Author's Notes: I've put my questions and answers notes at the end to
avoid spamming everyone to death before the story! Please feel free to
scroll on down or to read them after the chapter. I'm trying to keep
questions with the stories that generated them, so if you don't see yours
here, watch for the next updates on everything. . .it's coming!
The bad news: I am STILL attempting to get FrodoHealers setup moved for the younger group. Still no word from Yahoo help. Good news: FrodoHealers site is almost ready to go up! I just need to e-mail our wonderful webmistress tonight on a little bit of stuff and we're almost ready to go, thanks to her amazing talents and dedication. I'll include the URL once it's up.
As always, thank you ALL so VERY much for reading and reviewing! I LOVE your reviews and am so grateful to all of you for bringing such joy to my life. :)
For permission to reproduce, please contact frodobaggins@frodo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Bryonia and Forsythia, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions.
COUNTERPANE
Chapter Three: Cold
Mamma. . . .
He awoke with a start, gasping as if he had been held underwater. Everything ached: his head, his limbs, his back, his stomach. . .worst of all, his eyes, which felt as if they were on fire. Light was filtering through the curtains, forcing him to curl up on his side, back toward the window. What time was it? He could not bear to look at the clock; the effort of focus was too painful for his eyes. He felt cold and hot at the same time, damp and sticky with sweat. And his throat. . .
He half-expected to feel the touch of a cool hand against his forehead, a damp cloth dabbed at his face, someone's hands tucking the covers over him. . .but no one came.
Suddenly, though, there came a tap at the door.
"Frodo? You have to get up, lad - not good to sleep the day away - "
Uncle Daridoc. At first, Frodo tried to reply, opening his mouth to call out hoarsely, but the door was already open. . .and his uncle trotted in, looking about curiously, pausing and setting hands on his hips as he caught sight of the young orphan.
"Goodness, but what have we here?"
Frodo sighed. He felt sick and in no mood for games. Whimpering, he curled up, pulling into a small bundle.
"Something the matter, lad?"
Frodo nodded, though barely, his stomach in knots. "I. . .I don't feel v- v. . .very well."
"Well, now, that's too bad. . .bit of a cold, it sounds like, eh? Best if you stay away from your cousins, then - that's the last thing any of them need, on top of getting over being ill. I'll bring you up a bite to eat, some soup and whatever else we can find for a cold. How's that sound?"
The thought launched a wave of nausea, causing Frodo to shut his eyes tightly. "I'm not hungry."
"Nonsense, my boy! Doesn't matter whether you're hungry or not, you need to eat, especially you, scrawny as a little scarecrow - now, I'll bring that tray up and leave you in peace, all right?"
Mustering a weak nod, Frodo sighed and curled up more closely, pulling the blankets over his head and readjusting them just enough to uncover his face, turning the quilts into a hooded nest. He listened as his uncle's footsteps padded back out, the door closing quietly behind him. By the time his uncle returned with the tray, the youngster had already fallen back to sleep, sniffling occasionally in his dark dreams.
This time, waking was slow. . .almost a hesitant return to consciousness. Reluctantly he pushed himself up in bed. Uncle Daridoc had pushed a chair to the side of his bed, leaving the tray there, still covered with not only a tray-lid, but a thick towel, keeping in the heat. Despite his lack of appetite, Frodo pondered it for a moment: surely there would be something to drink, maybe juice or fresh water, possibly tea or milk. . . . He *was* terribly thirsty, and the thought of at least a few sips seemed comforting. Carefully uncovering the tray, he winced, stomach lurching at the assault of smells. Vegetable soup, a roll and a bit of butter, a mushroom and bacon sandwich cut in half, and a dish of stewed apples. Not a meal he would have ordinarily turned up his nose at - in fact, he would have been delighted with the choice of menu on most days, especially with the apples and the sandwich - but now it seemed unappealing. There was, however, something more. . .a cup of milk and a glass of apple cider, and the water- pitcher on the table by his bed had clearly been freshly refilled. Eagerly he reached for the amber drink, taking the glass in both hands to steady his hold before taking deep swallows of the cool cider. It felt so good against his throat. . . .
The relief was, however, only momentary. Almost at once he felt cold and unsteady, dizzy. . . . Recognising the growing sense of dread all too well, he shoved the glass back onto the tray and reached for the washbasin. . .but it was already too late. Retching, he curled up, vomiting into the blankets.
When at last the attack passed, he sank back against the pillows, shaking. Weakly he managed to push the top covers into a crumpled bundle, thankful he hadn't had one of his beloved quilts on the bed after all, and roll them onto the floor. This left him with nothing but a sheet and a lighter blanket, and though he felt sweat drenching his body, he was cold. He wanted Bryonia. . .she would have helped him get cleaned up and into fresh covers.
