A/N: I'm glad everyone's enjoying this fic. :)
EleorCira: Don't worry! ;) Thing's are going to work out. I'm glad you like the fic!
Demonic-Kiwi: Thanks for the compliment! :)
LilyBaggins: Don't worry, Lily! :) Though he isn't a healer, he knows more about what to do for Frodo than many people would.
I'm glad you're enjoying the medical detail. I always try to research things before I write. I'm glad to hear that at least some of it is making sense! :)
I hope that I can write a(n original- my other fic is set after Weathertop, though that's a different kind of illness.) sick Frodo fic set during the quest, I'd love to do that! Once I start school this fall and find out how much my classes are going to demand of me, I'll probably start one. :) I'm hoping to get the two that I'm working on now finished up before I start, it wouldn't be a big deal at all if I weren't working. :( Ah, the real world is so difficult to deal with sometimes (er, a lot of times!). Thank you for the compliment; I'm so glad you like my writing! :)
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Chapter 10:
Dawn's first light was just becoming visible over the East horizon in the Shire when Bilbo and Dimhirion approached Bag End. They had made excellent time, for Dimhirion had not required any rest, and his pace hadn't slowed. Bilbo still rode atop the Elf's shoulders, and felt rather refreshed after having caught brief snatches of sleep during the journey home. Upon seeing Bagshot Row come into view, he asked to be put back on the ground.
"It's this way, Dimhirion." Bilbo called anxiously as he continued to run ahead.
The Elf nodded politely, and promptly caught up with the short-legged Bilbo in four long strides.
It was indeed a beautiful fall morning, one that should be appreciated and made to last as long as possible. The cloudless sky promised an even more glorious day ahead, typical of the time of year. Under different circumstances, Bilbo might have stopped to smoke a bowl of pipe weed and watch the sunrise before heading home to make breakfast before the resident tweenager woke.
The old bachelor pulled his key from a pocket in his trousers as soon as he turned down Bagshot Row. He walked quickly down it until he turned down the short path that led to Bag End's front door. He slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open in one swift motion, barging straight into his home. Dimhirion, ducking to avoid banging his head on the door, followed right behind.
He stopped in the foyer, noting the silence of his smial. It was dark, and he could scarcely any hear sounds, save the occasional chirp of crickets that had taken up residence behind the kindle box next to the hearth in his den.
Fear seized Bilbo's heart as he thought about what the silence could mean. Was he too late? Had his dear lad passed on during the night, and he hadn't even been there as the sick child drew his last breath? Tears of guilt sprung to his eyes at the thought of it, 'I shouldn't have left,' he chastised himself harshly, 'I should have stayed with Frodo until the end, and I didn't. I left in search of someone who might be able to prolong his life, and in doing so I missed the last moments of it. I'll never see him again.' Bilbo thought.
He turned down the dark hall, and made his way quietly to Frodo's bedroom door. He wanted to keep the lad alive in his own mind for as long as possible, even if in reality it weren't so. Bilbo put his hand on the knob and paused, preparing himself for whatever he may find within. Though from the silence, he suspected that he would find no one, only a note saying that Frodo had died and his body was being prepared for burial. Bilbo's heart beat heavily in his chest, echoing in his ears; for seemingly endless moments, time seemed to stop, and it was all he could hear.
"Master Bilbo?" Dimhirion whispered, from behind.
Bilbo jumped at hearing someone call his name. He turned around, forcing a weak smile. Dimhirion knew that the forced expression on Bilbo's face betrayed the trepidation and emotion that shone in his eyes. Without further delay, he opened the door.
Fosco was in his customary chair by the bed, he turned and nodded grimly to Bilbo, acknowledging the elder hobbit's presence. Bilbo could just make out Frodo's small face, its color blending with the white sheets, peeping out from beneath several thick quilts and blankets. He was distraught to see his lad in such a state; his face looked nothing like it had before. If Bilbo hadn't known better he would have sworn that it was a mask, a poor, sickly recreation of Frodo's visage. Though through the shock of seeing Frodo like that, the old hobbit was relieved to find that his lad was still alive.
Bilbo wasted no time; he rushed to the child's bedside and knelt on the rug. "Frodo?" he called gently, stroking the lad's damp curls. He shook his head, unable to find his voice to speak again.
