Chapter Thirteen---An Unexpected Visitor, and Unexpected News
Quotes from ROTK not mine, movie not mine, book not mine, hobbits not mine.
Oh, noodles. : (
After overcoming his initial shock, Bilbo ushered Gandalf inside, and fixed a pot of tea. He explained his nephew's illness, and the wizard listened intently, a grave expression on his face.
"I thought as much..." he mused. "There is a particularly dangerous strain of flu going around the Shire that I have heard about in my travels. Most survive, but with Frodo's natural fragility his recovery should be particularly difficult. I think though, that he can pull through. He has a strong spirit, Bilbo. We must remind him he can't give up."
Bilbo shook his head, soaking in the information his old friend was giving him, and a determined look crossed his face. "We must," he agreed.
Gandalf opened a small leather bag, depositing the contents in his weathered hand. It appeared to be some kind of herb of a deep green color, with pointed leaves. It released a pungent scent, and Bilbo had to take a step back so as not to be overwhelmed.
"This is Athelas, or Kingsfoil, as it's more commonly called. It was given to me by a Ranger named Strider. It should help bring down his fever and make the cough less painful. I'll help you make a tea out of it, as well as a compress for his face." Bilbo nodded, and the two quickly set to work.
When they were finished, the pair walked quietly into Frodo's room, where the lad lay in a fitful sleep. He heard their hushed voices, and sat up, beginning to cough again. When he finally stopped, he noticed the grey wizard, and the first real smile Bilbo had seen in ages passed across his face.
"G--Gandalf?" He croaked. "Is that really you?"
"It is indeed, my boy. It is indeed." He sat down in the chair Bilbo had placed next to Frodo's bedside and smiled at the sickly hobbit lad.
"I'm here to help you get well, Frodo. I've brought some herbs that were given to me by a Ranger." Frodo's eyes lit up.
"A real Ranger? Bilbo has told me about them, but I've never met one, myself. What was his name?" Gandalf and Bilbo smiled at the boy's enthusiasm.
"He has many names, but is most commonly called Strider. I told him of you, and he hopes you get well very soon." Frodo smiled.
"Tell him thank you for me," he said hoarsely, his eyelids beginning to droop again. Gandalf let the lad fall gently back to sleep in his arms, and lay him back in his bed.
"Gandalf...You knew Frodo was ill? But...how?" Asked Bilbo, curiously. The wizard just smiled.
"I would have thought by now, you would know not to mettle in the affairs of wizards, my dear Bilbo," replied Gandalf, eyes twinkling.
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After applying the athelas compresses and making the boy comfortable with fresh, dry bed linens and nightclothes, all Bilbo could do was wait. He sat by Frodo's bedside on what had become a nightly vigil, lulling him back to sleep if he awoke, giving him medicines and teas and soft, comforting words. But Gandalf could tell the old hobbit was about to fall asleep himself, and he knew Bilbo should be relieved from his duties.
"Bilbo," Gandalf whispered, "I will watch Frodo tonight. You need your rest, too. You'll be no help to your lad if you fall ill as well." Bilbo was far too tired to protest, and left the room after giving his nephew a gentle kiss on his forehead.
When Frodo awoke from his fever-dreams, he reached for his uncle's hand, but instead found a larger, rougher one in its place.
"Bilbo? Where's Bilbo?" He cried, looking around the dark room in fevered panic.
"Bilbo is sleeping, my boy, right in the next room. But I'll be here to care for you tonight," the wizard replied soothingly. Frodo relaxed, his head clearing with a sip of the cooling athelas tea, and his eyelids drooped once more.
"Gandalf?" He asked weakly, "do wizards ever fall ill?" Gandalf chuckled a bit under his breath, wiping Frodo's hot brow with a cool cloth.
"No, I don't suppose we do, and that is lucky. You are a very brave lad, Frodo, and I would certainly carry this burden for you, if I could." Frodo smiled, and squeezed the wizard's large hand before drifting into another fitful sleep.
The next few days passed in a blur for the residents of Bag End, and their special visitor. Gandalf continued to assure Bilbo Frodo would recover, but there did not seem to be any change in his condition, and the old hobbit couldn't help but worry. More than anything, though, it was the occasional flashes of fear he saw in the wizard's eyes when he looked at the lad, who seemed to be slowly slipping away from them, that kept him up for many sleepless hours. The happy, carefree hobbit families playing together in the snow seemed to Bilbo to belong to another world entirely.
