't as learned about such things, much to Frodo's misfortune. :(
Tathar: It is an AU fic, but don't worry *too* much. ;) I believe things will work out, one way or another, in the end.
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"Easy there, lad." Fosco soothed, rubbing Frodo's small back and trying to comfort the hobbit-child in his semi-delirious state. He had barely touched the tweenager, and Frodo was already being difficult. It was clear that he wanted to lie still and be left undisturbed, but unfortunately he wasn't going to be able to have his way.
Bilbo had returned from fetching the healer as soon as he was able. He had gone to Mr. Fields house himself after no one in the vicinity of Bag End answered his urgent knocks. Now he stood by Frodo's bed, observing Fosco Fields as he sat in a chair examining the ill tweenager.
"What do you think it is?" Bilbo inquired, wringing his hands as he peeked nervously between the healer and Frodo.
Mr. Fields just shook his head and answered, "I've hardly begun to examine him, Mr. Baggins, just one moment please."
"Yes, of course. Forgive my manners." Bilbo apologized, staring down anxiously at his nephew's still form, "He's had an awful time of it, Mr. Fields, he's been quite sick on his stomach, the poor little thing. I don't believe that the medicine you gave him yesterday helped much at all." The older hobbit rambled, "And he hasn't got the strength to keep fighting this!" he nearly shouted, "He won't take his liquids, though I doubt he could keep them down if he did, and-"
"Please Bilbo, if you will, go set some water to boil for tea? You'll be of more help in the kitchen than in here fretting over your lad." The healer looked up from his small patient, trying to smile through his own apprehensiveness.
Bilbo nodded vigorously and left without another word.
Fosco sighed, shaking his head. Bilbo's restlessness was beginning to irritate him. And it did nothing to help reduce the tension in the room either. "Frodo, can you turn over for me?" the healer asked gently.
Frodo forced his eyes open, struggling to focus on Mr. Fields, "I- I can't, it hurts so much." He whimpered, "It's much worse now, than it was before." He shook his head weakly.
"And how's that, lad?" Mr. Fields asked.
"I c- can't explain it . . . it's just . . . just, worse. I can hardly breathe without making it start up again, and. . . " he paused gripping Fosco's arm tightly as another wave of pain tore through his small belly. Fosco wiped the lad's face with a cool cloth, and spoke words of comfort into his ear, hoping to help him through the pain. It seemed to help, Frodo found comfort in the healers presence. He was relieved to be around someone who, he thought, knew what he was doing.
When he was at last able to speak again, he continued, "It's very sore now . . . more so than it was earlier, and it h- has spread. My whole stomach hurts, it wasn't nearly as bad before," he whimpered, clearly frightened by this turn for the worse.
"Don't worry, Frodo, you're going to be just fine. Now you must let me check you again, please don't make this harder than it already is." The healer chided, placing a hand firmly on Frodo's knees.
The hobbit-lad whimpered, trying his best to push the hands away from him.
"Frodo, listen to me, would you rather me do this? Or, are you willing to try to turn over on your own?"
Frodo groaned, and his breaths quickened as he anticipated the pain that would undoubtedly come, despite which option he chose. He nodded weakly and answered, "I w- will . . . try to do it m- myself." He finished, swallowing hard and blinking back tears that sprang to his eyes at the thought of moving.
Mr. Fields rose from his chair, ready to assist the child in any way he could. He allowed Frodo the option of doing it himself, simply to see how much strength the boy still had, and perhaps if Frodo moved on his own it would cause him less pain since he knew how to avoid the positions and movements that proved most uncomfortable. During his years as a healer, he had discovered that often times a he could gather more information from a situation such as this, than from an examination of the patient.
Frodo pushed himself up on one elbow, his head drooping from weariness. He fought to stifle cries of pain as he forced himself up from the mattress. He gestured to Mr. Fields that he needed a moment before continuing. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hand instinctively moved to the area about his right hip. He held it there lightly, trying to slow his breathing back to a normal rate, "Hurts. . .hurts!" he wailed, beginning to cry like a wee hobbit child, "Get Bilbo . . . " he pleaded, gasping for breath "I feel as though I'm going to die, oh it hurts so terribly!"
Fosco's heart was filled with pity as he watched the sick tweenager struggle to flip himself onto his back. He was tempted to intervene and lift Frodo himself, laying him out flat in one swift motion, similar to putting a suffering animal out of its misery. "Come on now, Frodo, just get it over with, lad. I know it's unpleasant . . . you know it can't be avoided though. It isn't so bad." Fosco soothed, wiping Frodo's damp curls from his eyes. He tried to offer as much encouragement as he could.
At last Frodo was ready to continue, though he was unable to bear the pain in silence as he tried to complete the action of turning onto his back. The motion of it sent unbearable stabs of pain through his abdomen and he cried out loudly. The effort of it caused his body to rebel and his shaky elbows collapsed out from under him. He landed flat on his back, struggling to keep his knees pinned tightly to his chest.
