A/N: Sorry I've been so long in getting this written! I worked all last
week, but things are finally slowing back down and I've got more free time
(though that's going to change again soon. :( . . .). Thanks again for the
reviews! It is very encouraging knowing that other people are reading my
fic and enjoying it. :) I apologize for the length of this chapter, I don't
believe I've ever written one this long before (lol). Hopefully I can get
the next (and final) chapter of my other fic up soon as well.
Tathar: You guessed right! It is appendicitis, but turns into something more serious due to the delayed treatment.
Floria Tosca: Don't worry! The story isn't terribly AU; I don't want you to be upset. :)
Eleorcira: I'm glad you like my fic! :) You're exactly right about what's wrong with him. But, don't worry- Bilbo won't give up. I'm sorry to hear that your brother and sister both had it! :( That's awful. I hope it doesn't happen to you too. My mom had it when she was a little girl, but thankfully neither my brother nor I have had it.
***** Disclaimer: I do not own anything! :) *****
WARNING: A little bit of this chapter deals with the use of Opium (inhaled, and used in a salve) as a painkiller, as well as a description of its effects. Given the circumstances- such as the current state of Frodo's digestive tract due to his illness, I would think that inhaling it would have been the quickest, most practical, way to get it into his system. Morphine is derived from Opium, and Morphine is a serious painkiller, though I thought it would have been a bit of a stretch to say that the hobbits extracted the Morphine alone, so I just wrote it here that in Frodo's case Fosco used the drug Opium as a whole for pain relief. There is no mention of *how* he acquired the drug, he just has it in his bag with other medicines and occasionally uses it for patients that are suffering like poor Frodo. I realize that the plant originated in the Middle East and Asia, but it did spread to other places. . . so perhaps it could have spread to Middle-Earth. :)
So, if the mention of or the hinting at of the drug, or the effects of the drug, offends you, then please don't read this chapter! I do not want to upset anyone. :) If you don't want to read about it, but still want to know what happens in the chapter, I can edit out offending parts and email you the rest. Just ask me, it's no trouble at all! :) ainur02@yahoo.com
Due to my (very) limited knowledge of medical treatments, I am not sure if what I wrote is completely correct, though I did do my research before I started writing this chapter. The use of the drug in this context is strictly for medicinal purposes, and there is no talk of addictions or abuse of the substance. :) It is used strictly as an attempt at easing Frodo's pain. And as I said earlier, it is a very small part of the chapter.
I haven't studied medicine; I really don't know what I'm doing. This is, of course, fan *fiction*, so please don't interpret any of this as factual or useful information. And if I do offend anyone out there by writing a wee bit about this drug, then please forgive me, I meant no harm!
With that lengthy warning/disclaimer out of the way, I will get on with things now. :) Sorry for rambling for so long! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :) --------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 8:
It seemed to Frodo that he had hardly closed his weary eyes to sleep when he was woken abruptly by sharp, painful twinges near his right hip. He whimpered slightly, feeling the pain grow steadily into a nearly unbearable throbbing that ran the length of his small abdomen. The pain eventually died down again, returning once more to a dull ache, much to his relief. Though Frodo soon felt it begin anew, as if it were moving in some cruel cycle.
Due to the nature of Frodo's illness, his body was scarcely able to absorb any of the medication that Mr. Fields had slipped into his tea. His bowels had since ceased to function at all, making it impossible for him to absorb any medication administered by mouth.
He gasped in surprise and pain as a sudden sharp stab caught him off guard. Hugging his knees close to his stiff belly, he lay as still as possible trying to slow his breathing and make the pain go away.
***
Fosco sat, within earshot, just on the other side of the room. He had spent the majority of the morning studying several books on healing herbs that he had brought with him in his bag upon returning to Bag End a second time. Hearing the hobbit-child stir, the healer glanced up from his reading. In the morning light he could see Frodo's form trembling with chills as his small body burned with fever. Mr. Fields closed his book, and crept to the lads' bedside. He saw fresh tears trailing down Frodo's ashen cheeks; his eyes were closed as if in sleep, though Fosco knew it wasn't so. The tears were those of pain and fear. The hobbit-child gasped for breath through clenched teeth, and gripped the edge of his mattress tightly, struggling to focus on something other than his growing agony. Fosco wished more than anything to ease the lads' suffering. There *was* one thing left that he could do for Frodo, though he didn't want to administer such substances to such a small hobbit.
The healer moved a hand toward Frodo's still form, letting it linger over the child's abdomen. From several inches away, he could feel heat radiating from the swollen belly. He shook his head sadly, folding his shaking hands silently and blinking back tears of his own. The illness was so advanced now that regardless of whether or not Bilbo found an Elf, he doubted that Frodo would be able to recover. The lad didn't possess the strength necessary to endure any surgery or taxing treatments that may be required, he could scarcely hold his head up. At that point, Fosco just hoped that Bilbo would return home in time to see his lad alive one more time. Though he had had little experience with this particular ailment, he knew how it progressed. It was clear to him that the infected organ had now ruptured, spilling its lethal contents into Frodo's vulnerable abdominal cavity. It meant that unless Frodo received treatment soon, he would die within a few days- at best; it simply wasn't possible for the child's body to fight off the infection, he would be overcome by it. Fosco had thought about it before, but now that the events were playing out before his very eyes, it seemed far worse, and surreal. Watching Frodo die was harder than any other slow death he'd ever had to witness. It was so much more difficult to bear, watching the little one struggle painfully for each shallow breath and seeing his body break down slowly, viewing the ever-present streams of tears that stained his gaunt cheeks. Knowing how much the lad deserved happiness made seeing him suffer hurt all the more.
"Bilbo?" Frodo murmured deliriously, his voice faltering.
"Bilbo isn't here, little one, he has gone for help." Fosco replied gently, kneeling beside the sick tween's bed. "How are you feeling, Frodo?" he asked, feeling the lad's burning forehead gingerly, "Has the pain grown worse?"
Frodo nodded yes slowly before opening his eyes slightly to gaze up at the healer, "Where did he go?" the child persisted, changing the subject "Why. . .why did he. . . leave?" Frodo struggled to finish.
"Oh, poor lad," Fosco cooed, "Don't you worry about a thing, just rest." He continued, "Bilbo will be back soon." It worried Fosco that Frodo didn't seem to remember his conversation with Bilbo from earlier that morning, only hours ago.
Frodo nodded vaguely, closing his eyes again. He squeezed Fosco's arm weakly in thanks.
"Is there anything you need, lad?" The healer offered, "I can make you some tea, or perhaps you would like a cup of water?"