But she wasn't there. . .he had to be brave, take care of things himself. . . . That much he should at least try. . . .
Pondering this, Frodo sighed and sat up once more, nearly passing out from the effort. With difficulty he took the cup of water from the bedside- table, retrieving the washbasin and rinsing his mouth in an effort to prevent another bout of gagging. This done, he lay back down, trying to recover a little strength before attempting anything further. The smell of the soup was too strong. . .he would need to cover the tray back up. Then a night-shirt and more blankets. He couldn't understand how he could feel so cold and yet so hot at the same time, though he knew it meant he was ill. . .probably very ill. When he'd had pneumonia a few years before. . .the year Mamma and Papa drowned. . .he had felt a bit like this, though his eyes hadn't hurt, and he'd had mostly a bad cough that brought up blood now and then. . .and it had happened rather more suddenly than this had come on, at least as well as he could remember.
He'd thrown up then, too.
With a shudder, the small hobbit tried once more to rise, sitting up carefully, using his arms against the pillows to push himself up. . .and managing to retrieve the tray-cover, depositing it over the meal with a sigh of relief. This done, he braced himself. . .steady, steady, come on. . .and finally managed to stand, tottering uneasily toward the wardrobe, where he took a clean night-shirt from a drawer. Dropping onto the nearest chair, he fumbled with his shirt, unbuttoning enough to pull it over his head, then slipped on the night-shirt before standing again to pull off his trousers, abandoning the clothes where they lay. This done, he reached into another drawer, sifting through sheets and covers until he pulled out two soft blankets. He sat with them in his lap for several minutes before finally rising again, staggering back to bed and promptly unfolding the blankets over himself.
Much better.
Well, not really. He still felt at risk of throwing up again, and the fresh night-shirt would have felt better if he could have had a bath first. Nonetheless, this was an improvement, at least, so he decided to settle down and try to sleep again. Almost at once he felt himself succumbing, too tired to stay awake. . . .
*********************************
Dark.
It was very dark.
He was so cold. . .where was Mamma? And Papa?
Sitting up and opening his eyes, rubbing them sleepily, he frowned: the fire had burned down to the last embers. That wasn't like usual; after all, Mamma always came in and put an extra little log or two on before she and Papa went to bed, and then she or Papa would come during the night or early in the morning and add another bit. . . . They never let it get this cold in his room. And where was Mamma? She always came to his room in the morning to wake him, bringing a cup of warm milk or cocoa and a bit of toast for him to eat while the main first breakfast was being prepared downstairs. At first, it had been her way of keeping him busy while she fussed over getting him ready, but now that he was all of eleven, almost twelve, it was more their special time. . .she would still help him get dressed and arranged for the day, but then she would sit quietly with him, talking about plans for the day.
It was still so dark outside. . .maybe it was too early? Mamma usually came just before sunrise. . .but then. . .why so many sounds of grownups in the corridors? That was what must have woken him. . . . Yawning, he rose and wandered out of his room, into his parents' sitting-room, where the hearth was even colder than his own, and over to their bedroom.
They weren't there.
Curious at the still-made bed, he pondered for a moment. Perhaps they'd stayed up all night talking, as they sometimes did with relatives. . .but then. . .why hadn't Mamma come or sent someone to see about him? That wasn't like her. . . .
Suddenly a chill of fright gripped the pit of his small stomach. Maybe they'd fallen ill, or had been hurt. . . . At once he turned, hurrying out of their room and into the hall.
Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda stood there, speaking in hushed whispers, Esmeralda's eyes wet with tears. Saradoc, pale and grim, shook his head as she asked something - Frodo couldn't tell what, exactly, but as Aunt Bryonia joined the pair, looking nearly as pale as Saradoc, the child had the feeling it wasn't anything good.
"Uncle Saradoc. . .what's the matter? I. . .I can't find Mamma and Papa. . .are they all right? Are they downstairs?"
All three adults turned, starting guiltily. . .and Esmeralda began to cry afresh, shaking her head. Bryonia knelt, putting out her hands to take Frodo's, now at his height. Saradoc dropped to one knee, still a bit taller than his nephew, putting a hand on the small shoulder.
"Frodo. . .there's been a terrible accident."
*********************************
Awakening with a jolt, Frodo gasped for breath. He was soaking with sweat again, and felt. . .so cold. . .frozen through, despite the perspiration drenching his hair and night-shirt. It was one of the nightmares he hated most, though he hadn't had it in a long while. . .one that was too real, because it had happened exactly that way. . . .
Looking up, he found that his hearth had dimmed down to the last embers. The room was cold.