"Oh, poor lad, shh . . . Frodo." Mr. Fields thought aloud, surprised that the tweenager had gotten as far as he had unaided. "You're mostly there now!" he said optimistically, "Would you like me to help you the rest of the way?"
Frodo made no response; he was losing his fight with the nausea that still plagued him. His small frame shuddered and he moaned loudly and clutched his head as the world spun, ignoring the pain while trying feebly to roll onto his side in order to prevent the vomit from choking him.
Mr. Fields saw what was coming, and he moved quickly to roll Frodo back onto his side. For a time Frodo did nothing but lay there with his eyes squeezed shut, panting from the pain. Unexpectedly, he whimpered and turned his head to the side, struggling weakly to raise himself up on his elbows. Fosco could see his small body tense as he forced up the contents of his stomach, onto his pillow. The hobbit-lad shuddered, and cried out for his uncle Bilbo just before his stomach lurched again and he heaved, bringing up a mouthful of saliva and bile. Fosco lifted his sweat-soaked head from the pillow, cradling it as the lad suffered through more sickness.
Bilbo walked in near the end of it, and nearly dropped the pot of tea and cup he was carrying. The old hobbit set the items down on a table and immediately went to his nephew's bedside. "Oh my, poor lad . . . " Bilbo whispered fretfully, taking Frodo's cold, trembling hand into his own.
Frodo was oblivious to everything but the pain, which he felt was growing worse by the minute. Every movement, cough, or jolt was nearly unbearable for the tweenager; it hurt so badly that he felt he would surely die.
Bilbo felt Frodo squeeze his hand weakly as the lad heaved again, coughing on the bitter fluid as it rose in his throat.
Mr. Fields still held Frodo's head up. He moved his other hand to the child's back, patting it gently and hoping to soothe him a little. Fosco removed his hand, to find that it was drenched with sweat. Indeed, the hobbit-lad was sweating profusely, much more so than he had been earlier. The healer placed the back of his hand to the lad's forehead, not surprised to find that his fever had risen even higher.
Suddenly Frodo's body sagged in Fosco's arms, his head hanging heavily in the healer's hands. Mr. Fields eased Frodo's trembling body back down to the bed. The lad was completely spent, and barely conscious. His eyes were pinched shut; beads of sweat trickled freely down his face as he gasped for breath. Without a word, Fosco quickly moved one hand to the boy's abdomen and felt for the telltale signs of the illness that he feared plagued Frodo. If he were right in his guessing, then a simple feel of Frodo's belly alone would be enough to diagnose the child.
Frodo cried out in pain as the healers' hands, though gentle, landed on his tender belly. Fosco jumped in surprise at feeling the swollen, rigid stomach. He had hoped that he had been wrong all along, but now his suspicions were confirmed, and his fears justified. He brushed stray locks out of Frodo's closed eyes. His heart sank at this new realization; he knew what it meant for Frodo. "Frodo?" he questioned, "Frodo . . . I need you to drink some tea now, alright?"
Frodo nodded, opening his eyes halfway, "I'll try," he managed.
"That's a good lad . . . " Fosco sighed, relieved that the child was cooperating, "It should help with your throat. Is your throat sore?"
"Y- yes, when I t- threw up . . . I- it burned my throat." He breathed, turning his head into his pillow to stifle the screams that he feared might come at any moment. He was grateful that at least they were allowing him to rest quietly at last, though he found no escape from the pain, it was worsening by the moment and it didn't take much to send him reeling in agony.
Mr. Fields rubbed Frodo's back, as the lad struggled to stay calm and bear the pain stoically. The healer felt Frodo's small frame tremble beneath his hands, whether it was from chills or weakness, he did not know; but the feeling of it stirred pity in his battle-hardened heart. Through all his years as a healer, he had become accustomed to and tolerant of many things, though he had seen very few cases such as Frodo's. It pained him to watch how the families and friends of these unfortunate folk remained hopeful to the end, for it was all they had. Nonetheless, the patient's condition simply worsened gradually, the pain became unbearable, their bodies shut down, and they eventually passed away. He knew it was a terrible way to die, and this lad didn't deserve what was happening to him.
Fosco was roused from his dark thoughts by Frodo's anguished cries as the lad succumbed to the pain, and Bilbo's gentle shushing of his sick nephew. He ran a hand smoothly over the boy's dark curls, wishing that he had healing powers such as the Fair Folk were rumored to possess.
***
At last, when Frodo appeared to be resting as comfortably as could be expected, Fosco and Bilbo made their way quietly into the hall. Both of them were pleased to have gotten a small amount of tea into the sick child. He was terribly dehydrated, and even the smallest amount of liquids helped.