Frodo swallowed before speaking, "Bilbo?" he managed a weak whisper through cracked lips. The hobbit-child opened his eyes slightly to look up at his uncle. He stared at Bilbo in silence; only half believing that dear Bilbo was really there beside him.
Bilbo nodded empathetically, bending down to kiss the boy's damp forehead, "Yes, lad. . ." he whispered, "I'm here now." He breathed a sigh of relief, hugging the lad gently.
Frodo reached his small arms out a short ways, and Bilbo took both hands, squeezing them gently. "I th- thought that. . . that I'd never s- see you again, Bilbo." Frodo cried.
"Oh no, lad, whatever gave you that idea?" Bilbo asked, "I promised you I would return. . .I keep my promises." He smiled.
Frodo shrugged, tears of relief began to stain his cheeks. Though the lad was still confused, he was happy that Bilbo was with him once more. The previous night he had repeatedly mistaken Fosco for his uncle, though they were distinctively different, in many ways, the child hadn't been in his right mind for the past day or so.
"He's not been right, Mr. Baggins." Fosco piped up.
"What do you mean?" Bilbo questioned, concerned for Frodo's well being, "Oh, and thank you, for looking after him while I was away." He smiled.
"'Tis no problem at all, Bilbo." The healer assured Bilbo, "But your lad hasn't been right, since you left. He mistook me for you, and before that he didn't know where you had gone, though I know you told him your plans before you left yesterday morning." Fosco continued, "The poor lad cried for you though, and other times he didn't seem to know who anyone was," he shook his head sadly. "I'm not sure if it's the fever, or I suppose it could be something else. Though I did use a rather strong drug on him last night." He admitted. "But he had been in and out for a while before that. Though you must understand, Bilbo, that the boy was in terrible pain." Fosco nodded gravely, "I couldn't bear to watch him suffer like that." He looked over to Frodo.
Bilbo nodded fervently, "Of course not, Fosco, I wouldn't have expected you to." He blinked back tears at the thought of his poor boy suffering so, and he hadn't been by his side to comfort him.
Fosco sighed, "I've not used any on him since last night." The healer continued, "He's begged me for it, but I did not know when you would return. . . or if you would find help, and I've only a limited supply of the stuff- I don't use it often." Fosco shrugged, "I see you didn't. . .find any help. . ." the dreaded words were dragged out, he regretted so much that he had to say them. He now knew that Frodo's fate was sealed.
"No." Bilbo answered, "No, I found help. I wouldn't have stopped searching until I had."
"Who did you find? Where are they?" Fosco asked, glancing about the dark room to see if the had overlooked the presence of another.
Bilbo walked back to the door, and opened it, admitting Dimhirion.
Fosco gasped in shock, "That's. . .that's an. . . elf!" he cried as he backed away from Dimhirion, unable to think of anything better to say. He had never been fortunate enough to see one of the Fair Folk, though he had heard many rumors. He immediately decided that the rumors, both of the Elves' splendor and wisdom, did not do them justice at all.
Dimhirion laughed quietly, amused by the halfling's strange behavior, "I am Dimhirion, formerly of Rivendell. The group I was with, four others and myself, was journeying toward the Havens when your kinsman came before us on the road and I first became aware of your misfortune. " He paused, "It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance." And he bowed.
Fosco sat in stunned silence, gaping in awe at the mysterious being that stood before him. He soon regained his power of speech and introduced himself; "I am Fosco Fields of the Shire, and a healer of Hobbiton." He smiled broadly, albeit shakily, bowing lower than the Elf had, yet feeling that he must look slightly clumsy compared to the former.
"Let us not wait any longer to tend to the sick child," Dimhirion stated, and he turned to Frodo's bed. "Frodo? Can you hear me?" Dimhirion asked the still form lying beneath the blankets.
Frodo stirred slightly, opening his eyes to look at the elf. A small gasp of surprise escaped his pale lips, and he struggled to shift lower in bed in an attempt to hide his face beneath the blankets, though the pain in his stomach would not allow it. After a few moments of fighting, he gave up, and lay gasping for breath, his blue eyes wide with fear and pain.
"Do not be afraid, little one," Dimhirion soothed, covering the small halfling's forehead with one graceful hand. "I've come to help," he promised.