Frodo shook his head, moistening his cracked lips slightly and preparing to speak, "No. . . I am quite t- thirsty. . . though if I drink anything I'm s- sure I'll be s- sick." He replied quietly. "It hurts. . ." he whimpered miserably, his voice cracking "My stomach hurts so much. . . c- can't you make it stop?" he pleaded weakly; "Even just a little bit. . .anything would help. . ." he trailed off, raising his gaze to meet Mr. Fields'.
"I am sorry, Frodo." Fosco shook his head, "There is nothing more I can do for you now, just hold on. Please don't give up, lad, your uncle Bilbo will return soon with help." He smiled slightly, though he knew that he was most likely giving false hope.
Frodo cried out and lowered his head as another spasm of severe pain coursed through his infected tummy. Fosco worked quickly, retrieving a cool cloth to wipe the child's face. He rubbed the small back soothingly in an attempt to ease the lads' pain, or at least try to comfort him with his presence, "Shh. . .Frodo. It will pass soon." He hoped, patting the lad's trembling form sympathetically.
"Sick. . ." Frodo moaned, swallowing several times as he struggled not to lose the contents of his stomach. He brought one pale, unsteady hand up and covered his mouth, trying to keep from vomiting on Mr. Fields.
Fosco gathered the lad into his arms, lifting his small body effortlessly, ignoring Frodo's cries of anguish. He then resettled Frodo so that he was in a position where he wouldn't choke on his vomit if he should become ill. The lad was barely resettled in bed when much of the tea from earlier came back up in a flood of bile and saliva, messing up his bedclothes and blankets in the process.
"Oh, Frodo," Fosco whispered, his voice trembling with fear, "'Tis all right, lad. . . we'll just get you all cleaned up now, hold on."
"I'm. . . so sorry," Frodo gasped, his small form shuddered from the effort and tears of pain and shame began to well up in his eyes once more, "I di- didn't mean to." he sobbed quietly.
Fosco gently shushed the child, "Poor boy, no need to be sorry for that. You can't help it." He reassured Frodo.
The tweenager nodded weakly, closing his eyes and allowing Fosco to lift him from the bed. He bit back gasps of pain as best he could, not wanting to alarm the healer needlessly. Though it was a difficult task, for every time Fosco's foot landed on the floor it sent agonizing jolts reverberating through Frodo's aching belly.
"Now you just lie here while I get some clean blankets and clothes for you, I'll only be a moment." Fosco soothed. The healer pulled a throw close around Frodo's trembling body so the lad wouldn't become chilled.
Mr. Fields soon located the chest of bedclothes in Frodo's room. He pulled out fresh quilts and bed linens, and then proceeded to strip the bed of its soiled blankets. There was no time to allow the damp areas of the mattress dry, and it would be pointless to try, as the lad would most likely be sick again, so he folded a wool blanket several times and hoped that would suffice for the time being.
The healer then made his way back to Frodo's chair. He had selected a comfortable nightshift for the lad to change into. Fosco suspected that the hobbit-child was long overdue for a bath and change of clothes, due to his increased amount of sweating in the past several hours.
"Alright, lad, I'm going to try to do this quickly. . ." Fosco promised, pulling up a chair and fetching fresh clothes and the basin of water that was kept by Frodo's bed. "You must have a bath, 'tis not good to lie around without bathing when anyone's been as sick as you have," Mr. Fields chided gently. "Though of course it is not your fault, Frodo. You're certainly in no shape to bathe yourself- so I'm going to do it for you." He smiled, patting the tween's cheek lightly.
Frodo was pleased to hear that he would be getting a bath. He had wanted one since the previous afternoon, though he hadn't been able to do it for himself, and hadn't wanted to trouble Bilbo further by asking for one. He opened his deep blue eyes, sparing the healer a weak smile of appreciation, "Thank you," he whispered, "I know I must look and smell a fright. . ." he jested slightly, sobering more at the thought of how dreadful he must look- his hair matted from sweat, and his clothes lank and soiled and clinging to his slight frame.
"I will try my best not to touch you anywhere that will cause you pain," Fosco promised, bringing the rag lightly to rest on the tween's forehead, he began washing Frodo's face first.
The hobbit-lad nodded, grateful that he could at least be spared some pain. The thought of having to undress and shift positions wasn't at all enticing to him. . . though neither was continuing to lay in bed wearing soiled garments.
Frodo was enjoying the bath, it was the most comforting thing he had experienced since becoming ill. He would have fallen asleep if the nagging pain in his belly had allowed it, though it never let up, not even long enough for him to doze, it only grew worse and worse. His thoughts then drifted to his party, he almost wept at the thought of it. 'I won't possibly be well in time to finish planning it. . . or even attend it if someone else finished arranging everything.' he thought mournfully, 'I shan't ever be well again.' He grimaced as the washcloth grazed his tender stomach, 'It's entirely my fault. The party plans are spoiled, and poor Bilbo will have to miss out on all of the fun.' Frodo thought of his guest lists, and the presents he had collected to give to friends and family, and how it would all go to waste. He thought of his uncle Bilbo as well, poor old Bilbo had gone off to who knows where, into the woods all alone, all on account of his being ill. He felt tears fill his eyes unbidden. He longed for Bilbo's comforting presence. Just being able to hear the old hobbits' kind voice, or feel his familiar touch, would have calmed the lad more than anything Fosco could have done. He thought last of himself, he couldn't imagine how he could possibly feel worse. . . though he had been thinking that same thought since the previous morning, and he had only begun to feel more wretched since then. Frodo didn't know how much more of this he could take. Even breathing was a punishment. He was so thirsty, yet nothing would stay down, and when it came back up the pain was so terrible it made him wish he would die, rather than linger in misery like he seemed to be doing now.
"There," Fosco put the cloth aside, "That's better. now let me get this clean nightshift on you. . ." he offered, reaching down and beginning to gently work the soiled shirt up.
Frodo whimpered, this was the part he had been dreading, "I can't move. . .You must work around me." He managed, with effort; squeezing his eyes shut tightly.
Fosco sighed, "I'll do my best, Frodo." He promised, "I'll spare you as much pain as I'm able." He finished, pulling the shift up around the hobbit- lads small waist.
"Stop!" Frodo cried, unable to bear the healer's touch any longer. He gripped Fosco's fleshy forearm with two small hands, "Please, let me do it myself," he begged desperately.
"Well all right, lad, you know what feel's best for yourself I suppose." The healer let the cloth drop lightly down to Frodo's body, a little surprised at the lad's reaction.