"Oh, Mr. Fields," Bilbo began mournfully, "What's to become of my dear boy?" he finished, tears building in his eyes.
Fosco sighed, pacing back and forth on the rug in the hall, "Mr. Baggins, I'm not going to lie to you- or honey-coat this. It is a bitter tonic to swallow . . . " he paused, focusing on a point in Bilbo's study across the way. "Frodo has . . . well; we don't have a name for it exactly. All that is known about the illness here in the Shire is that it begins with an organ which has somehow become infected, somewhere inside his abdomen." He continued, "It is not treatable, he will not survive it."
Bilbo swayed, turning several shades paler, and clutched his hand to his chest in shock at hearing this grim news, all of his worst fears and nightmares becoming a reality.
"I am sorry, Bilbo . . . you know if there were anything in the Shire that could be done for the boy, I would see it through." The healer sighed, "This is a rare illness . . . I've seen five, maybe ten, cases of it in my entire life." Fosco leaned on the wall, avoiding the older hobbit's eyes. "There is no known cause for it . . . " he blinked hard, forcing his tears back, "Nor any known cure."
As Bilbo stood in the hall, he felt his age as the years came crashing down on him like a wagonload of stones.
"Mr. Baggins?" Fosco inquired nervously, rousing Bilbo from his reverie.
"What do you mean, Fosco? Is there nothing at all you can do for my boy?" Bilbo questioned, wringing his hands in dismay.
Fosco shook his head, and looked into Bilbo's eyes, "I can give him some medication for the pain, and you can continue to force liquids down him . . . hopefully he can keep them down, at least for a little while." Fosco rambled, "Though. . . the illness is rather advanced now, Mr. Baggins. It works fast to kill a hobbit, that's about the only thing I do know about it. Frodo may have one or two days left, at best . . . and to attempt to prolong his life further would be cruel, I'm afraid. It would only be prolonging his suffering, Bilbo, do you understand?" The healer continued, sighing and wiping tears from his eyes with his sleeve. He hated doing this to the old bachelor, he was well aware of how much Frodo meant to Bilbo. Mr. Fields knew about Frodo's past, and had been a family friend of the Baggins' for years. He hated knowing that such a young life would soon be lost so tragically, and so suddenly . . . just like the lives of his dear parents.
"There is no one in Middle-Earth who might help Frodo?" Bilbo questioned, his voice shaky with emotion.
"There isn't time to get him there, Mr. Baggins. I have heard talk that the Fair Folk are capable of healing such ailments- illnesses that affect the body from the inside, though they are only . . . rumors, you see." Fosco explained gently.
Bilbo's heart leapt at this sudden new ray of hope, a beacon of light in the darkness that had descended over his world. Mr. Fields, like most Shire- folk, had little knowledge or understanding of the world outside of the Shire. Perhaps Fosco was mistaken? Perhaps there was some truth to these "rumors". Bilbo had seen the elves, and was an Elf-friend. . . he felt sure that they would help him, and surely Elrond would-
No. The bright ray of hope was nearly extinguished as quickly as it had appeared. He realized what Fosco had just said: "There isn't time to get him there." Frodo would die before he reached Rivendell, and regardless, he wouldn't be able to bear the jostling gait of even the most surefooted pony in the Shire.
"You may be aware of the fact," Bilbo began with a new confidence, "that I have visited The Last Homely House in Rivendell, and had the pleasure of meeting Lord Elrond . . . " he continued, watching as Mr. Fields' eyes glazed over at the mention of such outlandish names and places, "Judging from my own experience, I'm willing to wager that there's more truth to those rumors than you've heard over at the Green Dragon!" Bilbo finished, feeling rather spirited at the moment, despite the grimness of Frodo's prognosis. "I happen to know for a fact, that Elves occasionally pass through our lands on their way to the Havens," Bilbo began again, "If I spent the next day or so searching the borders of the Shire, then perhaps I may be lucky enough to encounter an Elf . . . I am recognized as an Elf- friend among their people, I feel sure that they would help Frodo." Bilbo ended, his eyes searching Fosco's for approval and agreement.
Mr. Fields nodded encouragingly, "Of course, Mr. Baggins, I encourage you to do what you can for the boy. . . if you feel that this expedition is time well spent. Though I strongly urge that you remain here with Frodo, or at least nearby. He hasn't much time left . it would be terrible if you were not here for him when . . . " Fosco trailed off, glancing at Bilbo. They both knew how the sentence ended.
"Oh, Fosco! Don't be such a fool!" Bilbo yelled, "Don't you see? I can change how the sentence ends. It's worth a try, isn't it? If I'm unsuccessful then I shall return before the end of the second day." Bilbo tried a small smile.