Bilbo stepped up and took Frodo's trembling hand, reassuring the child that this being meant no harm. "I am sorry that your first meeting with an Elf has to be under such circumstances, Frodo." Bilbo gave the limp hand a squeeze.
Frodo didn't answer; he was too transfixed by the Elf.
"Frodo," Bilbo moved in front of Dimhirion, "Frodo, it's all right. He's here to help."
Frodo let out a small whine, and tilted his head back. His eyes were squeezed shut in pain as he gasped for breath.
"Poor lad," It hurt Bilbo that he could do nothing to ease Frodo's suffering, though he spoke softly to the child, hoping to calm him if nothing else, "It's going to be all right, you'll see. I know it hurts now, but cooperate for Dimhirion and you'll be well soon enough, dear boy." He finished, moving aside so the Elf could get a closer look at his nephew.
Dimhirion knelt beside Frodo, stroking his damp curls gently. The hobbit- lad seemed to relax beneath the Elf's hands, and the pain in his belly eased up some once he was no longer so tense.
"That's a good boy," Bilbo whispered, more to himself than anyone else present. He was pleased to see some progress at least.
The Elf turned and asked the healer, a concerned tone to his voice, "What is causing him such pain?"
"It's his stomach," Mr. Fields began, "Or, rather an organ somewhere in his belly which somehow became infected. I fear. . .that it has burst, I'm drawing this assumption based on his high fever and the severe pain. It is a rare illness, we haven't a name for it," he added, "Though it has always simply been a death sentence to those who contract this disease." He trailed off.
The Elf nodded slowly, digging through the depths of his memory for anything to contribute to the halfling's definition. He tilted his head to one side, in thought, before speaking again, "Unfortunately, I was never a healer among my people." He reminisced, his eyes clouding with what could only be interpreted as sadness, "I was, at one time, learning the trade. . .however not all goals set are attained, for one reason or another." He sighed, "Though I have seen many illnesses during my time, and have assisted with many medical procedures." And his train of thought shifted again, "I have no materials, or supplies, for whatever operations may be required to correct this." He look at the two hobbits. "I brought nothing with me, save for what few belongings I carried from Rivendell, which are still with my traveling companions."
Fosco pointed across the room to where his bag lay, practically untouched, "I have my bag here, though I do not know what you may find of use inside."
Dimhirion nodded, "Yes, we shall have to make do with what meager supplies we have, though I may send you to fetch some needed materials."
Fosco and Bilbo both nodded, eager to assist wherever they could.
The group was disrupted from their planning by a small cry that escaped Frodo. The small lad then moaned loudly and clutched his swollen belly with both arms, his features twisting in agony; his body trembled from exhaustion. He swallowed several times, and unconsciously called to Bilbo. Dimhirion placed a hand on the small child's back, and he could feel Frodo's body tense just before the lad began heaving. There was no time to gather even so much as a towel.
Bilbo knelt beside the Elf, and held his lad's head as Frodo vomited, comforting him as best he could as each painful heave seized his nephews' body. At times, Frodo heaved so violently that half of the small tween's body came up off of the mattress from the force of it. Frodo cried out from the pain, and the fear of not being able to breathe at all as his stomach cramped up repeatedly and forced every bit of its contents out through his mouth.
When it was finally over, his head drooped in Bilbo's hands, and he began to cry. Bilbo eased his nephews sweat soaked head back down to the pillows, and tried his best to sooth the frightened child.
"Shh. . . Frodo, it's over," he whispered, "It's over. . .just rest. . .shh. . ." he stroked the small cheek gently and wiped away the continuous flow of tears with his thumb, "Poor boy, hold on. . ." Bilbo gathered a cool cloth to wipe the vomit from around Frodo's mouth and chin.
Frodo whimpered as he began panting for breath, trying to silence his cries, he felt sharp pain start to attack his worn out body once more, "Stop!" he practically screamed, at no one in particular.
Everyone in the room jumped slightly at this unexpected outburst, Bilbo pulled the blankets close around his dear nephew, and whispered comforting words in Frodo's ear.
The small hobbit clutched his blankets tightly in two small fists, "Uncle Bilbo. . ." he cried, "It. . .it hur- hurts s- so. . .so b- badly," Frodo wailed, "I n- never. . .never thought an-. . .anything c- could. . hur- . . .hurt so. . .so m-. . . much." He cried, no longer able to restrain himself.