Frodo carefully worked the gown up, with some assistance from Mr. Fields for places where the fabric was pinned beneath his body. He bit his lip until he thought he would surely have blood trailing down his chin, he didn't want to appear so weak that he was unable to undress himself, though he was sure that Fosco knew it caused him much pain, "Here. . ." he panted, "Take it," he offered the nightshift to Mr. Fields.
Fosco nodded and placed the gown in the same pile as the soiled linens, "Now I'll just slip this over your head and pull your arms through the holes, and we'll let the rest work into place on its own." He decided, "'Tis not necessary to put it on completely right now, I just didn't want you to catch cold from wearing that soaked thing for much longer." He smiled a little, pulling the nightgown down over Frodo's head.
Frodo cooperated, and assisted where he could, moving his arm slightly to accommodate the gown. It felt wonderful to be wearing clean clothes again; the gown smelled of lavender and fresh air, it reminded him of the past summer. It had, indeed, been the best summer in recent memory for Frodo. He had spent days with dear uncle, learning new things, enjoying having a grown hobbit to spend his time with. He had learned so much, and grown so much.
Fosco gently lifted Frodo once more, the lad groaned involuntarily, clutching at the healers shoulders as he was borne carefully back to his soft bed. "There we are," Fosco smiled at the boy as he deposited the sick child back on his mattress. Even throughout the progression of his illness, Frodo had retained his fair complexion and his strange, rather un-hobbit- like, Elvish beauty, it was definitely something to wonder at, Fosco thought.
"You're all cleaned up now," Fosco spoke softly, "Try and rest, Frodo. Even if you don't sleep, just save your strength." The healer directed.
Frodo shrugged slightly, "I can't sleep though," he whispered, "It hurts too badly. . .I cannot even relax." He closed his eyes.
Fosco frowned, disappointed to see that Frodo wasn't trying harder, "I know you're in pain, lad." He sympathized, "But you must understand, when Bilbo returns, I do not know what condition you might be in by that time. . . I do not know what may happen then." Fosco admitted; letting his real fears go unsaid so as not to alarm the child further, "You must do your best to build up as much energy as you can. I know it is hard, but please try Frodo." He begged the hobbit-child.
Frodo swallowed hard, his throat felt like parched earth. He furrowed his brow in disapproval, "You. . . you don't understand." He began, struggling not to lose his voice, "It hurts so terribly, I wish I could. . .g- go to sleep now. . . and just never wake up." He whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He was surprised that he still had any tears to cry.
"Oh, dear Frodo," Fosco started, he really didn't know what to say. He hadn't been in this position before, he didn't know the pain the hobbit-lad was in, he realized that he couldn't even imagine how the child felt. "Frodo. . ." he began again, "I have one thing that you could try. . . I do not know what it may do to you on the side, but the medicine itself is used to relieve pain in patients who are suffering terribly with it, such as yourself." He nodded encouragingly, "I will give some to you, if you would like. . . I don't think your uncle Bilbo would object."
Frodo's eyes flew open, and he looked hopefully into Fosco's eyes, "Yes. . . please," he gasped, "anything. . . anything that may help is something that I'm willing to try."
Mr. Fields agreed, thought somewhat regretfully, and patted Frodo's feverish brow before rising to his feet to fetch the medicine.
He returned shortly, carrying a small stone box with a tight fitting lid. "This should help," he began, "Though I must warn you, Frodo, I don't know how it might affect you." He cautioned, "I am only doing this because I see you suffering and I cannot bear to watch it any more than you can bear to carry on like this without some relief." He knelt beside Frodo, pulling back the layers of blankets that the lad was huddled under. They were already wet with his sweat again; and the tweenagers pale face was covered in beads of it.
"I understand," Frodo nodded carefully, not wanting to aggravate his upset stomach by making his head spin. "Please. . .just let me have some." He begged, "I do not care what it may do. . .I truly cannot bear this any longer." Frodo cried.
Fosco agreed, and opened the box. "This is a salve, I'm going to rub it on your belly and it will relieve the pain." He lifted the child's nightgown enough to gain access to his distended abdomen.
Frodo nodded once more, bracing himself for the pain that would result from being touched in an area that was, by that time, extremely tender and unbearably sore. He jumped, gasping slightly as the healers' hands began delicately applying the ointment.
Fosco talked to his small patient while he worked, trying to take Frodo's mind off of the pain, "I'm afraid I will only be willing to use this once," he began, "Unless of course I deem it necessary to take drastic measures. There is another way to administer this medication, should this attempt fail." He rambled, more to himself than anyone else. He was quite nervous, using such a strong medicine on such a small lad, and he was also well aware of the drugs addictive properties. Fosco hoped that he wasn't using too much, the healer rarely had to resort to using this drug and hadn't had much experience in dealing with the plant it was derived from. Though, he trusted his own good judgment, 'I have to try,' he thought, 'I cannot stand to see the dear child suffer any longer when there is something that I can do that might help.' He continued. He thought it better to take his chances with this risky medication than allow Frodo to be driven mad by pain.
As he continued to rub Frodo's inflamed stomach gently, Fosco was sure that he felt the boy relaxing beneath his hands. Though this was not the most practical way of administering the drug, it was the safest and easiest to control. It would have to do, for the time being, he decided.
**********
Bilbo paused beneath a shade tree to catch his breath. He had barely stopped running since his departure from home in the wee hours of that morning. It was now early afternoon, though the elderly hobbit wished very much that he could rest, he knew that every minute he spent doing anything other than searching reduced his dear boy's chances of survival. He would never be able to live with himself if he thought that the lad's death could have been prevented, but wasn't, because he had halted his search for a brief nap.
He looked about him, up at the orange and yellow leaves on the trees, and over the green grass that covered the gentle, rolling hills. It would be tragic if Frodo never got to enjoy those sights again. It would be entirely his fault if the lad didn't survive, he thought.
Bilbo sighed tiredly, and pushed onward, he knew he had to cover as much ground as he could before evening. It would be difficult to reach the area through which the Elves traveled, by the next morning. Bilbo did have an advantage in that he had lived his entire life in the Shire and knew the shortest, easiest paths to the most obscure places.
He traveled on for several more hours before finally seeing the sign that gave him new hope. If he followed the road that lay waiting before him, then he would undoubtedly encounter any Elves traveling to the Havens, if there were any Elves to be encountered.
***************
Fosco could see it through bloodshot eyes, bleary from crying and lack of sleep. He saw the small box, not ostentatious, but far from plain. It appeared to be crafted of a lighter wood than most that he'd seen, ornately carved in flowing scripts and designs. He found himself wondering who in the Shire had carved such a box. Yet he found himself wondering just as much about the still, deathly pale form that rested in the small, carven box. A small lad, barely a tween, with almost translucent skin and delicate features, a rarity among his kind, lay at rest within. Even in death he was captivating. Fosco looked at the aged, delicate figure that sat hunched over the coffin, his fragile bones wracked with sobs at the loss of his nephew.