Fosco only nodded, he had dealt with enough grief-stricken parents to know that it was folly to argue with one of them. "You must do what you feel is best, Mr. Baggins. I will stay here with Frodo while you're away . . . I'll tend to him like one of my own." The healer smiled slightly. "But," he added, a note of seriousness in his voice, "I never said that your nephew would last two more days . . . I am hopeful that he will, but he is already so weak . . . it is hard to say." Fosco nodded grimly, "He isn't nearly as stout as most lads his age, and I can make no promises." Mr. Fields seriously doubted that Bilbo would be successful in finding an Elf roaming the borders of the Shire, let alone an Elf with advanced skills in healing.
"I understand, Mr. Fields, you can only do what is within your power to do." Bilbo replied.
***
"Frodo?" Bilbo whispered, "Are you awake?" he rubbed Frodo's flushed cheek gently with one smooth hand, willing the child to wake up so that he might say goodbye.
"Bilbo," Frodo answered, his voice trembling with weakness.
Bilbo looked into Frodo's eyes, they were still so blue, yet so haunted with suffering and fatigue. They were sunken far back into their sockets; the lad's face was drawn due to dehydration and illness. The older hobbit regarded his nephew, cupping his small face in his hands, just enjoying being with the lad.
"It feels nice, Bilbo." Frodo stated, smiling wanly at his uncle.
Bilbo couldn't help but smile back, relieved to see that Frodo was finding comfort somewhere, "What does, lad?" he asked.
"Your hands . . . they're so cool and soft," Frodo replied, slowly bringing one of his own small hands up, placing it on top of his uncles.
"Ah, I'm glad it feels nice, Frodo." Bilbo smiled. It struck him then that due to Frodo's high fever, the coolness of his own hands must be a welcome change. He reached over to the nightstand, re-dipping a cloth and wringing it out.
"There we are now, isn't that even better?" Bilbo asked, beginning to wipe Frodo's damp face with the cool cloth.
The hobbit-lad nodded, and Bilbo could feel his nephew relax as he enjoyed the coolness and comfort of his uncles' attention. "Frodo," Bilbo began again, not interrupting his ministrations, "I'm leaving for a day or so." He paused.
Frodo's eyes flew open, and he stared questioningly at Bilbo, "Why, Bilbo?" he began, his eyes tearing up once more, "Please don't leave me . . . " he begged, clutching at his uncle's arm.
Bilbo shook his head, "I'm going to get help, Frodo. You're very ill . . . I'm-" he paused, choosing his next words carefully, trying to be as truthful as possible without being completely honest, "I am going to try to find the Elves, Frodo." He confessed, "They may be able to help make you better . . . faster than Mr. Fields will be able to." He smiled reassuringly. "You've been so brave, lad, so strong . . . I really admire that." Bilbo assured his nephew, "You're going to be just fine . . . I know it's hard, but you're going to get through this and be as good as new before you know it." He finished, trying his hardest to sound cheerful.
Frodo's face fell, "But . . . who will take care of me while you're gone?" he asked, immediately feeling foolish; like a baby who demanded constant attention.
Bilbo noticed Frodo's embarrassment and countered it quickly, "Oh, Frodo, Mr. Fields is going to stay here at Bag End. Besides, I'll only be gone one- two, days at most." He smiled, "Do not feel bad. You cannot help being ill, I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone, Frodo." He patted the tweenagers arm gently, and planted a kiss on his overheated forehead. "Now, I must be off." Bilbo declared, "Don't fret, and listen to Mr. Fields as if he were me!" he shook his finger in mock-seriousness at the tween.
Frodo chuckled lightly, wincing as the pain returned slightly, serving as a reminder of how ill he really was. "Don't worry, Bilbo," he whispered, "I'll mind him." He finished.
"That's my good lad!" Bilbo answered, rising to his feet and heading towards the door. He turned one last time to wave goodbye to his nephew, hoping it wouldn't be the last goodbye he said to the child.
Frodo was left alone once more, he lay as still as possible, trying to undo the damage that he had done by laughing. The tweenager was growing quite suspicious of Bilbo's attitude and strange activities. He suspected that perhaps there was something that his uncle was keeping from him. Though, at the moment, he was too tired to care, and soon slipped into an uneasy doze, relieved to have a break from the pain long enough to get some much needed rest.
***
After Bilbo had left, Fosco peeked in on the tweenager, relieved to see that the medication he had slipped into the lad's tea appeared to be working.
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A/N: Ok, there's Chapter 7. Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think. :)
Thank all of you so, so much for the lovely reviews! :) I'm glad you're enjoying the fic! And, I haven't forgotten about "And In The Darkness Bind Him". There are still at least two chapters left in that fic. I got distracted writing this one, and then ff.net was down, and it's just been one thing after the other. (I'm just full of excuses today! :p ) But, I promise that I will update that story as soon as I possibly can, maybe even before I post another chapter of "September".