Sighing, Frodo sat up unsteadily, pulling the topmost blanket around his shoulders as he braced himself to stand. Looking about, he found no one had come to retrieve the tray. The soiled blankets remained in a crumpled, sickening heap on the floor, and his clothes still lay discarded on the chair near the wardrobe. The clock upon the mantel-piece chimed three. . .but it was so dark outside it could not be afternoon. . . . He must have slept on into the night. . . .
Shivering afresh, he looked around. Aunt Bryonia was not yet back, and might not be for some time. Uncle Bilbo would take at least a few days to arrive, if he came. Even the servants would be asleep at this time of night. There was no-one to rekindle the dying fire, or to help him with a bath, or to change his sweat-drenched linens. He remembered feeling rather like this while ill with pneumonia. . .remembered Bilbo holding him and stroking his hair to reassure him, explaining. . .explaining something about it. . . .
"I know it doesn't seem to make sense, my lad, but that's because you're ill. I know you feel cold, but you're sweating because you've a fever. . .that's why we have to keep you from getting chilled; that'll only make it worse. If you didn't have pneumonia, only a cold, and caught a chill, you'd likely get it. . . ."
He couldn't stay here. That much was certain: it would be at least another two hours, if not more, before he had any hope of getting someone to relight the fire, and then only if he went downstairs to find a servant, something he doubted he was capable of doing: even now he felt dizzy and sick. He had to get to another room, somewhere warmer, and try to stay there until someone could help him with a fresh fire and clean bed. But where could he go? It would be too risky to ask to share a room with his cousins; there were some who wouldn't mind, but he couldn't dare risk making them ill, too. . . .
The library! Yes. . .there was always a warm fire blazing in the hearth there, and it wasn't too far. . .just down the hallway a bit and to the left. . . . He could rest there until morning, and it was doubtful his convalescing cousins would go there at all, much less before one of the adults came. . . .
Emptying the washbasin (just a bit of water from rinsing his mouth) into his chamber-pot, Frodo looked around, trying to decide what he could manage to carry of the things he should take. The wash-basin, definitely, in case he had to throw up again. . .a blanket or two, already draped over his shoulders. . .a cup of water would be good. . . . He set the basin down, taking the cup and drinking a little before pouring a bit more, spilling some onto the bedside table from the trembling of his hands. Glancing at the bed, he thought for a moment, then slid the washbasin into the case of a pillow, taking that up carefully before taking the cup of water. He was ready.
No-one was around to notice the tiny hobbit-child slipping into the hall. Bit by bit, he made his way to the library, moving in slow steps and leaning against the hall now and then, trying desperately not to faint. When at last he reached the library, pushing the great oaken door open softly, he breathed a sigh of relief. . .oh, yes, this *was* the right choice. . .there was a wonderful fire, and even. . .what luck!. . .a throw- blanket and some cushions on the sofa before the hearth. When he was little, and had been ill with mumps, Mamma had tucked him up in blankets on the sofa in their sitting-room. . .it was comfortable. . . .
He sighed. It wouldn't be the same, but it would do. Wobbling to the sofa, he set down the cup, placing it within arm's reach, then took out the washbasin and put that beside the cup, finally putting the pillow on the sofa. Keeping one blanket wrapped around himself, he climbed onto the sofa, pulling the throw-blanket and his own over everything, pulling up his legs to ease the tummyache that still lingered. What he wouldn't give for a hot water-bottle just now. . .actually, a couple of them, one for his stomach and the other for his feet. . . .
Stop it! he thought. That's about as much use as wishing for your parents, Frodo Baggins.
But his self-admonitions were of little avail. He *did* wish for them, for his father's strong arms to pick him up and his mother's soft hands to touch his brow. . . .
Swallowing back tears, he pulled the blankets more closely about himself, nestling into the cushions, the pillow a little flat but soft beneath his head. Yes, this would do. . .he could try to rest until someone came into the library in a few hours, and then he would ask if someone could have his room tended and help him back to bed when it was ready. . . . A shame his eyes hurt too much for reading; even in this low level of light a book would be a pleasant way to pass the time. He couldn't get really comfortable, much as he wanted to lie still: every position pained him, and he found himself frustrated by the necessity of constant shifting. Despite lying down, he still felt dizzy, his head aching.
Surely Uncle Bilbo would come. He had before. . .usually when Frodo was too ill to get out of bed he would come, bringing some treat or surprise, often not only from himself, but things from other relatives: while the other Bagginses had not been especially supportive of the newly orphaned child, as time passed, two or three began to take enough interest to send things with Bilbo, saying that they felt sorry for him. Frodo wasn't about to turn them down: after all, more often than not the surprises were sweets or special things to eat, sometimes a toy or puzzle or game. Dora always sent letters of advice on conduct with her gifts, but he didn't mind so much, since she always sent candy as well. Bilbo brought him books, though, too. . .including strange ones, unlike those in Brandy Hall, even a little book that was evidently a primer in one of the elves' languages. . . .