**
Fosco opened his eyes, knew he was dreaming, this hadn't happened, not yet. Through the haze of confusion, heard loud cries, diminishing whatever fears may have remained after his unexpected, possibly prophetic, dream.
Frodo had slept for several hours after the ointment began working. Though the poor lad had awoken to worse than he had gone to sleep with. The pain in his abdomen was unyielding, so sharp that it felt like knives were cutting into the tender flesh. His entire body burned with a fever that removed any possibility of sleep.
Fosco rushed to the ill child's side, he feared then, more than ever that he would lose Frodo, he was sure that the tweenagers death was imminent. The small lad was inconsolable, his anguished cries echoed, unrestrained, throughout the hall's of Bag End. He had neither the strength, nor the desire, to continue holding them back. "Shh. . .Frodo, please," Fosco tried to calm the young hobbit, "Frodo. . .please, stop, I'm here. . ." he continued.
Frodo ignored him, not because he wanted to, but because he was oblivious to anything but the terrible pain. "Please. . .j- just let. . . let me. . .d- die." He panted, "I w- want. . . it to st-. . .stop." he cried, coughing weakly as he choked on his own spit. He moaned loudly at feeling the sharp pains intensify, he thought they were surely tearing his insides apart.
Fosco winced as he felt the hobbit-lads grip on his hand tighten until it was nearly unbearable, "Frodo, shh. . ." he tried again, "I can help. . . it's all right, lad." He promised.
Frodo opened his eyes, gasping for air and struggling to focus on the healer. His entire body shook violently from weakness and chill, his dark curls were heavy with sweat, "Wh. . . what are y- you. . . going to. . . to. . . do?" he gasped weakly, almost blacking out from lack of air.
"I've got another way to help give you a break from the pain, Frodo." Fosco forced himself to stay calm; he placed one hand on each side of the suffering tweenagers face, holding the boy's gaze. He was relieved that Frodo was at least aware of his presence.
Frodo nodded quickly, barely able to stay focused long enough before his head flew back, almost involuntarily, and he screamed in pain again.
Fosco stumbled back to his bag, nearly falling several times; he was petrified that he would lose Frodo before Bilbo returned. He didn't want to be the last one to see the dear child alive. Bilbo needed closure at least, he thought, to see the lad alive one last time. And Frodo, poor dear Frodo, every moment was pure agony for the suffering child. But what was to be done about it? He refused to just give up on Frodo, though it seemed selfish and cruel, the small hobbit had practically begged for death, yet Fosco was unable to honor that request. The Creator decided who departed Middle-Earth and when.
He fumbled with a small, slightly indented, square made from clay. From his bag he also removed a little pot that was meant to hold hot coals. Fosco leapt up, and ran for the fireplace. Kneeling by the hearth, he used metal tongs to gather several red-hot coals from the hottest part of the fire. He placed those coals in the small pot, and then adjusted the clay tile appropriately on top.
The healer rushed back to his pack, and dug through it franticly until he found what he was looking for: a small jar of dark colored liquid. He made his way carefully back to the hearth, and placed the jar beside the pot of coals and the tile.
"I need you to get up for me, alright Frodo?" Fosco asked, "Please, lad, you must get up. May I carry you?"
Frodo groaned in response, too consumed by stomach pains to care too much about who took him where or for what purpose.
Fosco waited for no clearer answer, he wanted to act as fast as possible to spare the lad any unnecessary pain. He wrapped Frodo's form in blankets, and hoisted the bundle into his arms, much the same way he would cradle a wee hobbit-lad.
Frodo shrieked in pain, groping helplessly at whatever was within his reach. He gave Fosco such a hard time, that he healer eventually resorted to taking both of the boy's small wrists in one large hand, and holding them firmly in place.
When he reached the hearth again, he set Frodo down very gently, placing the lad on his side so that he could be as comfortable as possible. He waited patiently for Frodo's labored breaths to slow somewhat before he continued.
"Frodo?" he asked, placing a hand on the hobbit-child's forehead, "Frodo. . . do you hear me?" he asked again.
"Y- Yes," Frodo answered weakly, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"Alright. Good, now in just a minute I'm going to ask you to breath this for me." Fosco instructed.
Frodo nodded in response, his breath hitched and he quickly curled up in his blankets and buried his face in their warmth as his small features twisted in agony.
"Poor lad," Fosco soothed, "Just hold on a little longer, it's almost ready." He added.
He held his hand above the tile, checking the temperature of it. Satisfied with what he discovered, he opened the container of liquid, and poured some of it onto the hot tile.
A sweet, pungent odor began to fill the room as the dark liquid in the tile basin burned, emitting a thick vapor.
Fosco moved away from the burner, careful not to inhale the fumes. He pulled Frodo's body into a sitting position, ignoring the pained noises that came from the limp form. He cradled the lad's body in his arms, supporting Frodo's drooping head and instructing the sick child to breath the fumes that came off of the burner.
"Take as deep breaths as you're able, lad." Fosco pleaded, "Even if it hurts, the more you inhale the sooner I can put you back to bed." He promised, "Don't take wee breaths now, Frodo." He put a hand on the child's forehead as Frodo drew a shaky breath, choking slightly on the fumes. Fosco kept his hand on the lad's head, supporting him and keeping his lank curls from falling into his eyes. "That's it. . ." Fosco breathed, pleased to feel Frodo's chest expanding as he held the boy. "Good now," he said, pulling Frodo's head away from the smoking tile.
Frodo whimpered at the sudden movement, and he clung to Fosco as the healer lifted him gently and returned the hobbit-lad to his bed.
Kneeling beside the bed, he forced Frodo to focus on him for a few minutes while he checked for signs that the drug was doing its job. He kept an especially careful eye on the lad's breathing, knowing that Frodo had already been having trouble with it; it could be fatal if the drug hindered his breathing further. He pried Frodo's eyelids open slightly, noting the smallness of the black dots in the center, a sure sign that the drug was taking effect. He appeared to be growing drowsy, and Fosco was sure that pained expression on his face softened.
Fosco was pleased that he had been correct I his guessing: it didn't take much of the potent vapors to sedate the lad and ease his pain. Frodo's eyelids were partially closed, and the healer could see in his eyes that the hobbit-child was relaxing.