Manc Admirer: It isn't the Ring. :) That's a good guess though; I suppose the Ring would be capable of doing such things to the poor hobbit! But this illness is something that quite a few people experience in their lifetime- I hope it never happens to me! But it is fairly easily treated if diagnosed early on. Of course, in the Shire they aren't as learned about such things, much to Frodo's misfortune. :(
Tathar: It is an AU fic, but don't worry *too* much. ;) I believe things will work out, one way or another, in the end.
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"Easy there, lad." Fosco soothed, rubbing Frodo's small back and trying to comfort the hobbit-child in his semi-delirious state. He had barely touched the tweenager, and Frodo was already being difficult. It was clear that he wanted to lie still and be left undisturbed, but unfortunately he wasn't going to be able to have his way.
Bilbo had returned from fetching the healer as soon as he was able. He had gone to Mr. Fields house himself after no one in the vicinity of Bag End answered his urgent knocks. Now he stood by Frodo's bed, observing Fosco Fields as he sat in a chair examining the ill tweenager.
"What do you think it is?" Bilbo inquired, wringing his hands as he peeked nervously between the healer and Frodo.
Mr. Fields just shook his head and answered, "I've hardly begun to examine him, Mr. Baggins, just one moment please."
"Yes, of course. Forgive my manners." Bilbo apologized, staring down anxiously at his nephew's still form, "He's had an awful time of it, Mr. Fields, he's been quite sick on his stomach, the poor little thing. I don't believe that the medicine you gave him yesterday helped much at all." The older hobbit rambled, "And he hasn't got the strength to keep fighting this!" he nearly shouted, "He won't take his liquids, though I doubt he could keep them down if he did, and-"
"Please Bilbo, if you will, go set some water to boil for tea? You'll be of more help in the kitchen than in here fretting over your lad." The healer looked up from his small patient, trying to smile through his own apprehensiveness.
Bilbo nodded vigorously and left without another word.
Fosco sighed, shaking his head. Bilbo's restlessness was beginning to irritate him. And it did nothing to help reduce the tension in the room either. "Frodo, can you turn over for me?" the healer asked gently.
Frodo forced his eyes open, struggling to focus on Mr. Fields, "I- I can't, it hurts so much." He whimpered, "It's much worse now, than it was before." He shook his head weakly.
"And how's that, lad?" Mr. Fields asked.
"I c- can't explain it . . . it's just . . . just, worse. I can hardly breathe without making it start up again, and. . . " he paused gripping Fosco's arm tightly as another wave of pain tore through his small belly. Fosco wiped the lad's face with a cool cloth, and spoke words of comfort into his ear, hoping to help him through the pain. It seemed to help, Frodo found comfort in the healers presence. He was relieved to be around someone who, he thought, knew what he was doing.
When he was at last able to speak again, he continued, "It's very sore now . . . more so than it was earlier, and it h- has spread. My whole stomach hurts, it wasn't nearly as bad before," he whimpered, clearly frightened by this turn for the worse.
"Don't worry, Frodo, you're going to be just fine. Now you must let me check you again, please don't make this harder than it already is." The healer chided, placing a hand firmly on Frodo's knees.
The hobbit-lad whimpered, trying his best to push the hands away from him.
"Frodo, listen to me, would you rather me do this? Or, are you willing to try to turn over on your own?"
Frodo groaned, and his breaths quickened as he anticipated the pain that would undoubtedly come, despite which option he chose. He nodded weakly and answered, "I w- will . . . try to do it m- myself." He finished, swallowing hard and blinking back tears that sprang to his eyes at the thought of moving.
Mr. Fields rose from his chair, ready to assist the child in any way he could. He allowed Frodo the option of doing it himself, simply to see how much strength the boy still had, and perhaps if Frodo moved on his own it would cause him less pain since he knew how to avoid the positions and movements that proved most uncomfortable. During his years as a healer, he had discovered that often times a he could gather more information from a situation such as this, than from an examination of the patient.
Frodo pushed himself up on one elbow, his head drooping from weariness. He fought to stifle cries of pain as he forced himself up from the mattress. He gestured to Mr. Fields that he needed a moment before continuing. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and his hand instinctively moved to the area about his right hip. He held it there lightly, trying to slow his breathing back to a normal rate, "Hurts. . .hurts!" he wailed, beginning to cry like a wee hobbit child, "Get Bilbo . . . " he pleaded, gasping for breath "I feel as though I'm going to die, oh it hurts so terribly!"
Fosco's heart was filled with pity as he watched the sick tweenager struggle to flip himself onto his back. He was tempted to intervene and lift Frodo himself, laying him out flat in one swift motion, similar to putting a suffering animal out of its misery. "Come on now, Frodo, just get it over with, lad. I know it's unpleasant . . . you know it can't be avoided though. It isn't so bad." Fosco soothed, wiping Frodo's damp curls from his eyes. He tried to offer as much encouragement as he could.