Maybe Uncle Bilbo would teach him a little more this time. . .once he felt better. . . .
Irritated by his aching eyes, Frodo retrieved one of the cushions behind his back, pushing the item onto the floor, whimpering as he tried to find a comfortable position. He still felt chilly, despite the warm fire. Coughing a little, he winced, closing his eyes and hoping to drift into a dreamless slumber. . .but instead, he dreamt of boats on the Brandywine and cold, cheerless rooms with dying embers in the hearths.
~To Be Continued~
Author's Question & Answer Notes
Questions: BellaMonte asks, "After reading Shadows in the Darkness again, I have a question; is this one of the many bouts of illness you mentioned in that story Frodo had had in Brandy Hall, or is this THE bout of pnemonia he almost died from?? I am assuming it is that particular illness you are describing in this story. Just curious."
Answer: Actually, this is one of the many - I'm grateful you noticed! : ) While this was not written as necessarily a companion piece to "Shadows in the Darkness," it can fit that way. THE bout with pneumonia happened the winter following his parents' drownings. This happens about two years later, and it actually isn't pure pneumonia. (Clues: (a) Keep in mind what's been happening at Brandy Hall. (b) Notice some of Frodo's symptoms - not just chills and fever with poor appetite and feeling ill, but strong cold symptoms and, most importantly, conjunctivitis and photophobia, roughly translated as inflamed, aching eyes and hypersensitivity to light. If those don't give it away for you, just wait another chapter and you'll see. ;) )
Myfanwy pens, "One question though, is this going to tie into GoldenWolf's fics at all?"
Answer: No, not to my knowledge. This piece is not a joint effort with GoldenWolf (though she and I do sometimes write collaboratively), nor are there plans for it to tie into her work. I don't think it's incompatible with her interpretation of Frodo's childhood and Bilbo's relationship with Frodo - not surprising given that we both draw heavily on book canon - but it's definitely not written specifically to link into "The Heir" or any of her other work.
A comment from Mindel: "Ooh, poor little Frodo! I can't wait to find out what happens! I hope Bilbo comes after Frodo gets good and sick! Tell your boss that he needs to let you write wonderful stories for us all!"
Response: Dear one, I * love * this response. . .frankly, I'd show it to my boss (a she) except I'd likely get fired on the spot! ;) Personally, I agree with you, though. ;) And you're in for a treat. . .I think you'll like what's ahead. :)
Question from Hermione Eveningfall: "where did you find all of the information about Frodo's childhood? just from the books or did you make it up? Your style of writing is amazing! Great job!" In similar vein, BellaMonte commented, "Reading your stories is like reading the insight of Frodo's life that Tolkien cut out. Did you steal his scenes that he didn't include, for the mysterious effect?? If so, please assure us because this is sooo good that I sometimes wonder whether it wasn't Tolkien's himself."
Answer: Dear readers, you have no idea (well, I guess those of you who write do!) how this makes me blush with joy! I do try to emulate appropriate speech patterning for my characters whenever possible, and I try to adopt a style somewhat similar to or at least compatible with Tolkien's presentation of the Shire sections of his books. Since the master unfortunately gave us too little about Frodo's youth, most of my work is purely imagination at work: we know that Frodo's parents drowned the year he turned twelve, and that he grew up at Brandy Hall among a great many relatives until Bilbo adopted him and brought him to live at Bag End when the orphan was twenty-one, just entering his tweens, "the irresponsible years between childhood and coming-of-age at thirty-three." Beyond that, we know little of Frodo's health or care during those years: it seems that certain things are less likely than others (ie, he probably was not starved or horribly abused; he seems to have had a positive relationship with Bilbo during that time, etc.), but we have a lot of room for interpretation. :) Given that prior to widespread vaccination, almost everyone went through measles, mumps, and chicken-pox, I think that this was probably the case in the Shire as well - thus this story was born. I think that Frodo's parents' deaths affected him profoundly, as did being an only child (Elwen, I am one also, and I believe this is one of an only's greatest fears: the idea that if both parents died, not only would you lose them, but you'd have to go live with aunts and uncles and cousins and not be the only any more!), and I think that he was at this point a rather quiet child who's only beginning to grow into the mischief and rebellion we see later (ie, stealing mushrooms, etc.). He's rather the odd little bird out, so to speak, in many ways. . .and no more so than he is here, in "Counterpane."
Question: Notabluemaia writes, "Nice to think that there will be someone to comfort little Frodo...will there be "future" dreams of the peril to come?"