Fosco still felt apprehensive about administering such a harsh medication, though the memory of Frodo's screams still echoed heavily in his memory. He knew he had good reason for doing what he did. He would just have to watch the boy closely for the next several hours.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------- A/N: Well, thanks for reading! :) Please let me know what you think? :)
Tathar: You guessed right! It is appendicitis, but turns into something more serious due to the delayed treatment.
Floria Tosca: Don't worry! The story isn't terribly AU; I don't want you to be upset. :)
Eleorcira: I'm glad you like my fic! :) You're exactly right about what's wrong with him. But, don't worry- Bilbo won't give up. I'm sorry to hear that your brother and sister both had it! :( That's awful. I hope it doesn't happen to you too. My mom had it when she was a little girl, but thankfully neither my brother nor I have had it.
***** Disclaimer: I do not own anything! :) *****
WARNING: A little bit of this chapter deals with the use of Opium (inhaled, and used in a salve) as a painkiller, as well as a description of its effects. Given the circumstances- such as the current state of Frodo's digestive tract due to his illness, I would think that inhaling it would have been the quickest, most practical, way to get it into his system. Morphine is derived from Opium, and Morphine is a serious painkiller, though I thought it would have been a bit of a stretch to say that the hobbits extracted the Morphine alone, so I just wrote it here that in Frodo's case Fosco used the drug Opium as a whole for pain relief. There is no mention of *how* he acquired the drug, he just has it in his bag with other medicines and occasionally uses it for patients that are suffering like poor Frodo. I realize that the plant originated in the Middle East and Asia, but it did spread to other places. . . so perhaps it could have spread to Middle-Earth. :)
So, if the mention of or the hinting at of the drug, or the effects of the drug, offends you, then please don't read this chapter! I do not want to upset anyone. :) If you don't want to read about it, but still want to know what happens in the chapter, I can edit out offending parts and email you the rest. Just ask me, it's no trouble at all! :) ainur02@yahoo.com
Due to my (very) limited knowledge of medical treatments, I am not sure if what I wrote is completely correct, though I did do my research before I started writing this chapter. The use of the drug in this context is strictly for medicinal purposes, and there is no talk of addictions or abuse of the substance. :) It is used strictly as an attempt at easing Frodo's pain. And as I said earlier, it is a very small part of the chapter.
I haven't studied medicine; I really don't know what I'm doing. This is, of course, fan *fiction*, so please don't interpret any of this as factual or useful information. And if I do offend anyone out there by writing a wee bit about this drug, then please forgive me, I meant no harm!
With that lengthy warning/disclaimer out of the way, I will get on with things now. :) Sorry for rambling for so long! I hope you enjoy this chapter! :) --------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 8:
It seemed to Frodo that he had hardly closed his weary eyes to sleep when he was woken abruptly by sharp, painful twinges near his right hip. He whimpered slightly, feeling the pain grow steadily into a nearly unbearable throbbing that ran the length of his small abdomen. The pain eventually died down again, returning once more to a dull ache, much to his relief. Though Frodo soon felt it begin anew, as if it were moving in some cruel cycle.
Due to the nature of Frodo's illness, his body was scarcely able to absorb any of the medication that Mr. Fields had slipped into his tea. His bowels had since ceased to function at all, making it impossible for him to absorb any medication administered by mouth.
He gasped in surprise and pain as a sudden sharp stab caught him off guard. Hugging his knees close to his stiff belly, he lay as still as possible trying to slow his breathing and make the pain go away.
***
Fosco sat, within earshot, just on the other side of the room. He had spent the majority of the morning studying several books on healing herbs that he had brought with him in his bag upon returning to Bag End a second time. Hearing the hobbit-child stir, the healer glanced up from his reading. In the morning light he could see Frodo's form trembling with chills as his small body burned with fever. Mr. Fields closed his book, and crept to the lads' bedside. He saw fresh tears trailing down Frodo's ashen cheeks; his eyes were closed as if in sleep, though Fosco knew it wasn't so. The tears were those of pain and fear. The hobbit-child gasped for breath through clenched teeth, and gripped the edge of his mattress tightly, struggling to focus on something other than his growing agony. Fosco wished more than anything to ease the lads' suffering. There *was* one thing left that he could do for Frodo, though he didn't want to administer such substances to such a small hobbit.
The healer moved a hand toward Frodo's still form, letting it linger over the child's abdomen. From several inches away, he could feel heat radiating from the swollen belly. He shook his head sadly, folding his shaking hands silently and blinking back tears of his own. The illness was so advanced now that regardless of whether or not Bilbo found an Elf, he doubted that Frodo would be able to recover. The lad didn't possess the strength necessary to endure any surgery or taxing treatments that may be required, he could scarcely hold his head up. At that point, Fosco just hoped that Bilbo would return home in time to see his lad alive one more time. Though he had had little experience with this particular ailment, he knew how it progressed. It was clear to him that the infected organ had now ruptured, spilling its lethal contents into Frodo's vulnerable abdominal cavity. It meant that unless Frodo received treatment soon, he would die within a few days- at best; it simply wasn't possible for the child's body to fight off the infection, he would be overcome by it. Fosco had thought about it before, but now that the events were playing out before his very eyes, it seemed far worse, and surreal. Watching Frodo die was harder than any other slow death he'd ever had to witness. It was so much more difficult to bear, watching the little one struggle painfully for each shallow breath and seeing his body break down slowly, viewing the ever-present streams of tears that stained his gaunt cheeks. Knowing how much the lad deserved happiness made seeing him suffer hurt all the more.
"Bilbo?" Frodo murmured deliriously, his voice faltering.
"Bilbo isn't here, little one, he has gone for help." Fosco replied gently, kneeling beside the sick tween's bed. "How are you feeling, Frodo?" he asked, feeling the lad's burning forehead gingerly, "Has the pain grown worse?"
Frodo nodded yes slowly before opening his eyes slightly to gaze up at the healer, "Where did he go?" the child persisted, changing the subject "Why. . .why did he. . . leave?" Frodo struggled to finish.
"Oh, poor lad," Fosco cooed, "Don't you worry about a thing, just rest." He continued, "Bilbo will be back soon." It worried Fosco that Frodo didn't seem to remember his conversation with Bilbo from earlier that morning, only hours ago.
Frodo nodded vaguely, closing his eyes again. He squeezed Fosco's arm weakly in thanks.
"Is there anything you need, lad?" The healer offered, "I can make you some tea, or perhaps you would like a cup of water?"
Frodo shook his head, moistening his cracked lips slightly and preparing to speak, "No. . . I am quite t- thirsty. . . though if I drink anything I'm s- sure I'll be s- sick." He replied quietly. "It hurts. . ." he whimpered miserably, his voice cracking "My stomach hurts so much. . . c- can't you make it stop?" he pleaded weakly; "Even just a little bit. . .anything would help. . ." he trailed off, raising his gaze to meet Mr. Fields'.