At last Frodo was ready to continue, though he was unable to bear the pain in silence as he tried to complete the action of turning onto his back. The motion of it sent unbearable stabs of pain through his abdomen and he cried out loudly. The effort of it caused his body to rebel and his shaky elbows collapsed out from under him. He landed flat on his back, struggling to keep his knees pinned tightly to his chest.
"Oh, poor lad, shh . . . Frodo." Mr. Fields thought aloud, surprised that the tweenager had gotten as far as he had unaided. "You're mostly there now!" he said optimistically, "Would you like me to help you the rest of the way?"
Frodo made no response; he was losing his fight with the nausea that still plagued him. His small frame shuddered and he moaned loudly and clutched his head as the world spun, ignoring the pain while trying feebly to roll onto his side in order to prevent the vomit from choking him.
Mr. Fields saw what was coming, and he moved quickly to roll Frodo back onto his side. For a time Frodo did nothing but lay there with his eyes squeezed shut, panting from the pain. Unexpectedly, he whimpered and turned his head to the side, struggling weakly to raise himself up on his elbows. Fosco could see his small body tense as he forced up the contents of his stomach, onto his pillow. The hobbit-lad shuddered, and cried out for his uncle Bilbo just before his stomach lurched again and he heaved, bringing up a mouthful of saliva and bile. Fosco lifted his sweat-soaked head from the pillow, cradling it as the lad suffered through more sickness.
Bilbo walked in near the end of it, and nearly dropped the pot of tea and cup he was carrying. The old hobbit set the items down on a table and immediately went to his nephew's bedside. "Oh my, poor lad . . . " Bilbo whispered fretfully, taking Frodo's cold, trembling hand into his own.
Frodo was oblivious to everything but the pain, which he felt was growing worse by the minute. Every movement, cough, or jolt was nearly unbearable for the tweenager; it hurt so badly that he felt he would surely die.
Bilbo felt Frodo squeeze his hand weakly as the lad heaved again, coughing on the bitter fluid as it rose in his throat.
Mr. Fields still held Frodo's head up. He moved his other hand to the child's back, patting it gently and hoping to soothe him a little. Fosco removed his hand, to find that it was drenched with sweat. Indeed, the hobbit-lad was sweating profusely, much more so than he had been earlier. The healer placed the back of his hand to the lad's forehead, not surprised to find that his fever had risen even higher.
Suddenly Frodo's body sagged in Fosco's arms, his head hanging heavily in the healer's hands. Mr. Fields eased Frodo's trembling body back down to the bed. The lad was completely spent, and barely conscious. His eyes were pinched shut; beads of sweat trickled freely down his face as he gasped for breath. Without a word, Fosco quickly moved one hand to the boy's abdomen and felt for the telltale signs of the illness that he feared plagued Frodo. If he were right in his guessing, then a simple feel of Frodo's belly alone would be enough to diagnose the child.
Frodo cried out in pain as the healers' hands, though gentle, landed on his tender belly. Fosco jumped in surprise at feeling the swollen, rigid stomach. He had hoped that he had been wrong all along, but now his suspicions were confirmed, and his fears justified. He brushed stray locks out of Frodo's closed eyes. His heart sank at this new realization; he knew what it meant for Frodo. "Frodo?" he questioned, "Frodo . . . I need you to drink some tea now, alright?"
Frodo nodded, opening his eyes halfway, "I'll try," he managed.
"That's a good lad . . . " Fosco sighed, relieved that the child was cooperating, "It should help with your throat. Is your throat sore?"
"Y- yes, when I t- threw up . . . I- it burned my throat." He breathed, turning his head into his pillow to stifle the screams that he feared might come at any moment. He was grateful that at least they were allowing him to rest quietly at last, though he found no escape from the pain, it was worsening by the moment and it didn't take much to send him reeling in agony.
Mr. Fields rubbed Frodo's back, as the lad struggled to stay calm and bear the pain stoically. The healer felt Frodo's small frame tremble beneath his hands, whether it was from chills or weakness, he did not know; but the feeling of it stirred pity in his battle-hardened heart. Through all his years as a healer, he had become accustomed to and tolerant of many things, though he had seen very few cases such as Frodo's. It pained him to watch how the families and friends of these unfortunate folk remained hopeful to the end, for it was all they had. Nonetheless, the patient's condition simply worsened gradually, the pain became unbearable, their bodies shut down, and they eventually passed away. He knew it was a terrible way to die, and this lad didn't deserve what was happening to him.
Fosco was roused from his dark thoughts by Frodo's anguished cries as the lad succumbed to the pain, and Bilbo's gentle shushing of his sick nephew. He ran a hand smoothly over the boy's dark curls, wishing that he had healing powers such as the Fair Folk were rumored to possess.
