Title: The siege of the Lonely Mountain 2/3
Author: Angie
Rating: PG (little hobbit hurting himself)
Warnings: None
Summary: While staying with his cousin Bilbo a ten year old
Frodo gets into trouble.
Disclaimer: No profit, no gain, no ownership. No kittens!
Thanks to Mark for editing and Frodo Healers for supporting.
Bilbo was a stout hobbit with a great deal of hobbit sense and he set to work heaving logs off the pile and casting them aside. His goal was not far beneath the top layer and he soon had a pair of legs uncovered. Careful of any further subsidence, he freed and carefully eased out of the stack a limply unconscious Frodo.
"Oh Frodo my lad!" Bilbo breathed, laying his precious burden down on the back path and supporting the boy's head on his knee. His fingers were shaking so badly it took several fumbled attempts to find the pulse beat in the little boys throat. It was a bit fast but strong and steady. The old hobbit rocked himself a little, stroking a cheek pale beneath the dirt.
The idea that the son of his dear Drogo and Primula had come to harm whilst in his care turned his insides to ice. In addition to that, and however much Frodo was driving him to distraction, there was just something about the scrap of a lad - a little spark in those wide blue eyes that always looked so innocent, yet good humoured and full of eagerness - something that touched a long buried chord in the older hobbits heart.
"Hmph!" Bilbo snorted at the image, which was so clear in his mind. There was no chance that those eyes belonged to someone even remotely innocent when it came to causing mischief, though it was likely that the boy didn't actually mean to cause quite so much trouble. This was surely a case in point.
Bilbo realised that he was trying to ignore his anxiety and returned his concentration to the little hobbit lying so still in his arms. Still and silent and covered in dirt and dust.
Bilbo bit his lip and looked up at the blue evening sky. For a moment he was somewhere else. Far away, on a battlefield, in the aftermath of a terrible conflict. Almost to him there seemed to be another figure lying so still.
"Thorin," Bilbo whispered to himself. "Thorin Oakenshield, King beneath the mountain." The hobbit shivered and shook his head. "Fool of a Baggins, pull yourself together."
Bilbo carried the lad indoors and put him straight on the parlour sofa, before rushing to the kitchen for a bowl into which he put towels. He also collected the kettle off the hearth that had not yet boiled for tea.
Kneeling back by the sofa, Bilbo surveyed the damage. Frodo was a mass of dirt, cobwebs and dust. More rattled that he could admit even to himself Bilbo took a deep breath before running hands lightly over limbs and torso. No broken bones.
He poured the warm water from the kettle into the basin and dipping a cloth into it, began to clean off the worst of the dirt and strip off the lad's ruined shirt and breaches. The boy would be covered in bruises. There was quite a bump on his forehead and a cut over one eye. He had a gash over his ribs, not deep enough to need stitching but it was going to be painful. His left leg was a mass of bruising and scrapes where the logs had pinched and pinned him and his right leg was a bloody mess of torn skin.
Hearing the second kettle boiling Bilbo went back to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, into which he generously spooned honey. It was going to taste terribly over sweet, even to a 10 year old, but the boy was going to need it.
Leaving his bloody leg exposed and propped on a cushion Bilbo wrapped Frodo up in the sofa rug. The head injuries did not seem too bad but Bilbo wanted to make sure the lad did not have a concussion. Taking a cloth the older hobbit cleaned Frodo's grimy face with cool water and tapped him lightly on the cheek to rouse him. "Frodo, my lad. Can you hear me?"
It took a while but eventually Frodo opened confused blue eyes. At first the lad seemed uncertain as to where he was - as though he had just woken up from a really deep sleep; unsure of his surroundings and a bit dizzy but then his eyes focused on Bilbo's face, but only briefly. With a whimper he closed his eyes again. Bilbo placed a cool wet cloth on Frodo's forehead.
"Uncle Bilbo." Frodo started to speak, but his voice was hoarse and drained of all energy.
"Drink this my lad," Bilbo tried to speak softly and cupped the back of his head gently to lift it. He pressed the mug of tea against Frodo's lips and the lad seemed to swallow with out thinking, drinking half the cup before Bilbo eased his head back onto the cushion.
As Bilbo gently sponged the bump on his forehead Frodo groaned. "What happened?"
"That's what I would like to know. I found you under the log pile. But how it came to fall over on you I can't fathom. How do you feel?"
"Sick," said Frodo and, suiting actions to words, jerked upright and threw up in spectacular fashion into his cousins lap, before collapsing backwards again with a whimper of distress.
Bilbo just sat still for a moment in shock.
"I'm sorry," Frodo whispered. Then, to Bilbo's even further horror, his enormous blue eyes filled up with tears and he began to cry. "I want my mama!"