"Let it out if you need to, Frodo," Bilbo said, wincing at the unanticipated shrillness of Frodo's tormented cries, "Easy now, lad, that might make it worse," he pointed out, though Frodo, too consumed by his suffering, didn't hear him. Bilbo wrapped his arms around the lad as best he could, without moving him, and held the child until his screams died down to quiet sobs, and finally back to shuddering gasps for breath. He himself nearly began to cry for little Frodo; the child should never have to endure such pain, no child should have to.
Bilbo looked down at the puddle of vomit on the bed, in the murky light of early morning he could make out distinct streaks of red throughout it. He looked closer; hoping that it was just his eyes playing trick on him, though he soon discovered it wasn't so.
"Fosco?" The older hobbit asked anxiously, "Look. . .is that. . ." he didn't want to say what he hoped it wasn't, "Did you give Frodo anything red to drink or eat?"
Fosco approached the bed, "No, Mr. Baggins. He only took just a small amount of water late last night. . ." the healer confirmed.
Dimhirion studied the streaks with keen eyes; he knew it had to be blood. "Has he been vomiting much?" The elf asked.
"Rather frequently, yes," Fosco answered, "Though until just now he had been doing better. . ."
The elf nodded, "It is to be expected then." He assured the concerned hobbits, "And given the force I watched him exerting during his most recent bout, I believe Frodo has most likely torn something, it's probably nothing to worry too much about." Dimhirion promised. If it had been a major tear, or a stomach affliction, then there would have been much more blood. "Though," he added, "It's most likely rather uncomfortable for him. And we must keep a close eye on the situation as well."
Fosco nodded, "Yes, the poor child has barely taken anything to drink. He has complained that his mouth and throat were dry, but he refused liquids, I barely got him to take any water at all last night."
"Yes. . ." he said thoughtfully, turning back to Frodo's bed; "It's best that I examine him now. From what you've told me, time is not on our side." Dimhirion called over his shoulder to the other two halfling's, "We shall soon see if there is anything that can be done to help him."
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A/N: Again, I thank you for reading! :) Let me know what you think.
EleorCira: Don't worry! ;) Thing's are going to work out. I'm glad you like the fic!
Demonic-Kiwi: Thanks for the compliment! :)
LilyBaggins: Don't worry, Lily! :) Though he isn't a healer, he knows more about what to do for Frodo than many people would.
I'm glad you're enjoying the medical detail. I always try to research things before I write. I'm glad to hear that at least some of it is making sense! :)
I hope that I can write a(n original- my other fic is set after Weathertop, though that's a different kind of illness.) sick Frodo fic set during the quest, I'd love to do that! Once I start school this fall and find out how much my classes are going to demand of me, I'll probably start one. :) I'm hoping to get the two that I'm working on now finished up before I start, it wouldn't be a big deal at all if I weren't working. :( Ah, the real world is so difficult to deal with sometimes (er, a lot of times!). Thank you for the compliment; I'm so glad you like my writing! :)
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Chapter 10:
Dawn's first light was just becoming visible over the East horizon in the Shire when Bilbo and Dimhirion approached Bag End. They had made excellent time, for Dimhirion had not required any rest, and his pace hadn't slowed. Bilbo still rode atop the Elf's shoulders, and felt rather refreshed after having caught brief snatches of sleep during the journey home. Upon seeing Bagshot Row come into view, he asked to be put back on the ground.
"It's this way, Dimhirion." Bilbo called anxiously as he continued to run ahead.
The Elf nodded politely, and promptly caught up with the short-legged Bilbo in four long strides.
It was indeed a beautiful fall morning, one that should be appreciated and made to last as long as possible. The cloudless sky promised an even more glorious day ahead, typical of the time of year. Under different circumstances, Bilbo might have stopped to smoke a bowl of pipe weed and watch the sunrise before heading home to make breakfast before the resident tweenager woke.
The old bachelor pulled his key from a pocket in his trousers as soon as he turned down Bagshot Row. He walked quickly down it until he turned down the short path that led to Bag End's front door. He slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open in one swift motion, barging straight into his home. Dimhirion, ducking to avoid banging his head on the door, followed right behind.
