Story Notes: No sex, slash, profanity, graphic medical detail, or violence.
Contains hurt/comfort, and may become slightly more medically graphic as
the story develops. (I hope to include vomiting in Part 3!) Please forgive
any errors as the computer's spellcheck is not working, so there may be
typos.
Disclaimer: See Part 1
Thank you very much to everyone who reviewed - I appreciated your lovely comments!
A Time of Grey Rain by Helena Larkin
Part 2
The coughing is a shock, galvanising me into movement and plans and ideas. Warmth, nourishment, rest. He is soaking, shivering, pressed close against Sam's warmth. I suppose that the larger halfling must have retained more heat in spite of the rain. Frodo needs clothes, and I go to my own pack to fetch a soft old shirt and wool tunic.
Sam gently removes Frodo's clothes, and the little one lies back wearily to permit his servant to tend him. He is quite startling thin - worse than I had anticipated. I am ignorant of their errand, but I am surprised he can walk at all, he looks so frail. It seems to me that the slightest pressure would break that translucent skin, shatter him like precious elven glass. So Sam, very, very tenderly undoes his thin garments, and slips off the exquisitely fine mail shirt - dwarvish work, unless my eyes deceive me, and the most beautiful I have seen in years - he wears beneath them, carefully dressing him in the shirt, wrapping him in the large tunic: my clothes seem ludicrously big on the little body, he is almost drowning in fabric.
The sturdy Samwise, also, looks rather weary and pale, I notice. He does not think for a moment of his own comfort, preoccupied with settling Frodo so that he is secure, tucking the loose folds of the tunic around him. Yet I know that he must be very tired and wet, probably very cold. I myself am wet through with the rain, which shows no signs of clearing.
When I look out at the countryside there is only the lowering dark and the constant quiet thrumming of rain on earth. I wish now that I had not bound their hands. They are very brave, even to be here, and I turn back with a smile, greatly wishing to reassure them.
Frodo is nestled against Sam, and Sam's head is bent over to listen to Frodo whispering in his ear. Sam, I think, has the appearance of one who has been used to eating far better than he now can - a strong frame, apparently quite large for a halfling (just as Frodo is too small), yet shrunken with cruel hunger and unprecedented exercise. I want to feed them. I want them to rest and remember me as a kind man. And part of me wants to tell them of the white city, and my father's love and cruelty, and my visions. They seem so young, but something - in Frodo's eyes, perhaps - makes me think that here is someone who would understand, who would not only love my tales but comprehend them.
"Samwise you must rest also. It will not help your master if you fall ill." I beckon Sarador, and send him to fetch some more dry clothes for Sam to wear. When both halflings are dressed, I take Frodo - who now appears to have fallen into a restless doze - in my arms, leaning him against my chest, and carry him to a low bed, Sam trotting anxiously at my heels. I place Frodo, slightly propped up, in a nest of pillows and worn, soft, woolen blankets - as comfortable as possible - and Sam curls up at his side.
Sarador and Telmir return with wooden cups of warm milk sweetened with honey - what good fortune! I had forgotten that when we slew the wild men this morn I had ordered that such livestock as survived should be brought here. Sam places a cup to Frodo's lips, coaxing him to sip a little before drifting back into sleep. He then gulps his own milk and slips an arm around Frodo - to protect him? There is little he could do against my men if I were hostile and wished them ill. I think he wishes to comfort Frodo as he sleeps.
He so clearly cares, he is so gentle, that I am once again overcome with shame at how I have treated them. They never deserved such roughness or suspicion from me. So instead of sleeping, I fetch a chair and sit watch over them, dozing, waking often to check Frodo's temperature and breathing. The fever is high, but does not appear to be rising; Frodo wheezes harshly with each breath.
It is very late when he starts suddenly to stir and whimper.
"Bilbo. B-Bilbo, where are you? I. I'm afraid." Scarcely more than a whisper. "G-G. Gandalf?" More firghtened now. A gasp, and I think he is awake. Then he starts to whimper faintly into the pillow. I hesitate to approach: in my guilt, in the rising of tender feelings long suppressed, I long to comfort and hold and stroke him. I very much want to be gentle to this little creature, so much in my power. Yet I know he will be frightened of me.
But then there is a soft sob. And another. And I am gathering him into my arms and am suddenly. all tenderness, rocking him as he cries. I lean back against the pillow and he sobs breathlessly into my shoulder. I stroke his hair, which is very soft and dark, dark as the rain persistently, insidiously blackening our land.
The room is dimly lit with several candles, and he lifts a flushed face, blue, fever-bright eyes, to my own. His voice is saturated with tears, they stain his face.
"I. I want. m-my mother." He gulps and presses his hot wet face to my neck, like a child. I know the halflings are not children - it is exhaustion, fever, terrible strain, that calls this admission of what he would surely term weakness, not inherent childishness. I think he would be terribly ashamed to speak to me thus in any more normal circumstances. Their stature is small but I know they do not lack dignity. He is curled close to me in the blankets, sleepy, eyelids fluttering with tears; and I suddenly wonder how often he has had this thought and been too brave to express it, how often he silently longs for a mother who must, it seems, be long dead, and far beyond his reach, even in this darkened world.