Answer: Yes, indeed. . .you will see, as usual, some rather prophetic dreams in this fic, This is one of the few pieces of information Tolkien * does * give us about Frodo: he does, throughout his life, even early on, have dreams and visions of the future. So. . .I use that! And yes, someone to comfort little Frodo is indeed on the way. . . . :)
The bad news: I am STILL attempting to get FrodoHealers setup moved for the younger group. Still no word from Yahoo help. Good news: FrodoHealers site is almost ready to go up! I just need to e-mail our wonderful webmistress tonight on a little bit of stuff and we're almost ready to go, thanks to her amazing talents and dedication. I'll include the URL once it's up.
As always, thank you ALL so VERY much for reading and reviewing! I LOVE your reviews and am so grateful to all of you for bringing such joy to my life. :)
For permission to reproduce, please contact frodobaggins@frodo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Bryonia and Forsythia, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions.
COUNTERPANE
Chapter Three: Cold
Mamma. . . .
He awoke with a start, gasping as if he had been held underwater. Everything ached: his head, his limbs, his back, his stomach. . .worst of all, his eyes, which felt as if they were on fire. Light was filtering through the curtains, forcing him to curl up on his side, back toward the window. What time was it? He could not bear to look at the clock; the effort of focus was too painful for his eyes. He felt cold and hot at the same time, damp and sticky with sweat. And his throat. . .
He half-expected to feel the touch of a cool hand against his forehead, a damp cloth dabbed at his face, someone's hands tucking the covers over him. . .but no one came.
Suddenly, though, there came a tap at the door.
"Frodo? You have to get up, lad - not good to sleep the day away - "
Uncle Daridoc. At first, Frodo tried to reply, opening his mouth to call out hoarsely, but the door was already open. . .and his uncle trotted in, looking about curiously, pausing and setting hands on his hips as he caught sight of the young orphan.
"Goodness, but what have we here?"
Frodo sighed. He felt sick and in no mood for games. Whimpering, he curled up, pulling into a small bundle.
"Something the matter, lad?"
Frodo nodded, though barely, his stomach in knots. "I. . .I don't feel v- v. . .very well."
"Well, now, that's too bad. . .bit of a cold, it sounds like, eh? Best if you stay away from your cousins, then - that's the last thing any of them need, on top of getting over being ill. I'll bring you up a bite to eat, some soup and whatever else we can find for a cold. How's that sound?"
The thought launched a wave of nausea, causing Frodo to shut his eyes tightly. "I'm not hungry."
"Nonsense, my boy! Doesn't matter whether you're hungry or not, you need to eat, especially you, scrawny as a little scarecrow - now, I'll bring that tray up and leave you in peace, all right?"
Mustering a weak nod, Frodo sighed and curled up more closely, pulling the blankets over his head and readjusting them just enough to uncover his face, turning the quilts into a hooded nest. He listened as his uncle's footsteps padded back out, the door closing quietly behind him. By the time his uncle returned with the tray, the youngster had already fallen back to sleep, sniffling occasionally in his dark dreams.
This time, waking was slow. . .almost a hesitant return to consciousness. Reluctantly he pushed himself up in bed. Uncle Daridoc had pushed a chair to the side of his bed, leaving the tray there, still covered with not only a tray-lid, but a thick towel, keeping in the heat. Despite his lack of appetite, Frodo pondered it for a moment: surely there would be something to drink, maybe juice or fresh water, possibly tea or milk. . . . He *was* terribly thirsty, and the thought of at least a few sips seemed comforting. Carefully uncovering the tray, he winced, stomach lurching at the assault of smells. Vegetable soup, a roll and a bit of butter, a mushroom and bacon sandwich cut in half, and a dish of stewed apples. Not a meal he would have ordinarily turned up his nose at - in fact, he would have been delighted with the choice of menu on most days, especially with the apples and the sandwich - but now it seemed unappealing. There was, however, something more. . .a cup of milk and a glass of apple cider, and the water- pitcher on the table by his bed had clearly been freshly refilled. Eagerly he reached for the amber drink, taking the glass in both hands to steady his hold before taking deep swallows of the cool cider. It felt so good against his throat. . . .
The relief was, however, only momentary. Almost at once he felt cold and unsteady, dizzy. . . . Recognising the growing sense of dread all too well, he shoved the glass back onto the tray and reached for the washbasin. . .but it was already too late. Retching, he curled up, vomiting into the blankets.
When at last the attack passed, he sank back against the pillows, shaking. Weakly he managed to push the top covers into a crumpled bundle, thankful he hadn't had one of his beloved quilts on the bed after all, and roll them onto the floor. This left him with nothing but a sheet and a lighter blanket, and though he felt sweat drenching his body, he was cold. He wanted Bryonia. . .she would have helped him get cleaned up and into fresh covers.
But she wasn't there. . .he had to be brave, take care of things himself. . . . That much he should at least try. . . .