He stopped in the foyer, noting the silence of his smial. It was dark, and he could scarcely any hear sounds, save the occasional chirp of crickets that had taken up residence behind the kindle box next to the hearth in his den.
Fear seized Bilbo's heart as he thought about what the silence could mean. Was he too late? Had his dear lad passed on during the night, and he hadn't even been there as the sick child drew his last breath? Tears of guilt sprung to his eyes at the thought of it, 'I shouldn't have left,' he chastised himself harshly, 'I should have stayed with Frodo until the end, and I didn't. I left in search of someone who might be able to prolong his life, and in doing so I missed the last moments of it. I'll never see him again.' Bilbo thought.
He turned down the dark hall, and made his way quietly to Frodo's bedroom door. He wanted to keep the lad alive in his own mind for as long as possible, even if in reality it weren't so. Bilbo put his hand on the knob and paused, preparing himself for whatever he may find within. Though from the silence, he suspected that he would find no one, only a note saying that Frodo had died and his body was being prepared for burial. Bilbo's heart beat heavily in his chest, echoing in his ears; for seemingly endless moments, time seemed to stop, and it was all he could hear.
"Master Bilbo?" Dimhirion whispered, from behind.
Bilbo jumped at hearing someone call his name. He turned around, forcing a weak smile. Dimhirion knew that the forced expression on Bilbo's face betrayed the trepidation and emotion that shone in his eyes. Without further delay, he opened the door.
Fosco was in his customary chair by the bed, he turned and nodded grimly to Bilbo, acknowledging the elder hobbit's presence. Bilbo could just make out Frodo's small face, its color blending with the white sheets, peeping out from beneath several thick quilts and blankets. He was distraught to see his lad in such a state; his face looked nothing like it had before. If Bilbo hadn't known better he would have sworn that it was a mask, a poor, sickly recreation of Frodo's visage. Though through the shock of seeing Frodo like that, the old hobbit was relieved to find that his lad was still alive.
Bilbo wasted no time; he rushed to the child's bedside and knelt on the rug. "Frodo?" he called gently, stroking the lad's damp curls. He shook his head, unable to find his voice to speak again.
Frodo swallowed before speaking, "Bilbo?" he managed a weak whisper through cracked lips. The hobbit-child opened his eyes slightly to look up at his uncle. He stared at Bilbo in silence; only half believing that dear Bilbo was really there beside him.
Bilbo nodded empathetically, bending down to kiss the boy's damp forehead, "Yes, lad. . ." he whispered, "I'm here now." He breathed a sigh of relief, hugging the lad gently.
Frodo reached his small arms out a short ways, and Bilbo took both hands, squeezing them gently. "I th- thought that. . . that I'd never s- see you again, Bilbo." Frodo cried.
"Oh no, lad, whatever gave you that idea?" Bilbo asked, "I promised you I would return. . .I keep my promises." He smiled.
Frodo shrugged, tears of relief began to stain his cheeks. Though the lad was still confused, he was happy that Bilbo was with him once more. The previous night he had repeatedly mistaken Fosco for his uncle, though they were distinctively different, in many ways, the child hadn't been in his right mind for the past day or so.
"He's not been right, Mr. Baggins." Fosco piped up.
"What do you mean?" Bilbo questioned, concerned for Frodo's well being, "Oh, and thank you, for looking after him while I was away." He smiled.
"'Tis no problem at all, Bilbo." The healer assured Bilbo, "But your lad hasn't been right, since you left. He mistook me for you, and before that he didn't know where you had gone, though I know you told him your plans before you left yesterday morning." Fosco continued, "The poor lad cried for you though, and other times he didn't seem to know who anyone was," he shook his head sadly. "I'm not sure if it's the fever, or I suppose it could be something else. Though I did use a rather strong drug on him last night." He admitted. "But he had been in and out for a while before that. Though you must understand, Bilbo, that the boy was in terrible pain." Fosco nodded gravely, "I couldn't bear to watch him suffer like that." He looked over to Frodo.
Bilbo nodded fervently, "Of course not, Fosco, I wouldn't have expected you to." He blinked back tears at the thought of his poor boy suffering so, and he hadn't been by his side to comfort him.