To Be Continued. As ever, reviews are very welcome - I will continue writing without them, but they certainly give life and impetus to my work!
In Part 3 - what exactly is wrong with our little hobbit? Will he recover easily? (Probably not.)
Thank you very much to everyone who reviewed - I appreciated your lovely comments!
A Time of Grey Rain by Helena Larkin
Part 2
The coughing is a shock, galvanising me into movement and plans and ideas. Warmth, nourishment, rest. He is soaking, shivering, pressed close against Sam's warmth. I suppose that the larger halfling must have retained more heat in spite of the rain. Frodo needs clothes, and I go to my own pack to fetch a soft old shirt and wool tunic.
Sam gently removes Frodo's clothes, and the little one lies back wearily to permit his servant to tend him. He is quite startling thin - worse than I had anticipated. I am ignorant of their errand, but I am surprised he can walk at all, he looks so frail. It seems to me that the slightest pressure would break that translucent skin, shatter him like precious elven glass. So Sam, very, very tenderly undoes his thin garments, and slips off the exquisitely fine mail shirt - dwarvish work, unless my eyes deceive me, and the most beautiful I have seen in years - he wears beneath them, carefully dressing him in the shirt, wrapping him in the large tunic: my clothes seem ludicrously big on the little body, he is almost drowning in fabric.
The sturdy Samwise, also, looks rather weary and pale, I notice. He does not think for a moment of his own comfort, preoccupied with settling Frodo so that he is secure, tucking the loose folds of the tunic around him. Yet I know that he must be very tired and wet, probably very cold. I myself am wet through with the rain, which shows no signs of clearing.
When I look out at the countryside there is only the lowering dark and the constant quiet thrumming of rain on earth. I wish now that I had not bound their hands. They are very brave, even to be here, and I turn back with a smile, greatly wishing to reassure them.
Frodo is nestled against Sam, and Sam's head is bent over to listen to Frodo whispering in his ear. Sam, I think, has the appearance of one who has been used to eating far better than he now can - a strong frame, apparently quite large for a halfling (just as Frodo is too small), yet shrunken with cruel hunger and unprecedented exercise. I want to feed them. I want them to rest and remember me as a kind man. And part of me wants to tell them of the white city, and my father's love and cruelty, and my visions. They seem so young, but something - in Frodo's eyes, perhaps - makes me think that here is someone who would understand, who would not only love my tales but comprehend them.
"Samwise you must rest also. It will not help your master if you fall ill." I beckon Sarador, and send him to fetch some more dry clothes for Sam to wear. When both halflings are dressed, I take Frodo - who now appears to have fallen into a restless doze - in my arms, leaning him against my chest, and carry him to a low bed, Sam trotting anxiously at my heels. I place Frodo, slightly propped up, in a nest of pillows and worn, soft, woolen blankets - as comfortable as possible - and Sam curls up at his side.
Sarador and Telmir return with wooden cups of warm milk sweetened with honey - what good fortune! I had forgotten that when we slew the wild men this morn I had ordered that such livestock as survived should be brought here. Sam places a cup to Frodo's lips, coaxing him to sip a little before drifting back into sleep. He then gulps his own milk and slips an arm around Frodo - to protect him? There is little he could do against my men if I were hostile and wished them ill. I think he wishes to comfort Frodo as he sleeps.
He so clearly cares, he is so gentle, that I am once again overcome with shame at how I have treated them. They never deserved such roughness or suspicion from me. So instead of sleeping, I fetch a chair and sit watch over them, dozing, waking often to check Frodo's temperature and breathing. The fever is high, but does not appear to be rising; Frodo wheezes harshly with each breath.
It is very late when he starts suddenly to stir and whimper.
"Bilbo. B-Bilbo, where are you? I. I'm afraid." Scarcely more than a whisper. "G-G. Gandalf?" More firghtened now. A gasp, and I think he is awake. Then he starts to whimper faintly into the pillow. I hesitate to approach: in my guilt, in the rising of tender feelings long suppressed, I long to comfort and hold and stroke him. I very much want to be gentle to this little creature, so much in my power. Yet I know he will be frightened of me.
But then there is a soft sob. And another. And I am gathering him into my arms and am suddenly. all tenderness, rocking him as he cries. I lean back against the pillow and he sobs breathlessly into my shoulder. I stroke his hair, which is very soft and dark, dark as the rain persistently, insidiously blackening our land.
The room is dimly lit with several candles, and he lifts a flushed face, blue, fever-bright eyes, to my own. His voice is saturated with tears, they stain his face.
"I. I want. m-my mother." He gulps and presses his hot wet face to my neck, like a child. I know the halflings are not children - it is exhaustion, fever, terrible strain, that calls this admission of what he would surely term weakness, not inherent childishness. I think he would be terribly ashamed to speak to me thus in any more normal circumstances. Their stature is small but I know they do not lack dignity. He is curled close to me in the blankets, sleepy, eyelids fluttering with tears; and I suddenly wonder how often he has had this thought and been too brave to express it, how often he silently longs for a mother who must, it seems, be long dead, and far beyond his reach, even in this darkened world.
To Be Continued. As ever, reviews are very welcome - I will continue writing without them, but they certainly give life and impetus to my work!
In Part 3 - what exactly is wrong with our little hobbit? Will he recover easily? (Probably not.)