Bilbo acted purely on instinct. Ignoring the blood, vomit and wood dust he gathered the sobbing child up in his arms to pull him close.
"There Frodo. It will be all right. Shush my dear. Uncle Bilbo will look after you." All the while stroking his filthy curls.
Bilbo insisted Frodo sip again at the cup between hiccupping sobs. The sobs eventually calmed and Bilbo was able to wipe the little nose and cheeks of his cousin.
"Are you going to be sick again?" he asked more tenderly.
"No," Frodo replied. "But I feel cold and shaky and my head hurts and my mouth tastes horrid."
That he did not mention his torn and bloody leg was sign enough that he was in a state of shock.
"Lets get you cleaned up and into bed then, Pumpkin." The term of endearment fell past his lips unsummoned. It was what Bilbo's own mother had used to call her only child.
With his usual efficiency Bilbo had himself into fresh breaches by the time sweet blackberry tea had brewed and he fed Frodo a second cup before tending to his other hurts. Frodo's shock was beginning to wear off and he was beginning to whimper. Bilbo knew he had to finish his ministrations quickly before full feeling came back to his little cousin. He bathed the lacerated leg carefully, noting thankfully that the tears were not deep. There were a number of splinters and Bilbo set about removing them one by one and cleaning the area well afterwards. He talked all the while to the lad, telling him what he was doing, reassuring him that it would soon be over. Frodo winced and cried out a couple of times as he did this and Bilbo soothed him with words and caresses. There was a particularly nasty splinter on the lad's shin that took a bit of getting hold of. "Steady my boy. Here we go. The last big one. There we are."
Frodo screwed up his face and kicked out with a fur covered foot. "But it hurts!" he protested, trying to pull his leg away. Bilbo grasped the wayward ankle firmly and drew it back towards him.
"If it is not clean it will not get well," Bilbo said, continuing sternly, "and may I draw your attention to the fact that if you carry on adventuring in such a reckless manner you may have more of this to look forward to!"
Tears welled up in Frodo's eyes as he took in Bilbo's harsh words.
Bilbo was instantly contrite. "There, there, lad, it's not so bad as that. I'm not telling you not to go adventuring - I'm just telling you to be more careful about it! And to prepare better for your adventures. I know from experience that things can get pretty tricky if you don't prepare in advance. I'll tell you more about that this evening if you would like." He smiled warmly at the lad. Frodo thought about his words for a few moment and then offered a shy and tremulous smile in return. He winced again as Bilbo completed his ministrations, but this time tried to remain still under Bilbo's gentle touch until the older hobbit had covered the injuries with a light gauze pad.
"There. All over, and you were very brave." Bilbo leaned over and gave his youngest cousin a comforting hug, surprising himself in the process at this break in his normal reserve and sudden display of affection. He also made a mental note to himself to run down to the Gaffers as soon as he could to get some of the comfrey cream his gardener swore by. "Bless my soul," Bilbo thought to himself. "The lad is getting to me, so he is!"
Finally Bilbo got the little hobbit transferred into a fresh nightshirt and carried him down to the third best guest room which he had been occupying. The room was already looking a little the worse for wear. Bilbo had turned his back on it a few hours after Frodo took up habitation. He would clean it thoroughly when the child was gone. Frodo flatly refused to make his bed and Bilbo flatly refused to make it for him and so it remained unmade. The boy's idea was to climb into bed and then settle the covers over himself. Bilbo was quite sure Primula did not usually let him get away with that - though more likely, the over indulgent mother made the bed for her treasure.
Frodo's kite was crashed on the dresser as though he had been trying to fly it indoors, which was frankly not beyond him, while yesterday's clothing was still on the floor.
The older hobbit deposited his bundle on the bed and reached to pull the quilts up over him. He paused, realising that the covers would be too much pressure on the sore leg. He thought for a moment and then returned to the parlour and came back moments later with the foot stool which he put over his legs and then arranged the quilt over the top.
"That was a good idea," Frodo told his cousin. Bilbo smiled at the authoritative tone the boy had adopted, marvelling at the same time at the way those startlingly blue eyes sparkled when they were not full of tears or pain.
Next he retrieved a clean chamber pot, which he put on a low stool by the head of the bed. "In case you need to be sick again."
Frodo made a horrid face at the idea.
"How does your head feel?"
"Like it did the time I fell out of the kitchen window at home," Frodo replied.
"What ever were you doing in the log pile in the first place?" Bilbo wanted to know.
Frodo sniffed sorrowfully. "I was building a fortress on the Lonely Mountain."
Bilbo stroked the curling hair away from the pale forehead. "I wish you had picked a safer place to do it."
"So do I," came the sad little reply.