Gandalf kept a low profile during his stay in Hobbiton, as he had been labeled an official disturber of peace, and knew it quite well. But there was no lack of help from Bilbo's friends and neighbors, and he thanked his lucky stars for he Gamgees. Bell came over as often as he could, helping him cook soft, nourishing meals for the little patient, the Gaffer gave Bilbo many of the best vegetables from his winter cellar, despite protests, and Violet Proudfoot brought over, as soon as she heard the news, all the handkerchiefs the lad would ever need.
The Gamgee children were not allowed to visit Frodo, and needless to say, they were up in arms at the fact. When the news first reached the children of how dreadfully ill he was, Sam had burst into tears, and it took his mother hours to fully console him. No matter how much she wanted to, Bell couldn't tell her children in all honesty that their dear Mr. Frodo would get well, and it broke her heart.
Yule was days away, but as far as Bilbo was concerned all plans any festivities had been cut short. When the first night of celebrations finally rolled around, he awoke to a cry from his nephew's bedroom the likes of which he never heard, and quickly ran there, where Gandalf was already stationed.
When he entered the room, the sight that met his eyes shocked him. Frodo, who had been sleeping reletively peacefully a moment before after a cool bath and sedating drink, now thrashed about in pain, his face coated with a hot sheen, and tears running down his flushed cheeks. He let out a painful strain of coughs that seemed to go on endlessly and tire out his weak body. Gandalf held him still, trying to give him drinks or medicine, but nothing would stay down. He frowned, and turned to Bilbo.
"Bilbo, his fever has spiked quite dangerously. Go set up a steam, with the athelas. Put on a fresh pot of tea, and bring me the leather bag of herbs in my cloak," he ordered. Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but Gandalf snapped, "NOW!" With such urgency that he hurried off to follow the wizard's orders without a second look.
Meanwhile, Gandalf and Frodo were left alone, and the wizard was beginning to panic.
"I did not realize how gravely ill the lad truly was. If this does not work, we could lose him," he thought, suddenly feeling a strong surge of fatherly affection for the shaking bundle of curls and blankets in his arms.
"It hurts," Frodo coughed. Gandalf stroked damp curls out of his face, shocked at how gaunt the boy appeared.
"I know, my boy," he said simply. "I know."
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Bilbo did as the wizard said, and before long Frodo was placed back in his bed, slightly calmer, but with his fever still dangerously high. He looked close to death, Bilbo thought, lying in the fresh layers of blankets, clean, oversized nightclothes, and sheets. His face was pale as the linens surrounding him, and his damp black hair stood out in stark contrast. The old hobbit couldn't bear to look in his nephew's eyes, pale, faded blue, and filled with bright fear. Gandalf administered the lad's medicines and applyed more cool cloths to his head, and then the horrible, excruciating waiting began once more.
"Bilbo, I must be truthful with you. The lad may not survive the night," Gandalf said as gently as he could. The hobbit had taken his nephew in his arms and was silently crying, tears running down his cheeks, as he whispered loving words to Frodo to lull the boy back into his fevered sleep. Once Frodo was reletively peaceful once more, Bilbo turned to look at Gandalf; his mouth set in a tight line.
"I can't lose him...I...Is there any hope left, Gandalf, for the lad?
"There was never much hope, my dear Bilbo...just a fool's hope," Gandalf said softly. The old hobbit fell into the wizard's open arms and began to sob.
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Around midnight, on what was now the second day of Yule, Bilbo awoke from his usual post beside Frodo's bed to an amazing sight. The lad's flushued face had paled, and he was breathing easily, the pain gone from his delicate features. His uncle gasped, as Frodo opened his eyes, no longer clouded and glassy with fever, and smiled weakly. He hugged his nephew gently, as Frodo whispered softly, "Bilbo...I'm quite hungry. Did I miss supper?"
Bilbo quickly called Gandalf, who had been preparing medicine for Frodo in the kitchen, and the wizard appeared in a flash. When he saw Frodo, weak but lucid, smiled at the wizard, who stood, shaking his head in wonder.
"His fever broke a few minutes ago. I...I couldn't believe it," Bilbo shook his head as well, tired but relieved and happy. Frodo had drifted off again in his arms.
"He will be all right now, Bilbo. But I don't doubt his recovery will be difficult," Gandalf murmurred, stroking dark curls off the lad's pale forehead. "But he will be all right."
Gandalf smiled, noticing that both uncle and nephew were now sound asleep, peacefully. He blew out the candle and left the room.