Pondering this, Frodo sighed and sat up once more, nearly passing out from the effort. With difficulty he took the cup of water from the bedside- table, retrieving the washbasin and rinsing his mouth in an effort to prevent another bout of gagging. This done, he lay back down, trying to recover a little strength before attempting anything further. The smell of the soup was too strong. . .he would need to cover the tray back up. Then a night-shirt and more blankets. He couldn't understand how he could feel so cold and yet so hot at the same time, though he knew it meant he was ill. . .probably very ill. When he'd had pneumonia a few years before. . .the year Mamma and Papa drowned. . .he had felt a bit like this, though his eyes hadn't hurt, and he'd had mostly a bad cough that brought up blood now and then. . .and it had happened rather more suddenly than this had come on, at least as well as he could remember.
He'd thrown up then, too.
With a shudder, the small hobbit tried once more to rise, sitting up carefully, using his arms against the pillows to push himself up. . .and managing to retrieve the tray-cover, depositing it over the meal with a sigh of relief. This done, he braced himself. . .steady, steady, come on. . .and finally managed to stand, tottering uneasily toward the wardrobe, where he took a clean night-shirt from a drawer. Dropping onto the nearest chair, he fumbled with his shirt, unbuttoning enough to pull it over his head, then slipped on the night-shirt before standing again to pull off his trousers, abandoning the clothes where they lay. This done, he reached into another drawer, sifting through sheets and covers until he pulled out two soft blankets. He sat with them in his lap for several minutes before finally rising again, staggering back to bed and promptly unfolding the blankets over himself.
Much better.
Well, not really. He still felt at risk of throwing up again, and the fresh night-shirt would have felt better if he could have had a bath first. Nonetheless, this was an improvement, at least, so he decided to settle down and try to sleep again. Almost at once he felt himself succumbing, too tired to stay awake. . . .
*********************************
Dark.
It was very dark.
He was so cold. . .where was Mamma? And Papa?
Sitting up and opening his eyes, rubbing them sleepily, he frowned: the fire had burned down to the last embers. That wasn't like usual; after all, Mamma always came in and put an extra little log or two on before she and Papa went to bed, and then she or Papa would come during the night or early in the morning and add another bit. . . . They never let it get this cold in his room. And where was Mamma? She always came to his room in the morning to wake him, bringing a cup of warm milk or cocoa and a bit of toast for him to eat while the main first breakfast was being prepared downstairs. At first, it had been her way of keeping him busy while she fussed over getting him ready, but now that he was all of eleven, almost twelve, it was more their special time. . .she would still help him get dressed and arranged for the day, but then she would sit quietly with him, talking about plans for the day.
It was still so dark outside. . .maybe it was too early? Mamma usually came just before sunrise. . .but then. . .why so many sounds of grownups in the corridors? That was what must have woken him. . . . Yawning, he rose and wandered out of his room, into his parents' sitting-room, where the hearth was even colder than his own, and over to their bedroom.
They weren't there.
Curious at the still-made bed, he pondered for a moment. Perhaps they'd stayed up all night talking, as they sometimes did with relatives. . .but then. . .why hadn't Mamma come or sent someone to see about him? That wasn't like her. . . .
Suddenly a chill of fright gripped the pit of his small stomach. Maybe they'd fallen ill, or had been hurt. . . . At once he turned, hurrying out of their room and into the hall.
Uncle Saradoc and Aunt Esmeralda stood there, speaking in hushed whispers, Esmeralda's eyes wet with tears. Saradoc, pale and grim, shook his head as she asked something - Frodo couldn't tell what, exactly, but as Aunt Bryonia joined the pair, looking nearly as pale as Saradoc, the child had the feeling it wasn't anything good.
"Uncle Saradoc. . .what's the matter? I. . .I can't find Mamma and Papa. . .are they all right? Are they downstairs?"
All three adults turned, starting guiltily. . .and Esmeralda began to cry afresh, shaking her head. Bryonia knelt, putting out her hands to take Frodo's, now at his height. Saradoc dropped to one knee, still a bit taller than his nephew, putting a hand on the small shoulder.
"Frodo. . .there's been a terrible accident."
*********************************
Awakening with a jolt, Frodo gasped for breath. He was soaking with sweat again, and felt. . .so cold. . .frozen through, despite the perspiration drenching his hair and night-shirt. It was one of the nightmares he hated most, though he hadn't had it in a long while. . .one that was too real, because it had happened exactly that way. . . .
Looking up, he found that his hearth had dimmed down to the last embers. The room was cold.
Sighing, Frodo sat up unsteadily, pulling the topmost blanket around his shoulders as he braced himself to stand. Looking about, he found no one had come to retrieve the tray. The soiled blankets remained in a crumpled, sickening heap on the floor, and his clothes still lay discarded on the chair near the wardrobe. The clock upon the mantel-piece chimed three. . .but it was so dark outside it could not be afternoon. . . . He must have slept on into the night. . . .