***
At last, when Frodo appeared to be resting as comfortably as could be expected, Fosco and Bilbo made their way quietly into the hall. Both of them were pleased to have gotten a small amount of tea into the sick child. He was terribly dehydrated, and even the smallest amount of liquids helped.
"Oh, Mr. Fields," Bilbo began mournfully, "What's to become of my dear boy?" he finished, tears building in his eyes.
Fosco sighed, pacing back and forth on the rug in the hall, "Mr. Baggins, I'm not going to lie to you- or honey-coat this. It is a bitter tonic to swallow . . . " he paused, focusing on a point in Bilbo's study across the way. "Frodo has . . . well; we don't have a name for it exactly. All that is known about the illness here in the Shire is that it begins with an organ which has somehow become infected, somewhere inside his abdomen." He continued, "It is not treatable, he will not survive it."
Bilbo swayed, turning several shades paler, and clutched his hand to his chest in shock at hearing this grim news, all of his worst fears and nightmares becoming a reality.
"I am sorry, Bilbo . . . you know if there were anything in the Shire that could be done for the boy, I would see it through." The healer sighed, "This is a rare illness . . . I've seen five, maybe ten, cases of it in my entire life." Fosco leaned on the wall, avoiding the older hobbit's eyes. "There is no known cause for it . . . " he blinked hard, forcing his tears back, "Nor any known cure."
As Bilbo stood in the hall, he felt his age as the years came crashing down on him like a wagonload of stones.
"Mr. Baggins?" Fosco inquired nervously, rousing Bilbo from his reverie.
"What do you mean, Fosco? Is there nothing at all you can do for my boy?" Bilbo questioned, wringing his hands in dismay.
Fosco shook his head, and looked into Bilbo's eyes, "I can give him some medication for the pain, and you can continue to force liquids down him . . . hopefully he can keep them down, at least for a little while." Fosco rambled, "Though. . . the illness is rather advanced now, Mr. Baggins. It works fast to kill a hobbit, that's about the only thing I do know about it. Frodo may have one or two days left, at best . . . and to attempt to prolong his life further would be cruel, I'm afraid. It would only be prolonging his suffering, Bilbo, do you understand?" The healer continued, sighing and wiping tears from his eyes with his sleeve. He hated doing this to the old bachelor, he was well aware of how much Frodo meant to Bilbo. Mr. Fields knew about Frodo's past, and had been a family friend of the Baggins' for years. He hated knowing that such a young life would soon be lost so tragically, and so suddenly . . . just like the lives of his dear parents.
"There is no one in Middle-Earth who might help Frodo?" Bilbo questioned, his voice shaky with emotion.
"There isn't time to get him there, Mr. Baggins. I have heard talk that the Fair Folk are capable of healing such ailments- illnesses that affect the body from the inside, though they are only . . . rumors, you see." Fosco explained gently.
Bilbo's heart leapt at this sudden new ray of hope, a beacon of light in the darkness that had descended over his world. Mr. Fields, like most Shire- folk, had little knowledge or understanding of the world outside of the Shire. Perhaps Fosco was mistaken? Perhaps there was some truth to these "rumors". Bilbo had seen the elves, and was an Elf-friend. . . he felt sure that they would help him, and surely Elrond would-
No. The bright ray of hope was nearly extinguished as quickly as it had appeared. He realized what Fosco had just said: "There isn't time to get him there." Frodo would die before he reached Rivendell, and regardless, he wouldn't be able to bear the jostling gait of even the most surefooted pony in the Shire.
"You may be aware of the fact," Bilbo began with a new confidence, "that I have visited The Last Homely House in Rivendell, and had the pleasure of meeting Lord Elrond . . . " he continued, watching as Mr. Fields' eyes glazed over at the mention of such outlandish names and places, "Judging from my own experience, I'm willing to wager that there's more truth to those rumors than you've heard over at the Green Dragon!" Bilbo finished, feeling rather spirited at the moment, despite the grimness of Frodo's prognosis. "I happen to know for a fact, that Elves occasionally pass through our lands on their way to the Havens," Bilbo began again, "If I spent the next day or so searching the borders of the Shire, then perhaps I may be lucky enough to encounter an Elf . . . I am recognized as an Elf- friend among their people, I feel sure that they would help Frodo." Bilbo ended, his eyes searching Fosco's for approval and agreement.
Mr. Fields nodded encouragingly, "Of course, Mr. Baggins, I encourage you to do what you can for the boy. . . if you feel that this expedition is time well spent. Though I strongly urge that you remain here with Frodo, or at least nearby. He hasn't much time left . it would be terrible if you were not here for him when . . . " Fosco trailed off, glancing at Bilbo. They both knew how the sentence ended.