"I need to run down to the Gaffers," Bilbo said. "Will you be alright just for a few moments?" Bilbo did not like to leave his charge but he did not see the alternative.
Frodo nodded.
"Then I won't be long."
Bilbo was a stout hobbit with a great deal of hobbit sense and he set to work heaving logs off the pile and casting them aside. His goal was not far beneath the top layer and he soon had a pair of legs uncovered. Careful of any further subsidence, he freed and carefully eased out of the stack a limply unconscious Frodo.
"Oh Frodo my lad!" Bilbo breathed, laying his precious burden down on the back path and supporting the boy's head on his knee. His fingers were shaking so badly it took several fumbled attempts to find the pulse beat in the little boys throat. It was a bit fast but strong and steady. The old hobbit rocked himself a little, stroking a cheek pale beneath the dirt.
The idea that the son of his dear Drogo and Primula had come to harm whilst in his care turned his insides to ice. In addition to that, and however much Frodo was driving him to distraction, there was just something about the scrap of a lad - a little spark in those wide blue eyes that always looked so innocent, yet good humoured and full of eagerness - something that touched a long buried chord in the older hobbits heart.
"Hmph!" Bilbo snorted at the image, which was so clear in his mind. There was no chance that those eyes belonged to someone even remotely innocent when it came to causing mischief, though it was likely that the boy didn't actually mean to cause quite so much trouble. This was surely a case in point.
Bilbo realised that he was trying to ignore his anxiety and returned his concentration to the little hobbit lying so still in his arms. Still and silent and covered in dirt and dust.
Bilbo bit his lip and looked up at the blue evening sky. For a moment he was somewhere else. Far away, on a battlefield, in the aftermath of a terrible conflict. Almost to him there seemed to be another figure lying so still.
"Thorin," Bilbo whispered to himself. "Thorin Oakenshield, King beneath the mountain." The hobbit shivered and shook his head. "Fool of a Baggins, pull yourself together."
Bilbo carried the lad indoors and put him straight on the parlour sofa, before rushing to the kitchen for a bowl into which he put towels. He also collected the kettle off the hearth that had not yet boiled for tea.
Kneeling back by the sofa, Bilbo surveyed the damage. Frodo was a mass of dirt, cobwebs and dust. More rattled that he could admit even to himself Bilbo took a deep breath before running hands lightly over limbs and torso. No broken bones.
He poured the warm water from the kettle into the basin and dipping a cloth into it, began to clean off the worst of the dirt and strip off the lad's ruined shirt and breaches. The boy would be covered in bruises. There was quite a bump on his forehead and a cut over one eye. He had a gash over his ribs, not deep enough to need stitching but it was going to be painful. His left leg was a mass of bruising and scrapes where the logs had pinched and pinned him and his right leg was a bloody mess of torn skin.
Hearing the second kettle boiling Bilbo went back to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, into which he generously spooned honey. It was going to taste terribly over sweet, even to a 10 year old, but the boy was going to need it.
Leaving his bloody leg exposed and propped on a cushion Bilbo wrapped Frodo up in the sofa rug. The head injuries did not seem too bad but Bilbo wanted to make sure the lad did not have a concussion. Taking a cloth the older hobbit cleaned Frodo's grimy face with cool water and tapped him lightly on the cheek to rouse him. "Frodo, my lad. Can you hear me?"
It took a while but eventually Frodo opened confused blue eyes. At first the lad seemed uncertain as to where he was - as though he had just woken up from a really deep sleep; unsure of his surroundings and a bit dizzy but then his eyes focused on Bilbo's face, but only briefly. With a whimper he closed his eyes again. Bilbo placed a cool wet cloth on Frodo's forehead.
"Uncle Bilbo." Frodo started to speak, but his voice was hoarse and drained of all energy.
"Drink this my lad," Bilbo tried to speak softly and cupped the back of his head gently to lift it. He pressed the mug of tea against Frodo's lips and the lad seemed to swallow with out thinking, drinking half the cup before Bilbo eased his head back onto the cushion.
As Bilbo gently sponged the bump on his forehead Frodo groaned. "What happened?"
"That's what I would like to know. I found you under the log pile. But how it came to fall over on you I can't fathom. How do you feel?"
"Sick," said Frodo and, suiting actions to words, jerked upright and threw up in spectacular fashion into his cousins lap, before collapsing backwards again with a whimper of distress.
Bilbo just sat still for a moment in shock.
"I'm sorry," Frodo whispered. Then, to Bilbo's even further horror, his enormous blue eyes filled up with tears and he began to cry. "I want my mama!"
Bilbo acted purely on instinct. Ignoring the blood, vomit and wood dust he gathered the sobbing child up in his arms to pull him close.