Shivering afresh, he looked around. Aunt Bryonia was not yet back, and might not be for some time. Uncle Bilbo would take at least a few days to arrive, if he came. Even the servants would be asleep at this time of night. There was no-one to rekindle the dying fire, or to help him with a bath, or to change his sweat-drenched linens. He remembered feeling rather like this while ill with pneumonia. . .remembered Bilbo holding him and stroking his hair to reassure him, explaining. . .explaining something about it. . . .
"I know it doesn't seem to make sense, my lad, but that's because you're ill. I know you feel cold, but you're sweating because you've a fever. . .that's why we have to keep you from getting chilled; that'll only make it worse. If you didn't have pneumonia, only a cold, and caught a chill, you'd likely get it. . . ."
He couldn't stay here. That much was certain: it would be at least another two hours, if not more, before he had any hope of getting someone to relight the fire, and then only if he went downstairs to find a servant, something he doubted he was capable of doing: even now he felt dizzy and sick. He had to get to another room, somewhere warmer, and try to stay there until someone could help him with a fresh fire and clean bed. But where could he go? It would be too risky to ask to share a room with his cousins; there were some who wouldn't mind, but he couldn't dare risk making them ill, too. . . .
The library! Yes. . .there was always a warm fire blazing in the hearth there, and it wasn't too far. . .just down the hallway a bit and to the left. . . . He could rest there until morning, and it was doubtful his convalescing cousins would go there at all, much less before one of the adults came. . . .
Emptying the washbasin (just a bit of water from rinsing his mouth) into his chamber-pot, Frodo looked around, trying to decide what he could manage to carry of the things he should take. The wash-basin, definitely, in case he had to throw up again. . .a blanket or two, already draped over his shoulders. . .a cup of water would be good. . . . He set the basin down, taking the cup and drinking a little before pouring a bit more, spilling some onto the bedside table from the trembling of his hands. Glancing at the bed, he thought for a moment, then slid the washbasin into the case of a pillow, taking that up carefully before taking the cup of water. He was ready.
No-one was around to notice the tiny hobbit-child slipping into the hall. Bit by bit, he made his way to the library, moving in slow steps and leaning against the hall now and then, trying desperately not to faint. When at last he reached the library, pushing the great oaken door open softly, he breathed a sigh of relief. . .oh, yes, this *was* the right choice. . .there was a wonderful fire, and even. . .what luck!. . .a throw- blanket and some cushions on the sofa before the hearth. When he was little, and had been ill with mumps, Mamma had tucked him up in blankets on the sofa in their sitting-room. . .it was comfortable. . . .
He sighed. It wouldn't be the same, but it would do. Wobbling to the sofa, he set down the cup, placing it within arm's reach, then took out the washbasin and put that beside the cup, finally putting the pillow on the sofa. Keeping one blanket wrapped around himself, he climbed onto the sofa, pulling the throw-blanket and his own over everything, pulling up his legs to ease the tummyache that still lingered. What he wouldn't give for a hot water-bottle just now. . .actually, a couple of them, one for his stomach and the other for his feet. . . .
Stop it! he thought. That's about as much use as wishing for your parents, Frodo Baggins.
But his self-admonitions were of little avail. He *did* wish for them, for his father's strong arms to pick him up and his mother's soft hands to touch his brow. . . .
Swallowing back tears, he pulled the blankets more closely about himself, nestling into the cushions, the pillow a little flat but soft beneath his head. Yes, this would do. . .he could try to rest until someone came into the library in a few hours, and then he would ask if someone could have his room tended and help him back to bed when it was ready. . . . A shame his eyes hurt too much for reading; even in this low level of light a book would be a pleasant way to pass the time. He couldn't get really comfortable, much as he wanted to lie still: every position pained him, and he found himself frustrated by the necessity of constant shifting. Despite lying down, he still felt dizzy, his head aching.
Surely Uncle Bilbo would come. He had before. . .usually when Frodo was too ill to get out of bed he would come, bringing some treat or surprise, often not only from himself, but things from other relatives: while the other Bagginses had not been especially supportive of the newly orphaned child, as time passed, two or three began to take enough interest to send things with Bilbo, saying that they felt sorry for him. Frodo wasn't about to turn them down: after all, more often than not the surprises were sweets or special things to eat, sometimes a toy or puzzle or game. Dora always sent letters of advice on conduct with her gifts, but he didn't mind so much, since she always sent candy as well. Bilbo brought him books, though, too. . .including strange ones, unlike those in Brandy Hall, even a little book that was evidently a primer in one of the elves' languages. . . .
Maybe Uncle Bilbo would teach him a little more this time. . .once he felt better. . . .