Oh, noodles. : (
After overcoming his initial shock, Bilbo ushered Gandalf inside, and fixed a pot of tea. He explained his nephew's illness, and the wizard listened intently, a grave expression on his face.
"I thought as much..." he mused. "There is a particularly dangerous strain of flu going around the Shire that I have heard about in my travels. Most survive, but with Frodo's natural fragility his recovery should be particularly difficult. I think though, that he can pull through. He has a strong spirit, Bilbo. We must remind him he can't give up."
Bilbo shook his head, soaking in the information his old friend was giving him, and a determined look crossed his face. "We must," he agreed.
Gandalf opened a small leather bag, depositing the contents in his weathered hand. It appeared to be some kind of herb of a deep green color, with pointed leaves. It released a pungent scent, and Bilbo had to take a step back so as not to be overwhelmed.
"This is Athelas, or Kingsfoil, as it's more commonly called. It was given to me by a Ranger named Strider. It should help bring down his fever and make the cough less painful. I'll help you make a tea out of it, as well as a compress for his face." Bilbo nodded, and the two quickly set to work.
When they were finished, the pair walked quietly into Frodo's room, where the lad lay in a fitful sleep. He heard their hushed voices, and sat up, beginning to cough again. When he finally stopped, he noticed the grey wizard, and the first real smile Bilbo had seen in ages passed across his face.
"G--Gandalf?" He croaked. "Is that really you?"
"It is indeed, my boy. It is indeed." He sat down in the chair Bilbo had placed next to Frodo's bedside and smiled at the sickly hobbit lad.
"I'm here to help you get well, Frodo. I've brought some herbs that were given to me by a Ranger." Frodo's eyes lit up.
"A real Ranger? Bilbo has told me about them, but I've never met one, myself. What was his name?" Gandalf and Bilbo smiled at the boy's enthusiasm.
"He has many names, but is most commonly called Strider. I told him of you, and he hopes you get well very soon." Frodo smiled.
"Tell him thank you for me," he said hoarsely, his eyelids beginning to droop again. Gandalf let the lad fall gently back to sleep in his arms, and lay him back in his bed.
"Gandalf...You knew Frodo was ill? But...how?" Asked Bilbo, curiously. The wizard just smiled.
"I would have thought by now, you would know not to mettle in the affairs of wizards, my dear Bilbo," replied Gandalf, eyes twinkling.
****************************************************
After applying the athelas compresses and making the boy comfortable with fresh, dry bed linens and nightclothes, all Bilbo could do was wait. He sat by Frodo's bedside on what had become a nightly vigil, lulling him back to sleep if he awoke, giving him medicines and teas and soft, comforting words. But Gandalf could tell the old hobbit was about to fall asleep himself, and he knew Bilbo should be relieved from his duties.
"Bilbo," Gandalf whispered, "I will watch Frodo tonight. You need your rest, too. You'll be no help to your lad if you fall ill as well." Bilbo was far too tired to protest, and left the room after giving his nephew a gentle kiss on his forehead.
When Frodo awoke from his fever-dreams, he reached for his uncle's hand, but instead found a larger, rougher one in its place.
"Bilbo? Where's Bilbo?" He cried, looking around the dark room in fevered panic.
"Bilbo is sleeping, my boy, right in the next room. But I'll be here to care for you tonight," the wizard replied soothingly. Frodo relaxed, his head clearing with a sip of the cooling athelas tea, and his eyelids drooped once more.
"Gandalf?" He asked weakly, "do wizards ever fall ill?" Gandalf chuckled a bit under his breath, wiping Frodo's hot brow with a cool cloth.
"No, I don't suppose we do, and that is lucky. You are a very brave lad, Frodo, and I would certainly carry this burden for you, if I could." Frodo smiled, and squeezed the wizard's large hand before drifting into another fitful sleep.
The next few days passed in a blur for the residents of Bag End, and their special visitor. Gandalf continued to assure Bilbo Frodo would recover, but there did not seem to be any change in his condition, and the old hobbit couldn't help but worry. More than anything, though, it was the occasional flashes of fear he saw in the wizard's eyes when he looked at the lad, who seemed to be slowly slipping away from them, that kept him up for many sleepless hours. The happy, carefree hobbit families playing together in the snow seemed to Bilbo to belong to another world entirely.