Fosco sighed, "I've not used any on him since last night." The healer continued, "He's begged me for it, but I did not know when you would return. . . or if you would find help, and I've only a limited supply of the stuff- I don't use it often." Fosco shrugged, "I see you didn't. . .find any help. . ." the dreaded words were dragged out, he regretted so much that he had to say them. He now knew that Frodo's fate was sealed.
"No." Bilbo answered, "No, I found help. I wouldn't have stopped searching until I had."
"Who did you find? Where are they?" Fosco asked, glancing about the dark room to see if the had overlooked the presence of another.
Bilbo walked back to the door, and opened it, admitting Dimhirion.
Fosco gasped in shock, "That's. . .that's an. . . elf!" he cried as he backed away from Dimhirion, unable to think of anything better to say. He had never been fortunate enough to see one of the Fair Folk, though he had heard many rumors. He immediately decided that the rumors, both of the Elves' splendor and wisdom, did not do them justice at all.
Dimhirion laughed quietly, amused by the halfling's strange behavior, "I am Dimhirion, formerly of Rivendell. The group I was with, four others and myself, was journeying toward the Havens when your kinsman came before us on the road and I first became aware of your misfortune. " He paused, "It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance." And he bowed.
Fosco sat in stunned silence, gaping in awe at the mysterious being that stood before him. He soon regained his power of speech and introduced himself; "I am Fosco Fields of the Shire, and a healer of Hobbiton." He smiled broadly, albeit shakily, bowing lower than the Elf had, yet feeling that he must look slightly clumsy compared to the former.
"Let us not wait any longer to tend to the sick child," Dimhirion stated, and he turned to Frodo's bed. "Frodo? Can you hear me?" Dimhirion asked the still form lying beneath the blankets.
Frodo stirred slightly, opening his eyes to look at the elf. A small gasp of surprise escaped his pale lips, and he struggled to shift lower in bed in an attempt to hide his face beneath the blankets, though the pain in his stomach would not allow it. After a few moments of fighting, he gave up, and lay gasping for breath, his blue eyes wide with fear and pain.
"Do not be afraid, little one," Dimhirion soothed, covering the small halfling's forehead with one graceful hand. "I've come to help," he promised.
Bilbo stepped up and took Frodo's trembling hand, reassuring the child that this being meant no harm. "I am sorry that your first meeting with an Elf has to be under such circumstances, Frodo." Bilbo gave the limp hand a squeeze.
Frodo didn't answer; he was too transfixed by the Elf.
"Frodo," Bilbo moved in front of Dimhirion, "Frodo, it's all right. He's here to help."
Frodo let out a small whine, and tilted his head back. His eyes were squeezed shut in pain as he gasped for breath.
"Poor lad," It hurt Bilbo that he could do nothing to ease Frodo's suffering, though he spoke softly to the child, hoping to calm him if nothing else, "It's going to be all right, you'll see. I know it hurts now, but cooperate for Dimhirion and you'll be well soon enough, dear boy." He finished, moving aside so the Elf could get a closer look at his nephew.
Dimhirion knelt beside Frodo, stroking his damp curls gently. The hobbit- lad seemed to relax beneath the Elf's hands, and the pain in his belly eased up some once he was no longer so tense.
"That's a good boy," Bilbo whispered, more to himself than anyone else present. He was pleased to see some progress at least.
The Elf turned and asked the healer, a concerned tone to his voice, "What is causing him such pain?"
"It's his stomach," Mr. Fields began, "Or, rather an organ somewhere in his belly which somehow became infected. I fear. . .that it has burst, I'm drawing this assumption based on his high fever and the severe pain. It is a rare illness, we haven't a name for it," he added, "Though it has always simply been a death sentence to those who contract this disease." He trailed off.
The Elf nodded slowly, digging through the depths of his memory for anything to contribute to the halfling's definition. He tilted his head to one side, in thought, before speaking again, "Unfortunately, I was never a healer among my people." He reminisced, his eyes clouding with what could only be interpreted as sadness, "I was, at one time, learning the trade. . .however not all goals set are attained, for one reason or another." He sighed, "Though I have seen many illnesses during my time, and have assisted with many medical procedures." And his train of thought shifted again, "I have no materials, or supplies, for whatever operations may be required to correct this." He look at the two hobbits. "I brought nothing with me, save for what few belongings I carried from Rivendell, which are still with my traveling companions."