Irritated by his aching eyes, Frodo retrieved one of the cushions behind his back, pushing the item onto the floor, whimpering as he tried to find a comfortable position. He still felt chilly, despite the warm fire. Coughing a little, he winced, closing his eyes and hoping to drift into a dreamless slumber. . .but instead, he dreamt of boats on the Brandywine and cold, cheerless rooms with dying embers in the hearths.
~To Be Continued~
Author's Question & Answer Notes
Questions: BellaMonte asks, "After reading Shadows in the Darkness again, I have a question; is this one of the many bouts of illness you mentioned in that story Frodo had had in Brandy Hall, or is this THE bout of pnemonia he almost died from?? I am assuming it is that particular illness you are describing in this story. Just curious."
Answer: Actually, this is one of the many - I'm grateful you noticed! : ) While this was not written as necessarily a companion piece to "Shadows in the Darkness," it can fit that way. THE bout with pneumonia happened the winter following his parents' drownings. This happens about two years later, and it actually isn't pure pneumonia. (Clues: (a) Keep in mind what's been happening at Brandy Hall. (b) Notice some of Frodo's symptoms - not just chills and fever with poor appetite and feeling ill, but strong cold symptoms and, most importantly, conjunctivitis and photophobia, roughly translated as inflamed, aching eyes and hypersensitivity to light. If those don't give it away for you, just wait another chapter and you'll see. ;) )
Myfanwy pens, "One question though, is this going to tie into GoldenWolf's fics at all?"
Answer: No, not to my knowledge. This piece is not a joint effort with GoldenWolf (though she and I do sometimes write collaboratively), nor are there plans for it to tie into her work. I don't think it's incompatible with her interpretation of Frodo's childhood and Bilbo's relationship with Frodo - not surprising given that we both draw heavily on book canon - but it's definitely not written specifically to link into "The Heir" or any of her other work.
A comment from Mindel: "Ooh, poor little Frodo! I can't wait to find out what happens! I hope Bilbo comes after Frodo gets good and sick! Tell your boss that he needs to let you write wonderful stories for us all!"
Response: Dear one, I * love * this response. . .frankly, I'd show it to my boss (a she) except I'd likely get fired on the spot! ;) Personally, I agree with you, though. ;) And you're in for a treat. . .I think you'll like what's ahead. :)
Question from Hermione Eveningfall: "where did you find all of the information about Frodo's childhood? just from the books or did you make it up? Your style of writing is amazing! Great job!" In similar vein, BellaMonte commented, "Reading your stories is like reading the insight of Frodo's life that Tolkien cut out. Did you steal his scenes that he didn't include, for the mysterious effect?? If so, please assure us because this is sooo good that I sometimes wonder whether it wasn't Tolkien's himself."
Answer: Dear readers, you have no idea (well, I guess those of you who write do!) how this makes me blush with joy! I do try to emulate appropriate speech patterning for my characters whenever possible, and I try to adopt a style somewhat similar to or at least compatible with Tolkien's presentation of the Shire sections of his books. Since the master unfortunately gave us too little about Frodo's youth, most of my work is purely imagination at work: we know that Frodo's parents drowned the year he turned twelve, and that he grew up at Brandy Hall among a great many relatives until Bilbo adopted him and brought him to live at Bag End when the orphan was twenty-one, just entering his tweens, "the irresponsible years between childhood and coming-of-age at thirty-three." Beyond that, we know little of Frodo's health or care during those years: it seems that certain things are less likely than others (ie, he probably was not starved or horribly abused; he seems to have had a positive relationship with Bilbo during that time, etc.), but we have a lot of room for interpretation. :) Given that prior to widespread vaccination, almost everyone went through measles, mumps, and chicken-pox, I think that this was probably the case in the Shire as well - thus this story was born. I think that Frodo's parents' deaths affected him profoundly, as did being an only child (Elwen, I am one also, and I believe this is one of an only's greatest fears: the idea that if both parents died, not only would you lose them, but you'd have to go live with aunts and uncles and cousins and not be the only any more!), and I think that he was at this point a rather quiet child who's only beginning to grow into the mischief and rebellion we see later (ie, stealing mushrooms, etc.). He's rather the odd little bird out, so to speak, in many ways. . .and no more so than he is here, in "Counterpane."
Question: Notabluemaia writes, "Nice to think that there will be someone to comfort little Frodo...will there be "future" dreams of the peril to come?"
Answer: Yes, indeed. . .you will see, as usual, some rather prophetic dreams in this fic, This is one of the few pieces of information Tolkien * does * give us about Frodo: he does, throughout his life, even early on, have dreams and visions of the future. So. . .I use that! And yes, someone to comfort little Frodo is indeed on the way. . . . :)