"There Frodo. It will be all right. Shush my dear. Uncle Bilbo will look after you." All the while stroking his filthy curls.
Bilbo insisted Frodo sip again at the cup between hiccupping sobs. The sobs eventually calmed and Bilbo was able to wipe the little nose and cheeks of his cousin.
"Are you going to be sick again?" he asked more tenderly.
"No," Frodo replied. "But I feel cold and shaky and my head hurts and my mouth tastes horrid."
That he did not mention his torn and bloody leg was sign enough that he was in a state of shock.
"Lets get you cleaned up and into bed then, Pumpkin." The term of endearment fell past his lips unsummoned. It was what Bilbo's own mother had used to call her only child.
With his usual efficiency Bilbo had himself into fresh breaches by the time sweet blackberry tea had brewed and he fed Frodo a second cup before tending to his other hurts. Frodo's shock was beginning to wear off and he was beginning to whimper. Bilbo knew he had to finish his ministrations quickly before full feeling came back to his little cousin. He bathed the lacerated leg carefully, noting thankfully that the tears were not deep. There were a number of splinters and Bilbo set about removing them one by one and cleaning the area well afterwards. He talked all the while to the lad, telling him what he was doing, reassuring him that it would soon be over. Frodo winced and cried out a couple of times as he did this and Bilbo soothed him with words and caresses. There was a particularly nasty splinter on the lad's shin that took a bit of getting hold of. "Steady my boy. Here we go. The last big one. There we are."
Frodo screwed up his face and kicked out with a fur covered foot. "But it hurts!" he protested, trying to pull his leg away. Bilbo grasped the wayward ankle firmly and drew it back towards him.
"If it is not clean it will not get well," Bilbo said, continuing sternly, "and may I draw your attention to the fact that if you carry on adventuring in such a reckless manner you may have more of this to look forward to!"
Tears welled up in Frodo's eyes as he took in Bilbo's harsh words.
Bilbo was instantly contrite. "There, there, lad, it's not so bad as that. I'm not telling you not to go adventuring - I'm just telling you to be more careful about it! And to prepare better for your adventures. I know from experience that things can get pretty tricky if you don't prepare in advance. I'll tell you more about that this evening if you would like." He smiled warmly at the lad. Frodo thought about his words for a few moment and then offered a shy and tremulous smile in return. He winced again as Bilbo completed his ministrations, but this time tried to remain still under Bilbo's gentle touch until the older hobbit had covered the injuries with a light gauze pad.
"There. All over, and you were very brave." Bilbo leaned over and gave his youngest cousin a comforting hug, surprising himself in the process at this break in his normal reserve and sudden display of affection. He also made a mental note to himself to run down to the Gaffers as soon as he could to get some of the comfrey cream his gardener swore by. "Bless my soul," Bilbo thought to himself. "The lad is getting to me, so he is!"
Finally Bilbo got the little hobbit transferred into a fresh nightshirt and carried him down to the third best guest room which he had been occupying. The room was already looking a little the worse for wear. Bilbo had turned his back on it a few hours after Frodo took up habitation. He would clean it thoroughly when the child was gone. Frodo flatly refused to make his bed and Bilbo flatly refused to make it for him and so it remained unmade. The boy's idea was to climb into bed and then settle the covers over himself. Bilbo was quite sure Primula did not usually let him get away with that - though more likely, the over indulgent mother made the bed for her treasure.
Frodo's kite was crashed on the dresser as though he had been trying to fly it indoors, which was frankly not beyond him, while yesterday's clothing was still on the floor.
The older hobbit deposited his bundle on the bed and reached to pull the quilts up over him. He paused, realising that the covers would be too much pressure on the sore leg. He thought for a moment and then returned to the parlour and came back moments later with the foot stool which he put over his legs and then arranged the quilt over the top.
"That was a good idea," Frodo told his cousin. Bilbo smiled at the authoritative tone the boy had adopted, marvelling at the same time at the way those startlingly blue eyes sparkled when they were not full of tears or pain.
Next he retrieved a clean chamber pot, which he put on a low stool by the head of the bed. "In case you need to be sick again."
Frodo made a horrid face at the idea.
"How does your head feel?"
"Like it did the time I fell out of the kitchen window at home," Frodo replied.
"What ever were you doing in the log pile in the first place?" Bilbo wanted to know.
Frodo sniffed sorrowfully. "I was building a fortress on the Lonely Mountain."
Bilbo stroked the curling hair away from the pale forehead. "I wish you had picked a safer place to do it."
"So do I," came the sad little reply.
"I need to run down to the Gaffers," Bilbo said. "Will you be alright just for a few moments?" Bilbo did not like to leave his charge but he did not see the alternative.
Frodo nodded.
"Then I won't be long."