"Oh, Fosco! Don't be such a fool!" Bilbo yelled, "Don't you see? I can change how the sentence ends. It's worth a try, isn't it? If I'm unsuccessful then I shall return before the end of the second day." Bilbo tried a small smile.
Fosco only nodded, he had dealt with enough grief-stricken parents to know that it was folly to argue with one of them. "You must do what you feel is best, Mr. Baggins. I will stay here with Frodo while you're away . . . I'll tend to him like one of my own." The healer smiled slightly. "But," he added, a note of seriousness in his voice, "I never said that your nephew would last two more days . . . I am hopeful that he will, but he is already so weak . . . it is hard to say." Fosco nodded grimly, "He isn't nearly as stout as most lads his age, and I can make no promises." Mr. Fields seriously doubted that Bilbo would be successful in finding an Elf roaming the borders of the Shire, let alone an Elf with advanced skills in healing.
"I understand, Mr. Fields, you can only do what is within your power to do." Bilbo replied.
***
"Frodo?" Bilbo whispered, "Are you awake?" he rubbed Frodo's flushed cheek gently with one smooth hand, willing the child to wake up so that he might say goodbye.
"Bilbo," Frodo answered, his voice trembling with weakness.
Bilbo looked into Frodo's eyes, they were still so blue, yet so haunted with suffering and fatigue. They were sunken far back into their sockets; the lad's face was drawn due to dehydration and illness. The older hobbit regarded his nephew, cupping his small face in his hands, just enjoying being with the lad.
"It feels nice, Bilbo." Frodo stated, smiling wanly at his uncle.
Bilbo couldn't help but smile back, relieved to see that Frodo was finding comfort somewhere, "What does, lad?" he asked.
"Your hands . . . they're so cool and soft," Frodo replied, slowly bringing one of his own small hands up, placing it on top of his uncles.
"Ah, I'm glad it feels nice, Frodo." Bilbo smiled. It struck him then that due to Frodo's high fever, the coolness of his own hands must be a welcome change. He reached over to the nightstand, re-dipping a cloth and wringing it out.
"There we are now, isn't that even better?" Bilbo asked, beginning to wipe Frodo's damp face with the cool cloth.
The hobbit-lad nodded, and Bilbo could feel his nephew relax as he enjoyed the coolness and comfort of his uncles' attention. "Frodo," Bilbo began again, not interrupting his ministrations, "I'm leaving for a day or so." He paused.
Frodo's eyes flew open, and he stared questioningly at Bilbo, "Why, Bilbo?" he began, his eyes tearing up once more, "Please don't leave me . . . " he begged, clutching at his uncle's arm.
Bilbo shook his head, "I'm going to get help, Frodo. You're very ill . . . I'm-" he paused, choosing his next words carefully, trying to be as truthful as possible without being completely honest, "I am going to try to find the Elves, Frodo." He confessed, "They may be able to help make you better . . . faster than Mr. Fields will be able to." He smiled reassuringly. "You've been so brave, lad, so strong . . . I really admire that." Bilbo assured his nephew, "You're going to be just fine . . . I know it's hard, but you're going to get through this and be as good as new before you know it." He finished, trying his hardest to sound cheerful.
Frodo's face fell, "But . . . who will take care of me while you're gone?" he asked, immediately feeling foolish; like a baby who demanded constant attention.
Bilbo noticed Frodo's embarrassment and countered it quickly, "Oh, Frodo, Mr. Fields is going to stay here at Bag End. Besides, I'll only be gone one- two, days at most." He smiled, "Do not feel bad. You cannot help being ill, I wouldn't dream of leaving you alone, Frodo." He patted the tweenagers arm gently, and planted a kiss on his overheated forehead. "Now, I must be off." Bilbo declared, "Don't fret, and listen to Mr. Fields as if he were me!" he shook his finger in mock-seriousness at the tween.
Frodo chuckled lightly, wincing as the pain returned slightly, serving as a reminder of how ill he really was. "Don't worry, Bilbo," he whispered, "I'll mind him." He finished.
"That's my good lad!" Bilbo answered, rising to his feet and heading towards the door. He turned one last time to wave goodbye to his nephew, hoping it wouldn't be the last goodbye he said to the child.
Frodo was left alone once more, he lay as still as possible, trying to undo the damage that he had done by laughing. The tweenager was growing quite suspicious of Bilbo's attitude and strange activities. He suspected that perhaps there was something that his uncle was keeping from him. Though, at the moment, he was too tired to care, and soon slipped into an uneasy doze, relieved to have a break from the pain long enough to get some much needed rest.
***
After Bilbo had left, Fosco peeked in on the tweenager, relieved to see that the medication he had slipped into the lad's tea appeared to be working.
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A/N: Ok, there's Chapter 7. Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think. :)