"I am sorry, Frodo." Fosco shook his head, "There is nothing more I can do for you now, just hold on. Please don't give up, lad, your uncle Bilbo will return soon with help." He smiled slightly, though he knew that he was most likely giving false hope.
Frodo cried out and lowered his head as another spasm of severe pain coursed through his infected tummy. Fosco worked quickly, retrieving a cool cloth to wipe the child's face. He rubbed the small back soothingly in an attempt to ease the lads' pain, or at least try to comfort him with his presence, "Shh. . .Frodo. It will pass soon." He hoped, patting the lad's trembling form sympathetically.
"Sick. . ." Frodo moaned, swallowing several times as he struggled not to lose the contents of his stomach. He brought one pale, unsteady hand up and covered his mouth, trying to keep from vomiting on Mr. Fields.
Fosco gathered the lad into his arms, lifting his small body effortlessly, ignoring Frodo's cries of anguish. He then resettled Frodo so that he was in a position where he wouldn't choke on his vomit if he should become ill. The lad was barely resettled in bed when much of the tea from earlier came back up in a flood of bile and saliva, messing up his bedclothes and blankets in the process.
"Oh, Frodo," Fosco whispered, his voice trembling with fear, "'Tis all right, lad. . . we'll just get you all cleaned up now, hold on."
"I'm. . . so sorry," Frodo gasped, his small form shuddered from the effort and tears of pain and shame began to well up in his eyes once more, "I di- didn't mean to." he sobbed quietly.
Fosco gently shushed the child, "Poor boy, no need to be sorry for that. You can't help it." He reassured Frodo.
The tweenager nodded weakly, closing his eyes and allowing Fosco to lift him from the bed. He bit back gasps of pain as best he could, not wanting to alarm the healer needlessly. Though it was a difficult task, for every time Fosco's foot landed on the floor it sent agonizing jolts reverberating through Frodo's aching belly.
"Now you just lie here while I get some clean blankets and clothes for you, I'll only be a moment." Fosco soothed. The healer pulled a throw close around Frodo's trembling body so the lad wouldn't become chilled.
Mr. Fields soon located the chest of bedclothes in Frodo's room. He pulled out fresh quilts and bed linens, and then proceeded to strip the bed of its soiled blankets. There was no time to allow the damp areas of the mattress dry, and it would be pointless to try, as the lad would most likely be sick again, so he folded a wool blanket several times and hoped that would suffice for the time being.
The healer then made his way back to Frodo's chair. He had selected a comfortable nightshift for the lad to change into. Fosco suspected that the hobbit-child was long overdue for a bath and change of clothes, due to his increased amount of sweating in the past several hours.
"Alright, lad, I'm going to try to do this quickly. . ." Fosco promised, pulling up a chair and fetching fresh clothes and the basin of water that was kept by Frodo's bed. "You must have a bath, 'tis not good to lie around without bathing when anyone's been as sick as you have," Mr. Fields chided gently. "Though of course it is not your fault, Frodo. You're certainly in no shape to bathe yourself- so I'm going to do it for you." He smiled, patting the tween's cheek lightly.
Frodo was pleased to hear that he would be getting a bath. He had wanted one since the previous afternoon, though he hadn't been able to do it for himself, and hadn't wanted to trouble Bilbo further by asking for one. He opened his deep blue eyes, sparing the healer a weak smile of appreciation, "Thank you," he whispered, "I know I must look and smell a fright. . ." he jested slightly, sobering more at the thought of how dreadful he must look- his hair matted from sweat, and his clothes lank and soiled and clinging to his slight frame.
"I will try my best not to touch you anywhere that will cause you pain," Fosco promised, bringing the rag lightly to rest on the tween's forehead, he began washing Frodo's face first.
The hobbit-lad nodded, grateful that he could at least be spared some pain. The thought of having to undress and shift positions wasn't at all enticing to him. . . though neither was continuing to lay in bed wearing soiled garments.
Frodo was enjoying the bath, it was the most comforting thing he had experienced since becoming ill. He would have fallen asleep if the nagging pain in his belly had allowed it, though it never let up, not even long enough for him to doze, it only grew worse and worse. His thoughts then drifted to his party, he almost wept at the thought of it. 'I won't possibly be well in time to finish planning it. . . or even attend it if someone else finished arranging everything.' he thought mournfully, 'I shan't ever be well again.' He grimaced as the washcloth grazed his tender stomach, 'It's entirely my fault. The party plans are spoiled, and poor Bilbo will have to miss out on all of the fun.' Frodo thought of his guest lists, and the presents he had collected to give to friends and family, and how it would all go to waste. He thought of his uncle Bilbo as well, poor old Bilbo had gone off to who knows where, into the woods all alone, all on account of his being ill. He felt tears fill his eyes unbidden. He longed for Bilbo's comforting presence. Just being able to hear the old hobbits' kind voice, or feel his familiar touch, would have calmed the lad more than anything Fosco could have done. He thought last of himself, he couldn't imagine how he could possibly feel worse. . . though he had been thinking that same thought since the previous morning, and he had only begun to feel more wretched since then. Frodo didn't know how much more of this he could take. Even breathing was a punishment. He was so thirsty, yet nothing would stay down, and when it came back up the pain was so terrible it made him wish he would die, rather than linger in misery like he seemed to be doing now.
"There," Fosco put the cloth aside, "That's better. now let me get this clean nightshift on you. . ." he offered, reaching down and beginning to gently work the soiled shirt up.
Frodo whimpered, this was the part he had been dreading, "I can't move. . .You must work around me." He managed, with effort; squeezing his eyes shut tightly.
Fosco sighed, "I'll do my best, Frodo." He promised, "I'll spare you as much pain as I'm able." He finished, pulling the shift up around the hobbit- lads small waist.
"Stop!" Frodo cried, unable to bear the healer's touch any longer. He gripped Fosco's fleshy forearm with two small hands, "Please, let me do it myself," he begged desperately.
"Well all right, lad, you know what feel's best for yourself I suppose." The healer let the cloth drop lightly down to Frodo's body, a little surprised at the lad's reaction.
Frodo carefully worked the gown up, with some assistance from Mr. Fields for places where the fabric was pinned beneath his body. He bit his lip until he thought he would surely have blood trailing down his chin, he didn't want to appear so weak that he was unable to undress himself, though he was sure that Fosco knew it caused him much pain, "Here. . ." he panted, "Take it," he offered the nightshift to Mr. Fields.