Gandalf kept a low profile during his stay in Hobbiton, as he had been labeled an official disturber of peace, and knew it quite well. But there was no lack of help from Bilbo's friends and neighbors, and he thanked his lucky stars for he Gamgees. Bell came over as often as he could, helping him cook soft, nourishing meals for the little patient, the Gaffer gave Bilbo many of the best vegetables from his winter cellar, despite protests, and Violet Proudfoot brought over, as soon as she heard the news, all the handkerchiefs the lad would ever need.
The Gamgee children were not allowed to visit Frodo, and needless to say, they were up in arms at the fact. When the news first reached the children of how dreadfully ill he was, Sam had burst into tears, and it took his mother hours to fully console him. No matter how much she wanted to, Bell couldn't tell her children in all honesty that their dear Mr. Frodo would get well, and it broke her heart.
Yule was days away, but as far as Bilbo was concerned all plans any festivities had been cut short. When the first night of celebrations finally rolled around, he awoke to a cry from his nephew's bedroom the likes of which he never heard, and quickly ran there, where Gandalf was already stationed.
When he entered the room, the sight that met his eyes shocked him. Frodo, who had been sleeping reletively peacefully a moment before after a cool bath and sedating drink, now thrashed about in pain, his face coated with a hot sheen, and tears running down his flushed cheeks. He let out a painful strain of coughs that seemed to go on endlessly and tire out his weak body. Gandalf held him still, trying to give him drinks or medicine, but nothing would stay down. He frowned, and turned to Bilbo.
"Bilbo, his fever has spiked quite dangerously. Go set up a steam, with the athelas. Put on a fresh pot of tea, and bring me the leather bag of herbs in my cloak," he ordered. Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, but Gandalf snapped, "NOW!" With such urgency that he hurried off to follow the wizard's orders without a second look.
Meanwhile, Gandalf and Frodo were left alone, and the wizard was beginning to panic.
"I did not realize how gravely ill the lad truly was. If this does not work, we could lose him," he thought, suddenly feeling a strong surge of fatherly affection for the shaking bundle of curls and blankets in his arms.
"It hurts," Frodo coughed. Gandalf stroked damp curls out of his face, shocked at how gaunt the boy appeared.
"I know, my boy," he said simply. "I know."
***************************************************************
Bilbo did as the wizard said, and before long Frodo was placed back in his bed, slightly calmer, but with his fever still dangerously high. He looked close to death, Bilbo thought, lying in the fresh layers of blankets, clean, oversized nightclothes, and sheets. His face was pale as the linens surrounding him, and his damp black hair stood out in stark contrast. The old hobbit couldn't bear to look in his nephew's eyes, pale, faded blue, and filled with bright fear. Gandalf administered the lad's medicines and applyed more cool cloths to his head, and then the horrible, excruciating waiting began once more.
"Bilbo, I must be truthful with you. The lad may not survive the night," Gandalf said as gently as he could. The hobbit had taken his nephew in his arms and was silently crying, tears running down his cheeks, as he whispered loving words to Frodo to lull the boy back into his fevered sleep. Once Frodo was reletively peaceful once more, Bilbo turned to look at Gandalf; his mouth set in a tight line.
"I can't lose him...I...Is there any hope left, Gandalf, for the lad?
"There was never much hope, my dear Bilbo...just a fool's hope," Gandalf said softly. The old hobbit fell into the wizard's open arms and began to sob.
***************************************************************
Around midnight, on what was now the second day of Yule, Bilbo awoke from his usual post beside Frodo's bed to an amazing sight. The lad's flushued face had paled, and he was breathing easily, the pain gone from his delicate features. His uncle gasped, as Frodo opened his eyes, no longer clouded and glassy with fever, and smiled weakly. He hugged his nephew gently, as Frodo whispered softly, "Bilbo...I'm quite hungry. Did I miss supper?"
Bilbo quickly called Gandalf, who had been preparing medicine for Frodo in the kitchen, and the wizard appeared in a flash. When he saw Frodo, weak but lucid, smiled at the wizard, who stood, shaking his head in wonder.
"His fever broke a few minutes ago. I...I couldn't believe it," Bilbo shook his head as well, tired but relieved and happy. Frodo had drifted off again in his arms.
"He will be all right now, Bilbo. But I don't doubt his recovery will be difficult," Gandalf murmurred, stroking dark curls off the lad's pale forehead. "But he will be all right."
Gandalf smiled, noticing that both uncle and nephew were now sound asleep, peacefully. He blew out the candle and left the room.