Fosco pointed across the room to where his bag lay, practically untouched, "I have my bag here, though I do not know what you may find of use inside."
Dimhirion nodded, "Yes, we shall have to make do with what meager supplies we have, though I may send you to fetch some needed materials."
Fosco and Bilbo both nodded, eager to assist wherever they could.
The group was disrupted from their planning by a small cry that escaped Frodo. The small lad then moaned loudly and clutched his swollen belly with both arms, his features twisting in agony; his body trembled from exhaustion. He swallowed several times, and unconsciously called to Bilbo. Dimhirion placed a hand on the small child's back, and he could feel Frodo's body tense just before the lad began heaving. There was no time to gather even so much as a towel.
Bilbo knelt beside the Elf, and held his lad's head as Frodo vomited, comforting him as best he could as each painful heave seized his nephews' body. At times, Frodo heaved so violently that half of the small tween's body came up off of the mattress from the force of it. Frodo cried out from the pain, and the fear of not being able to breathe at all as his stomach cramped up repeatedly and forced every bit of its contents out through his mouth.
When it was finally over, his head drooped in Bilbo's hands, and he began to cry. Bilbo eased his nephews sweat soaked head back down to the pillows, and tried his best to sooth the frightened child.
"Shh. . . Frodo, it's over," he whispered, "It's over. . .just rest. . .shh. . ." he stroked the small cheek gently and wiped away the continuous flow of tears with his thumb, "Poor boy, hold on. . ." Bilbo gathered a cool cloth to wipe the vomit from around Frodo's mouth and chin.
Frodo whimpered as he began panting for breath, trying to silence his cries, he felt sharp pain start to attack his worn out body once more, "Stop!" he practically screamed, at no one in particular.
Everyone in the room jumped slightly at this unexpected outburst, Bilbo pulled the blankets close around his dear nephew, and whispered comforting words in Frodo's ear.
The small hobbit clutched his blankets tightly in two small fists, "Uncle Bilbo. . ." he cried, "It. . .it hur- hurts s- so. . .so b- badly," Frodo wailed, "I n- never. . .never thought an-. . .anything c- could. . hur- . . .hurt so. . .so m-. . . much." He cried, no longer able to restrain himself.
"Let it out if you need to, Frodo," Bilbo said, wincing at the unanticipated shrillness of Frodo's tormented cries, "Easy now, lad, that might make it worse," he pointed out, though Frodo, too consumed by his suffering, didn't hear him. Bilbo wrapped his arms around the lad as best he could, without moving him, and held the child until his screams died down to quiet sobs, and finally back to shuddering gasps for breath. He himself nearly began to cry for little Frodo; the child should never have to endure such pain, no child should have to.
Bilbo looked down at the puddle of vomit on the bed, in the murky light of early morning he could make out distinct streaks of red throughout it. He looked closer; hoping that it was just his eyes playing trick on him, though he soon discovered it wasn't so.
"Fosco?" The older hobbit asked anxiously, "Look. . .is that. . ." he didn't want to say what he hoped it wasn't, "Did you give Frodo anything red to drink or eat?"
Fosco approached the bed, "No, Mr. Baggins. He only took just a small amount of water late last night. . ." the healer confirmed.
Dimhirion studied the streaks with keen eyes; he knew it had to be blood. "Has he been vomiting much?" The elf asked.
"Rather frequently, yes," Fosco answered, "Though until just now he had been doing better. . ."
The elf nodded, "It is to be expected then." He assured the concerned hobbits, "And given the force I watched him exerting during his most recent bout, I believe Frodo has most likely torn something, it's probably nothing to worry too much about." Dimhirion promised. If it had been a major tear, or a stomach affliction, then there would have been much more blood. "Though," he added, "It's most likely rather uncomfortable for him. And we must keep a close eye on the situation as well."
Fosco nodded, "Yes, the poor child has barely taken anything to drink. He has complained that his mouth and throat were dry, but he refused liquids, I barely got him to take any water at all last night."
"Yes. . ." he said thoughtfully, turning back to Frodo's bed; "It's best that I examine him now. From what you've told me, time is not on our side." Dimhirion called over his shoulder to the other two halfling's, "We shall soon see if there is anything that can be done to help him."
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A/N: Again, I thank you for reading! :) Let me know what you think.