Fosco nodded and placed the gown in the same pile as the soiled linens, "Now I'll just slip this over your head and pull your arms through the holes, and we'll let the rest work into place on its own." He decided, "'Tis not necessary to put it on completely right now, I just didn't want you to catch cold from wearing that soaked thing for much longer." He smiled a little, pulling the nightgown down over Frodo's head.
Frodo cooperated, and assisted where he could, moving his arm slightly to accommodate the gown. It felt wonderful to be wearing clean clothes again; the gown smelled of lavender and fresh air, it reminded him of the past summer. It had, indeed, been the best summer in recent memory for Frodo. He had spent days with dear uncle, learning new things, enjoying having a grown hobbit to spend his time with. He had learned so much, and grown so much.
Fosco gently lifted Frodo once more, the lad groaned involuntarily, clutching at the healers shoulders as he was borne carefully back to his soft bed. "There we are," Fosco smiled at the boy as he deposited the sick child back on his mattress. Even throughout the progression of his illness, Frodo had retained his fair complexion and his strange, rather un-hobbit- like, Elvish beauty, it was definitely something to wonder at, Fosco thought.
"You're all cleaned up now," Fosco spoke softly, "Try and rest, Frodo. Even if you don't sleep, just save your strength." The healer directed.
Frodo shrugged slightly, "I can't sleep though," he whispered, "It hurts too badly. . .I cannot even relax." He closed his eyes.
Fosco frowned, disappointed to see that Frodo wasn't trying harder, "I know you're in pain, lad." He sympathized, "But you must understand, when Bilbo returns, I do not know what condition you might be in by that time. . . I do not know what may happen then." Fosco admitted; letting his real fears go unsaid so as not to alarm the child further, "You must do your best to build up as much energy as you can. I know it is hard, but please try Frodo." He begged the hobbit-child.
Frodo swallowed hard, his throat felt like parched earth. He furrowed his brow in disapproval, "You. . . you don't understand." He began, struggling not to lose his voice, "It hurts so terribly, I wish I could. . .g- go to sleep now. . . and just never wake up." He whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. He was surprised that he still had any tears to cry.
"Oh, dear Frodo," Fosco started, he really didn't know what to say. He hadn't been in this position before, he didn't know the pain the hobbit-lad was in, he realized that he couldn't even imagine how the child felt. "Frodo. . ." he began again, "I have one thing that you could try. . . I do not know what it may do to you on the side, but the medicine itself is used to relieve pain in patients who are suffering terribly with it, such as yourself." He nodded encouragingly, "I will give some to you, if you would like. . . I don't think your uncle Bilbo would object."
Frodo's eyes flew open, and he looked hopefully into Fosco's eyes, "Yes. . . please," he gasped, "anything. . . anything that may help is something that I'm willing to try."
Mr. Fields agreed, thought somewhat regretfully, and patted Frodo's feverish brow before rising to his feet to fetch the medicine.
He returned shortly, carrying a small stone box with a tight fitting lid. "This should help," he began, "Though I must warn you, Frodo, I don't know how it might affect you." He cautioned, "I am only doing this because I see you suffering and I cannot bear to watch it any more than you can bear to carry on like this without some relief." He knelt beside Frodo, pulling back the layers of blankets that the lad was huddled under. They were already wet with his sweat again; and the tweenagers pale face was covered in beads of it.
"I understand," Frodo nodded carefully, not wanting to aggravate his upset stomach by making his head spin. "Please. . .just let me have some." He begged, "I do not care what it may do. . .I truly cannot bear this any longer." Frodo cried.
Fosco agreed, and opened the box. "This is a salve, I'm going to rub it on your belly and it will relieve the pain." He lifted the child's nightgown enough to gain access to his distended abdomen.
Frodo nodded once more, bracing himself for the pain that would result from being touched in an area that was, by that time, extremely tender and unbearably sore. He jumped, gasping slightly as the healers' hands began delicately applying the ointment.
Fosco talked to his small patient while he worked, trying to take Frodo's mind off of the pain, "I'm afraid I will only be willing to use this once," he began, "Unless of course I deem it necessary to take drastic measures. There is another way to administer this medication, should this attempt fail." He rambled, more to himself than anyone else. He was quite nervous, using such a strong medicine on such a small lad, and he was also well aware of the drugs addictive properties. Fosco hoped that he wasn't using too much, the healer rarely had to resort to using this drug and hadn't had much experience in dealing with the plant it was derived from. Though, he trusted his own good judgment, 'I have to try,' he thought, 'I cannot stand to see the dear child suffer any longer when there is something that I can do that might help.' He continued. He thought it better to take his chances with this risky medication than allow Frodo to be driven mad by pain.
As he continued to rub Frodo's inflamed stomach gently, Fosco was sure that he felt the boy relaxing beneath his hands. Though this was not the most practical way of administering the drug, it was the safest and easiest to control. It would have to do, for the time being, he decided.
**********
Bilbo paused beneath a shade tree to catch his breath. He had barely stopped running since his departure from home in the wee hours of that morning. It was now early afternoon, though the elderly hobbit wished very much that he could rest, he knew that every minute he spent doing anything other than searching reduced his dear boy's chances of survival. He would never be able to live with himself if he thought that the lad's death could have been prevented, but wasn't, because he had halted his search for a brief nap.
He looked about him, up at the orange and yellow leaves on the trees, and over the green grass that covered the gentle, rolling hills. It would be tragic if Frodo never got to enjoy those sights again. It would be entirely his fault if the lad didn't survive, he thought.
Bilbo sighed tiredly, and pushed onward, he knew he had to cover as much ground as he could before evening. It would be difficult to reach the area through which the Elves traveled, by the next morning. Bilbo did have an advantage in that he had lived his entire life in the Shire and knew the shortest, easiest paths to the most obscure places.
He traveled on for several more hours before finally seeing the sign that gave him new hope. If he followed the road that lay waiting before him, then he would undoubtedly encounter any Elves traveling to the Havens, if there were any Elves to be encountered.
***************
Fosco could see it through bloodshot eyes, bleary from crying and lack of sleep. He saw the small box, not ostentatious, but far from plain. It appeared to be crafted of a lighter wood than most that he'd seen, ornately carved in flowing scripts and designs. He found himself wondering who in the Shire had carved such a box. Yet he found himself wondering just as much about the still, deathly pale form that rested in the small, carven box. A small lad, barely a tween, with almost translucent skin and delicate features, a rarity among his kind, lay at rest within. Even in death he was captivating. Fosco looked at the aged, delicate figure that sat hunched over the coffin, his fragile bones wracked with sobs at the loss of his nephew.
**
Fosco opened his eyes, knew he was dreaming, this hadn't happened, not yet. Through the haze of confusion, heard loud cries, diminishing whatever fears may have remained after his unexpected, possibly prophetic, dream.
Frodo had slept for several hours after the ointment began working. Though the poor lad had awoken to worse than he had gone to sleep with. The pain in his abdomen was unyielding, so sharp that it felt like knives were cutting into the tender flesh. His entire body burned with a fever that removed any possibility of sleep.
Fosco rushed to the ill child's side, he feared then, more than ever that he would lose Frodo, he was sure that the tweenagers death was imminent. The small lad was inconsolable, his anguished cries echoed, unrestrained, throughout the hall's of Bag End. He had neither the strength, nor the desire, to continue holding them back. "Shh. . .Frodo, please," Fosco tried to calm the young hobbit, "Frodo. . .please, stop, I'm here. . ." he continued.
Frodo ignored him, not because he wanted to, but because he was oblivious to anything but the terrible pain. "Please. . .j- just let. . . let me. . .d- die." He panted, "I w- want. . . it to st-. . .stop." he cried, coughing weakly as he choked on his own spit. He moaned loudly at feeling the sharp pains intensify, he thought they were surely tearing his insides apart.
Fosco winced as he felt the hobbit-lads grip on his hand tighten until it was nearly unbearable, "Frodo, shh. . ." he tried again, "I can help. . . it's all right, lad." He promised.
Frodo opened his eyes, gasping for air and struggling to focus on the healer. His entire body shook violently from weakness and chill, his dark curls were heavy with sweat, "Wh. . . what are y- you. . . going to. . . to. . . do?" he gasped weakly, almost blacking out from lack of air.
"I've got another way to help give you a break from the pain, Frodo." Fosco forced himself to stay calm; he placed one hand on each side of the suffering tweenagers face, holding the boy's gaze. He was relieved that Frodo was at least aware of his presence.
Frodo nodded quickly, barely able to stay focused long enough before his head flew back, almost involuntarily, and he screamed in pain again.
Fosco stumbled back to his bag, nearly falling several times; he was petrified that he would lose Frodo before Bilbo returned. He didn't want to be the last one to see the dear child alive. Bilbo needed closure at least, he thought, to see the lad alive one last time. And Frodo, poor dear Frodo, every moment was pure agony for the suffering child. But what was to be done about it? He refused to just give up on Frodo, though it seemed selfish and cruel, the small hobbit had practically begged for death, yet Fosco was unable to honor that request. The Creator decided who departed Middle-Earth and when.
He fumbled with a small, slightly indented, square made from clay. From his bag he also removed a little pot that was meant to hold hot coals. Fosco leapt up, and ran for the fireplace. Kneeling by the hearth, he used metal tongs to gather several red-hot coals from the hottest part of the fire. He placed those coals in the small pot, and then adjusted the clay tile appropriately on top.
The healer rushed back to his pack, and dug through it franticly until he found what he was looking for: a small jar of dark colored liquid. He made his way carefully back to the hearth, and placed the jar beside the pot of coals and the tile.
"I need you to get up for me, alright Frodo?" Fosco asked, "Please, lad, you must get up. May I carry you?"
Frodo groaned in response, too consumed by stomach pains to care too much about who took him where or for what purpose.
Fosco waited for no clearer answer, he wanted to act as fast as possible to spare the lad any unnecessary pain. He wrapped Frodo's form in blankets, and hoisted the bundle into his arms, much the same way he would cradle a wee hobbit-lad.
Frodo shrieked in pain, groping helplessly at whatever was within his reach. He gave Fosco such a hard time, that he healer eventually resorted to taking both of the boy's small wrists in one large hand, and holding them firmly in place.
When he reached the hearth again, he set Frodo down very gently, placing the lad on his side so that he could be as comfortable as possible. He waited patiently for Frodo's labored breaths to slow somewhat before he continued.
"Frodo?" he asked, placing a hand on the hobbit-child's forehead, "Frodo. . . do you hear me?" he asked again.
"Y- Yes," Frodo answered weakly, his eyes rolling back in his head.
"Alright. Good, now in just a minute I'm going to ask you to breath this for me." Fosco instructed.
Frodo nodded in response, his breath hitched and he quickly curled up in his blankets and buried his face in their warmth as his small features twisted in agony.
"Poor lad," Fosco soothed, "Just hold on a little longer, it's almost ready." He added.
He held his hand above the tile, checking the temperature of it. Satisfied with what he discovered, he opened the container of liquid, and poured some of it onto the hot tile.
A sweet, pungent odor began to fill the room as the dark liquid in the tile basin burned, emitting a thick vapor.
Fosco moved away from the burner, careful not to inhale the fumes. He pulled Frodo's body into a sitting position, ignoring the pained noises that came from the limp form. He cradled the lad's body in his arms, supporting Frodo's drooping head and instructing the sick child to breath the fumes that came off of the burner.
"Take as deep breaths as you're able, lad." Fosco pleaded, "Even if it hurts, the more you inhale the sooner I can put you back to bed." He promised, "Don't take wee breaths now, Frodo." He put a hand on the child's forehead as Frodo drew a shaky breath, choking slightly on the fumes. Fosco kept his hand on the lad's head, supporting him and keeping his lank curls from falling into his eyes. "That's it. . ." Fosco breathed, pleased to feel Frodo's chest expanding as he held the boy. "Good now," he said, pulling Frodo's head away from the smoking tile.
Frodo whimpered at the sudden movement, and he clung to Fosco as the healer lifted him gently and returned the hobbit-lad to his bed.
Kneeling beside the bed, he forced Frodo to focus on him for a few minutes while he checked for signs that the drug was doing its job. He kept an especially careful eye on the lad's breathing, knowing that Frodo had already been having trouble with it; it could be fatal if the drug hindered his breathing further. He pried Frodo's eyelids open slightly, noting the smallness of the black dots in the center, a sure sign that the drug was taking effect. He appeared to be growing drowsy, and Fosco was sure that pained expression on his face softened.
Fosco was pleased that he had been correct I his guessing: it didn't take much of the potent vapors to sedate the lad and ease his pain. Frodo's eyelids were partially closed, and the healer could see in his eyes that the hobbit-child was relaxing.
Fosco still felt apprehensive about administering such a harsh medication, though the memory of Frodo's screams still echoed heavily in his memory. He knew he had good reason for doing what he did. He would just have to watch the boy closely for the next several hours.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------- A/N: Well, thanks for reading! :) Please let me know what you think? :)